The CEO's Contract Bride

by Yvonne Lindsay

  “We’ll take them both today.” Declan slid the ring off his finger and gave it to François to place in a box. “Thanks, Frank. I knew you’d have what we needed. Charge it up for me. I take it you still have my details.”

  Declan escorted Gwen back outside. She blinked slightly in the blinding sunlight, its brightness a stark contrast to the showroom inside.

  “So, where to now? Pick up my car?” she asked, hope evident in her tone.

  “No. We have another appointment first, remember.”

  Of course, she remembered suddenly. “Connor?”

  “Yeah. Those contract conditions we skirted around last night. It’s time to work them out.” He handed her back into the Jag. “Along with a few of my own.”

  Four

  “So, we have to be married for six months for you to keep the money. Did you know that last night?” Gwen enunciated carefully from where she stood by the floor-length glass windows, her voice controlled and not letting out so much as a glimmer of the thoughts that were obviously zooming about in her head.

  “Yes, I did.” Declan crossed his arms and leaned back in the comfortable chair in his second, and youngest, brother Connor’s office. The way she’d said it made it sound like a life sentence. He could think of worse things—but, to be honest, not many.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me that when we were discussing how long this…this marriage is to last?” her voice faltered slightly.

  Sure he’d thought about it, but when she’d started her bartering on how long they were going to remain married he’d latched onto the idea of making the duration of their marriage her idea. She’d be less likely to back out, then, wouldn’t she? A small frown creased Declan’s brow and he exchanged a glance with his youngest brother, who, with a faint nod, stepped into the breach.

  “Under the terms and conditions of our mother’s will everything reverts to our father’s trust if Declan is married for a period of less than six months.” A pained expression crossed Connor’s face—his thoughts on the matter quite clear. “Look, you’re both rushing into this—I’m not sure you’ve considered all the ramifications. Why don’t you take a few more days—”

  “Don’t worry, Connor. We wouldn’t be doing this unless we absolutely had to.” Lord only knew a chance like the Sellers project wouldn’t come along again in a hurry. If he couldn’t strike out now Cavaliere Developments would just become like one of the many subsidiary companies under the Knight Enterprises’ umbrella, and that sure as hell wasn’t what he wanted for the rest of his life.

  Connor stepped away from his desk. “Let me explain,” he offered.

  “No, Connor,” Declan held up a hand. “This is between the lady and me. I fight my own battles.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Connor muttered as he withdrew back to his desk. “Look out, world, if you ever decide to let someone else lend a hand.”

  Declan bit back the retort that sprung to his lips. As the eldest, he’d always assumed responsibility. Someone’d had to stand up to the old man when he and his brothers had been younger. Old habits died hard. He pushed upwards and out of his chair and strode towards the window to stand next to Gwen. Outside, the wind had picked up. Across the harbour white tips danced across the surface of the water and a large flotilla of yachts swooped, graceful and free, over the expanse of turquoise sea. How long had it been since he’d felt as free and unrestrained as the yachts on the harbour? How long since he’d done anything purely for the fun of it?

  He needed to get balance back in his life—he needed to get back in control. This contract would see him home and clear. It was time to take his life back. Gwen’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “So, if we have a contract, why the need for this prenuptial agreement as well? After all…” she continued her voice growing heated “…it’s not as if this is going to be a real marriage. You yourself called it a business arrangement last night. You know I don’t want anything from you other than what we discussed.” Gwen flicked a hand over towards the prenuptial agreement they’d spent the better part of the last hour arguing over, not least of which was because she’d refused to get independent legal advice on the contract.

  Damn, but she was beautiful when she got angry. Hell, where had that come from? He didn’t want to think of Gwen in terms of attraction. Not again.

  “I don’t need it for me. It’s to protect you,” Declan ground out through clenched teeth. He was growing mighty angry himself. He hated being this vulnerable to anyone but especially to her. He knew he should have done more to prevent her and Renata from attempting their climb that day, but Gwen could’ve refused to go point-blank. Where would they all be now if she had? Fate’s cruel twist of irony wasn’t lost on him. And despite it all, he still felt responsible for her loss, too. If he hadn’t given Steve Crenshaw so much responsibility, she wouldn’t be in this mess right now, either.

  Gwen twisted her hands in front of her—the movement belying the rigid set of her body, the controlled rhythm of her breathing. A shaft of sunlight flashed off the diamond ring he’d bought her, reminding him of the inherent promise it held when she’d agreed to wear it. For as long as she agreed to wear it. What if she backed out now? A sick knot of dread tightened low in his gut. It was time to fight dirty.

  “I can protect myself, you know.” Her voice was low, insistent, with a husky quality that cut straight to his core and made his body react on a physical level he’d thought, after last night, he had firmly under control.

  “Yeah, that much is obvious. Get real, Gwen. What are you going to do when the bank wants payment on that loan you’ve secured with your house? Are you just going to stand back and let them take your home?”

  She flinched at the harshness of his words.

  “Hey, Dec. That’s a bit over the top.” Connor’s warning growl cut across the room.

  “Over the top? No, she stands to lose as much as I do. Maybe even more. If it’s going to work we both need to be fully committed.” Declan turned slightly to face Gwen full on. He knew how much that house meant to her. Renata had told him about her friend’s childhood, and about the maiden aunt who’d left the unencumbered property to Gwen.

  Gwen’s chin was down, her face slanted towards the window and her eyes were locked unblinkingly on something in the distance. He lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze head-on. “What’s it to be?”

  She drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Her face assumed a rigid cast. Damn. If her expression was any indicator, he’d messed up big-time.

  “Give me a pen. I’ll sign your damn papers—all of them.” Her voice was as cold as her eyes as they stared straight back into his.

  She twisted away from him and stalked back to where the papers were strewn across Connor’s desk. Declan watched, his heart beating like a jackhammer against his rib cage, as she bent and signed the agreements. The soft fabric of her skirt caressed her softly rounded hips and flowed gently past her thighs.

  Six months. Tension bit into his shoulders. It would be the longest six months of his life.

  She was doing the right thing. She was. Gwen repeated the words in her mind over and over, as if the constant mantra would make it so. She’d been left high and dry. Any woman in her right mind would’ve grasped at this opportunity. It wasn’t as if she was prostituting herself for the next half year, she reasoned. Not that it would come to sex, exactly. Gwen blushed as she remembered the rather explicit wording in the agreement, a copy of which lay folded neatly in the bottom of her handbag. No, intimacy was definitely not part of the bargain.

  She was now bound by contract not only to be his wife but also to work for him. There was no turning back. At least she had the security of an income she was legitimately earning. She glanced over at Declan, who was attacking the prime rib-eye steak on his plate as if it was his mortal enemy. The muscles on his forearms flexed as he manipulated the knife with precision, and she stared, fascinated, at his long fingers curled around
the cutlery.

  An unwanted visual reminder of those same strong, tanned fingers spread across the paleness of her breasts, kneading the sensitive flesh, invaded her mind. Heat pulsed through her body, every muscle clenched in anticipation. Her fork slid from her hand to clatter noisily against her plate.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your fish?”

  Gwen looked up and found herself trapped by his dark velvet eyes. “It’s…it’s fine, thank you.” She dragged her gaze from his, and turned her attention back to her lunch. The delicately steamed John Dory had been delicious, but she’d lost all her appetite for food.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She’d never survive the term of their marriage if she couldn’t even sit across from him at the lunch table. Six months. It wasn’t long. Not really. Certainly not the lifetime she’d expected to spend with Steve.

  “You’re not enjoying your meal.” Declan laid his knife and fork on his near empty plate and eyed her with concern. “Would you like to leave?”

  “Yes, that’s probably best.” Gwen bent down, grateful for the excuse not to let him see the raw hunger in her eyes, and collected her handbag from the floor as Declan called the waiter over for the bill.

  “Come on, let’s get you home.” Declan wrapped his arm around her shoulders and coaxed her outside.

  “But what about my car? We still have to collect it,” Gwen protested weakly.

  “Give me your keys. I’ll get someone to deliver it later this afternoon.”

  “No, I’m fine. Honestly. I’d rather drive it home myself.” Anything rather than be forced to spend another minute in close proximity with Declan Knight. She desperately needed some space, some time alone to get her thoughts back together.

  He held her gently against his side, and Gwen tried to pull away and insert some distance between them.

  “Appearances, remember? The society pages’ editor of the paper is sitting near the back of the restaurant. She’s a good friend of my father.” Declan pressed hot lips against the shell of her ear, sending a thrill of anticipation shooting through her. A thrill she futilely attempted to quell. Yeah, right. Appearances. It was all about appearances. But it felt all wrong. He felt all wrong while, confoundingly, at the same time he felt so unbearably right.

  In an attempt to bring her rebellious hormones under some semblance of control she grasped for the memory of how Steve had felt. Declan’s body was firm, where Steve had been softer. He was tall, when Steve had been closer to her height. Declan’s body felt hot, constantly, when—

  “You look shattered. It’s been a helluva day so far, huh?” Declan’s deep voice vibrated through her, bringing her comparisons skidding to a halt.

  “Yes, it has.” In more ways than one.

  “Just think, this time next week we should be getting ready for the wedding. It’s at four o’clock, right?”

  “Yes…four o’clock,” Gwen replied distractedly. This time next week. The reality slammed home and doused her body’s reaction to his as effectively as a bucketful of sand on a campfire.

  “We’ll need to correct things at the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages on Monday morning,” Declan continued.

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” In fact, she was trying hard not to think about any of it.

  “Connor said it’ll take at least three working days before we get our license, so we’ll scrape through.”

  Gwen wondered what Steve had done with their marriage license. Thrown it away probably, like he’d thrown away their future together. Her teeth clenched, locking her jaw. The wedding would be impossible to get through—everything as she’d meticulously planned, yet with a substitute groom. But it had to be worth it. Worth it to keep her house—the only thing she had left in her life to call her own.

  Declan followed her back home after dropping her off at Libby’s building to collect her car. Inside, Gwen watched as he flipped a dust cover off the sitting room sofa and sat down.

  “I know you’re probably sick of the sight of me, but we need to sort out a couple more things before next Saturday.”

  “Whatever.” Gwen kept her response deliberately neutral. Sick of the sight of him? If only it could be that simple. “I’ll put the kettle on first. Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  In the kitchen Gwen automatically put out a tray and placed on it a creamer and sugar bowl, finding respite in the automated actions. The kettle boiled all too soon and she poured the steaming water over the coffee grounds in the plunger. Two bright ceramic mugs joined the coffee carafe on the tray and she was ready to take it through to the sitting room. Gwen breathed in deeply, squared her shoulders and lifted the tray.

  “Let me take that.”

  Gwen jumped at Declan’s voice so close behind her. As he relieved her of the tray she tried to protest. “It’s okay, I can manage—” But he was already walking back to the sitting room.

  “When do you need to confirm numbers with the caterer?” he asked over a broad shoulder.

  “By Wednesday at the latest.”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure I let you know by then how many I’m inviting.”

  “The venue’s only small,” Gwen said, a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. “We couldn’t afford a bigger place.”

  “That’s okay. Small suits me. But I’d like my dad and brothers there.”

  “Oh, sure. Of course.”

  “And I want you to e-mail me the schedule of costs for the wedding so I can arrange to reimburse you.”

  Pride insisted she argue, but pride went before a fall as she very well knew. Gwen settled for a murmur of assent instead. As Declan sat down and poured the coffee, Gwen knelt down to pick up the piece of sandpaper she’d discarded this morning, desperate for some distraction from his dominating presence.

  “That would be easier with an electric sander, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would,” she conceded through gritted teeth. How long before he’d leave her alone? “Mine’s at the workshop being repaired. Besides, it’s not as if I’m on a tight schedule here. I like to take my time when I can. When houses like this were built, power tools weren’t invented.”

  Declan reached down to take one of her hands in his and turned it over, his thumbs gently stroking the calluses she’d developed over the past few years. “Do you always punish yourself like this when you try to bring things back to the way they were?”

  Gwen snatched her hand away before the tingling throb in the palm of her hand invaded her whole body. “Sometimes things are supposed to be done the hard way.” And you can take that however you darned well please.

  “Why don’t you show me around? Tell me about your plans for the house.”

  “Why?”

  “Just taking an interest in where I’ll be living for the next six months.”

  “You? Living here?” She couldn’t have heard him correctly.

  “Gwen, we’re getting married next week. Don’t you think people would wonder why we’re not living together? I know it’s not what we both prefer, but if we’re going to carry this off a little hardship won’t do us any harm.”

  Hardship? He had no idea. She foolishly hadn’t given a thought to where he’d live after their marriage. In fact she hadn’t thought past the wedding. Gwen shook her head slowly. Her entire life had slipped out of her control.

  Remember Renata. She thought again of the promise she’d made her friend. Made and yet not fulfilled. She owed her friend to see to it that Declan achieved his goal.

  “Of course, you’re right.” She allowed a tight smile to acknowledge his point. “Okay, I’ll show you the house. It won’t take long. We’ll start with the kitchen at the back, okay?” Maybe if they worked their way to the front door he’d take the hint and leave and she’d be rid of him. Gwen turned away, her back stiff and straight.

  “Sounds good to me.” Declan followed close behind. He could almost see the f
rustrated anger emanating off her in waves. If she held herself any more rigidly she’d probably snap. Fine tendrils of hair defied the twist she’d worn, to escape like fine threads of gossamer on her neck. If she was anyone else, he’d stop her right there in her tracks and kiss a trail across that delectable fair skin. But this was Gwen, he reminded himself grimly. No way would that be happening.

  He liked what Gwen showed him in the kitchen and could plainly see how much pride she’d taken in her work. She’d be a huge asset on the Sellers project—if he got it. Once he had the old hotel converted into apartments she’d be brilliant at creating functional areas with all the automated luxuries the modern city dweller demanded, while still maintaining the age and integrity of the building’s original design.

  “I was lucky Aunt Hope never succumbed to the good old Kiwi do-it-yourself craze that ruined so many homes like this in the 1960s and 1970s, but she also did the bare minimum to maintain what she had. I was in my fourth year of my bachelor’s degree at Victoria University when she became ill and really let the place go. She never let on how unwell she was. The next thing I knew her solicitor was calling to say the house was mine. I didn’t even get a chance to attend her funeral.”

  “You weren’t close, then?”

  “You could say that.” Pain shot through Gwen’s chest and she pressed her lips together waiting for the pain to subside. Had it been too much for her to expect her aunt to have cherished the lost and abandoned nine-year-old who’d been deposited on her doorstep? Apparently it had. “By the time it sunk in that the house was mine to do with what I wanted, I’d already started to build a portfolio of work with clients and had a strong idea of what I wanted to do to bring the house’s original beauty back. I went like a bull at a gate at first, but then as my contract commitments grew I was forced to tackle only one room at a time. Left a few others in a bit of a mess, though.” Her lips pulled into a reluctant, self-deprecating smile.

  “It’s a big place and a heck of a lot of work for just one person. Usually you work with a crew, don’t you?”