Kate Hewitt - Claiming My Bride Of Convenience

That was made even more clear when he ushered me into a private room off the ballroom, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

‘Daisy,’ he said, his teeth gritted and his eyes flashing, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’

I almost hadn’t recognised her. Admittedly she was reassuringly easy to forget—which was why I’d married her in the first place. The only reason I remembered her name was because of the deposits I’d made into her bank account.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ she muttered, with a flash of spirit I hadn’t expected.

Hadn’t I married a mouse? A quiet, tame, unremarkable and invisible mouse, who was supposed to be grateful for what I’d done for her and stay entirely out of my way?

‘We had an agreement,’ I told her flatly.

‘To keep me prisoner on an island while you gallivant about all of Europe?’

‘What?’ I stared at her incredulously. ‘Is that seriously your version of events?’

‘We’re married, Matteo.’

My jaw dropped and I snapped it shut. I could not believe she was playing that card, when she of all people knew what our marriage really was. ‘You signed the agreement, Daisy. You cashed the cheques. You told me it suited you.’

Her jaw was thrust out, her expression mutinous. I’d never seen her look so fiery—but then, of course, I’d barely seen her at all, and as they say, out of sight, out of mind . Entirely.

‘I know I did, but it’s been three years and I want something different now.’

‘Oh, really?’

I folded my arms and stared her down. She had to be easy to intimidate. She certainly had been before—although in truth I hadn’t even had to try. I’d offered her a deal—a generous, considerate, honest business deal—and she’d accepted. Clearly she needed reminding of those facts now.

‘So you want something different and you decide to stalk me down to a public party—’

‘I did not stalk ,’ she snapped, cutting across me, which no one ever did. ‘I read about the party online and decided to find you here.’

‘I call that stalking.’

‘Technically, I don’t think you can stalk your husband.’

‘Trust me, you can—especially in a marriage like ours.’

‘Which is exactly what I want to discuss.’

She gave me an acidly sweet smile as she walked across the room—or rather minced, because that dress was so ridiculous—to sit in a chair, looking as demure as I could ever hope for, even though her eyes still sparked.

‘What is that hideous dress you’re wearing?’ I asked, knowing I was being blunt to the point of rudeness and not caring in the slightest. ‘You look like a tube of lipstick—and a nasty shade at that.’

Her cheeks flushed but her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I thought those snarky assistants at the boutique might be setting me up.’

‘Couldn’t you tell it didn’t suit you?’ Although, awful as it was, it did suit her. My gaze was reluctantly and irresistibly drawn to the slender curves the outrageously tight dress clung to. ‘What is that material? Pleather? ’

‘I don’t know.’ She glanced down at it without much interest. ‘They insisted it was the latest style, and who am I to know any different?’

‘They were lying to you.’

For some reason it annoyed me that a couple of nasty shop assistants would make a mockery of my wife. Our marriage most certainly wasn’t like that, but she was still a Dias. Even if no one knew it. Even if that was the way I’d wanted it.

‘I thought they might have been,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I’m hardly a fashion icon, and I’m sure I seemed like a complete country bumpkin to them.’

Which begged the question—‘What are you doing here, Daisy?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Don’t you mean what the hell am I doing here?’

‘I was surprised.’

I wasn’t normally in the habit of justifying myself, and I didn’t know what it was about her that caught me on the raw, made me defensive. That had to stop.

‘Annoyed, you mean? Or perhaps furious?’ One eyebrow arched as her golden-brown eyes glittered like bits of topaz. She was unremarkable, I told myself as I scanned her in cold assessment. Brown hair and eyes, a slight, unprepossessing figure. Completely forgettable.

So why did I keep staring at her?

‘We had an arrangement,’ I stated, yet again. She seemed to need the reminder.

‘Which suited you—’

‘ And you—to the tune of nearly two million euros.’ I was not going to feel guilty. ‘You knew the score all along. You said you were happy with it.’

Her lower lip—a surprisingly lush and rosy-red lip—jutted out, and she folded her arms across her slight bosom, which for some reason I was having the most exasperating trouble looking away from, considering how unimpressive it was. B cup at best, and yet…

‘Well, now I want to change it,’ she said.

I let out a short, sharp laugh. ‘I don’t negotiate.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ she challenged. ‘It’s hardly a binding contract.’

I stared at her, shocked. Where was all this brazen confidence coming from? And what could she possibly want from me?

‘Not binding, no,’ I agreed silkily, ‘but you know the terms. If you wish the marriage to be annulled without my agreement, then you’ll have to hand back every single euro you’ve received from me over the last three years.’

Which amounted to nearly two million—one million to start, and then two hundred and fifty thousand for every year she stayed married to me, until my grandfather died. Then we wouldn’t have to have anything more to do with each other—something I had thought suited us both.

But of course Daisy knew the rules as well as I did. I’d outlined them all very clearly when I’d proposed to her after she’d been fired from a rundown dive of a diner in a less than salubrious neighbourhood in Manhattan and she’d accepted. With alacrity.

So what had changed?

I folded my arms and eyed her in consideration. She was sitting as prim as you please in a vamp’s red dress, looking entirely incongruous and making me feel as if I didn’t know her at all—which, of course, I didn’t. I didn’t need or want to know her. But I needed to know what she wanted.

‘What is this really about, Daisy?’

For a second that confidence faltered. Her lips trembled and her gaze slid away. ‘What do you think it’s about?’

‘Why are you here? What is it you want? Because I really don’t think you want to repay the two million euros I’ve already given you.’

‘One million, seven hundred and fifty thousand,’ she flashed back, recovering her spirit, assembling it like armour. ‘And, according to our agreement, we were to be married for a maximum of two years. It’s now been three.’

‘And you’ve been paid accordingly.’

And she’d spent it all, judging by the amount in the bank account I’d set up for her. Last time I checked, its balance was hovering just above zero. Heaven only knew what she spent the money on.

‘So what do you want?’ I shook my head slowly, my lip starting to curl. ‘More money?’

Her eyes widened, her lush lips parting. In that red dress she looked as ripe as an apple, ready to be plucked, and it disconcerted me. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in a drab waitress uniform, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her face shiny with grease from the fried food she served. Hardly someone I’d ever think of plucking.