From princess to rock-star royalty!

Self-proclaimed “black sheep” Princess Charlie of Afland has worked long and hard to be taken seriously in the music industry, managing to keep her royal obligations, and her secret heartbreak, under the radar. Until one night in Vegas changes everything...

Rock star Joe Kavanagh gets more from his Vegas gig than he’d bargained for...a princess bride and a PR story to die for! As the initial attraction, which led them down the aisle, turns into something deeper, keeping their marriage strictly business proves increasingly difficult...

A glint of gold caught Charlie’s eye and stopped her dead.

No. That had been the dream. It had to be.

She went over her memories, rooted to the spot, staring at the ring, trying to pull apart what was dream and what was real. After eighteen hours traveling and many more without sleep, the past twenty-four hours barely felt real. Images and memories played through her mind as if they had happened to somebody else.

The thrumming, heaving energy of the gig last night. That had been real. The music capturing her senses, hijacking her emotions and pumping her full of adrenaline. Real.

Hot and sweaty caresses just before dawn. Dream.

Dancing with Joe in the club, trying to talk business, shouting in his ear. Moving so closely with him that they’d felt like one body. Feeling the music play between them like a language only they spoke. Maybe that was real.

The slide of his bare skin against hers. So, so dreamy.

Him talking softly, trading tracks, sharing a pair of headphones, until one and then both of them fell asleep. God, she wished she knew.

But as she raised her left hand and examined the demure gold band on her third finger she was certain of one thing.

Las Vegas chapel wedding. Real.

Falling for the Rebel Princess

Ellie Darkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELLIE DARKINS spent her formative years devouring romance novels, and after completing her English degree decided to make a living from her love of books. As a writer and editor, she finds her work now entails dreaming up romantic proposals, hot dates with alpha males and trips to the past with dashing heroes. When she’s not working she can usually be found running around after her toddler, volunteering at her local library or escaping all the above with a good book and a vanilla latte.

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For Mike and Matilda

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘NOT YET!’ CHARLIE GASPED, willing herself to be dragged back under.

In her dream her skin was hot and damp, on fire from his touch.

Awake, her tongue felt furry.

In her dream her body hummed, desperate for the feel of him.

Awake, her eyes stung as she peeled them open.

In her dream she begged for more, and got everything she didn’t even know she needed.

Awake, she needed to pee.

She admitted defeat and stretched herself properly alive, wincing at the harsh Nevada sunlight assaulting her in the hotel room. As her toes encountered skin she flinched back, realising that she did have this one, small reminder of her dream. The man who’d taken the starring role was beside her on the mattress, his face turned away from her, his arms and legs sprawled and caught in the sheets. She looked away. She couldn’t think about him. Not yet.

Easing herself out of bed, she willed him not to wake. And worked her thumb into her waistband, rubbing at her skin where her jeans had left a tight red line. The T-shirt she’d slept in was twisted and creased, and she glanced around the room, wondering whether her luggage had been transferred when the hotel had upgraded them to a luxury suite. She shuddered when she caught sight of herself in the mirror and tried to pull her hair up into some sort of order.

It had started out backcombed and messy, and her eyeliner had never been subtle in her life—but a couple of hours’ sleep had taken the look from grunge to tragic. She wiped under her eyes with a finger, and the tacky drag of her skin made her shudder. And desperate to shower.

A glint of gold caught her eye and stopped her dead.

No. That had been the dream. It had to be.

She went over her memories, rooted to the spot, staring at the ring, trying to pull apart what was dream and what was real. After eighteen hours travelling and many more without sleep, the past twenty-four hours barely felt real, images and memories played through her mind as if they had happened to somebody else.

The thrumming, heaving energy of the gig last night. That was real. The music capturing her senses, hijacking her emotions and pumping her full of adrenaline. Real.

Hot and sweaty caresses just before dawn. Dream.

Dancing with Joe in the club, trying to talk business, shouting in his ear. Moving so closely with him that they felt like one body. Feeling the music play between them like a language only they spoke. Maybe that was real.

The slide of his bare skin against hers. So, so dreamy.

Him talking softly as they lay on the bed, trading playlists on their phones, sharing a pair of headphones, until one and then both of them fell asleep. God, she wished she knew.

But as she raised her left hand and examined the demure gold band on her third finger, she was certain of one thing.

Vegas chapel wedding. Real.

She banged her head back against the wall. Why did she always do this? She was losing count of the number of times she’d looked over the wreckage of her life after one stupid, impulsive move after another and wished that she could turn back time. If she had the balls to go home and tell her parents that she didn’t want their royal way of life and everything that came with it, maybe she’d stop hitting the self-destruct button. But starting that conversation would lead to questions that she’d never be prepared to answer.

Thinking back to the night before, she tried to remember what had triggered her reaction. And then she caught sight of the newspaper, abandoned beside the bed. The slip of the paper under her fingertips made her shiver with the memory of being handed one like it backstage in the club last night, and she let out a low groan. It had been the headline on the front page: Duke Philippe bragging about his forthcoming engagement to Princess Caroline Mary Beatrice of Afland, otherwise known as Charlie. It was the sort of match her parents had been not so subtly pushing on her for years, the one she was hoping that would go away if she ignored it for long enough. She knew unequivocally that she would never marry, and especially not someone like Duke Philippe.

She’d left the cold, rocky, North Sea island of Afland nearly ten years ago, when she’d headed to London determined to make her own way in the music business. Her parents had given her ten years to pursue her rebellion—as they put it. But they all knew what was expected after that: a return to Afland, official royal duties, and a practical and sensible engagement to a practical, sensible aristocrat.

So there was nothing but disappointment in store for her family, and for her.

She shrank into the bathroom and hid the newspaper as she heard stirring from the bed. Perhaps if she hid for long enough it just wouldn’t be true—Joe Kavanagh and their marriage would fade away as the figment of her imagination that she knew they must be.

Marriage. She scoffed. This wasn’t a marriage. It was a mistake.

But it seemed as if her body didn’t care which bits of last night were real and which were imagined. The hair on her arms was standing on end, her heart had started to race, and she felt a yearning deep in her stomach that seemed somehow familiar.

‘Morning,’ she heard Joe call from the bedroom, and she wondered if he’d guessed that she was hiding out in there. ‘I know you’re in there.’

The sound of his voice sent another shiver of recognition. British, and educated. But there was also a burr of something rugged about it, part of his northern upbringing that felt exotically ‘authentic’, when compared to the marble halls and polished accents of her childhood.

She risked peeking round the bathroom door and mumbled a good morning, wondering why she hadn’t just left the minute that she’d woken up—running had always worked for her before. She’d been running from one catastrophe to another for as long as she could remember. Because this was her suite, she reminded herself. They’d been upgraded when the manager of the hotel had heard about their impromptu wedding, and realised that he had royalty and music royalty spending their wedding night in his hotel.

The only constant in her life since she’d left the palace in Afland had been her job. She’d worked from the bottom of the career ladder up to her position as an A&R executive, signing bands for an independent record label, Avalon. And that was the reason she had to get herself out of this room and face her new husband. Because not only was he a veritable rock god, he was also the artist that she’d been flown out here to charm, persuade and impress with her consummate professionalism in a last-ditch bid to get him to sign with her company.

She held her head high as she walked back into the bedroom, determined not to show him her feelings. The sun was coming in strong through the windows, and the backlighting meant that she couldn’t quite see his expression.

‘How’s the head?’ he asked, his expression changing to concerned.

She wondered whether she should tell him that she’d only had a couple of beers at most last night. That her recklessness hadn’t come from alcohol, it had been fuelled by adrenaline and something more dangerous—the destructive path she found herself on all too often whenever marriage and family and the future entered the conversation.

Had Joe been drunk last night? She didn’t think so. He’d seemed high when he’d come off stage, but she had been at enough gigs to know the difference between adrenaline and something less legal. She remembered him necking a beer, but that was it. So he didn’t have that excuse either.

Why in God’s name had this ever seemed like a good idea—to either of them?

‘I’ve felt better,’ she admitted, crossing the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

Up close, she decided that it really wasn’t fair that he looked like this. His hair was artfully mussed by the pillows, his shirt was rumpled, and his tiny hint of eyeliner had smudged, but the whole look was so unforgivably sexy she almost forgot that whatever had happened the night before had been a huge mistake.

But sexy wasn’t why she’d married him. Or maybe it was. When she went into reckless self-destruction mode, who was to say why she did anything?

Even in this oasis in the middle of the desert, she hadn’t been able to escape the baggage that came with being a member of the royal family. The media obsession with royal women marrying and reproducing. Someone had raised a toast when they had seen her, to her impending marriage, asked her if she was up the duff and handed her a bottle of champagne. She’d been tempted to down the whole thing without taking a breath, determined to silence the voices in her head.

‘So,’ she said. ‘I guess we’re in trouble.’

* * *

Trouble? She was right about that. Everything about this woman said trouble. He had known it the minute that he had set eyes on her, all attitude and eyeliner. He had known it for sure when they’d started dancing, her body moving in time with his. So at what point last night had trouble seemed like such a good idea?

When they’d left the dance floor, in that last club, their bodies hot and sticky. When she’d been trying to talk business but he’d been distracted by the humming of his skin and the sparks that leapt from his body to hers whenever she was near. When Ricky, the drummer in his band, had joked that he needed to show some real rock-star behaviour if they were going to sell the new album, and Joe had dropped to one knee and proposed.

He hadn’t thought for a second that she would go along with it.

But Charlie had stopped for a moment as their eyes had met, and as everyone had laughed around them he had been able to see that she wasn’t laughing, and neither was he. The club had stilled and quietened, or maybe it was just his mind that had, but suddenly there had been just the two of them, connected through something bigger than either of their bodies could contain. Something he couldn’t pretend to comprehend, but that he knew meant that they understood each other.

And then she had nodded, thrown back her head and laughed along with everyone else, and they had been carried on a wave of adrenaline, bonhomie and contagious intoxication into a cab and up the steps of the courthouse. Somehow, still high from their performance and bewitched by the Princess, he hadn’t stepped out of their fantasy and broken the spell.

They’d been cocooned in that buzz, carrying them straight through the ceremony. Such a laugh as they’d toppled out of the chapel. Right up until that kiss. Then it had all felt very real.

Did she remember that feeling as they had kissed for the first time? He knew in his bones that he could never forget it, as they were pronounced husband and wife.

‘Are you going to hide in there all morning?’ he asked.

In the daylight, she didn’t look like a princess any more than she had the night before. Maybe that was how he’d found himself here. He’d expected to be on edge around her, but as soon as he had met her... Not that he was relaxed—no, there was too much going on, too much churning and yearning and desire to call it relaxed. But he’d been... He wasn’t sure of the word. Her boss had sent her out here to convince him that their label was a good fit—and he’d been right. They had... Maybe fit was the right world. They’d just understood each other. She understood the music. Understood him. And when they had started dancing, there had been no question in his mind that this was important. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew that he wanted more.

And marrying her—it had been a good move for the band. You couldn’t buy publicity like that. He must have been thinking about that, must have calculated this as a business move. It was the only thing that made sense.

But was she expecting a marriage?

Because she came with a hell of a lot of baggage. Oh, he knew which fork to use, and how to spot the nasty ones in a room of over-privileged Henrys. He’d learned that much at his exclusive public school, where his music scholarship had taken him fee-free. But the most important part of his education had been the invaluable lesson he’d got in his last year—everyone was out to get something, so you’d better work out what you wanted in return.

The only place he felt relaxed these days was on the road, with his band. They moved from city to city, sometimes settling for a few weeks if they could hire some studio space, otherwise going from gig to gig, and woman to woman, without looking back. Everyone knowing exactly what they wanted, and taking what was on offer with no strings attached.

‘Come on,’ he said, reaching for her hand. As his fingertips touched hers he had another flash of that feeling from last night. The electric current that had joined them together as they had danced; that had woven such a spell around them that even a visit to a courthouse hadn’t broken it.

‘I can’t believe we got married. This was your fault. Your idea.’

Was she for real? He shrugged and reminded her of the details. ‘No one forced you. You seemed to think it was a great idea last night.’

So why was she looking at her ring as if it were burning her?

‘Wh...?’

He waited to see which question was burning uppermost in her mind.

‘Why? Why in God’s name did I think it was a great idea?’

‘How am I supposed to know if you don’t? Maybe you were thinking it would be good publicity for the album.’

He looked at her carefully. Yes, that was why they had done it. But also...no. There was more to it. He couldn’t believe that she was such a stranger this morning. When they’d laughed about this last night, it hadn’t just been a publicity stunt—that sounded too cold. It had been a joke, a deal, between friends. A publicity stunt was business, but last night, as they’d laughed together on the way to the courthouse, it had been more than that.

And maybe that was where he had gone wrong, because he knew how this worked. He knew that all relationships were deals, with each partner out to get what they wanted. He had no reason to be offended that she was acting like that this morning.

‘I’m not sure why you’re mad at me. You thought it was a great idea last night.’

‘I hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours, Joe. I think we can say that I wasn’t doing my best reasoning. We have to undo this. What are my parents going to say?’

Her parents, the Queen of Afland and her husband. He groaned inwardly.

‘Last night you said, and I quote, “They’re going to go mental.” As far as I could work out, that was a point in the plan’s favour.’

In the cold light of morning—not such a good idea. Bad, in fact. Very bad.

He had married a princess—an actual blue-blooded, heir-to-the-throne, her-mother’s-a-queen princess.

He was royally screwed.

‘Look,’ Joe said. ‘I’m hungry, too hungry to talk about this now. How about we go out for breakfast and discuss this with coffee and as much protein as they can cram on a plate?’

CHAPTER TWO

CHARLIE GAZED INTO her black coffee, hoping that it would supply answers. Her memories had started to filter back in as she’d sipped her first cup; shame had started creeping in with her second. She hoped that this cup, her third, would be the one that made her feel human again.

‘So how do we undo this?’ she said bluntly. ‘This is Vegas. They must annul almost as many marriages as they make here. Do we need to go back to the courthouse?’

She looked up and met Joe’s eye. He was watching her intently as he took a bite of another slice of toast. ‘We could,’ he said. ‘If we want an annulment, I guess that’s how we go about it.’

‘If?’ She nearly spat out her coffee. ‘I don’t think you understand, Joe. We got married.’

‘I know: I was there.’

‘Am I missing something? The way I see things, we were joking around, we thought it would be hilarious to have a Vegas wedding, and we’ve woken up this morning to a major disaster. Aren’t you interested in damage limitation?’

‘Of course I am, but, unlike you, I think the reasons we got married were sound. Not necessarily the best reasons to enter into a legally binding personal commitment, but sound nonetheless.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Remind me.’

‘Okay, obvious ones first. Publicity. The band needs it. The album is almost finished, we’re looking for a new label, and there is no such thing as bad publicity, right?’

‘Mercenary much?’

‘Look, this isn’t my fault. You were good with mercenary last night.’

She snorted. ‘Fine, publicity is one reason. Give me another.’

‘It shows you’re serious about the band.’

She crossed her arms and sat back in her seat, fixing him with a glare. ‘I’ve signed plenty of bands before without marrying the lead singer. They signed with me because they trust that I’m bloody good at my job. Are you seriously telling me that whether or not I would marry you was going to be a deal-breaker?’

He leaned forward, not put off by her death stare. In fact, his eyes softened as he reached for her hand, pulling her back towards him. She went with it, not wanting to look childish by batting him away.

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ he said gently. ‘But breaking the marriage now? I’m not sure how that’s going to play out. I’m not sure what our working relationship could look like with that all over the papers.’

She shook her head, looking back into the depths of her coffee, still begging it for answers.

‘All of which I have to weigh against the heartbreak of my family if we don’t bury this right now.’

She avoided eye contact as she tried to stop the tears from escaping. But she took a deep breath and when she looked up they were gone. ‘Do you think anyone knows already? The press?’

‘We weren’t exactly discreet,’ he said, with a sympathetic smile. ‘I’d think it’s likely.’

‘And that can’t be undone, annulment or not.’

He leaned back and took a long drink of his orange juice. ‘So let’s control the narrative.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What story would hurt your family more—a whirlwind romance and hasty Vegas marriage, or a drunken publicity stunt to further your career? Because that’s how the tabloids are going to want to spin it.’

‘What’s your point, Joe?’ She’d taken her hand back and crossed her arms again, sure that this conversation was taking a turn that she wasn’t going to like.

‘All I’m saying is that we can’t go back in time. We can’t get unmarried, whether we get an annulment or not. So we either dissolve the marriage today and deal with the fallout to our reputations...’

‘Or...?’

‘Or we stay married.’

Her breathing caught as just for a second she considered what that might mean, to be this man’s wife.

‘But we’re not in love. Anyone’s going to be able to see that.’

He scrutinised her from under his lashes, which were truly longer and thicker than any man’s had a right to be. ‘So we’re going to have to work hard to convince them. You can’t deny that it’s a better story.’

‘And you can’t deny that it means lying to my family. Ruining all the plans they were making for my life. I don’t know what your relationship with your family is like, but I’m not sure that I can pull it off. I’m not sure that I want to. Things are diffi—’

She stopped before she revealed too much. Joe raised an eyebrow, obviously curious about why she had cut herself off, but he didn’t push her on it.

‘Would you rather they knew the truth?’

Of course not. She had been hiding the truth from them for years, ever since she’d found out that she could never be the daughter or the Princess that they needed her to be.

‘Are we seriously having this conversation? You want to stay married? You do know that you’re a rock star, right? If you were that desperate for publicity you could have found a hundred girls who actually wanted to be your wife.’

‘Wow, you’re quite something for a guy’s ego. For the record, this isn’t some elaborate ruse to get myself a woman. I don’t have any problems on that score. All I’m doing is making the best of a situation. That’s all.’

Charlie took a big bite of pie, hoping that the sugar would succeed where the coffee hadn’t. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that you’re not remotely interested in me as a woman.’

He fixed her with a meaningful stare, the intensity of his expression making it impossible for her to look away.

‘I never said that.’

Heat rose in her belly as he held the eye contact, leaving her in no doubt about how he thought of her. She shook her head as he finally broke the contact. ‘I can’t believe that I’m even considering this. You’re crazy. There’s no way we can keep this up. What happens if we slip? What happens when someone finds out it’s not for real? What happens when one of us meets someone and this marriage of convenience isn’t so convenient any more?’

He reached for her hand across the table, and once again there was that crackle, that spark that she remembered from the night before. She saw him in the chapel, eyes creased in laughter, as he leaned in to kiss her. Those eyes were still in front of her, concerned now though, rather than amused.

‘It doesn’t have to be for ever. Just long enough that it doesn’t look like a stunt when we split. You weren’t planning on marrying someone else any time soon, were you?’

‘Never.’ Her coffee cup rattled onto the saucer with a clash, liquid spilling over the top.

‘Wow—that really was a no.’

She locked her gaze on his—he had to understand this if they were going to go on. ‘I mean it, Joe. I didn’t want to get married. Ever. I’m not wife material.’

‘And yet here I am, married to you.’

He held her gaze and there was something familiar there. Something that made her stomach tighten in a knot and her skin prickle in awareness. With all the unexpected drama of finding themselves married, it seemed as if they’d both temporarily forgotten that they had also found themselves in bed together that morning.

Perhaps he was remembering something similar, because all of a sudden there was a new fire in his eyes, a new heat in the way that he was looking at her.

Her memory might be a bit ropey, but between the caffeine and the sugar her brain had been pretty much put back together, and there was one image of the night before that she couldn’t get from her mind.

You may now kiss the bride.

They’d all burst out laughing, finding the whole thing hilarious. But as soon as Joe’s hand had brushed against her cheek, cupping her jaw to turn her face up to him, the laughs had died in her throat. He’d been looking down at her as if he were only just seeing her for the first time, as if she had been made to look different by their marriage. His lush eyelashes had swept shut as he’d leaned towards her, and she’d had just a second to catch her breath before his lips had touched hers. They had been impossibly soft, and to start with had just pressed dry and chaste against hers. She’d reached up as he had and touched his cheek, just a gentle, friendly caress of her finger against his stubbled skin. But it had seemed to snap something within him; a gasp had escaped his lips, been swallowed by hers. His mouth had parted, and heat had flared between them.

She’d closed her eyes, understood that she was giving herself up to something more powerful than the simple actions of two individuals. As her eyes had shut her mouth had opened and her body had bowed towards her husband. Her hips had met his, and instantly sparks had crackled. His hands had left her face to lock around her waist, dragging her in tight and holding her against him. His tongue had been hot and hungry in her mouth; her hands frenzied, exploring the contours of his chest, his back, his butt.

And then the applause of their audience had broken into her consciousness, and she’d remembered where they were. What they were doing.

Blood had rushed to her cheeks and she could feel them glow as she’d broken away from Joe, acknowledging the whoops with an ironic wave.

‘All right, all right,’ she’d said, a sip of champagne helping with the brazen nonchalance; she’d hoped that she was successfully hiding the shake in her voice. ‘Hope you enjoyed the show, people.’

She’d looked up at Joe to see whether she had imagined the connection between them, whether he’d still felt it buzzing and humming and trying to pull their bodies back together. By the heated, haunted look in his eyes, she wasn’t alone in this.

He was worried, and he should be, because this marriage of convenience had just got a whole lot more complicated, for both of them. It had been a laugh, a joke, until their lips had met and they had both realised, simultaneously, that the flirting and banter that had provided an edge of excitement to their dancing that night would be a dangerous force unless they got a lid on it.

In the cold light of the morning after, she knew that they needed to face the problem head-on. She broke her gaze away from him, trying to cover what they had both clearly been remembering.

‘Ground rules,’ she said firmly, distracting herself by taking another bite of pie. ‘If we do this, there have to be ground rules to stop it getting complicated.’ He nodded in agreement, and she kept talking. ‘First of all, we keep this strictly business. We both need to keep our heads and be able to walk away when the time is right. Let’s acknowledge that there is chemistry between us, but if we let that lead us, we’re not going to be objective and make smart decisions. And I think we both agree that we need to be smart.’

‘People will talk if we don’t make this look good. It has to be convincing.’

‘Well, duh.’ She waved to the waitress for a coffee refill. ‘You’re really trying to teach me how to handle the press? Obviously, in public we behave as if we’re so madly in love that we couldn’t wait a single minute longer to get married. We sell the hell out of it and make sure that no one has a choice but to believe us. But that’s in public. In private, we’re respectful colleagues.’

He snorted. ‘Colleagues? You think we can do that? You were there, weren’t you, last night? You do remember?’

Did she remember the kiss? The shivers? The way that she could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers, as if the touch of skin on skin had permanently altered the cells? Yeah, she remembered, but that wasn’t what was important here.

‘And that’s why we need the rules, Joe. If you want to stay married to me, you’d better listen up and pay attention.’

‘Oh, I’m listening, and you’re very clear. In public, I’m madly in love with you. Behind closed doors I’m at arm’s length. Got it. So what are your other rules?’

She resurrected the death stare. ‘No cheating. Ever. If we’re going to make people believe this, they have to really believe it. We can’t risk the story being hijacked. Doesn’t matter how discreet you think you’re being, it’s never enough.’

‘I get it. You don’t share. Goes without saying.’

She dropped her cup back onto her saucer a little heavier than she had planned, and the hot, bitter liquid slopped over the side again. ‘This isn’t about me, Joe. Don’t pretend to know me. This is about appearances. I’ve already told you, this isn’t personal.’

‘Fine, well, if you’re all done then I’ve got a rule of my own.’

‘Go on, then.’ She raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

‘You move in with me.’

This time, the whole cup went over, coffee sloshing over the side of the table and onto her faded black jeans. At least she’d managed to miss her white shirt, she thought, thanking whoever was responsible for small mercies. She mopped hastily with a handful of napkins, buying her precious moments to regain her composure and think about what he had said. Of course she understood deep down that they would have to live together. But somehow, until he’d said it out loud, she hadn’t believed it.

They would be alone together. Living alone together. No one to chaperone or keep them to their ‘this is just business’ word. Watching him across a diner table this morning, it wasn’t exactly easy to keep her hands off him, so how were they meant to do that living alone together?

But she knew better than anyone that they had to make this look good. If her parents knew that she’d only done this to get out of the marriage to Philippe they would be so disappointed, and she didn’t know that she could take doing that to them again.

Separate flats weren’t going to cut it. By the time she looked back up, she knew that she seemed calm, regardless of what was going on underneath.

‘Of course, that makes sense. Are you going to insist on your place rather than mine?’

‘I’ll need my recording studio.’

She nodded. ‘Fine. So that’s it, then? Three ground rules and we’re just going to do this?’

‘Well, if you’re going to chicken out, you need to do it now.’

‘I’m not eight years old, Joe. I’m not going to go through with this because you call me chicken.’

‘Fine, why are you going to do it?’ Nice use of psychology there, she thought. Act as though I’ve already agreed. He really did want this publicity. But it didn’t matter, because she’d already made up her mind.

‘I’m doing it because I don’t want to hurt my family any more than I have to, and because I think it’ll be good for my career.’ And because it would save her from being talked into a real marriage, one which she knew she could never deserve.

‘As long as you’re doing it, your reasons are your own business,’ Joe replied. She felt a little sting at that, like a brush of nettles against bare skin. Her own business. Damn right it was, but the way he said it, as if there really were nothing more than that between them... It didn’t make sense. She didn’t want it to make sense. She just knew that she didn’t want it to hurt.

‘So what are we going to tell people?’ she asked after a long, awkward silence. ‘I guess we need to get our stories straight.’

He nodded, and sipped at his coffee. ‘We just keep it simple. We were swept away when we met each other yesterday, knew right away that it was love and decided we needed to be married. The guys in the band will go along with it. You don’t have to worry about that.’ Somehow she’d forgotten that they’d been there, egging them on, bundling them in the cab to the courthouse. When she thought back to last night, she remembered watching Joe on stage, sweat dripping from his forehead as he sang and rocked around the stage. Him grabbing her hand and pulling her to the dance floor when they’d gone on to a club after the gig, when he hadn’t wanted to talk business.

She remembered the touch of his mouth on hers, as they were pronounced husband and wife.

But of course there had been witnesses, people who knew as well as she did that this was all a sham.

‘What if they say something? They could go to the press.’

‘They won’t. Anyway, to everyone else it was just a laugh. And if anyone did say something, it’d be up to us to look so convincingly in love that no one could possibly believe them.’

‘Ah, easy as that, huh.’

As they sat in the diner she realised how little thought they’d actually given this. She didn’t even know when she would see him again. Her flight was booked back to London that night. She’d only been in Vegas to take this meeting. Her boss had sent her on a flying visit, instructed to try anything to get him to sign. She’d given her word that she wouldn’t leave without the deal done. Would he see through them when they got back? Would he realise how far she had gone to keep to her promise?

‘I’m flying home tonight,’ she said.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You were pretty sure you’d get me to sign, then. Didn’t think you’d have to stick around to convince me?’

‘I thought you’d be on the move, actually. I was told that you were only in Vegas for one night.’ She knew that the band were renowned for their work ethic and their packed tour schedule, moving from city to city and gig to gig night after night. This had been her only chance for a meeting, her boss had told her as he’d instructed her to book a flight.

If he was always on the move like that, perhaps this would be easier than she thought. It could be weeks, months, before they actually had to live together. And by then, maybe... Maybe what. Maybe things would be different? There was no point pretending to be married at all if she thought that they would have changed their minds in a few weeks. They had to stick it out longer than that. If they were going to do this, they had to do it properly.

‘I am, as it happens. I’m flying back to London tonight too.’

* * *

Why had he said that? They were meant to be in the States for two more weeks. Their manager had booked them into a retreat so that he could finish writing the new album. It should have been just a case of putting the finishing touches to a few songs, but he had an uneasy feeling about it this morning. He needed to go back and look at it again. There were a few decent tracks there, he was sure. But a niggling voice in his head was telling him that he still hadn’t got the big hitters. The singles that would propel the album up the streaming charts and across the radio waves. There was studio space booked for them in London in two weeks’ time and it had to be fixed before then.

Their manager was going to kill him when he told him he wouldn’t be showing up.

He could write in London; he had written the last album in London. It had nothing to do with Charlie. Nothing to do with her feelings, anyway. As she kept saying, this was just business. But it would look better for them to arrive home together.

Nothing to do with their feelings. Right. He would make her believe that today. Because her memory might be fuzzy but he could remember everything. Including the moment that they’d been on the dance floor, him still buzzing from the adrenaline of being on stage, her from the dancing and the music and the day and a half without sleep.

They’d moved together as the music had coursed through him, the bass vibrating his skin. She’d been trying to talk business, shouting in his ear. Contracts and terms, and commitment. But he hadn’t been able to see past her. To feel anything more than the skin of her shoulder under his hand as he’d leaned in to speak in her ear. The soft slide of her hair as he’d brushed it off her face. ‘Let’s do this,’ she’d said. ‘We’d be a great team. I know that we can create something amazing together.’

She’d reached up then, making sure she had his attention—as if it would ever be anywhere but on her again. And then Ricky had said those idiotic words, the ones that no judge could take back this morning.

* * *

She’d laughed, at first, when he had proposed, assuming that he was joking. It had had nothing to do with the way she’d felt when his arm was around her. The way that that had made him feel. As if he wanted to protect her and challenge her and be challenged by her all at once.

He could never let her know how he had felt last night.

It was much better, much safer that they kept this as business. He knew what happened when you went into a relationship without any calculation. When you jumped in with your heart on the line and no defences. He wouldn’t be doing it again.

And then there were the differences between them. Sure, it hadn’t seemed to matter in that moment that he’d asked her to marry him, or when they were dancing and laughing and joking together, but a gig and a nightclub and beer were great levellers. When you were having to scream above the music then your accent didn’t matter. But in the diner this morning there was no hiding her carefully Londonised RP that one could only acquire with decades of very expensive schooling, and learning to speak in the echoey ballrooms of city palaces and country piles.

He’d learnt that when he’d joined one of those expensive schools at the age of eleven, courtesy of his music scholarship free ride. His Bolton accent had been smoothed slightly by years away from home, first at school, and then on the road, but it would always be there. And he knew that, like the difference in their backgrounds, it would eventually come between them.

His experiences at school had made it clear that he didn’t belong there.

And when he’d returned home to his parents, and their comfy semi-detached in the suburbs, he had realised that he didn’t belong there any more either. He was caught between two worlds, not able to settle in either. So the last thing that he needed was to be paraded in front of the royal family, no doubt coming into contact with the Ruperts and Sebastians and Hugos from his school days.

And what about his family? Was Charlie going to come round for a Sunday roast? Make small talk with his mum with Radio 2 playing in the background? He couldn’t picture it.

But he would have to, he realised. Because it didn’t matter what they were doing in private. It didn’t matter that he had told himself that he absolutely had to get these feelings under control, their worlds were about to collide.

It wasn’t permanent. That was what he had to remind himself. It wasn’t for ever. They were going to end this once a decent amount of time had passed, and in the meantime they would just have to fit into each other’s lives as best they could.

Just think of the publicity. A whirlwind romance was a good story. No doubt a better one than a drunken mistake. But since when had he allowed the papers to rule on what was and wasn’t a good idea for him? No, there was more to it than that. Something about waking up beside her in bed that he wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

‘I have an album launch party to go to first, though,’ he said at last. ‘What do you say to making our first appearance as husband and wife?’

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