“Let’s be frank. Our grandparents have hopes of marriage between us, yes?”

“So I was led to believe,” she hedged.

“Okay. To be honest, initially I didn’t like the idea of being pushed into marriage with you,” he told her.

“Thanks.”

His eyes danced. And more. There was…admiration? Certainly desire. In buckets. She felt her body quiver.

“My pleasure,” he said with a chuckle, nibbling her knuckles.

“So?” Stupid though it was, the feel of his mouth was robbing her of speech. Or perhaps it was the lowered flutter of his impossibly thick black lashes. “So,” she said, appalled at how croaky she sounded. “What changed your mind?”

“You did.”

He was croaky, too. Maddy began to panic. Dex wasn’t supposed to be attracted to her!

“I did?” she squeaked in alarm.

“Very much so,” he murmured. “You are…” His slow gaze burned all the way from the top of her head to her feet, stopping at strategic points in between. “A knockout,” he said on a husky out-breath.

Legally wed,

But he’s never said…

“I love you.”

They’re…

The series where marriages are made in

haste…and love comes later…

Look out for more Wedlocked! stories in

Harlequin Presents® throughout 2003.

Coming in July

Bride by Blackmail #2334

by

Carole Mortimer

Husband by Arrangement
Sara Wood

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

MADDY had waited long enough. She had to see. Catching her friend’s hand in a desperate plea, she steeled herself for the result.

‘Let me look!’ she begged.

Debbie laughed. ‘Patience. Just a little more lipgloss…. There! Ready?’

Maddy nodded, her mouth horribly dry. So much rested on this! The chair was swung around to face the mirror and she found herself staring at a totally different person.

‘Oh, my gosh!’ she breathed in awe.

Instead of being outrageous, as she’d planned, the burgundy hair flattered her pale colouring and made her solemn grey eyes gleam with a smoky, almost wicked allure. Her lips parted in astonishment and her poppy-coloured mouth pouted back at her as if it were kissed forty times a night.

As if! She smiled wryly. Since her last, barely-got-started relationship had gone pear-shaped, her grandfather was the only one who kissed her. On the cheek. And only to say goodnight. Dear Grandpa, he didn’t believe in displays of affection, even though he did care for her.

That was why he was set on her marrying the grandson of his ex-business partner in Portugal. And why she was all done up like a dog’s dinner—in a desperate effort to look totally unsuitable as the future bride for Dexter Fitzgerald. And why, in a few hours, she was flying out to a country she’d left almost twenty years ago.

‘It’s a bit…over the top,’ Maddy said doubtfully, shocked by the brazen hussy in the mirror.

‘’Course it is. How else are you to be rejected point-blank? You said the Fitzgeralds were traditional-minded. Trust me. They’ll be appalled.’

Maddy began to smile. Her hopes rose.

‘I think they might!’ she conceded.

‘Now you’ve got to learn to do a come-hither walk,’ commanded Debbie. ‘Like this.’

Egged on by her giggling friend, Maddy leapt from the chair and followed Debbie, exaggerating the swing of her leather-clad hips till she felt her pelvis would break loose from its moorings.

‘It’s too ridiculous!’ she protested, as they fell in a heap of helpless laughter on her friend’s bed. ‘I could never walk like that in public!’

‘Duckie, you’ve got to overdo it if you’re to succeed. That’s why we bought the gaudiest clothes from the charity shop.’ Debbie’s face grew serious. ‘Look, you have no choice. Your grandfather’s been on and on at you for ages. He’s mad keen for you to marry this Dexter guy. This will definitely foil his plans.’

‘He wants me to be secure,’ she defended loyally. ‘He thinks I’m a hopeless case because I’m thirty. And I’m unemployed, now that the children’s home has closed. I’m going to miss working there,’ she sighed. ‘But you can understand his concern. He’s old and sick and worried what’ll happen when he dies.’

Debbie sniffed. ‘Personally, I’d tell my grandpa to stay out of my life.’ Her face softened and she hugged Maddy warmly. ‘Trouble is, being the kind, caring person you are, you’re trying not to upset him. So here you are, apparently submissive and on the brink of flying to Portugal to meet your eager bridegroom and—’

‘Hell-bent on behaving like a badly behaved gold-digger to put him off!’ Maddy giggled, batting her eyes like mad.

‘Brilliant! You can do it!’ crowed Debbie.

‘Can I?’

‘Sure! Psyche yourself up. Look at yourself!’ encouraged Debbie.

She dragged Maddy back to the mirror. Fiddling with her alarmingly low-cut top, Maddy thought of the prim and grim Sofia Fitzgerald, Dex’s grandmother. Sofia would loathe a money-grabbing vamp as a prospective bride for Dex—and from what she remembered of him, he’d want a docile, nicely dressed woman to be his wife, not a flighty-looking piece with a come-hither walk.

Maddy pushed back her uncertainties. It would be the act of a lifetime. But her grandfather had been almost apoplectic when she’d tried to tell him she didn’t want to go along with his marriage plans. If she wanted to stop her grandfather from having another heart attack, she had no choice. She’d appear to go along with his plan, but would make sure it failed. She took a deep breath and summoned up all her inner strength.

‘Then help me, Debs,’ she said decisively. ‘Teach me what to do.’

They practised being sensual, bold and assertive. Took a walk outside, drawing lustful glances. Amidst the laughter she shared with her friend, Maddy found herself gaining in confidence as the day wore on and she was being openly propositioned in the street.

Now she was the kind of woman that men picked up! It still felt very unnatural to her, but at least she could pretend to be a sex-siren, if only for a short while. She would appear to be totally unsuitable as a Fitzgerald bride. The marriage-making that had gone on between Maddy’s grandfather and the aristocratic Sofia would come to nothing.

‘Just don’t be your usual sweet self. You’re a sharp cookie, remember,’ Debbie warned as she finally drove Maddy to the airport.

‘Dex would hate that,’ Maddy mused. ‘I didn’t see him very often after his eighth birthday when he went to boarding-school in England, and I was only four at the time. But I remember he was very reclusive and aloof—’

‘With bottleglass specs and as thin as a reed,’ Debbie reminded her.

‘I’m sure he’s very nice,’ Maddy conceded kindly, twiddling a spiky piece of hair. ‘But I’d never marry someone I didn’t love.’

Her husband would have to be very understanding, she thought. Her restless hands stilled. Someone who didn’t mind that she couldn’t have children. She had come to terms with that a long time ago, after the infection had ruined her chances of motherhood, even though the inner ache, the wistful longing, would be with her always. What man would be content with just her, and no child to call his own?

‘You’re pretty tough, aren’t you? Even though you might seem quiet and submissive to people who don’t know you,’ Debbie said admiringly. ‘I don’t know how you’ve coped, being head cook and bottle-washer to your grandfather all these years. He’s a bit of a tyrant, isn’t he?’

‘He needed me,’ Maddy said simply. ‘And I learnt to keep quiet and get on with things when the business he started up over here failed and we lost all our money.’

‘Rotten for you.’

‘Worse for him.’ She remembered how hard it had been for her grandfather to be poor. The Fitzgeralds had settled a large sum on him in exchange for his share of the plant nursery in Portugal. But all of that money had been swallowed up by debts. ‘If only Grandpa didn’t feel such a violent resentment towards the Fitzgerald family!’ she sighed. ‘He thinks that half of Dex’s inheritance should rightly be mine. That’s why he’s so determined that the two of us should marry.’

Debbie looked puzzled. ‘Why does he resent the Fitzgerald millions?’

Maddy fell silent for a moment. ‘He blames them for the car accident that caused the deaths of my parents and Dex’s,’ she explained sadly. ‘Our two families shared the same rambling farmhouse in Portugal. Apparently Dex’s mother flung herself at my father. If she hadn’t, Grandpa says, there would have been no accident whatsoever. We’d be wealthy, both sets of parents would be alive and we’d all still live in Portugal.’

‘Can’t dwell in the past,’ Debbie said, matter-of-fact as ever. ‘You’ve got a future to plan. Almost there. Remember: stay in character. Do things that are socially unacceptable.’

Squaring her shoulders, Maddy resolutely faced up to the challenge ahead.

‘Like slurping my soup?’ she suggested.

The car rolled to a stop. ‘Perfect. Or do the cancan on the table. Eat spaghetti with your fingers. Anything. Just come back single!’

Maddy slid out, moving carefully to keep her balance in the gold killer heels. Two male passers-by leapt over to help her with her luggage and she beamed her thanks at them. Their eyes glazed over and she saw Debbie giving her a conspiratorial wink.

‘Go for it,’ her friend said fondly, hugging her. ‘Show time! Have fun.’

‘I will!’

Maddy felt excited. She’d quickly scotch any ideas of a loveless marriage and then demand to hear the Fitzgeralds’ version of the events leading to the fatal car accident.

However hard she’d probed, her grandfather had refused to explain why her loving father had run off with Dex’s mother without saying goodbye. There had to be a good reason—and this was her opportunity to discover it.

Her eyes sparkled. For once in her life, she had a wonderful sense of taking control of her own life. It was exhilarating to feel so free.

With a wave to her approving friend, she graciously allowed one of the young men to push the luggage trolley and set off after him, her hips swinging exuberantly in the tight leather skirt.

This was an adventure, she thought. And she was determined to enjoy it.

CHAPTER TWO

DEXTER’S manic schedule meant that he’d come to the airport grimy and unshaven. Sourly he waited as the passengers from the London flight filed past, though he barely saw them, not even the admiring glances from women as they passed.

His mind was elsewhere: on the charred ruins of the Quinta, that had once been the Fitzgerald home.

He didn’t want to be here. Hell, he didn’t even want to be in the country.

Seeing a plump, timid-looking woman in ill-fitting clothes, he raised his placard with exhausted resignation. She caught his eye, brightened and then looked at the hastily felt-tipped name: Maddy Cook. Looking disappointed, the woman continued dolefully on her way through Faro Airport. Not her, then.

The last stragglers wandered out and he was on his own. It seemed that Maddy wasn’t coming to the Algarve after all, and he felt such a huge sense of relief that he might have burst into song if he hadn’t been so dog-tired and disinclined for anything remotely resembling merriment.

Then, just as he turned to leave, his attention was caught by a crowd of chattering, laughing men who’d surged through from Customs. Dexter saw that they were rugby players on tour, complete with team kit, coach, acolytes and, he noted appreciatively, a team mascot.

The mascot’s burgundy head bobbed up and down amid the ruck, almost lost under the welter of burly arms and giant hands. But between the mountainous shoulders and tree-trunk thighs Dex had glimpsed her dazzling grin and stunning legs. For the first time in a week his stony face cracked with the faint hint of a smile.

‘Hey, babe, here’s your meeter-and-greeter!’ shouted one of the giants, pointing directly at him.

Dex turned around, expecting to see—somewhere behind him—a welcoming committee of seven-foot giants in striped jerseys bulging with muscles. He saw nothing of the kind.

And when he turned back he noticed that the scrum had parted to reveal the mascot in all her glory. Despite his hurry to leave, he paused, utterly arrested by the startling sight.

She was like an exotic butterfly, shimmering with glitter and iridescence. Obvious, for sure. Not his type. Yet something about her joyous exuberance and lovely face touched his rock-bottom spirits and lifted the weight that had settled so leadenly in his mind.

He blinked. The butterfly was coming in his direction, her smoky eyes fixed with eager interest on the placard he was still holding.

His mouth dried. It couldn’t be. Wrong shape. Wrong personality…

‘Hi,’ she said breathily. ‘I’m Maddy. Are you the driver?’

Maddy? He stared. Impossible! And yet there were the enormous grey eyes, though they were sparkling instead of how he remembered them—apprehensive and all too ready to shed tears.

There was something vaguely familiar in that mouth, too, even if the fine cheekbones and delicately shaped nose bore no resemblance to the podgy, childish features he remembered.

‘You are my driver?’ she prompted with an extraordinarily sweet smile, enunciating clearly and making steering motions with her hands.

‘Uh,’ he said inadequately, wondering how anyone short, plump and permanently anxious could ever have hatched into this extraordinary, confident bombshell of a woman.

She put her head on one side and looked uncertain.

‘Oh, dear. You’ve no idea what I’m saying, have you? My Portuguese is horribly rusty. Do you speak any English?’ she asked with slow care.

He’d thought that nothing could surprise him any more. He’d travelled the world. Been startled, shocked and scared out of his wits. One broken arm, several broken ribs and a snake-bite to show for his travels. Two passionate affairs, a wonderful but poignantly brief marriage, his bride dead of dengue fever before their unborn child could survive outside the womb. His mouth tightened and he forced back the desperately painful memory.

Perhaps because he put himself in dangerous situations, life was always flinging him off balance. And it had done it again.

This was an amazing transformation. Tubby little Maddy. To this! He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw in amazement.

‘English. Er—yeah,’ he managed, and she nodded, bright with relief, then wiggled her way back to the rugby players, blissfully unaware of Dexter’s confusion. He found that his jaw had dropped open and hastily closed it.

Ironically, she hadn’t recognised him at all. Though of course he’d changed considerably since his skinny youth. That could be to his advantage. Could he keep his identity a secret? His mind whirled with possibilities.

He’d been expecting the dullest, dreariest woman alive. After all, Maddy had been brought up by her tyrannical old grandfather and was still living with him. He’d imagined that she’d only survive such a relationship if she was subservient and obedient.

He’d believed that she had meekly obeyed her grandfather’s command to put herself up for marriage because she was too scared to disobey. In other words, he’d been convinced she must be a doormat.

This Maddy, however, would be on the doormat, wiping her feet on others. It didn’t make sense.

He appraised her body and her manner. Spectacular. Flirtatious. Confused, he drew in a sharp breath as something else occurred to him. By no means was this a timid granddaughter who was doing old man Cook’s bidding. She was assertive enough to know exactly what she was getting into.

His eyes narrowed. That meant she really wanted to be a bride to the Fitzgerald heir! The mercenary little minx!

Well, he’d soon put her straight about her chances. He’d only agreed to meet her at the airport because his grandmother wouldn’t get off his back about this getting married business. Apparently she’d had a crisis of conscience, now that old man Cook was in poor health and Maddy was likely to be left a pauper when he died.

Dex was far too busy to dance attendance on a woman. But he’d been sure that his grandmother would forget her desire to marry him off when she saw how unsuitable the dull, meek little Maddy was—and when he made it clear that he had no interest whatsoever in his proposed boring little bride.

With a flash of amusement, it occurred to him that Maddy was unsuitable—but in a totally unexpected way! This seductive little madam might make men’s eyes come out on stalks, but she’d horrify his grandmother.

He relaxed. He’d be off the hook. What a relief.

Dazed, he watched the men bending to kiss Maddy farewell, her slender, luscious body dwarfed by so much muscle and brawn. One solid head after another dipped gently towards hers. There were promises of meetings; she was going to watch them play; they were going to treat her to a slap-up meal.

And then they were gone in a rush of testosterone and body odour and Maddy was dashing up to him again, bodice glittering, eyes as bright as diamonds.

Hell. He nearly smiled at her infectious enthusiasm.

‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she apologised. ‘Had to say goodbye. They were so sweet to me on the flight. Sorry if you’ve been waiting long,’ she breathed happily, flushed and flashing a friendly grin at him.

Her extraordinary hair was tousled and there was such an air of sensuality about her that she looked as if she’d been recently hauled away from a particularly energetic orgy.

Dexter tried to keep his scowl going but it was hard. He felt as if all the darkness that inhabited his body had been lit up by an arc lamp. But he couldn’t let himself be diverted. There were far more important things on his mind.

‘I’d given you up,’ he muttered, his voice hoarse from the inhalation of the dust and smoke he’d been working with all day.

He had already focused again on the matter that had occupied his mind and body for the past week: the wreckage of his old family home. Or what had once been a home.

His mouth tightened into a grim line and his features settled into a heavy frown. He was impatient to get back, get things done.

‘Oh, dear. You do look cross! It wasn’t my fault, though. The fact is, I was searched!’ she cried, grey eyes all wide and astonished. ‘Every scrap of my luggage—and almost me! I’ve heard what they do and I was scared, I can tell you. Now, give me your honest opinion. Do I look as if I’m a drug addict?’ she asked indignantly.

Reeling from her chatter, he checked, working his way up and down. Her glittering gold top seemed to be wrestling with her breasts, which were making a bid for freedom. They were unnervingly close to succeeding.

Suddenly he realised to his horror that he’d started to sizzle with a vital energy, the blood roaring around his veins as if it were racing to reach his heart to win a prize.

He scowled. She was certainly altering his body functions. He supposed it was a long time since he’d been even vaguely interested in a woman and he wished his hormones hadn’t chosen this particular moment in time to make themselves known.

But the curves of her lush figure literally took his breath away. To say nothing of the tight leather skirt and slender legs which went on forever and which were causing a glow to spread in the direction of his loins.

Feeling irritable with himself, he answered her query with a shrug and assumed cynically that the officials had just wanted to keep her in their sights as long as possible.

‘Perhaps they thought you were on amphetamines. Some kind of stimulant,’ he suggested.

‘The only stimulants I’ve had in the past twenty-four hours are coffee and life.’ She giggled, spread her arms wide as if to embrace everybody within reach. ‘And that’s more than enough for me!’

‘Shall we go?’ he groused, wondering why she was so all-fired happy.

Maddy looked at him from under her lashes, trying very hard to look coquettish.

‘Let’s. But would you be a sweetie and push my trolley?’ she chirruped. ‘It keeps going left when I’m heading right and I lurch into people. Some like that, some don’t, and I’d rather not upset anyone.’ She flashed him an enormous smile and virtually purred, ‘You look strong enough to control it.’

His mouth tightened. Typical of the female burble he loathed. Flatter a man, twist him around your little finger, suck his bank balance dry. He’d met plenty of those in his lifetime.

And yet her admiring glance had apparently hit the spot. His pulses were racing madly.

Disgusted that his body had, like the trolley, developed a mind of its own, he took charge of the waywardly swerving luggage.

And there on the top of it all he noticed a book entitled How to Catch Your Man. Beneath that chilling title were the words and Make Him Marry You.

His stomach muscles clenched with horror and any passing interest in Maddy suddenly ceased.

‘This way,’ he growled, intent on getting rid of the threat to his freedom as fast as possible.

She beamed. ‘Right. Take me to your leader. I can’t wait to meet him!’

He grunted. Blithely Maddy sashayed along beside him. Dexter quickly realised that the whole airport was grinding to a halt around her. People were grinning, staring, commenting. Men openly lusted. Women looked sour and made catty comments behind their hands.

And she swayed on regardless, her walk uncomfortably reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot.

Dexter surreptitiously ran a finger around his collar, thinking that the temperature had certainly risen a few degrees since she’d arrived.

‘You know, you look a bit like Dexter,’ she ventured. He started, and she must have thought he was insulted by the comparison, because she said with a placatory haste, ‘Only fleetingly. Just something about the eyes. I doubt he’s as—er—well-built as you. Do you work for the Fitzgerald family?’ she asked breathily, apparently mesmerised by the sooty streaks across his chest.

Presumably she was finding it hard to breathe because she was having difficulty keeping up. For some reason, his stride seemed to have increased to a half-jog.

Easing up, he tried a noncommittal, ‘Uh,’ still toying with the idea of pretending to be someone else.

‘You haven’t told me your name,’ she encouraged.

‘Nope.’

She waited but he didn’t elaborate. He wanted to keep conversation to a minimum. That way he could hang on to his dignity and not start panting like a dog on heat.

Stealing a sideways glance at Maddy, he saw that some of the bounce had gone out of her—though he doubted that had anything to do with him. A woman who was this confident wouldn’t be bothered in the least if she was snubbed by a grubby driver in a cinder-stained T-shirt and torn jeans.

Gloom settled over him again. He was filthy because he was working night and day, eating on the run and even occasionally crashing out in the smoking ruins of the Quinta.

Whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw were the charred timbers and scorched earth. His mind constantly raced with the thousand and one things he had to do. When he slept he dreamed of fire consuming whole forests. When he woke the images of desolation became reality.

His head was perpetually filled with the consequences of the disaster. The disruption to his life. His enforced return to Portugal. The destruction of thousands of valuable stock plants in the nursery and the knowledge that he was the only person who could build the business up again.

The forest fire had devoured several thousand acres of eucalyptus trees around the Fitzgerald estate. It had swept on to the eighteenth century manor house, the Quinta, which had been in its path. The majority of their land had been laid to waste and his distraught grandmother had summoned him from Brazil to recreate the farm and the nursery-garden business from the ashes.

Of course he’d agreed to come. Whatever had divided them before, his grandmama was elderly and she needed him.

But he felt trapped. Missed his travels. The joy of plant hunting, obtaining permissions for propagation and seed collection, organising production and despatch. A life of freedom and independence. The life he had chosen when his beloved mother had deserted him for Maddy’s father, Jim Cook, when his safe haven had suddenly become cold and unwelcoming.

Wretched with grief after the terrible accident had wiped out his parents and Maddy’s, he’d turned his back on everything he’d once loved. He didn’t miss his macho, authoritarian father, who’d made it no secret that a reserved, myopic son had been a disappointment. But his mother had loved him for his kind heart and his passion for plants. Until Jim Cook had turned her head.

If it hadn’t been for the fire, he wouldn’t be here. His grandmother wouldn’t have nagged him about producing an heir. And he wouldn’t be fending off the avaricious daughter of the man who’d seduced his mother and enticed her away…

He stopped himself from thinking further. Too painful.

Anger surged through him. His jaw tightened and his dark eyes glittered with loathing. The last person on earth he’d marry was the daughter of Jim Cook.

Even before he’d met her, he’d decided to make her feel completely unwelcome. Ensure that her stay was unpleasant. And he knew just how he could do that. By the time he’d finished with her she’d be hitching a lift back to the airport and taking the next plane home.

He wasn’t going to marry anyone from the Cook family. Especially a gold-digger. More important, he wasn’t ever going to marry again. Full stop.

CHAPTER THREE

GRIMLY plotting mayhem, Dexter lobbed Maddy’s luggage with studied carelessness into the back of the pick-up, on top of the equipment he’d collected from the builders’ yard.

‘Gosh,’ she said, with an appealingly infectious giggle. ‘You could get work as a baggage handler any day.’

Dex met her amused glance with a blank stare. Privately he’d expected Maddy to have changed—but not this much! Maddy had rarely spoken unless given permission by her bullying grandfather.

Old man Cook had ruled his family like a dictator. For the first time it occurred to him that this might be why Maddy’s gentle, plant-loving father might have wanted to escape the evil old tyrant’s influence.

‘Get in,’ he said curtly.

Just in time, he remembered not to open the door for her, or to offer to help her up the high step. He had to give her the maximum of aggravation. And in that skirt she had a serious handicap, he thought with malicious satisfaction.

‘This’ll be fun. I’ve never been in a pick-up before!’ she declared enthusiastically. ‘Right.’ She took a deep breath that threatened the fragile construction of her straining top. ‘Here we go. Avert your eyes.’

He did nothing of the kind. Sourly he watched while she hitched up her soft leather skirt to eye-blinking heights, slipped off her spiky shoes and hauled herself onto the first step.

Perfect thighs. Toned and firm and clearly the result of high-maintenance work-outs in the gym. Cynically he saw her wrench open the buckled door a few inches and virtually limbo-dance her way in through its reluctant gap.

He couldn’t believe that Maddy could be so uninhibited. Or assertive. But he steeled himself not to show his grudging admiration.

‘Crikey! It’s very dirty in here,’ she commented, when he clambered into the driver’s seat beside her.

Illogically it annoyed him that she was stating a fact and didn’t seem in the least bit put out by the mode of transport, or its ramshackle nature.

‘Been too close to a fire,’ was all he offered, starting up the engine.

‘Oh. Camp?’

‘No. I’m straight,’ he replied, deliberately misinterpreting her.

She gave a little gurgle of laughter.

‘I mean was it a camp fire?’

‘Forest.’

‘Were you in it?’

‘The forest or truck?’ he drawled, annoyed to be enjoying the exchange.

‘Truck!’ She laughed in delight.

‘No.’

‘Lucky for you,’ she said, sounding surprisingly heart-felt.

Other than that, she made no comment about the fire. He assumed that was because his grandmother had already warned old man Cook about it—and also reassured him that the Fitzgerald wealth could easily weather the disaster.

Dexter’s mouth grew cynical. Maddy had come, even though she’d known she’d be making do in a small cottage on the estate. She must be desperate to marry a fortune!

Breaking the silence that had fallen, she sighed and shot all his nerves to pieces by stretching wantonly in a flurry of sensual limbs and writhing curves.

‘I’m absolutely shattered,’ she confided. ‘Don’t be surprised if I fall asleep on the journey. No criticism of your conversational skills. It’s tiring being on show,’ she added absently.

What the devil did she mean by that? He frowned and deliberately drove fast over the humps in the road in an effort to get back as quickly as possible. But behind them the scaffolding clanged up and down in metallic protest and she let out a squeal.

Mistakenly he flicked a quick look at her and then concentrated fiercely on the road again. Unfortunately his vision retained the image of two firm, flawless breasts quivering seductively as the truck bounced over the uneven surface. And his body responded with the kind of enthusiasm that any self-respecting male would expect.

‘Sit tight,’ he growled irritably. ‘This truck isn’t designed for women.’

‘You can say that again. My bits are going everywhere. So why did Dexter send it for me?’ she demanded, yanking up her bodice indignantly.

‘I was coming to Faro for supplies,’ he clipped, annoyingly unable to forget the alluring sight of her ‘bits’. ‘No point in two vehicles making the journey. Takes two hours to the Quinta.’

She groaned. ‘My bones’ll be jumbled into a completely different person if we go on like this! If you don’t want to end up with a Quasimodo next to you, I suggest you attack the bumps with less vigour.’

He intended to do just that. His libido was giving him enough trouble as it was, without witnessing another seismic shift of her body.

‘Got to hurry. Get back to work,’ he muttered in excuse.

‘Doing what?’

‘This and that.’

For a moment she looked floored by his reticence, then gamely started the conversation again.

‘I used to live here, you know.’

‘Mmm.’

As sure as hell, he wasn’t going to encourage reminiscences.

‘Yes,’ she said, undeterred. ‘My grandfather and Dexter’s grandfather set up the garden centre together. They’d been friends since childhood and chose to go out to Portugal because it was an up-and-coming place for ex-pats to settle,’ she told him, and paused for his comment.

Hoping his silence would shut her up, he just glared at the road. Annoyingly she launched off again, clearly in a chatty mood.

‘Grandpa was the business brain, Mr Fitzgerald was the plantsman. They married Portuguese women. So did my father, so I have Portuguese blood,’ she announced. ‘I was born on the farm, like Dexter. I was there for the first eleven years of my life.’

‘Really?’

He didn’t want to think about it. Unfortunately she ignored his plainly uninterested comment and forged on, opening old wounds, old memories.

‘Mmm. Our two families lived together because it was cheaper than running two houses and they could put more money into the actual business. I suppose it was more convenient, too. Not so far to commute.’

She went quiet for a moment and he shifted uncomfortably. There had always been tensions between the two grandfathers. One saw the Quinta purely as a commercial venture, the other as a wonderful way of life.

‘My grandpa says Mr Fitzgerald senior died a year or so ago.’

‘Yes.’

She wasn’t put off by his curtness. ‘I liked him. Those were the days,’ she continued dreamily. ‘We all mucked in together at the Quinta. Not much money, but bags of hope and mega-size dreams—built on the back of the new villa developments in the Algarve which needed their gardens landscaped. We were two close families, working all hours to build up the business.’

Close families! Too damn close. Grimly he turned on the radio, not wanting to hear any more. He had enough to deal with. Memories could stay where they were.

‘You’re very grumpy. I thought you’d be interested,’ she said, sounding hurt.

He snorted but didn’t reply. Privately crushed by his abruptness, Maddy watched him scowling at the road ahead as if it deserved his revenge.

And yet despite his sullen, antisocial manner, he was quite a dish in a basic kind of way: tall, well-built and undeniably handsome.

The smell of smoke hung around him and he clearly hadn’t washed his clothes for days or cleaned his fingernails. His hands were ingrained with dirt and there were streaks of black decorating his broad forehead and strong cheekbones. Even his voice sounded husky, as if he’d chain-smoked all his life.

But his profile was to die for: a dark and brooding eye beneath a lowered black brow, the firm jut of a nose and a chiselled mouth that Michelangelo would have been proud to have created. Though, she mused, Michelangelo might have stopped short at the designer stubble, however sexy it looked.

This was a true labouring man, she decided. Rough and ready. No conversationalist. And yet passion lurked in those dark eyes. Pity Dex couldn’t be more like him instead of detached and distant. Thinking of their imminent meeting, she shuddered with apprehension.

‘If you’re cold, there’s a sack in the back you could put over your shoulders,’ he suggested sardonically.

Her mouth twitched at the caveman offer and, thinking of Debbie’s instructions to stay in character, she raked up a reply to suit her personality.

‘A sack? Moi? I’d rather freeze,’ she said with a giggle and, in the absence of a decent chat, opened her book on getting her man for some quick revision.

The truck suddenly lurched forwards and she struggled to find her place as the Hunk hurtled along the motorway with scant regard for the suspension—either the truck’s or hers.

All she needed to do, she reminded herself, dismissing her grumpy companion for more important things, was to make sure her behaviour was the exact opposite of what the book advised.

She mustn’t be a woman with wife potential. She had to be a ‘good for now’ kind of girl. That was a task she felt was within her grasp, since she’d practised on the rugby team. They’d been hugely appreciative and their delight in her company had given her confidence a huge boost.

It had been fun, too. The most fun she’d had ever. Nothing heavy, just wall-to-wall flirting and endless laughter. All perfectly harmless.

Frowning with concentration, she delved into the chapter on how to charm a man with sweetness and submission. Always agree, always defer. Hmm.

Her eyes gleamed as she planned her tactics on going completely against her character and doing nothing of the kind.

By putting a spanner in the attempted matchmaking, she was only being kind. Her subterfuge was all for the best. Dexter needed a battleaxe of a wife who’d stand up to his domineering grandmother.

Maddy smiled wryly to herself. Just as she needed a gritty, assertive husband who wouldn’t shake like a jelly when he met her stern grandfather.

None of her boyfriends had stood the Grandpa test. They had all run a mile at his first bark and hadn’t even made it to his bite. But they’d been pretty lacklustre, if she was honest.

Her face grew wistful. When would a gorgeous, independent cuss of a man ever look twice at a mouse like her? Of course, she could probably lure a guy who fell for her brassy, extrovert image, but where would that get her? She was really quiet and shy. Would she want to live a lie for the rest of her life?

She checked her useless thoughts. This was ridiculous! It was silly to even contemplate the idea of marriage. It would never happen.

Sadly she closed the book, the corners of her bright mouth drooping. She wanted to be someone’s wife. Wanted babies, loads and loads of them. Like her friends, who seemed to be forever swelling or giving birth or pushing buggies and wailing about sleepless nights. But she couldn’t have children and that was that. She knew the score.

Her hand came to rest on her abdomen. Her mouth tightened in suppressed anguish as she remembered vividly the agony of the infection which had ruined her chances of motherhood some ten years earlier, when she was just twenty.

Despite her efforts, she couldn’t stop herself reliving those mind-numbing moments when the doctor had sat on the end of her bed and sympathetically said…

‘Feel all right?’ asked the Hunk abruptly.

She jerked and hastily drew her hand away, startled that he’d noticed her mournful expression. She’d thought he’d been intent on glaring the road into abject submission.

‘OK,’ she mumbled unconvincingly, unable to lift the dullness of her voice.

Unexpected tears welled up in her eyes. Over the years she’d had to accept the fact that she’d never have a child, but somehow coming to Portugal had unsettled her emotions.

Her teeth clamped together as she tried to crush her useless, destructive thoughts. But she would have given anything to have a baby. Anything.

Without comment, he swerved to the inside lane and took an exit which led them to a small, bustling village. Struggling fiercely with her stupidly wayward emotions, Maddy didn’t recognise it at all but was too choked up to ask what he was doing.

And yet there was something calming about the twisty cobbled roads lined with crumbling white houses. The village clearly was a poor one, but roses trailed around the wonky wooden doors and geraniums tumbled down from pots on rickety balconies.

Everything came flooding back to her. This was the old Portugal, the one she’d known as a child, and far more recognisable than the smart motorway and huge villa developments they’d passed so far.

Trundling beneath the lines of washing which hung across the street, the truck finally stopped in a small square surrounded by orange trees. A wonderful silence descended, broken only by the sound of birdsong. It was heavenly.

The truck driver turned to her and scowled. ‘Out!’

Grimly he walked around and jerked at her door, the metal screeching in protest as his brute strength levered the door completely open.

She stared at his unfriendly face in dismay as it became apparent that he wasn’t intending to have a potentially weepy woman in the cab and had decided to abandon her, then and there.

He pinned her with his cold and uncompromising stare. And then anger gave her the courage to fling herself in the direction of the driver’s seat. For a moment she found herself intimately linked with the gear stick and then she was tumbling into place and switching on the ignition.

Which was just as quickly switched off by a large, warm hand which clamped down on hers and deftly twisted her fingers in an anticlockwise direction till the engine died.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he enquired, his deep, throaty voice somewhere in the region of her right ear.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she husked, suddenly swamped, it seemed, by the smell of smoke and warm, body-tingling man.

‘Do you know how to drive a truck?’ he growled.

‘No, I don’t!’

‘Then why try?’ he asked, not unreasonably.

Her stormy eyes flashed angrily to his. His face was close, invading her personal space. Trying not to be intimidated, she said, ‘It was me or you and I chose me!’

His forehead furrowed. ‘What?’

‘You were going to dump me by the road!’ she cried hotly.

He looked exasperated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I was going to take you into that bar for a coffee or a brandy.’

Startled, she jerked her head around to peer at the building behind him. There was, indeed, a bar.

‘Why?’ she asked, utterly confused.

Only inches away, the dark eyes bored into hers without compassion or sympathy. She felt suddenly weak, blasted by his intense masculinity.

‘You’re tired. Or upset. It doesn’t matter which,’ he muttered gruffly. ‘It was all I could think of.’

‘Oh!’ She moved back to escape his compelling power. Her brain began to work and as it did her anger subsided. He was being kind in his curt, funny way! She smiled gratefully. ‘Sorry. My mistake. That’s very thoughtful. Thanks. I would like a coffee.’

He narrowed his eyes and considered her with care. The scrutiny caused a frisson to ripple through her, taking her unawares. But then few gorgeous men ever paid her any attention normally, she reasoned. And decided that it was all very unsettling.

‘Would you really have driven away and left me here?’ he murmured, obviously intrigued.

‘Yes, of course!’ she declared, still a little amazed at her own nerve. ‘How else would I get to the Quinta?’

He let out a bark of surprised laughter and then hastily stifled it as if it was something forbidden. Then he swung himself out again, onto the step.

‘I think,’ he said in steel-trap tones, ‘I need a brandy.’

For a moment she lowered her eyes in feminine acquiescence of male rights, before she remembered who she was and blurted out her initial thought.

‘Good grief! Your driving’s energetic enough without it being fuelled by alcohol!’ she reproved daringly.

He stepped down. ‘I’m taking a lunch break,’ he drawled. ‘I intend to soak up the brandy with a large plate of fresh, chargrilled sardines on pão integral.’

‘Local bread,’ she remembered wistfully, her mouth watering as she recalled the enormous, tasty sardines on chunks of rough wholemeal. ‘That sounds wonderful. I’ll join you.’

Grabbing her shoes in one hand, she began to clamber out, and found herself stuck on the lower step above a large puddle, just where she’d land if she jumped down. She noticed then that the leather of the truck driver’s working boots were stained with water where he’d already walked through the puddle.

So she waved her bare feet at him and smiled expectantly. He did nothing. Just stood back and watched her, hatchet-faced and ungallant. Sir Walter Raleigh he was not.

Just as she was resigning herself to an impromptu paddle in what might be sewage for all she knew, a group of males appeared as if from nowhere. They were unshaven and grinning, all ages from teens to nineties, and clearly encouraging her to leap into their arms.

She dithered, feeling both flustered and touched by their concern. ‘Oh, you’re very kind. I don’t—’

Two firm hands came to settle around her waist. Before she could protest, she was being lifted into the air as the truck driver swung her up and over the puddle then deposited her safely on a strip of grass.

‘Thanks!’ she husked, stooping to slip her shoes on and going pink from the interest caused when she bent down.

Oddly, she felt dizzy and disorientated, and she didn’t know if it was from the driver’s intense masculinity or because she hadn’t eaten for hours. Probably both. And the swooping sensation had been due to being lifted and deposited rather quickly. A kind of inner-ear problem.

‘Come on,’ he muttered.

Meekly she followed his broad back. Patently unwilling to miss the entertainment on offer, the village men swept into the bar behind them. They sat close by, raising their glasses to her and looking openly admiring.

There was an audible, communal sigh when she unthinkingly crossed one leg over the other, forgetting she was wearing something tight, short and revealing, instead of her usual grey and shapeless skirt.

‘I’m going to the washroom. I’ll put in our order on the way,’ the truck driver said curtly.

‘Oh,’ she whispered, suddenly nervous. ‘Don’t leave me! I feel like an exhibit.’

He grunted. ‘You ask to be ogled, wearing those clothes,’ he told her heartlessly. ‘And I’m not eating till I’ve washed.’

He had some standards, then. She watched him stride to the counter, and felt sympathy for the starry-eyed waitress who could hardly keep her eyes off the ultimate alpha male who was growling out his order as if it were a request for a suicide pill instead of sardines.

Rehearsing her role as a shameless hussy, Maddy studied him boldly. The muscles in his back rippled wonderfully when he moved. His rear was small and tight and he walked as if he was used to the freedom of the open air.

A wicked thought came into her head. Suppose, when she was talking to Sofia, she let slip that she was wildly attracted to the company’s truck driver?

With a giggle of horror at her audacity, she mulled this over while the man in question freshened up. A few minutes later the door to the men’s room opened and she hastily pretended to be studying her book again.

The hairs on the back of her neck tingled. She heard the firm stride of those heavy boots, the scrape of the chair opposite her as it was pulled to the table and then the faint smell of soap wafted to her nostrils.

She kept on reading, absently threading her hands through her hair until she was aware of a lot of deep breathing from the men around her.

‘You trying to be provocative?’ muttered the driver crossly.

She let her arms drop and bit back an indignant no. It would be safer to stay in character. Her behaviour might be reported back to the family. She racked her brains for what a siren might say.

‘No, I’m not trying. Comes naturally,’ she cooed.

He looked down his nose at her in disgust.

‘Unlike your hair colour.’

She smiled and batted her eyelashes in response.

‘Do you think it suits me?’ she asked coyly.

And, to her astonishment, she found herself holding her breath, hoping he did.

‘You’d look better blonde,’ was his laconic verdict.

Her natural colour! She decided to be blunt in return. He’d clearly scrubbed his hands and had tried to brush the dust out of his hair but he still looked grubby.

‘Why don’t you bother to keep yourself clean?’ she ventured curiously.

His frown deepened, the hard line of his mouth unutterably grim.

‘Don’t have time. Stopped work, drove to Faro, rushed to the builders’ yard, then the airport.’

‘You could have set the alarm earlier,’ she said, realising to her horror that she was unconsciously echoing her grandfather.

Before she could apologise profusely, she saw that the dark eyes suddenly looked tired and that there was a deeper tightening of the muscles around his mouth.

‘Four o’clock’s early enough for me,’ he growled.

‘Four…!’ She planted her hands on her hips indignantly, faintly conscious of a swell in the murmuring of the village men around them as she did so. But she was annoyed with the autocratic Fitzgeralds for taking advantage of their employee. ‘That’s outrageous!’ she declared hotly, totally forgetting who she was supposed to be. ‘I’ll speak to Dexter and tell him to stop exploiting you—’

‘You’ll be wasting your time. I have to get through the work somehow,’ he said tersely.

Her tender heart was touched. She imagined that he had a family to support. A dark-haired wife—very pretty but careworn—and four children, she imagined. Perhaps a widowed mother.

‘I must do something!’ she declared anxiously.

He frowned excessively. ‘Maddy—’

‘Sardinhas, aguardiente.’

The barman put two huge plates in front of them and a tot of rough brandy which she knew was strong enough to strip paint.

She felt disappointed. It had seemed for a moment that the truck driver was going to confide in her. Instead, he belligerently tucked into the sardines, not even looking up when the barman brought her coffee and a bottle of water.

It didn’t matter, she thought sympathetically, watching the driver decapitate the first sardine with the skill of an executioner. She’d take up his cause, even if he didn’t have a wife and kids.

Her expression grew sad again and she attacked the fish, doggedly determined to blank out the thought that she would never have a family of her own.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked irritably.

Furious with her uncharacteristic self-pity, she kept her head down and scowled. What was the matter with her? Being in Portugal had really unleashed her emotions! ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, munching suddenly dry bread.

A large, work-roughened finger and thumb gently tipped up her chin but still she wouldn’t look at him.

‘Your lashes are damp,’ was his damning verdict.

‘Must be the humidity.’

She heard him chuckle and flicked her misty eyes up in surprise. Her stomach turned over and she forgot her sorrow. He looked absolutely drop-dead gorgeous when he laughed, his white teeth good enough for a toothpaste ad.

‘The air is dry,’ he reminded her.

‘All right. I was thinking of something sad,’ she amended sheepishly. And, to divert his intense and unnerving interest, she said, ‘My parents died here.’

His hand released her chin, the shadows beneath his strong cheekbones deeper now.

‘Is that why you left for England?’ he asked tightly.

‘My grandpa fled from Portugal with me in tow,’ she admitted.

There was a long silence. ‘Tough,’ he said eventually.

Maddy shrugged. ‘We managed, between us.’

‘Different climate, culture—and you grieving—’ he began.

‘When you have things to do, day by day, hour by hour,’ she broke in hastily, not wanting to remember her immense loneliness and sense of loss, ‘it helps you to get through difficulties.’

There was an expression resembling grudging admiration in his eyes. ‘And yet the memories have upset you.’

‘Only for a moment. I’m fine now,’ she said firmly. ‘I—I hadn’t realised that coming here would bring it all back so forcefully.’

‘Life’s hell enough as it is without actively encouraging sad thoughts,’ he muttered.

Maddy felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy on his behalf.

‘Tell me what’s so awful about your life and I’ll see what I can do,’ she said earnestly, leaning forward in her eagerness to help.

When he frowned and narrowed his eyes speculatively at her, she realised she’d made a big mistake. The new, revised Maddy wouldn’t show her emotions. She wouldn’t have a tender heart, either.

Worryingly, her carefully constructed façade was crumbling away and she was revealing the caring person beneath. She was jeopardising her chance of success before she even met Dexter.

Some extrovert behaviour was needed rather urgently. And just as she was beginning to panic beneath the driver’s puzzled gaze, someone rescued her by striking up a tune on a tinny piano.

Delighted, she breathed a sigh of relief. Yes. That would do. Not the cancan perhaps, but something like it. She bestowed a creamy smile on the driver and sought to allay his suspicions that she might be a tart with a heart.

‘You look surprised. But I enjoy the power I get from twisting men round my little finger,’ she murmured, inventing rapidly. ‘So you tell me what you want and I’ll work on Dexter till you get it. Think about it. In the meantime, ’scuse me. Girl’s gotta dance.’

And she leapt to her feet, calling for a salsa, indicating with her body what she wanted. The pianist came close to the right rhythm, near enough for her to display a talent that even she didn’t know she had. But she’d watched enough TV to know how it was done and thought she managed very well.

So did the villagers. Soon she was being whirled around from man to man and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of the truck driver, who wasn’t amused at all.

Suddenly he rose, knocked back the last of his brandy and inhaled sharply as the raw alcohol hit his throat and shot through his system like a rocket. But he was perfectly sober, she could see that, his eyes hard and clear, his body rock-solid in its aggressive stance.

He jerked his head. It was the age-old chauvinist’s interpretation of Shall we go? and just one step up from a caveman grabbing his woman’s hair and dragging her off. In true macho style and without caring whether she followed or not, he made his ill-tempered exit.

Breathless and bright-eyed from dancing, she ran out after him.

‘Wait!’ she gasped, afraid he’d leave her behind. When he turned, his angry expression almost crushed her, till she remembered who she was and stood up to him. ‘I was having fun!’ she complained.

‘Do it in your own time,’ he growled, and climbed into the cab.

She had no option but to follow.

‘Spoilsport,’ she grumbled, playing her role to the full.

He looked furious.

‘There are more important things in life than having fun,’ he snapped in disgust.

Once she would have agreed. Now she knew that fun was part of life. Without a sprinkling of laughter and enjoyment, the world could be a dark and dreary place.

In the short time she’d been prancing about in her eye-catching get-up, she’d seen loads of people smiling—sometimes at her, sometimes with her. It didn’t matter. Only that for a while she’d been surrounded by happy faces instead of gloomy ones.

But it wasn’t any use telling the morose driver that. He was having troubles that he didn’t want to share. She brightened. She’d make enquiries. Find out what his problem was, and see if she could help.

There was silence between them from that moment on and for a while she dozed. When she woke, she saw from the signs that they’d passed the town of Luz and were turning onto a minor road which she didn’t recognise.

Maddy frowned. ‘This isn’t the way to the Quinta,’ she declared suspiciously.

‘No.’

Her eyes flashed with anger. Strong and silent was OK, but sometimes it got on your nerves. ‘So where are you taking me?’ she asked, with enough steel in her query to tell him that she wasn’t going to be messed about.

‘Hotel Caterina.’

She quailed. ‘I can’t afford a hotel!’ she squeaked in alarm.

‘You’re that poor?’ He shot her an interested glance.

‘Don’t let the glitter fool you,’ she sighed. ‘Beneath the glitzy appearance lies a poverty-stricken woman with barely enough to get by.’ Her voice was shaking with anxiety. The little money she had was precious and hard-earned—and there wasn’t any more where it had come from. Her eyes became pleading. ‘Please, take me to the Quinta, where the accommodation’s free.’

‘Mrs Fitzgerald’s paying,’ he told her gruffly. ‘You’re staying at the hotel tonight and going on to the farm in the morning.’ A pair of dark, stone-hard eyes met her puzzled gaze. ‘Mrs Fitzgerald is also staying at the hotel.’

It seemed an odd thing to do, when the farm was a few miles away. ‘Why?’

He frowned, as if puzzled by her question.

‘It’s the best one around,’ he replied, making Maddy none the wiser. ‘She’s giving a dinner party tonight.’ His lip curled. ‘That’s why you’re in the hotel. You’re the guest of honour.’

Maddy groaned before she remembered she was a party girl and would love such occasions.

‘I haven’t anything to wear,’ she invented hastily and, remembering her role, she tried widening her eyes appealingly, adding a wicked, ‘Mind you, I have this saucy spangly affair with a marabou trim…’

She wilted beneath the contemptuous stare.

‘A little too much for the Algarve, I think. You’ll do very well dressed as you are,’ he drawled, pulling into a drive lined with palm trees and oleander.

‘You don’t like me, do you? Why?’ she asked, revelling in the freedom of her unconventional bluntness.

‘I’m not particularly interested in you one way or the other. But if pushed, I’d say you are too obvious,’ was the cool reply.

He had taste, at least, she thought with amusement. And then her eyes brightened at the sight of the elegant hotel in its carefully manicured gardens. She beamed. A night here would be the height of luxury—and she hadn’t had any of that in the last twenty years.

He drew the truck to a halt, leapt out and unloaded her luggage. Then, seeing she’d scrambled down and was stretching her stiff limbs, he clambered back into the cab and drove away, abandoning her—and her luggage—on the driveway!

Astounded, she stood there, open-mouthed and muttering rude things under her breath, then irritably hauled her case to the entrance. The man had no manners. If ever they met up again, she’d get her own back, she promised angrily. With compound interest.

Alongside a gang of men, Dexter worked at the ruined Quinta, sifting and sorting till his muscles screamed. Now they’d cleared most of the collapsed timbers and stone he hoped to find family documents and salvageable treasures. Something of his mother’s would be a bonus. Just one thing to remember her by. All he had was the dog-eared photograph in his wallet.

The light faded. They worked by arc lamps and then it was time to pack up. Depressed by his lack of success, he stumbled into his car and headed for the hotel, where he picked up his room key and spent a relaxing hour in the bath.

Luxuriating in the deep suds, he tried to imagine his grandmother’s face when she came face to face with Maddy. He smiled to himself, wishing he could have been there. But then if he had Maddy would have learnt who he really was, and he wanted to surprise her tonight. And then he’d make her life hell.

Slowly he soaped his shoulders, his mind full of her. It seemed inconceivable that the chubby little girl with straggly blonde plaits could have turned into such an up-front woman. Poor Grandmama! Maddy’s appearance would appall her!

He suspected that his grandmother had agreed to promote Maddy for his bride because the little girl had always been so meek and malleable.

His grim mouth softened again into a faint smile. Grandmama now knew different! She’d be horrified to think that she had to spend three weeks entertaining the feisty little temptress. That would teach his grandmother to select brides for him!

Dexter surprised himself with a low chuckle. Just thinking about Maddy had energised his tired body.

Grateful for the diversion from the nightmare of the ruined Quinta, he stepped out of the tub to dry himself before wandering into the suite of rooms to gather his clothes together.

Halfway through buttoning his fine linen shirt, he stopped, arrested by a tempting idea. He could pretend to be dazzled by Maddy. In fact, he could show every sign of eagerness for the match that would link their two families.

Clearly Maddy and her grandfather had set their mercenary hearts on the marriage. Old man Cook had often complained that part of the Fitzgerald fortune was morally his.

Dexter’s eyes narrowed in determination. By leading her on and raising her hopes to fever pitch—and then dumping her—he’d teach her a salutary lesson. Maybe she wouldn’t mess with men again.

A sardonic curl lifted his upper lip. Who was he kidding? She’d keep trying till she landed some unsuspecting, besotted elderly guy with a healthy bank balance and five years to live.

Surprisingly, the thought of the nubile, laughing Maddy tied to an elderly invalid didn’t give him the satisfaction it should. He found the idea of gnarled old hands wandering over her firm young body quite disturbing. It would be a waste of her life. She needed a tough, no-nonsense guy to teach her the true values in life…

Damn it! Why was he wasting valuable time by thinking of Maddy’s future? She could make her own bed and lie in it—and probably would. He had his own problems to worry about.

And his grandmother had to recognise that he intended to carve his own path in future—and that she must not interfere. He wasn’t going to be blackmailed by anyone, not even an eighty-six-year-old lady.

Over and over again he’d told her he would never marry again. Didn’t want the anguish and risk of commitment. Didn’t want his wings clipped by a wife who’d expect him to stop roaming the world.

Besides, he wouldn’t let any woman risk her life in the kind of places he frequented in his line of work. Not after what had happened to Luisa.

The pain ripped through him so fiercely that he had to stand perfectly still until it had eased. He had loved Luisa so much. Had been ecstatic when she’d become pregnant. At last, he’d thought, he would have a family; people to love and cherish for the rest of his life.

But his wife and unborn child had been snatched from him, just as his parents had been all those years ago. He had never known such anguish. It had crippled him, had paralysed his mind and turned him into a shambling wreck.

And still it hurt whenever he was unwise enough to think about his gentle, sweet Luisa. Hence the fact that he always blocked out the past and kept it locked away so that no one knew how he felt.

Perhaps he should explain to his grandmother that he’d suffered enough and didn’t want to, couldn’t ever love anyone again. Then she might understand. Yes. He’d tell her tonight, during dinner, if an opportunity presented itself.

Musing on this, he adjusted the collar of his dark suit. The dirty truck driver had become the suave heir to a multimillion-pound business. An unexpected grin of mischief split his face. Maddy would be speechless for once when she saw him!

And he’d enjoy giving the little minx a run for her money. Correction, he thought, the grin widening. No money. She’d go home empty-handed and serve her right.

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