Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband Read online

Outside they were treated to the sight of Draco standing in the large circular driveway that opened out at the entrance to Jubilee Hall, clearly trying to persuade the catering manager not to leave. But the woman wasn’t having any of it. She put her older model station wagon into gear and spun up a rooster tail of gravel from beneath her tires as she drove away. Draco jogged over to them.

  “Don’t even ask,” he warned, his dark features like a thundercloud as he reached for the helmet on the seat of his bike.

  With nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment, Brent and Adam did the same, and before long, the matching high performance bikes were gunning it out of the gates and onto the private road that led to the motorway and back to Auckland City.

  From her car, parked beneath the heavy branches of an ancient oak tree, Amira watched as Brent came out of the hall. A tremor shot through her, leaving her hands trembling on the steering wheel of her BMW Z4 Coupe. Damn, just when she’d managed to get her nerves back under control.

  The distance between the men’s room in the chapel and where she’d parked her car had disappeared into a fugue of disbelief at what she’d actually done. She’d been planning this ever since she’d seen the funeral notice for Professor Woodley’s wife. Brent had always spoken so highly of the professor; his respect for the old man was an integral part of him. There was no way he’d miss the funeral. It was the only way she’d be able to see him, to surprise him. She’d visualized how she would meet him, what she would say. She just never believed she’d have either the courage, or the gall, to confront him in the men’s room.

  Her eyes had eaten up the sight of him. Of the breadth of his shoulders, the green glint in his hazel eyes, the expert cut and fall of his glossy hair that she’d fought not to push back across his forehead the way she always used to.

  The past eight years had been kind to him, despite his financial difficulties when they’d parted ways. But then, if the latest New Zealand Rich List was anything to go by, the years had been more than kind. He featured strongly in the top twenty now. She wondered if he still cared about things like that. That kind of recognition had driven him in the past, but there was one thing that had always eluded him—acceptance by the old school, especially when their marriage had not taken place.

  Her gaze remained fixed on him as he shrugged into a well-worn leather jacket and pulled his dark helmet on, the darkened visor flipping down to obscure his sharply chiseled features. She’d know him anywhere. The way he moved. The way he held his head.

  He was slightly heavier set than he’d been at twenty-five, but it looked good on his frame. There was an aura of strength and power about him that spoke to her on a physical level she hadn’t experienced since she’d last been in his presence. Or maybe it was just that. Her own very personal and intimate reaction to his nearness. To his masculinity.

  Even now she couldn’t believe how she’d managed to pluck up the courage to follow him into the men’s room and make her demand. But she’d never before been on the verge of destitution. Need had a way of making you do things that you wouldn’t normally do, she thought with a bitter grimace. And she’d do whatever it took to get Brent to agree to her terms.

  Amira gripped her fingers around the steering wheel in an attempt to control their shaking. She was going to have to do a whole lot better than this tomorrow if she was going to succeed. She’d crossed the first hurdle; the next stage couldn’t be that difficult, could it? She refused to believe otherwise. Brent Colby might be hugely successful but he’d always be the new boy on the block unless he could find favor with the old boys’ network that governed the movers and shakers of New Zealand business—favor that had been solidly blocked by her late grandmother at every turn. Now, Amira could give him entrée into that rarefied world. She only hoped he still wanted it as much as he’d once wanted her.

  Her future, everything that was important to her, depended on him.

  No one could understand how deeply important this was to her. No one. For once in her life she wanted to be taken seriously. To be recognized as having a value to society higher than just being some figurehead or spokesperson—the face behind the people who did all the real work. She could live with the loneliness that engendered—she was used to being put on a pedestal, being isolated. But she could not live with failure. It was too important to her that she succeed this time without her grandmother’s influence hanging over her like Damocles’ sword.

  Isobel Forsythe’s death had been the catalyst that had really shaken her up—and not just her death but the draconian terms of the old woman’s last will and testament. Amira knew her grandmother had done her best to put a stick in the spokes of this particular dream, but it had only served to make her all the more determined to succeed. Contrary to her grandmother’s beliefs, Amira did not hold with the thought that it was unreasonable to promise happiness to those less fortunate. It was her personal mission to see this through. To make something worthwhile of her existence.

  She jumped at the roar of the three motorcycles as they swept past where her car was parked. Her eyes inexorably drawn to Brent’s form hunched over the powerful bike, taking the lead with the kind of effortless precision with which he approached everything.

  He’d been so cold and aloof when she’d tried to talk to him. Not too surprising given where they were, but he was so distant. Not even betraying so much as a hint of anger for what she’d done to him in the past. And she’d known he was angry—bitterly so. She’d heard of Brent’s reaction from her grandmother’s solicitor, Gerald Stein, who’d been in the vestibule at the church, awaiting her arrival so he could walk her down the aisle.

  Deep inside, her heart gave a painful twist. There’d been no wedding then, but she had to make sure that one went ahead now or her promise to little Casey—and more than a dozen other underprivileged or seriously ill kids—would be broken forever.

  He had to agree. He just had to.

  Two

  Amira hesitated at the gate to the long sweeping driveway she knew led to Brent’s home. All she had to do was lower her window and press the button on the intercom; then the gate would be opened. It was all very civilized, so why did she feel as if she was entering a panther’s lair?

  Clipped hedges lined the sides of the drive toward his riverside property. There were only six houses on this exclusive lane leading to the tidal Tamaki Estuary. He’d really come up in the world. It was a far cry from the inner-city apartment he’d had when he met her.

  Time was ticking past and she wouldn’t discount him turning her away if she was late. She pressed her window control and reached out to activate the talk button on the intercom.

  “It’s Amira Forsythe.”

  Should she say anything else? Did he retain staff at the house, or would he answer the intercom himself?

  There was no answer but for the smooth electric hum of the imposing black iron gates gliding apart, admitting her to his private corner of the world. Her hands were slippery on the leather steering wheel as she swept down the driveway.

  The front of the house was no less imposing than the gated entrance. Amira pulled her car up in front of a four car garage and made her way toward the entrance of the French Provincial style home. Her practiced eye swept the inviting lines of the house. No expense had been spared on this baby, all the way up to the wooden shingle roof. Her heels clipped over the smooth-honed natural stone pathway leading to the front door.

  A shiver of anticipation ricocheted through her as she lifted her hand to the intercom beside the door. Her hand was still in the air as the door suddenly swung open.

  Amira’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. Dressed in Armani, he was a sight to behold. Even her late grandmother couldn’t have disapproved of him dressed like this. His dark brown hair was swept back off a wide forehead, not a hair daring to slide out of place today. His shirt remained unbuttoned at the neck, exposing a triangle of warm tanned skin. Had their circumstances been different, she’d be in his arms already
. Perhaps even with her lips against that tantalizing triangle, tracing the indent at the base of his throat with her tongue. Her inner muscles clenched on a rising heat that threatened to swamp her.

  She forced herself to quell her instinctive reaction to him. To focus on the reason she was here.

  “You’re on time. Good. Come in.”

  “I make it a habit to be on time. Especially when it’s something as important as this.”

  Amira stepped over the threshold and into the black-marble-lined foyer.

  “Really, Amira? I can remember at least one occasion where you were late. Very late, in fact. But then maybe that particular occasion wasn’t important to you.”

  Her cheeks flooded with color. It hadn’t taken long for him to refer to their wedding day. It was only to be expected.

  “I wanted to explain to you, Brent—afterward. But I knew you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t. Which begs the question, why should I listen to you today?”

  He stood opposite her—his arms crossed in front of him, his feet shoulder width apart—not inviting her any farther into his home. His body language couldn’t be any more defensive than if he’d donned armor and guarded his inner sanctum with a broadsword. One look at the firm set of his sensually chiseled lips reminded her she was not here to fantasize.

  “Perhaps I still have something to offer you. Could we—” Amira made a helpless gesture with her hand “—could we sit down?”

  “Come up to my office.”

  Brent spun on a well-polished heel and headed up a wide sweeping staircase leading to the upper level of the house. Opposite the top of the stairs he showed her into a large airy office. The dove-gray carpet muffled their footsteps as they entered the room. Amira looked around—the room was a reflection of the man he’d become since she knew him last.

  There was no doubting his success and wealth in the choice of state-of-the-art office equipment, quality furnishings and window treatments—no expense had been spared here, either—but one thing about him, at least, hadn’t changed. Built-in glass-fronted bookcases lined the walls. He’d always been an avid reader, and judging by the appearance of many of the book spines, these were not here simply for show.

  “You always did love your books,” she commented as she perched on the edge of a wing-backed leather chair, her mind suddenly inundated with memories of lying in the sunshine in the park, or at the beach, dozing with her head in his lap, while he read his latest acquisition.

  “Among other things less enduring,” Brent responded enigmatically as he took his seat behind his desk.

  She fought not to flinch as he scored another direct hit. This was going to be more difficult than she’d anticipated. His antipathy toward her filled the air, beating against her as if it had its own life force.

  Amira blinked at the light streaming in through the dormer windows behind him. He had her at a distinct disadvantage, purposely she realized. Seated where he was, she couldn’t discern his expression or read his eyes like she always used to. She angled her head so she avoided the worst of the morning glare. She’d concede this tactic to him but she’d be damned if she’d concede anymore. Too much rode on the outcome of today, even—as dramatic as it sounded—her very life as she knew it.

  “Nice place you have,” Amira commented conversationally.

  She wasn’t about to let him know how nervous she was about this meeting, nor how uncomfortable she felt right now. The contrast between the old memories she’d fought so hard to suppress was at total odds with the distinctly chilly reception she was now subject to.

  “Cut to the chase, Amira. We both know this isn’t a social visit. What’s behind your absurd proposal?”

  Amira swallowed and took a deep breath. She had to be honest about it and cut straight to the chase as he demanded. He wouldn’t accept anything less.

  “Money. As you guessed so astutely yesterday.”

  Brent laughed, a harsh short sound totally lacking in humor.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? If there’s one thing that drives you Forsythes, it’s money. At least you’re honest about it this time.” His tone was scathing.

  Amira stiffened in her chair, her back impossibly straight.

  “And money doesn’t drive you?” she asked pointedly.

  “Not anymore,” came his succinct reply.

  “Somehow I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Believe what you will. It means nothing to me.”

  And nor did she anymore, she reminded herself. There’d been a time when they meant the world to each other. But that had been torn to pieces on the shattered remnants of their dreams when she’d publicly humiliated him. She couldn’t let what she’d done to him that awful day hold her back now. Somehow she had to convince him that marrying could prove beneficial to him too. On the surface of things, she could see that money wasn’t a major motivator for him anymore. She had to hope that, on top of the financial benefit she planned to propose, the promise of inclusion into the exclusive old boys’ network would be sufficient inducement.

  “Fine.” She drew in a calming breath. It wouldn’t help her cause if she lost her temper now. “As you probably heard, my grandmother passed away recently.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  No condolences from him then, she thought bitterly. Mind you, it really was no surprise when her grandmother had barely tolerated him at best—and at worst she’d forced Amira to give him up completely.

  “She put certain…conditions on my right to inherit under her will.”

  “What sort of conditions?” Brent leaned back in his chair.

  Although his body appeared totally relaxed, she knew he was alert and listening carefully. Every muscle in that well-toned body was attuned to her, whether he liked it or not. It had always been that way between them. Visceral. Instant. Unquenchable. Even now she felt the electric tingle through her veins that being around him had always brought. It was a distraction she could well do without and one look in his hazel eyes and the remoteness within them forced her back on track.

  “Restrictive ones, unfortunately. I must be married before I turn thirty to inherit.”

  “So you have just under eighteen months to find some poor fool to be your husband.” Brent leaned forward on his desk. He flicked his gaze over her body. “With your obvious attributes, that shouldn’t be difficult,” he concluded dismissively.

  “I don’t want just some poor fool. I want you.” Oh hell, that didn’t come out right, she thought frantically. An obvious sign of her distress. Normally she was as diplomatic and serene as the media portrayed her.

  A small smile played around Brent’s lips. “A rich fool like me, perhaps? Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not in the market for marriage to anyone—and certainly not to you.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant at all.” Amira hurriedly searched her mind for the words she desperately needed to persuade him to agree to her plan. “Basically, I need a husband. And that’s it. I’m not interested in all the accoutrements that come with marriage, or the complications of a relationship. I have more than enough on my plate right now without that. With you, I know I’m safe. There’s no one else I can ask who wouldn’t expect more from a marriage than what I’m prepared to give. I think I’d be safe to say you have no desire for me anymore so we could agree that it would be purely a business arrangement.”

  “A business arrangement?”

  Finally she’d knocked that reserve from his expression, although she couldn’t be sure if what he now exhibited was interest or well concealed mockery.

  “Yes, an agreement, between old friends.”

  His lips firmed into a straight line and he eyed her speculatively.

  “And exactly what are you prepared to give to this old friend?”

  “Ten percent of the value of my inheritance,” she named a sum that made Brent’s eyebrows raise slightly before she continued, “together with platinum level entry to the Auc
kland Branch of the New Zealand League of Businessmen.”

  “All that just for the pleasure of being your husband—on paper?”

  There was no doubting the sarcasm in his voice now. Once again color flooded her cheeks.

  “I realize you think I’m not exactly a prize, Brent, but even you haven’t been able to buy your way into the NZLB. I can ensure that your application is approved. Just think of the contacts it will bring you. I know you have a new project underway in the city and that you’ve been stonewalled on consents for some time. Delays are costly, especially with the type of waterfront expansion you’re planning. A word in the ear of the right people and those problems will disappear.

  “I’m sure your lawyer will be happy to draw up some kind of prenuptial agreement that will include the money I’m prepared to give you and the introduction to the NZLB as part of the schedule of what I promise you on marriage.”

  “What about my money? I assume you want your slice of that too?” His voice remained neutral, as if they weren’t talking millions of dollars here.

  “Not at all! I don’t want a bar of your wealth. That’s not what this is all about. You’ll be bringing me everything I need by being my husband. You’re the one man who can do this for me.”

  “The only one?”

  The way he said it made it like an insult. Amira stood. She refused to be drawn into debate over it. She’d made her pitch. Now the ball was firmly in his court.

  “I’ll leave you to think my offer over.” She delved in her Hermès bag to withdraw a card, which she deposited on the polished mahogany desk. “Here, call me when you’ve made your decision. I’ll see myself out.”

  Brent watched in silence as Amira left his office. He didn’t bother to pick up her card. He knew her number. Had always known it and, try as he might, he’d been unable to scourge it from his memory.

  So, she thought she’d be “safe” with him. She had no idea. Safe certainly wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind when he saw her. Even the severe gray businesslike pinstripe suit she’d worn today did little to hide the tempting shape of her, or the allure of ruffling that touch-me-not aura she projected to the world.