It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

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It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5) Page 2

by Clare Connelly


  He shrugged his shoulders. “Then we’ll have to make sure they never find out the truth. What else?”

  She dug her toe into the carpet, pushing it forward a little way. “Well, how do we convince them?”

  “You mean, how do we act when we’re with other people?”

  She nodded jerkily.

  “We act like a couple.”

  “I’ve only ever had one boyfriend, and he wasn’t particularly demonstrative.”

  Luca stared at her, a frown on his handsome face. “You’ve only had one boyfriend?”

  “Ashton,” she confirmed with a small nod.

  “You haven’t seen anyone else?”

  “We got together when I was twenty one – straight out of uni,” she defended.

  He lifted his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, so you must have friends in relationships. You’ve watched movies. You can imagine the sorts of things that will make our relationship plausible.”

  That was the problem. She had seen movies. Way too many romantic movies when Ashton had been playing golf or polo, and images of those movies were filling her mind now, making her imagine all sorts of things with Luca Montebello! Things she had no business imagining for many reasons, not least of which was the fact he was her boss. Her very hot, very bachelor-ish boss.

  “Okay, maybe not,” he laughed, standing and skirting around the edge of the bed to his bedside table. He opened it on a hunch, then pulled out a small bottle of scotch, bringing it back to Bronte. “Well, it’s a wedding, so there’ll be dancing. I’ll put my arm around you. We’ll sit side by side. You’ll laugh at my stories.”

  “What if people ask questions?”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Like, ‘how did you two meet’? Or, ‘What’s a spectacular specimen of masculinity who could have any woman in the world doing with a plain Jane like Bronte’?”

  He made a noise that was something like a laugh, except rich with dismissive disbelief. “Here, drink this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re freaking out and it will calm your nerves.”

  “I am freaking out.” She stood up restlessly, taking the tiny bottle and passing it from one hand to the other.

  “First of all, we’ve already covered the fact that you’re smart and intelligent so I presume that’s just false modesty – which surprises me, Bronte, because I wouldn’t have thought you went in for that.”

  “It’s not –,”

  He put a hand out, curling his fingers around her wrist. “I said drink it, don’t treat it like a football.”

  She stopped passing the bottle between her hands and looked down at it as though seeing it for the first time.

  “As for the questions,” he said. “We’ll keep the answers vague. How did we meet? That’s easy. Through work. Stick as close to the truth as possible.”

  She nodded. “Yes, yes, that makes sense.” Her palm closed around the alcohol bottle, unclasping the lid. “And we can say it’s new. Not serious.”

  “If you’d like,” he reached out and took the bottle, his eyes holding hers for several beats so her stomach squished and her heart turned over in her chest. “Though I think you’ll have more success in making your ex-boyfriend jealous if people believe we’re madly in love.”

  “I can’t do that,” she shook her head urgently. “My parents – they’ll want to get to know you – and I mean know everything about you and my aunts and uncles will too; you have no idea what my family’s like.”

  “You’ve met my family, right?”

  That was true. He came from a big family. He knew how that could be.

  “Drink.” He lifted it to her lips, continuing to hold her gaze as she opened her mouth and he poured several gulps in. It burned all the way down through body, lighting a fire into her stomach before she pulled back, coughing.

  “It’s strong,” she explained a second later.

  “Yes. But it will help.”

  She nodded, and when he lifted the bottle to her lips the second time, she was more prepared. She stood still, looking beyond his shoulder, waiting for the warmth to envelop her.

  “As for your parents, I’ll be polite, nothing more. I’m not interested in creating a fantasy fiction, nor in lying unnecessarily.”

  She stared up at him, a sense of relief washing over her. Yes, that was it. They didn’t have to lie to everybody. Just having him at her side was enough – people could draw their own conclusions as to whether they were friends, or more. It didn’t have to be some enormous exercise in dishonesty.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You know why.”

  “Because you found me crying at my desk a week ago, staring at photos of Ashton, mortified that I’d told my family I was bringing some non-existent new boyfriend to the wedding when no such person exists?”

  His lips twisted into something that might have been a smile or a grimace. “Because you needed help and I could offer it. That’s all. There’s nothing more meaningful or complicated here, Bronte, so relax and try to have a little fun.”

  2

  “IT’S BETTER DOWN.”

  Her eyes met his in the bathroom mirror, her expression as it had been since they’d driven out of London that afternoon – a perfect imitation of a deer caught in headlights.

  “What?”

  “Your hair.” He sauntered into the bathroom, taking the requisite steps to stand just to her right, holding her gaze in the reflection. “This is too severe.”

  She frowned, regarding the tightly pulled back bun. “Do you think?”

  “I think if he’s a male with a pulse he’ll like seeing your hair loose down your back.”

  She hesitated for a few seconds before nodding, dislodging the pins as he watched, pressing each to the counter with fingertips that were shaking slightly. She was incredibly nervous.

  Sympathy shifted through Luca, surprising him as much now as it had seven nights earlier when he’d gone into the office near midnight, planning to grab some files and head home, only to find the usually stony-faced, unflappable, picture of efficiency sobbing loudly over a stack of photographs. Who even had printed photographs anymore? It hadn’t surprised him that Bronte did. There was something about her that was so proper and old-fashioned, he imagined she had a bedroom in her house filled with books – leather bound, ancient books, which she’d read while wearing a dressing gown and slippers, drinking her English Breakfast tea, or similar.

  Nonetheless, his first instinct had been to disappear back into the elevator again and leave before she’d seen him, before he could get involved. Only her sobs had rung through the executive level, echoing in the emptiness of night, and something had pulled at him, an ancient pain, a burden of guilt he could never answer.

  Bronte had been distraught and a few gentle questions had revealed the source of her upset – and her predicament. Having invented a fictional boyfriend to ward off unwanted concern, she had been trapped in a lie. From there, his solution-orientated brain had supplied a simple answer. Simple because he’d already resolved to spend the next two weeks predominantly in the UK, and simple because it was no hardship for him to spend a weekend with his assistant.

  The Montebello Corporation paid well above average, but even then, he knew how hard his staff worked. Bronte was no different. If this was a small way in which he could repay her, then he’d be selfish not to offer it.

  Her relief had been palpable, and he’d left the office feeling ten feet tall. It was good to help people. Maybe this would be enough to absolve him of guilt? Maybe this good deed would finally erase his worst mistake? Maybe the sense of remorse would, with this one random act of kindness, finally relent just a little?

  Unlikely, but a man could hope. After all, he’d lived with this dogging sense of responsibility for six years – he suspected it would always be a part of him, just as he deserved.

  “Better,” he murmured, nodding approval. She was beautiful, though she seeme
d to go out of her way to hide that. In the office, she wore sensible suits and kept her hair restrained to within an inch of its life. He’d wondered if she’d be different in her personal life but so far, he couldn’t say so with any confidence. Her dress was a simple black slip, revealing her creamy shoulders and a hint of cleavage, falling to her knees. He watched as she reached to the right and grabbed a bright red necklace made of chunky beads, which she strung around her neck.

  Interesting.

  He would have pegged her as more of a pearls kind of woman.

  “Ready?” He prompted, offering her the encouraging smile he knew she badly needed.

  “No.” It was a plaintive wail. “This is crazy. They’re never going to believe we’re a couple. Everyone’s going to see through this.”

  Frustration zipped inside him. “No, they’re not.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because.” He took her hands and clasped them, pressing them to his chest. “This is going to be fine. Remember that it’s just a few nights, okay?”

  She nodded but he could see the panic in her eyes. “You’ll be fine. Tell me about your family?”

  It seemed to relax her. She moved into the bedroom while describing her father, sliding her feet into heels that had him stopping in his tracks. This he definitely hadn’t expected. He tried to rack his brain to think what footwear she usually wore in the office – and the answer was: nothing like this. These were vixen shoes, plain and simple. At least four-inch spikes with pointed toes and red soles, he stared at them, transfixed by the image of her slender, creamy-white legs pressed into these weapons of mass destruction and felt a lurch of something dangerously like interest.

  Interest was not okay. In fact, it was completely unwelcome. But the idea of sensible Bronte Hill sitting at home on a Saturday night reading Greek tragedies was fading from his mind. These shoes were made for – no. He’d better not go there.

  “I like shoes,” she explained, her smile lopsided as she reached for her clutch purse – black with a silver clasp.

  “They suit you.” He held his hand out, trying not to think about her shoes, and she stared at him suspiciously.

  “It’s my hand, Bronte, not an offer of sex.”

  Her laugh was brittle, as though she was trying to pretend that hadn’t thrown her, but her cheeks filled with a pale pink, and she turned away from him quickly.

  “This won’t work if you act like that any time I go to touch you.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said with a shake of her head. “I can’t –,”

  He expelled a gentle sigh. “Do you want to do this or not?”

  She looked up at him, anguished and lost, and he wondered about the guy who could have made her feel like this, and why the hell her family had invited him – and his new girlfriend – to this wedding. Families, though, were strange, and all had their quirks.

  “I – yes.” Her eyes batted downwards. “I do.”

  It was a strange juxtaposition, witnessing Bronte as though the rug had been pulled from under her. In the office, nothing was beyond her control. She could have his jet fuelled at a few minutes’ notice, organise dinner parties for fifty people without breaking a sweat, anything they threw at her was within her skillset.

  Out of a desire to reassure her, he reached across, lifting her chin so she was facing him. “Let’s go do this then.”

  She offered him one of her sweetly apologetic smiles, her long lashes fanning her cheeks as she moved closer and then, after only a few seconds’ hesitation, put her hand in his. It was tiny! How come he hadn’t realised before how petite she was?

  Because he’d never really looked at her except to ask for files or bark scheduling inquiries. She was far from his usual type, and he never mixed business and pleasure. Naturally he’d never noticed her as a woman– and he wouldn’t notice her now. It wasn’t appropriate.

  “Tonight is just a cocktail party,” she explained, as they left the room. “A chance for guests to mingle, and get to know one another.”

  They stepped into the corridor with its black and white tiled floors and old portraits lining the walls. English wildflowers had been picked and placed in delicate crystal vases which sat on occasional tables as they walked past, the fragrance sweet.

  “Tomorrow night there’s more of a formal dinner. Then the wedding on Saturday, and the celebration on Sunday – that’s smaller, extended family. There’s a lot.” Her tone held an apology.

  He squeezed her hand. “I offered to do this. Stop saying sorry.”

  “I didn’t say sorry.”

  “Your voice did.”

  She wrinkled her nose as she looked up at him – several inches up, despite the heels. “I guess this is different to how you usually spend your weekends.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Yes.”

  “What would you have been doing? Were it not for my catastrophic meltdown in the office?”

  “I had no plans.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Since Yaya had her stroke, then Raf had his accident, we’ve all been spending more time at Villa Fortune. I’d probably have flown back for a couple of days.”

  Her eyes softened. “How are they both?”

  “Surprisingly well. Yaya looks like she’ll make a full recovery and with any luck, so will Raf.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  As they walked, the sound of a party became louder, and he could feel Bronte’s tension hitching up. The offer to accompany her had been surprising and uncharacteristic but standing at the top of the staircase, preparing to walk with her to a cocktail party about which she was clearly terrified, he was very glad he’d made this decision.

  “This is it,” she explained unnecessarily, at the large doors to the library. Her heart was racing, and she couldn’t have said if she was nervous at the prospect of seeing Ashton for the first time in six months, or because of the man standing beside her, his large hand clasped around hers.

  She fidgeted her fingers in his grip, not daring to look up at him because she knew she’d see him then as her family would – and what would they say! She should have warned them that she was turning up to Alice’s wedding with a bloody Montebello. That wasn’t the kind of detail you omitted. Only this had all happened so quickly and up until he’d arrived at her door earlier that day she’d been prevaricating about the sense of this, tempted to cancel their hastily made plan.

  Only one thing had made her stay the course.

  Ashton.

  They’d broken up six months earlier but she hadn’t moved on. She couldn’t. They’d been together a long time, living together, in love – she’d thought she would be the one walking down the aisle at a place like this. Instead, all her dreams were in tatters at her feet, and the reality of seeing him here with another woman had made her cling to the lifeline Luca had thrown her.

  “This is going to be fine,” he assured her, his voice deep and rumbly, and so easy to believe despite the fact he had no way of knowing how this weekend would turn out.

  “Let’s just – get it over with.”

  He laughed quietly, then nodded, taking a step with her into the room with vaulted ceilings and thousands of ancient books.

  When Bronte and Alice had visited the wedding venue a month earlier, the owners had showed them through the space and described how everything would be. Then, the room had been empty, an enormous space awaiting occupation. Now, it swarmed with elegantly dressed guests. Bronte recognised some faces – Alice’s friends from school and of course their aunts and uncles, cousins. She felt the overwhelming weight of needing to socialise with them now, with a new ‘boyfriend’ in tow. The humiliation of knowing Ashton would be here with his new girlfriend, and that the whole world would have this very visual clue as to their messy, final break up.

  Her heart hurt.

  “Champagne?” A waitress passed by carrying a tray loaded with drinks. Bronte swiped one gratefully. “Luca?”


  He shook his head, once.

  She frowned. “You’re sure?”

  “Certain.” He put a hand in the small of her back and little arrows of warmth darted beneath her skin.

  “I don’t see him,” she whispered, her eyes darting around the room.

  Luca moved to stand in front of her, a frown on his brow. “Don’t look for him.”

  “I can’t – what do you mean?”

  “Don’t look for him. Don’t look as though anything is missing in your life. Smile as though you’ve never been happier.”

  She stared up at him, her heart missing a beat. Happy? What was that like? She forced a smile to her face; it felt strange.

  “Not like that,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Relax.”

  She stopped smiling and sipped her champagne. “Stop telling me to relax. It’s stressing me out.”

  “Bronte!” She turned at the sound of her mother’s voice, her pulse going into overdrive. It was show time – now or never.

  “Mum,” she took a step forward and Clara Hill wrapped her daughter in her arms, engulfing her in a cloud of floral-scented perfume and in a way that threatened to bring tears to Bronte’s eyes. Kindness tended to do that these days.

  “Darling, you’re here, finally. We’ve been wondering. You look lovely – that’s the dress we bought at Selfridge’s last year, isn’t it? It suits you. I don’t think I’ve seen it on.”

  “Thank you,” Bronte inclined her head. “You look beautiful, too.” It was true. Clara Hill was a svelte, elegant fifty four year old with silver blonde hair and calmly assessing eyes the colour of a field in the afternoon sun. “Where’s dad?”

  “Oh, talking with the caterer about the perfect hollandaise sauce. You know your father.” She lifted her eyes heavenwards in an affectionate gesture.

  “Still working towards that Michelin star?” Bronte joked.

  “Any day now.”

  Charles Hill had always been in finance and was as uncreative as it was possible for a human to be, but a health scare two years ago had forced him to scale back his hours and develop a hobby. He’d chosen cooking, and they’d all been along for the ride, from disastrous dinner parties at the start to a surprising ability once he learned his way around the kitchen.

 

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