A marriage of convenience...

With a price!

Billionaire playboy Will Trent-Paterson has one year to get married. His father will disinherit him if he doesn’t settle down, leaving his vulnerable sister homeless! So when his old friend Sophie Mitchell jokes that she’d marry him for a million pounds, a temporary marriage seems like the perfect solution! Until, after spending time with captivating Sophie, Will realizes walking away will be the hardest part...

MICHELLE DOUGLAS has been writing for Mills & Boon since 2007, and believes she has the best job in the world. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero, a house full of dust and books and an eclectic collection of sixties and seventies vinyl. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website: michelle-douglas.com.

Also by Michelle Douglas

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The Millionaire and the Maid

Reunited by a Baby Secret

A Deal to Mend Their Marriage

An Unlikely Bride for the Billionaire

The Spanish Tycoon’s Takeover

Sarah and the Secret Sheikh

A Baby in His In-Tray

The Wild Ones miniseries

Her Irresistible Protector

The Rebel and the Heiress

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Million Pound Marriage Deal

Michelle Douglas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07808-5

THE MILLION POUND MARRIAGE DEAL

© 2018 Michelle Douglas

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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In memory of James (Jim) Morris 23/4/51–21/11/17,

who is sadly missed by all who knew and loved him.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

A QUICK GLANCE around the Soho restaurant informed Sophie that she’d arrived first—which was unusual.

‘And that’s a gold star for me,’ she murmured under her breath, before sending a smile to the approaching waiter. ‘I believe there’s a reservation in the name of Trent-Paterson.’

‘Certainly, madam.’

He didn’t even need to check the reservation book, but led her across the room to a table set in an alcove and screened from the rest of the room by palms. Knowing Will, it was probably the best table in the house. She wondered if this was one of the places where he normally brought his women.

Not that they were his women, of course. It was just that there was such a parade of them in and out of his life.

You can’t talk.

She bit back a sigh.

The restaurant was upmarket, of course, and eschewed modern minimalist lines that were currently in vogue, celebrating instead a colonial décor popular over a century ago. It reminded her of Raffles in Singapore. Minus the heat and humidity. This wasn’t the kind of establishment that needed to justify itself. She took a seat.

‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’

‘Yes, please. A sparkling mineral water would be lovely.’

He blinked before his face became a smooth mask again. Ah...so he recognised her too, huh? She resisted the urge to tease him. New leaf, remember?

She glanced through the screen of palms at the rest of the room and shook her head. ‘Horrible,’ she murmured. Normally she and Will met in the café at the Tate Modern. Where they could stare out at the vista spread before them rather than at each other.

And where occasionally their shoulders would bump. Accidentally, of course—Will would never purposely touch his best friend’s little sister. Especially not now Peter was dead. But those accidental moments always made her feel less alone.

‘Crazy,’ she murmured. ‘Also you have to stop talking to yourself like this or someone will overhear.’ She thought about that for a moment and then shrugged. ‘So what?’

It wasn’t like a century ago, when they could’ve had her committed for such eccentricity. Besides, she’d been called far less savoury things than crazy by the press...and her father.

She watched the waiter return with both her mineral water and Will, and missed the Tate Modern’s café with its view over a grey city. But today called for more salubrious surroundings. Today was Peter’s birthday.

Maybe that was why she felt so claustrophobic amid all this airy, white-shuttered cane and palm expansiveness.

Will couldn’t see her as well as she could see him, but she tried not to study him too intently anyway, though the temptation lurked at the edges of her consciousness. As usual her heart-rate picked up speed at the sight of those impossibly broad shoulders, long legs and lean hips. William Trent-Paterson was built along lines that made every woman in the room stand to attention, figuratively speaking. A woman had once told her that she ovulated every single time she clapped eyes on Will.

She tried to ignore all thoughts of ovulation, eggs and procreation. Regardless of what Will looked like she knew that, as usual, his lips would press into a thin line when he saw her.

‘Such a shame,’ she murmured, because, actually, she really liked him. Still, she’d love to see him run to fat. Just a little bit. Just one flaw—that was all she asked. Maybe then she’d feel on more of an even footing with him.

You might as well ask for the moon.

‘Sophie,’ he said when he reached her.

As predicted those lips pinched together. So did the skin around his eyes. It was a double shame because he had a nice smile, though she rarely saw it.

‘Hello, Will.’

She rose and they gave each other perfunctory pecks on the cheeks, keeping the width of the table between them. A rush of lime and a darker musky note flooded her senses. She pulled back and planted herself in her chair again and tried to ignore the heavy thud-thud of the pulse in her throat.

It was like this every single time—the stilted distance and the heart thudding.

She suspected it was because there was no other person on the planet who had loved Peter as much as she had...except for Will.

And her father, but that was too difficult.

Since the viciousness of her parents’ separation and subsequent divorce when she was eleven and Peter sixteen—when the only thing her parents were focused on was hurting each other—she and Peter had turned to each other. They’d seemed to realise they had no other family to rely on. She’d done her best to stop him from growing too grave and serious, while he’d done his best to stop her from feeling as if she didn’t measure up. She’d looked up to him so much. Had depended on him.

And now he was gone...

She couldn’t believe the hole it had left in her life.

It made her think that she and Will should hold each other tight on the occasions they did see each other, take comfort in each other. But it was never like that.

Because Will didn’t really like her.

But some strange sense of honour kept them in touch, some respect for Peter they weren’t prepared to surrender.

Would he be relieved if she hadn’t shown up—if she just stopped turning up for their monthly coffee dates and occasional lunches? Would he feel he’d discharged some unspoken duty to Peter and was now off the hook? The thought made her heart ache. She couldn’t stop coming. He was one of her last links to Peter. And Peter was the only person who had truly loved her for who she was.

She couldn’t let that go. She couldn’t let Peter go, which meant she couldn’t let Will go. And she wanted to tell him she was sorry for that, sorry if that made things difficult for him.

But she didn’t. Because it would make him uncomfortable...and she didn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable. She’d like to make him smile if she could.

‘You look glum.’

That slammed her back to the present. ‘Sorry, just feeling a bit wistful for...for what could’ve been.’

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and she realised he’d thought she was referring to Peter. Make things more cheerful.

She waved to encompass the restaurant. ‘I’ve not been here before.’

He straightened. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s lovely,’ she said, because she was always on her best behaviour with Will.

Amazingly he laughed. ‘You hate it.’

‘Well, the fact of the matter is I’m starved. So as long as the food is good, I don’t care about anything else.’

Those lips pressed back into a tight line. ‘Traditionally you barely touch any of your food.’

‘Today I can promise you that I’ll clean my plate.’ New leaf.

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘You’re planning on ordering the green salad and nothing else?’

She snapped her menu closed. ‘I’m having the lamb.’

‘Excellent choice, I’ll have the same.’ He handed the waiter his menu, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘How’s your father?’

Here began the ritual questions. She pushed down a sigh. Just once she’d like... She pushed that thought down too. ‘Triumphant that I’ve been forced to toe the line and run all of his foreseeable charity events.’

For the moment. Beneath the table she twisted her watch around and around on her wrist. She needed a way to find a lot of money fast. Really fast. And she had no idea how she was going to do it. Her father paid her a generous allowance for acting as his event planner, but it was nowhere near enough to help Carla in any practical way...to make amends to the other woman. And she wasn’t stupid enough to ask her father for a loan. He’d take too much delight in telling her that she was a carbon copy of her mother and to go to blazes.

Dark eyes surveyed her across the table. ‘That’s nobody’s fault but your own.’

True, but... ‘A more gallant man would’ve refrained from pointing that out.’

‘I don’t feel like being gallant today, Sophie. I feel like smashing something.’

Her ears perked up. Wow, that was out of character. Interesting.

But then he shook himself and asked, ‘How’s Carla?’

Her appetite fled at the mention of Peter’s fiancée. She stared at the screen of palms rather than at him, pain throbbing in the back of her throat. She’d been toying with her bread knife, but she carefully set it back down, afraid that if she didn’t she’d stab herself in the leg. Which was no more than she deserved, but that might get her committed. Besides it wouldn’t help anyone. She couldn’t abscond from responsibility. Not this time.

‘That good, huh?’

Carla was in drug rehab—drug rehab Sophie had to try and find the money for—but Carla had sworn her to secrecy and Sophie owed her that much. At the very least. Self-loathing bloomed in her chest. How could she have let things get so out of hand? How could she have been so blind? How could she have let Carla—and Peter—down so spectacularly?

She pressed her hands together to stop them from shaking. ‘She can’t let the memory of Peter go.’

‘And we can?’

The words burst from him, unexpected, and Sophie flinched, throwing up an arm as if to ward off the words.

Silence pounded between them.

Eventually Will cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry.’

She could feel the weight of his gaze, but she didn’t want to meet it. She adjusted her cutlery instead. ‘It’s a valid point,’ she squeezed out from a tight throat. ‘But it’s only been two years.’ It was too soon for forgetting...for letting go.

From the corner of her eyes she saw him drag a hand back through dark auburn hair. ‘I’m starting to think that us continuing to meet like this isn’t doing anybody any good, and that—’

‘No!’

Her gaze flew to his, snagged and held.

‘Please,’ she whispered. To her absolute horror tears slid down her cheeks and she wanted to close her eyes and will the floor to swallow her whole. She hadn’t let him see her cry, not since the funeral. In the humiliation of the moment she wanted to get up and walk out of this horrible restaurant, but she had to stop what he was trying to do.

‘Please, Will, I’m not ready to give this up.’ The thought of it filled her with panic. ‘Please don’t bring an end to...this. I can’t—’ She swallowed down a sob. ‘I know it’s uncomfortable. And I know I’m a trial.’

She’d been a trial to every person in her life. Except Peter. She’d try harder not to be a trial to Will in the future. ‘But, you see, you loved him. And I loved him. And remembering that, having proof—’ recognition ‘—helps.’

His skin had gone grey and his jaw clenched so hard it made her feel sick.

She mopped at her cheeks. ‘Will you excuse me while I go find the ladies’?’

He nodded.

‘Will you be here when I get back?’

She held her breath until he gave another hard nod. Without another word she fled to the ladies’ room, only giving herself enough time to splash some cold water onto overheated cheeks and to repair her eyeliner. Thank God for waterproof mascara!

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sliding into her seat again. Their meal had arrived while she’d been away, and she spread her linen serviette across her lap and lifted her knife and fork. ‘Today is always a tough day. I’m sorry that you bore the brunt of my dissatisfaction with it.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more sensitive.’

He wanted to throttle her. She wasn’t sure how she could tell—the hard set of his shoulders maybe combined with the deep burning in his eyes.

‘How’s Carol Ann?’ she asked.

‘Fully recovered from her surgery. She loved the set of DVDs you sent her. Though from all accounts the rest of the household are being driven insane.’

That made her grin. Carol Ann was Will’s younger sister and the same age as Sophie, but she had Down’s syndrome with all of the associated health issues that entailed. Sophie had only met her a few times, but she sent her birthday and Christmas cards...and gifts on the few occasions she’d been hospitalised. They spoke on the phone. Her last gift had been a DVD box set of musicals. ‘I’m glad they’ve been such a hit. The world needs more The King and I.’

He almost smiled so she counted that as an almost win.

‘How’s your grandfather?’

All signs of humour drained from him and she winced. ‘The grapevine informs me that he’s been making another push to get you to settle down.’

‘Good news travels fast. I supposed you were at Catriona McManus’s thirtieth last weekend.’

Nope. She’d given up wild times and painting the town red. She was avoiding parties, other than the ones her father was forcing her to plan, organise and host on his behalf. It was all a part of her turning over a new leaf. But that didn’t mean she could avoid the rumour mill completely. ‘So it’s true, then?’

‘This time he’s given me an ultimatum.’

A forkful of lamb halted halfway to her mouth. ‘What kind of ultimatum?’

‘Either I marry within the next twelve months and take over the reins of the estate or he’s going to give everything to Harold.’

Harold was Will’s weasel of a cousin. Her mind raced. Will didn’t need the money—he was a squillionaire in his own right. He’d never shown the least interest in inheriting the estate, but... She lowered her cutlery. ‘What about Carol Ann?’

‘If Harold inherits there’ll be no place for Carol Ann at Ashbarrow Castle.’

But...that was Carol Ann’s home! Sophie might not know much about Will’s life beyond what Peter had told her, and the odd snippet Will occasionally let slip, but she knew he took his responsibility for Carol Ann seriously. She knew how much he loved her. And she knew Carol Ann’s entire sense of security was tied to Ashbarrow Castle. She knew because Will had tried moving her to London to live with him and it had been an absolute disaster. Carol Ann had grieved so hard for her home that she’d fallen ill.

Talk about being in a bind. ‘What are you going to do?’

He shook his head, remaining silent.

His earlier out-of-character snark made sudden sense. ‘Maybe he’s bluffing.’

‘Not this time.’

Her stomach clenched. Will’s parents’ marriage had been fraught, ugly...and in the end they’d destroyed each other. All in the glare of the public spotlight. She’d figured that was why he’d sworn never to marry. Ever. She’d never met anyone so against the institution. She rubbed a hand across her chest. No wonder he looked so haunted.

Keep things light, she counselled, because he looked ready to snap and she was one of the burdens weighing him down. She lifted a bite of food to her lips, chewed and swallowed. And then she sent him a grin that made him blink. ‘I’d marry you for a million pounds, Will.’

He stared at her for a long moment. ‘And what would you do with a million pounds?’

She could see in his eyes what he thought she’d do—fritter it away on clothes and parties. She gave up being polite and leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Create a new life for myself. A million pounds would let me turn everything around.’ It would pay for Carla’s treatment. It would let her get the stables up and running so that when Carla was better she’d have a job to come out to.

He leaned towards her, his eyes oddly intent. ‘Specifics, please.’

* * *

It was the first time in two years that Will had seen anything approaching Sophie’s old spark fire through her.

Every time he saw her she’d lost more weight, had grown paler, had become...less.

He’d taken one look at her today and had wanted to punch something.

But now...

She stared at him with those perfect blue eyes—the only part of her that hadn’t faded—and blinked. ‘Specifics?’

‘How would you specifically turn your life around with this hypothetical million pounds?’

Her chin wavered between jutting up and angling down. He found himself holding his breath. Would she explain what she meant...or would she wave it all away with a laugh and descend into inanity as usual?

Her chin remained firmly at a midpoint, and he didn’t know what that meant. Mind you, he’d never been brilliant at deciphering what went on in that puzzling head of hers. All he knew was that when Peter had died, he seemed to have taken a part of Sophie with him.

And it now seemed that she was incapable of reclaiming it. Or refused to reclaim it. He wasn’t sure which.

He knew only what he’d promised Peter—that he’d keep an eye on Sophie—but today he’d had to face the fact that his and Sophie’s lunch and coffee dates were doing her more harm than good.

A hand reached inside his chest and squeezed. He’d made her cry. Well done! He’d wanted to ease her pain, not add to it. But then, just for a moment, there’d been that spark. As if she’d had a vision of something better.

He wanted to see that spark again. He wanted to help her reclaim the part of herself she’d lost. He wanted to do it for Peter, because of the promise he’d made. But he wanted to do it for Sophie’s sake too.

She speared a bean on the end of her fork—delicately because, whatever else you wanted to say about Sophie, she had an innate grace—and ate it. She’d eaten at least half of her meal so far. That in itself was cause for celebration.

‘You really want to know?’

‘I really want to know.’ He knew he must be coming across as intense, but he couldn’t help it.

‘Well... The first thing I’d do is get out of the city.’

Why? Because of her father? ‘I thought you loved London.’

‘I do, but it’s not exactly been good for me, has it? For the last two years I’ve thrown myself into the party scene trying to forget. It hasn’t worked. All I’ve done is drunk too much champagne, had too many indiscreet photos snapped by the press and stumbled so late into my job so many times that they had no choice but to let me go.’

Until a month ago she’d worked at an art gallery in the West End.

Her fork made a circle in the air. ‘Of course, the upside is all of that has annoyed my father no end, so...’

She and Lord Collingford had always had a fraught relationship. It was worse now that Peter was no longer around to play peacemaker.

‘But it needs to stop.’ She stabbed another bean. ‘Enough is enough.’

Her self-awareness surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. She’d never been stupid just...wilful.

‘Where would you go?’

‘Cornwall.’

His jaw dropped and for the briefest moment she grinned, as if delighted by his surprise. That spark definitely lurked in the backs of her eyes. What had brought it back?

‘My mother’s mother left me a bit of land that borders Bodmin Moor. It’s not much...but it has a run-down stables and I thought...’ She trailed off with a shrug.

He had to fight the urge to lean in towards her. ‘You’re riding again?’ It had been her enduring passion since he’d met her as a pudgy eleven-year-old.

‘I never stopped riding, Will.’

She hadn’t?

‘After Peter died I thought I should give it up. It felt wrong to still enjoy anything.’

He knew what she meant, but... ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to.’

She stared down at her plate. Please don’t cry again.

A moment later she lifted her chin and sent him a game smile. ‘I haven’t been riding as much these past couple of years as I normally would. Riding and hangovers don’t mix.’

She was choosing riding over hangovers? Excellent choice!

‘If I had a million pounds I’d turn those stables into a riding school—an equestrian centre. There are a few acres down there so perhaps I could offer agistment as well.’

‘How many acres?’

‘Seventeen and three quarters. There are fields and a stream but no house.’

Ah.

‘My million pounds would buy me a modest cottage.’

It would buy more than that if she had a fancy for grander living, but before she could make any of that a reality, she’d need start-up funds.

She set about demolishing the rest of her lamb. When she was done—and true to her word she cleaned her plate—she set her cutlery onto the plate at a neat angle and dabbed her lips with her serviette. ‘Will, for the last five minutes straight you’ve been staring at me without saying a word. I can’t imagine that watching me eat is that fascinating. I really would prefer it if you simply said what was on your mind.’

Her words made him jerk back in his seat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was thinking.’

‘About?’

‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.’ He pushed his plate away and folded his arms on the table in front of him.

She grimaced, but her chin didn’t drop. ‘Okay.’

‘But what makes you think you could stick to this hypothetical plan of yours? I mean, running a stables and riding school isn’t precisely glamorous. It’s hard work and...’

‘And hard work isn’t something I’ve been known for these past couple of years.’

She nodded, evidently not the least offended. And that was what got to him about Sophie. She never reacted the way he expected. She could take criticism on the chin.

Unless it came from her father.

She stared up at the ceiling and wrinkled her nose. ‘Needs must, Will. I’m losing myself. Playing the party girl isn’t the answer—it’s left me feeling hollow...ashamed.’

Whoa! He chose his words carefully. ‘I think you’re being a little too harsh on yourself.’

‘No, you don’t.’

He blinked.

‘And being my father’s hostess with the mostest is shredding what little self-respect I have left.’

He could see that was true, even though he didn’t understand it.

She pushed her hair back from her face, pulled it momentarily into a tight ponytail that highlighted the exhausted lines fanning from her eyes, and Will’s gut gave a sick kick. Hell, he’d be happy to just give her a million pounds, though he knew her pride would forbid her from accepting it.

‘Of course, the million pounds is a pipe dream.’ She let her hair go and it fell back down around her shoulders in a blonde cloud. ‘But my plan is to get a job in Cornwall and save madly until I can do something with my little property.’

‘What kind of job are you looking for?’ Was she hoping to land another gallery job? He didn’t like her chances.

‘Events management. I know to the outside gaze it’d look like I’m just continuing with my party-girl ways. But running an event is very different from attending as a guest. I used to run all the gallery’s events. And, even if I say it myself, I have a knack for pulling together a halfway decent party, ball, charity luncheon or any other kind of get-together you’d like to name.’

He sat up straighter. She’d be perfect at it. Lord Collingford demanded the best when he entertained. She not only had a name and experience, she had connections. ‘You’ve really thought about this.’

‘Doh!’ But she smiled as she said it to soften the sting.

‘If you were really willing to marry me for a million pounds, Sophie, how would you see that marriage working?’

It was his turn to have the satisfaction of seeing her jaw drop. The waiter chose that moment to clear their plates. ‘Would you like to order dessert or coffee?’

‘Chocolate cake,’ Sophie said, not taking her eyes off Will. ‘Please.’

‘And champagne,’ Will said, holding her gaze. ‘A bottle of your best.’

‘I wasn’t serious when I said I’d marry you for a million pounds,’ she whispered, when the waiter had melted into the background again.

‘I know. You were being flippant. But if we were to speak hypothetically...’ He let the rest of the sentence dangle and watched her mind race behind the perfect blue of her eyes. ‘I’d put a million pounds into your bank account... What would I get in return?’

‘A million pounds...?’

Her eyes glazed over and he could feel his lips start to lift. ‘I believe that was the price you put on it.’ A million pounds...and then she could live the life she’d just outlined to him.

She shook herself. ‘We’re playing hypotheticals?’

He nodded.

‘Well, if that were to ever happen...it’d have to be a strictly business arrangement. A paper marriage—no sex, no children, no complications.’

He nodded. So far so good.

‘You’ve never wanted to marry.’

The ugliness of his parents’ marriage had cured him of ever wanting to trade in his bachelorhood for the vagaries of matrimony. He wasn’t inviting that kind of acrimony and spite into his life. The very thought made him break out into a cold sweat.

‘But you’ll do just about anything to keep Carol Ann healthy and happy,’ she continued.

She knew him better than the women he dated. He should find that reassuring considering the conversation they were having, but he didn’t. It took a force of will not to run a finger around the collar of his shirt.

She smiled at the waiter as he brought their champagne and slid her chocolate cake in front of her. ‘Thank you.’

The waiter’s lips lifted and his eyes lit up. ‘You’re very welcome, madam.’

That was one of the things Will had always liked about Sophie. She didn’t just have impeccable manners, but genuine manners. She made people feel valued.

‘You’d be in London most of the time and I’d be in Cornwall most of the time, so I don’t see any reason why we should even have to live together.’

Better and better.

‘If you needed me to host the odd dinner party or event I could certainly do that.’

He didn’t entertain often but every now and again business demanded it. And he could see how having a ‘wife’ at those events could be an advantage. Sophie had a talent for ruffling the waters when she had a mind to, but she had an even greater ability for smoothing them.

‘Though I’d expect notice. You couldn’t just spring events on me at the last minute.’

That was reasonable. ‘And if you want me to attend anything you need only let my PA know and—?’

She shook her head. ‘In this hypothetical situation you’re giving me a million pounds, Will. Nothing more will be asked of you.’

He frowned. That didn’t seem fair somehow.

She ate a huge piece of chocolate cake and then nodded and pointed her dessert fork at him, her tongue sweeping out to check for crumbs, leaving a shine on her bottom lip that made something inside him clench tight.

No! Don’t do that. Don’t look at Peter’s little sister like she’s a woman, for God’s sake.

‘I know how much you value your...independence.’

Her words hauled him back, and he glanced at her to find her staring at him expectantly. A frown built through him. It wasn’t like her to mince her words. ‘What are you driving at?’

She shrugged, almost reluctantly...and as if in resignation. ‘I know the thought of being monogamous to one woman fills your little bachelor heart with fear and loathing.’

He stiffened. ‘It’s not fear. It’s just... Why the hell would anyone want to do that?’

Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Whatever. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not expecting you to abstain sexually during this hypothetical paper marriage of ours. You could continue to have as many lovers as you wanted. But...’

His heart started to thump. ‘But...?’

‘You might want to consider being discreet.’

Ah. ‘I’d have no intention of making you look like a fool or a stooge, Sophie.’

She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. ‘While that’s a relief, it’s not really what I was getting at. I’m assuming we’d have to put on a convincing show for your grandfather.’

‘Only until we were married. I’d have legally binding contracts drawn up. He could do whatever the hell he wants with his title and money, but the deeds to Ashbarrow Castle would pass to me the moment I married.’

‘Well, in that case, once we’re hypothetically married you can be as indiscreet as you want.’

Would it really not bother her? ‘And you?’

‘You can be assured of my discretion.’

Her answer left him unsatisfied, though he didn’t know why.

‘We would have to agree to a minimum duration for this paper marriage too,’ she added. ‘Eighteen months, perhaps?’

He nodded again.

‘As for how we got married, that’d be entirely up to you—a quickie Vegas wedding, a big London society do, or something in between.’

His lip curled. There’d have to be a wedding. Nothing else would satisfy his grandfather, but he couldn’t face the thought of some big society affair. ‘Could you face a quiet family affair at Ashbarrow?’

She stared at him, and her soft laugh tripped down his backbone. ‘The real question, Will, is can you?’

It didn’t fill him with a shred of enthusiasm, but if it meant securing Carol Ann’s future...

She folded her arms, her eyes narrowing. ‘But I have to ask, hypothetically speaking, of course. If you were to embark on this paper marriage for real, why would you choose me? There has to be someone more suitable.’

Sophie might have a certain reputation in the tabloids but... He knew a lot of women—all more than happy to keep him company whenever he wanted—but he wouldn’t be able to rely on a single one of them to stick to an agreement like this.

Was he really considering this? His gut churned. Was he crazy? Or was this the answer he’d been searching so desperately for?

He drummed his fingers against the linen tablecloth. Beneath the table his foot began to bounce. ‘You know me and you know that I don’t want to give up either my freedom or my independence. I know you and what you want—money for a fresh start. We’d go into this arrangement with our eyes wide open. You wouldn’t be expecting a husband in the real sense of the word. I know you wouldn’t ever misconstrue our situation. Besides, you’re Peter’s little sister and, regardless of anything else, I don’t believe you’d try and take advantage of being married to me.’

She folded her arms, her chin angling up. ‘Are you sure about that?’

Positive. ‘You haven’t tried putting your price up to two million pounds, have you? Even though you know I’m considering a more than hypothetical arrangement here.’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t need two million pounds.’

Exactly.

If he married Sophie, it would secure Carol Ann’s future. He recalled those few weeks he’d brought her to London to live with him and acid burned his throat. He’d had such high hopes, but she’d become so distraught. She’d become so ill. And he’d been helpless to ease her homesickness and her grief at being torn from her home.

Peter had always felt responsible for Sophie in the same way Will felt responsible for Carol Ann. And if anything were to happen to Carol Ann...

His hands clenched. He couldn’t bear the thought, but it reminded him of all the unspoken promises he’d made to Peter when he’d sworn to keep an eye on Sophie—promises to help her wherever and whenever he could. And here was the perfect opportunity to do exactly that.

‘I trust you, Sophie.’ And there weren’t too many people he did trust.

She pursed her lips. ‘I’ve been in the papers a lot recently—always linked with a different guy. I know how much you hate any kind of tabloid attention.’

‘Do you mean to continue appearing in the gossip pages?’

‘God no!’

He believed her. ‘Which makes it a non-issue.’

She stared at him for a long moment. ‘If you were serious about this, we’d need lawyers to draw up pre-nup agreements. I couldn’t take you for anything more than that million pounds.’ The blue in her eyes started to dance. ‘And you couldn’t take my little property in Cornwall.’

‘Every word is music to my ears, Sophie.’

He poured out two glasses of champagne, and handed her one before raising the other in the air. ‘I’m game if you are.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘READY?’

Sophie swung from where she stood in front of a gently crackling fire that was more for show than warmth, and nodded across the room to an unsmiling Will. ‘Absolutely.’

It was only four days since their crazy lunch in Soho, four days in which they’d signed their names to a contract to seal this crazy deal. Four days in which to consider pulling out.

She pushed her shoulders back. It might be crazy but she wasn’t pulling out. All she needed to do to send determination rippling out to every near and far-flung part of her being was to think of Carla. They would make this work.

She glanced at Will again. He made no move to lead her downstairs.

They’d been given a suite at the castle—two bedrooms with a shared sitting room and bathroom. It had taken her less time to freshen up than it had him. Which indicated his enthusiasm for the task at hand. She clapped her hands together and tried to look not terrified. ‘Ready whenever you are.’

The housekeeper had ushered them to these rooms when they’d arrived. Lord Bramley had not greeted his grandson at the door. Nor had Carol Ann.

If either event had disconcerted or disappointed Will, he’d not betrayed the fact by so much as a flicker of an eyelash.

He ran a critical eye over her now, raising gooseflesh on her arms. ‘You look perfect.’

Her lips twisted. She did.

His eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

‘If there’s one thing I can do right it’s to wear the appropriate clothes whatever the occasion.’ And when one got right down to it, it was an utterly pointless talent—so trivial.

She wore black three-quarter-length capris, a silk vest top in cream and a cashmere blend long-line cardigan in a shade of dusky pink. Complementing the outfit was a pair of pink and rose-gold sandals, light make-up and a loose ponytail. She didn’t need to glance into the mirror above the mantelpiece to know she looked the epitome of casual country chic.

‘What are you afraid you can’t do? Pull this charade of ours off?’

He wore a pair of navy chinos, loafers and a lighter blue button-down shirt that moulded itself to his chest in such a way that it took an enormous amount of effort on her part to not notice. Or, at least, to appear not to notice.

‘You look perfect too. We look perfect together.’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

No wonder his start-up company was so successful—he was dogged, persistent when he sensed a problem, and, she suspected, ruthless. Not that she had any intention of hiding her current concerns from him. For heaven’s sake, the man had promised her a million pounds! She had to do her absolute best here for him. She had no intention of letting him down—for his sake, for her own sake, but mostly for Carla’s sake.

And Peter’s.

‘Sophie?’

‘We look perfect.’ She twisted the ring on the third finger of her left hand, before holding that hand up. ‘We have the ring to prove it. But we need to act perfect too.’

He lowered himself to the edge of the sofa. ‘Explain.’

She remained right where she was, too keyed-up to take a seat. ‘Look, everyone is going to assume we’re lovers, right? There are certain...intimacies we need to—’

‘We’re not having sex! We agreed.’

He remained seated, but it felt as if he’d leapt to his feet and stabbed a finger at her. Her heart gave a sick thud. ‘Wow! I don’t know whether to be offended that you’re so repulsed at the thought of sleeping with me or not.’

This time he did shoot to his feet. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Well, it’s by the by and totally unimportant for the current conversation. Sex is not the only kind of intimacy couples in love share.’ She planted her hands to her hips to hide how awkward she felt. ‘Or has that fact passed you by?’

He dismissed that with a single wave of an imperious hand. ‘We’ll play it by ear—wing it. Make it up as we go along.’

Did he really think that’d work? An unwelcome thought shuffled through her. She wanted to swat it away, but... ‘Are you hoping we succeed? Or that we’ll fail?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

She couldn’t take his money. Not if this were a farce. She searched his face.

‘I want this to work. It has to work.’ His nostrils flared. ‘What is your problem?’

Her problem was his absolute lack of enthusiasm for her company. On their flight to Inverness he’d buried himself in paperwork, barely exchanging two words with her. And at the moment it seemed he could barely stand being in the same room with her. It was some kind of Peter hang-up. She recognised it because she had a few of those of her own.

‘My problem is that you can barely bring yourself to touch me.’

He scowled. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

She held out her hand. ‘Then hold my hand.’

His scowl deepened but he took her hand. She immediately felt less alone.

Oh, but that scowl!

She tugged him closer and turned him so they could survey their reflections in the mirror above the mantelpiece. ‘Now there’s a lover-like expression if I ever saw one.’

He tried to smooth his face out and she was seized with a sudden urge to giggle.

‘This isn’t funny.’

But his eyes lightened as he said it and her smile widened. ‘It’s hilarious. You’re just too tense to admit it. You’re always tense when you mention Scotland, so I suppose it only makes sense that you’re tense now we’re here.’

His eyebrows rose.

‘It’s true. It’s always been true. There’ll be reasons for it—good ones, I expect—but I think it’ll help our cause somewhat if you pretend that I’ve helped you to un-tense a little on that front, don’t you?’

He stared down at her and it made her aware of their unusual proximity. Her pulse started to race.

‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?’

‘Of course I have!’ His surprise stung. ‘You’re paying me a ridiculous amount of money to help you pull this off. I mean to do my best.’

His mouth opened and then closed. He blinked, and then something in the line of his jaw softened. ‘Thank you.’

She wanted to tug her hand from his. She wanted to bolt across to the other side of the room and put a sofa and coffee table between them. She forced herself to remain where she was. ‘Let’s save the gratitude for later...when we’ve managed to pull this off.’

He gave a hard nod. ‘Right. So...any other tricks besides holding hands that I should know about?’

His smile eased the chafe in her soul. This was a tense, high-stakes game they were playing. It made sense there’d be nerves, and that her every sense would be on high alert.

Carefully she reclaimed her hand and gestured to the mirror. ‘Pretend it’s after dinner and we’ve all adjourned to the drawing room. For a brief moment the two young lovers edge across to the fireplace to exchange a few private lover-like words.’

He grinned, entering into the spirit of things. His head drew down to hers. ‘Sophie?’

His breath stirred the hair at her temples and her heart leapt into her throat. ‘Yes?’

‘You have the most exquisite toenails I have ever seen. They rival every other toenail in the universe. You should’ve been a toenail model.’

She glanced down at her toenails, painted a jaunty pink, and wiggled them. ‘I had them done with you in mind.’

Her voice shook as she said it, and they both burst into laughter.

‘Did we just spoil the effect you were after?’

She shrugged, shaking her head. ‘I have no idea, but I’m pretty certain laughter is good, right?’

He smiled down at her, brushed a tendril of hair from her face. ‘It’s nice to hear you laugh, Sophie.’

Her stomach clenched. She had no right to laugh. She didn’t deserve to have fun. She had too much to make amends for. Once she’d made amends maybe then—and only then—would she have maybe earned the right to some happiness.

‘Hey, where’d you just go?’

Heavens, she needed to keep on track. ‘Sorry, I...’ She shrugged. ‘Sometimes it still seems wrong to be happy when Peter’s not here.’

‘He wouldn’t want you to keep grieving the way you have been.’

Wasn’t that the truth?

But it also wasn’t what Will meant, and it was none of his concern. He was doing enough for her already. She had to play her part here to perfection, and if that included laughing then she’d laugh.

‘Right, next scenario.’

He straightened. ‘Okay, hit me with it.’

‘We’re at a dinner party. There’s milling around before and afterwards. We’re talking to another couple or maybe two other couples. How do we stand?’

He pursed his lips. ‘You were smart to bring this up. If I think of you as Peter’s little sister Sophie, then I stand like this.’ He moved a step away. ‘At a discreet distance where I’d be careful not to invade your personal space.

He’d always been very careful not to do that.

‘But when you’re Sophie, my bride-to-be, then...’ He was silent for a moment and then draped an arm across her shoulders. Staring at their reflection, he frowned. ‘Now we just look like great mates.’

She waited for him to work it out. If she were the one doing all the cosying up it would look wrong. She’d look desperate too. Not that she cared what anyone here thought about her. But she did care about that million pounds, so she had to make sure Lord Bramley didn’t get suspicious.

‘Okay, this is better.’

Will pulled her in closer until she was plastered against his side. She swallowed. Too close. She rested a hand on his chest.

He frowned. ‘That could be a bit much.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You think?’

‘I’m not appreciating your sarcasm.’

Yeah, well, maybe she wasn’t appreciating how long this was taking for him to get right. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had a lot of practice. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had a girlfriend before. He’d had a lot of them.

An itch chafed through her, followed by a burn.

He squared them off, his eyes turned towards the mirror rather than her, until his arm rested across her shoulders, the weight of it solid and reassuring while their hips bumped against each other’s lightly. ‘That’s good. And this could be good too.’

He moved her in front of him and wrapped arm about her upper chest, just above her breasts, pulling her back against him. She gritted her teeth.

‘Smile, Sophie.’

She met his gaze in the mirror and forced a smile to uncooperative lips. But as she continued to stare at him a ripple of recognition ran though her. This was Will—Peter’s best friend—and while he’d never really approved of her, she’d trust him with her life.

‘That’s better. This is...nice.’

He smiled back at her, but their gazes clung for a few seconds longer than they should have and Sophie found herself pulling free from Will’s embrace when what she really wanted to do was snuggle closer.

‘Or,’ she said, trying to cover her sudden sense of awkwardness, ‘we could simply stand close enough that we brush shoulders.’ She gestured to the mirror and brushed her arm against his. ‘We could link arms or—’

‘Hold hands,’ he said, enfolding hers in a warm grasp.

‘Or link hands,’ she added, desperately trying to ignore the warmth flooding her system as she interlocked their fingers.

‘Nice,’ he agreed before she broke away.

She could feel his gaze like a physical weight as she took a couple of steps away.

‘Is everything okay?’

His voice was quiet, measured, concerned. She turned and sent him what she hoped was a smile. ‘I’ve become a firm believer that what we do with our bodies affects us emotionally.’

He widened his stance. ‘You’re going to need to explain that.’

She moistened suddenly dry lips. ‘All of this touching...it’s nice.’

He leaned towards her, a frown in his eyes. ‘And?’

‘I just don’t want either one of us getting the wrong idea and imagining that it means something more.’

He reared back as if she’d struck him. ‘If you think I can’t control myself—’

‘I’m not just talking about sex,’ she snapped at him. ‘I know you think that we can just breeze in and play these parts and that nothing will change and everything will be hunky-dory and...and tickety-boo!’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hunky-dory?’ His voice grew even more incredulous. ‘Tickety-boo?’

She glared at him. ‘I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.’

He paced away from her, paced back. ‘Sorry.’

That didn’t look like what he really wanted to say.

His lips thinned. ‘So can I assume you don’t think this is going to be easy?’

‘In my experience nothing is ever as easy as we hope it’ll be. And despite what you think, we’re playing a dangerous game here. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

His eyes throbbed into hers. ‘You’re talking about hearts and emotions now?’

She nodded.

He leaned down so they were eye to eye. ‘I can assure you that my heart is in absolutely no danger. You should know me better than that.’

Yes, but she was Peter’s little sister. And she didn’t know how or why, but in his eyes that made her different from other women.

He straightened. ‘Are you telling me your heart is in danger?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Not as long as she remained on her guard. And she had no intention whatsoever of letting her guard slip. ‘But what about Carol Ann and your grandfather?’ They could become invested in this fake marriage.

He stilled. ‘You’ll always be Carol Ann’s friend, won’t you? You’re not going to dump her the moment we get our divorce.’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then I think she’ll be fine. Thank you for considering her well-being. I appreciate it.’

But she noticed he made no mention of his grandfather’s well-being. She didn’t pursue it. ‘Fine. That leads us to the next topic.’

* * *

Will stared at her. He wanted away from the cloying heat of the room. Mind you, it had only become cloying in the last few minutes.

‘You’re supposed to ask me what topic?’ she prompted.

‘What topic?’ he growled.

She sent him a falsely sweet smile that scraped through him like fingernails on a blackboard. ‘Kissing.’

He rocked back on his heels. He couldn’t help it. He was simply grateful he managed to stop himself from striding from the room altogether.

She glanced away, her lips pressed into a tight white line that still couldn’t hide the luscious curve of her bottom lip. A fact he desperately didn’t want to notice.

‘Did you really think we’d manage to get through this weekend without the odd peck?’

He let the air out of his lungs, slowly. A peck? He could manage that. Her lips twisted as if she’d read that thought in his face and he knew what message he was sending her—that he found her unattractive. And he could tell she was doing her best to try and not let that bother her...hurt her.

Damn it! He needed this weekend to go smoothly. He needed to convince his grandfather that he and Sophie were serious. He tried to bring Carol Ann’s face to mind, but it was Sophie’s wounded eyes that kept appearing there instead.

Damn it! Letting her think that he didn’t find her attractive provided him with a measure of protection, but a real man wouldn’t let her continue operating under the misapprehension, wouldn’t let her take the blame for his own weakness. If it were any other woman...

But it wasn’t any other woman. It was Sophie.

Will you keep an eye on her? Be there for her if I can’t be?

He’d promised Peter.

He slammed his hands to his hips. ‘I don’t find you unattractive, Sophie.’

She turned from surveying the fire. ‘You don’t need to pander to my vanity and make excuses or apologise, Will. These things can simply be a matter of taste or chemistry or—’

He held up a hand, holding her gaze. ‘You’re lovely...beautiful.’ His gut clenched as he said the words.

She pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. ‘But?’

Her chin didn’t drop, the light in her eyes didn’t fade, and she suddenly appeared indomitable. Where he’d fancied he’d seen fragility, now there was only strength. It made his mouth go dry though he couldn’t fully explain why. Except the realisation that what he thought of her physically maybe didn’t matter to her one jot. Which was how it should be, of course. But it left him feeling at a distinct disadvantage.

Right, so that’s new, is it?

He ignored the sarcastic voice as best he could, and thrust out his jaw. ‘But,’ he ground out, ‘you’re different from the women I date. With them I...’

‘Scratch an itch and then move on?’ she offered when he hesitated.

It was crude but accurate, and everything inside him rebelled at it. ‘We have fun, enjoy each other’s company.’

‘Yes.’

He shifted under the steadiness of her gaze, shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Are you saying it’s different for you and the guys you date?’

‘No.’

If he’d been hoping to put her on the defensive he’d have been sadly disappointed.

‘The itch I’ve been scratching, though, is grief, and I finally figured out that the partying, the drinking, the dating an endless parade of guys—having fun and enjoying their company—hasn’t helped.’

He pulled his hands from his pockets and then didn’t know what to do with them. He moistened his lips. ‘Has it made it worse?’ How could he help?

She made an impatient movement. ‘Not worse. It’s just...pointless, and not how I want to spend the rest of my life.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘I wonder what itch you’re scratching? I think it’s a big one.’

He realised then that she wasn’t judging him. Lots of women did, and found him wanting. Not that he blamed them. He wasn’t cut out for commitment and the long haul. But Sophie was simply trying to work him out. Some of the tension that had him wound up tight eased. When you had parents like his, when you watched them do their best to tear each other apart—and succeed—you promised to never let yourself fall into that same trap, to never get embroiled in the same predicament.

But he didn’t want to talk about his parents. ‘Is it really so incomprehensible for a guy to simply want to keep his freedom, to not want to be tied down?’

One of her shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug.

‘What I’m trying to say, Sophie, is that you’re not like the women I usually date and that...’ He bit back a curse. ‘I can’t treat you the way I would them.’

She nodded. ‘Because I’m Peter’s little sister.’

Exactly.

‘And I can’t treat you like the guys I’ve been dating.’

‘Because I’m Peter’s best friend.’

Very slowly she shook her head. ‘Because I like you.’ Her eyes grew shadowed. ‘And because of who you were to Peter—yes, that too. It means I want you as a part of my life for...’

Things inside him clenched up tight. ‘For?’

‘Forever. Permanently. I know I’m a trial to you. I know you probably don’t even like me all that much.’

What the hell...?

‘But it means I don’t want to mess things up between us.’

Where had she got that idea—that she thought he didn’t like her?

‘You’re one of the few links I have left to Peter and I can’t bear the thought of losing it.’

Her grief went so deep and he intended to do whatever he could to help her over it. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

‘It will if we mess this up. If we lose our heads and forget ourselves...just once...then we’re not going to want to see each other again.’

Her words were like a punch to the gut. Because they were true.

‘It’s what I meant when I said we were playing a dangerous game.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘If you found me unattractive that would be—’ She broke off. ‘But you don’t.’

And he realised then what she’d made explicit but had left unsaid. She didn’t find him unattractive either. The knowledge made his blood roar.

Hell.

He ground his back molars together and counted to three, pulled in a breath. ‘You have my word that I won’t lose my head.’

He would not let her down.

‘And you have my word.’

They had to be cautious, circumspect. He couldn’t let himself feel too comfortable with her...and yet they both had to cultivate an appearance of tranquillity with each other for outside eyes. She was right. This could be trickier than he’d first envisaged. But not impossible.

Her lips lifted and she rolled her eyes.

‘What?’

Before he knew what she was about she’d leaned in, stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘Thank you.’

His heart crashed in his chest. His cheek burned where her lips had touched him.

She eased back, adjusted her cardigan. ‘Right. Your turn.’

She was trying to make kissing him as natural as possible, and he had to do the same. ‘Believe it or not,’ he said, ‘it’s my pleasure.’

He pressed a kiss to her brow and tried not to notice how soft and warm and vibrant she felt beneath his lips.

She huffed out a laugh. ‘Well, in that case I choose to believe it. Right, sit.’

She gestured to the sofa and he took a seat. She came from behind. Her arms slid around his shoulders, making him start.

‘You do that downstairs and you’ll give the game away.’

He nodded and gritted his teeth. ‘Do it again.’

She eased back, walked away and then moved towards him again and bent down to slide just one arm about his shoulders. He rested his hand on her forearm and felt a tiny tremor run through her. He pulled in a measured breath and her scent flooded his senses. ‘You smell nice.’

Nice? That’s the best you can manage?

She smelled sensational—fruity and warm, like Christmas. Though Christmas was months away.

‘It’s my body lotion. Frosted cherry. My favourite.’

They broke apart at exactly the same moment. This was exhausting, but he saw the wisdom of it. They needed to give the impression that they were physically comfortable with each other.

When nothing could be further from the truth.

‘Your turn.’ He waved her to the armchair.

She sat, leaned back, crossed her legs—for all the world as if she were completely at ease.

Time for them to get this over and done with.

Her eyes widened when he braced his hands on the arms of the chair and leant down towards her, effectively locking her in and leaving her nowhere to escape. ‘Lips?’

She glanced at his lips and then back into his eyes and nodded. ‘Dry lips,’ she whispered. ‘And we keep it brief.’

Every cell in his body burst to life. He recited, Peter’s sister, Peter’s sister, Peter’s sister, over and over in his mind. ‘I want to tell you something before we do this,’ he murmured, his gaze not dropping from hers.

She swallowed. ‘Okay.’

‘You’re wrong. I like you just fine, Sophie Mitchell.’

Her lips parted as if in shock. He couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His mouth lowered to hers, lips brushing lips—light, teasing and nowhere near enough. She stiffened, but then he felt her force herself to relax. And then she leaned forward a fraction and pressed her lips more firmly against his and kissed him back.

Wind roared in his ears. It took all the strength he had to not deepen the kiss, to not engage lips, mouths, tongues and hands.

Biting back a groan, he pulled back to stare into stunned blue eyes. They were a deeper shade of blue than he’d ever seen before.

She pushed him away and launched herself from the chair like a horse from a starter’s gate. ‘We better keep that to a minimum.’

She was darn right they were keeping that to a minimum!

He’d kiss her cheek, her brow, the top of her head, her hand, but he had every intention of staying as far away from those lips as possible. They were lethal!

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