Amira started up the stairs, her hand trailing on the polished wooden balustrade, aware with every step of the cold look of disapproval on her grandmother’s features. She passed the landing and continued up the stairs to where her father’s portrait was hung.
As a child she’d often slipped out of bed to sit in front of the picture—wondering what her life would have been like if he and her mother hadn’t taken their yacht out that fatal stormy winter’s day. Her grandmother had, to all intents and purposes, cut her son from her life when he’d eloped with Camille du Toit, the French au pair Isobel had employed to assist the housekeeper at the mansion. Clearly she hadn’t wanted to share him with anyone who took his focus away from the fortune she’d amassed, but it had been a harsh shock to her system when he hadn’t come to heel when faced with the threat of financial abandonment.
By the time she’d fought the courts for guardianship of Amira, who had been cared for since her parents’ deaths by family friends, Isobel had obviously decided she had loved her son too much—given him too much leeway. Amira’s upbringing was austere by comparison. Gone was the spontaneous affection she’d been unstintingly shown by her parents. In its place was a disciplined regimen of social and scholastic expectations.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t exhibited strong academic tendencies, and it hadn’t taken long before it was instilled in her that if she didn’t marry well she would never amount to much of anything in her grandmother’s eyes. The full weight of trying to earn Isobel’s approval had weighed heavily on Amira’s teenage shoulders and she’d been massively relieved when she’d shown a forte for the charity work for which Isobel was renowned.
When, about a year ago, she’d pitched her idea for the Fulfillment Foundation to Isobel she’d been crushed to be told she’d receive no support from any of the numerous benefactors that Isobel had on her leash. Besides, Isobel had starkly informed Amira it was creating unreasonable expectations in “people like that.”
But Amira remembered what it was like as a child to dream and to wish for things. Things she could never have. And the children she wanted to help had so much less than she’d had in her lifetime. She’d vowed to make the Fulfillment Foundation a success, no matter what her grandmother said. While donations were slowly beginning to trickle in, the foundation still needed operating capital of almost ten million dollars a year.
And so, even in death and with her final flick of the reins on Amira’s life, Isobel had forced her to this—to a marriage of convenience for monetary gain.
Amira looked at the portrait of her father, her eyes swimming with tears.
“It’s got to be worth it, Dad. It just has to be.”
“Here’s the short list of publicity agents who would also be happy to handle event organization for us.”
Amira dropped the file onto Brent’s desk and sat down in the visitor’s chair opposite him. She’d come here this morning to drag a decision out of him come hell or high water. They’d been out numerous times over the past two weeks to a variety of high profile functions, and the number of messages now stacked up on her message service was beginning to make her head ache.
On top of everything, her PA at the foundation had handed in her notice, doubling Amira’s workload. It wasn’t Caroline’s fault. No one could work forever for the sheer love of it. If she’d thought she could have gotten away with it, Amira would have sold off some of the antiques in her suite, but everything was entailed by the Forsythe Trust. She was completely hamstrung.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to handle this on your own?” His voice was a deep rumble from behind the laptop screen, which shielded him from her view.
“Brent, I don’t have the time and nor do you. We agreed this had to be done perfectly. It’s something we have to delegate.”
He swiveled away from the computer and leaned on the desk.
“Fine. Who do you think is best?”
Amira reached over to flip open the file. She spread the photo resumes with one hand; then with her forefinger she stabbed at one in particular.
“This one. Marie Burbank.”
“Why?”
“She has some experience in corporate publicity, but her strength lies in non-profit organizations—which I’m hoping will segue into the charity work I’m involved in if we can work well together. Plus, she’s worked in event management prior to setting up her own agency.”
Brent picked up the resume. “She looks young.”
“Which means she wasn’t on the circuit last time we were going to get married—she won’t be influenced by all the horrid publicity that generated. She’s young and she’s eager, and because her agency is still new she also has the time to devote to us exclusively. I think that makes her a clear winner, don’t you?”
“Bring her on board.”
“You don’t want to meet with her first?”
“Have you met her?”
“Yes, I thought she came across extremely well. I liked her, and I think we can trust her.”
“Good, then if you’re ready, let’s go.”
“Go? Where?” Amira flicked a look at her Rolex. “It’s nine now, I have a meeting at eleven in the city. Will that leave us enough time?”
“Depends on how long it takes you to choose.”
Brent shut down his computer and tucked it neatly into its case. Then he shrugged into his suit jacket. He still took her breath away with his dark good looks and impressive build. Her hands itched to reach out and straighten his tie, to flick that tiny speck of lint from his shoulder. Just to touch him for once and know it wasn’t staged for other people’s benefit.
Amira curled her fingers into a tight fist. She had to stop thinking like that. This was a business arrangement only. There was no room for emotion or need.
For the first time in her life she was grateful for her grandmother’s discipline, and she drew on every last ounce of composure as she smoothly rose from her seat and tidied the file back into her slim leather briefcase.
“Choose what?” she asked absently, snapping the case closed.
“Your rings.”
“My…? Surely that won’t be necessary.”
“Everyone is going to expect it. Appearances, Amira. Isn’t that what’s important? I think Isobel’s legal advisers would be pretty suspicious of a wedding with no rings, don’t you?”
“Well, what about my old rings. Don’t you still have those?”
Brent halted in his tracks. “No. They were among the first things I sold. As you’ll remember, I had to liquidate my assets rather quickly at the time.”
A surprising pang of loss caught in Amira’s chest. Of course he’d sold them. A man like Brent wouldn’t hold on to the trappings of the past—especially ones with such a negative connotation. She didn’t even know what she’d been thinking when she’d said what she had. She drew in a calming breath.
“Yes, I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. But really, Brent, I’d prefer not to go ring shopping. After all, it’s not as if we’re in love or anything. I’ll be happy with whatever you choose.”
“No. We’ll do this together. It might have escaped your notice, but stock in my companies has been steadily climbing since we’ve started being seen together. I hate to admit it, but you’re actually good for me.”
He took a step closer to her, close enough that she caught a hint of his cologne. It was still the same one he’d worn all those years ago. The one she’d given him.
“So, what do you say?”
His voice dropped an octave and Amira swallowed. She ached to lean forward just a little more, to press her lips to his and say yes. It shook her to realize, though, that what she wanted to say yes to was more than just his request to choose rings together. She wanted to say yes to him, the man.
Every minute they spent together reminded her, painfully, of what they’d shared before. Of what she’d thrown away. Of what her grandmother had made her do and of how she’d discovered, too late, that she’d been mas
terfully manipulated into doing exactly what Isobel had wanted all along. All at the expense of her and Brent’s happiness. And she’d been foolish enough, naive enough, to let it happen.
“Amira?” Brent prompted.
“Okay. Let’s get it over with. I really don’t have much time.”
Thankfully, he stepped away and gestured to the door. As Amira preceded him down the stairs she began to wonder what toll this was going to take on her. This forced ambivalence to their proximity.
From the dark days after her parents had died she’d craved a sense of true belonging—of being loved and wanted just for herself. She’d had that fleetingly with Brent, but she’d thrown it away. She had believed she’d inured herself to that need. Learned to cope without it. Being with Brent like this just proved the opposite. She needed love, needed him, more than ever before, and it was killing her inside to realize she would never again have his heart.
Five
Brent flicked a glance in his rearview mirror. Amira still followed behind in that cute little BMW of hers. Her reaction back at the house had taken him off balance. He’d have expected her to jump at the chance of a new piece of bling. Okay, well not bling exactly. Something tasteful and understated—and outrageously expensive. Just like her.
He thought about what she’d said—about her old rings. Had she really expected him to hold on to them? He shook his head slightly. As if. He pretty much couldn’t wait to rid himself of everything he’d ever associated with her, although holding on to his apartment—the place he’d become her first lover—had been out of necessity rather than for sentimental reasons.
The rent he’d gathered from leasing it had helped him repay his final creditors, and its eventual sale five years later had put him another few rungs back up his ladder. Now here he was. Successful. Strong. Financially secure no matter what might happen in the future.
He wondered briefly, whether they’d have made it—him and Amira—if they’d gone ahead with the wedding. If her highness would have been able to tolerate the cheap and close conditions of the tiny apartment he’d rented after leasing his apartment. If she could have stood the endless tins of baked beans on toast instead of four-star luxury dining, while he made certain every last penny of his debt was repaid.
He flicked another glance in the rearview mirror. It was doubtful. Oh sure, she probably would’ve given it a shot. Until the first time a cockroach crawled across the bench of the poky kitchenette. She’d have been “her not-so-serene-highness” then.
Anyway, all this conjecture was irrelevant. What was important now was that he carry this thing through to its bitter end. And it would be bitter. Bittersweet for him, at least. It hadn’t been easy to forget the effect she’d had on him all that time ago and was even less easy to forget the devastating blow her rejection of his love had wreaked upon him. God, he could still remember that awful cold mummified feeling that had encased his body as Adam had shown him the text message on his phone. Somehow he’d managed to enunciate the announcement that there would be no wedding that day. Hell, he could still count every step he’d taken to the front door of the church, to where she wasn’t waiting to walk down the aisle.
From there it was all a bit of a blur. Draco and Adam had caught up with him on the pavement as he stepped forward to hail a taxi, instead turning him around and shepherding him to the car Adam had brought them in to the church. People had begun to spill down the front steps by that stage. Bewilderment painted on many faces. Even the magazine reporters and photographers had milled about in confusion, their attempts to get the first pictures of the happy couple suddenly thwarted.
She’d stood him up with a bloody text message. He still couldn’t believe it. He’d made Adam drive him to the Forsythe mansion where the housekeeper very coolly informed him that Mrs. and Miss Forsythe were both not at home and were not expected back for some time. He’d returned to his apartment at that point—certain he never wanted to see or hear from her again.
It had been a disastrous end to the week from hell. His entire world had crumbled. First the initial trickle of product returns followed by the flood of faulty merchandise coming back into his warehouse. Calls to the overseas manufacturer had proven futile, and to avoid destroying the name he’d worked so hard to build for himself he had to personally stand behind every last guarantee.
He’d stayed up late every night, going over flowcharts and budgets—seeing where he could cobble together the money needed to meet the demands of his unhappy customers. He hadn’t wanted to worry Amira over it at the time, and he’d hoped he could cap the problem before it became overwhelming. Of course he hadn’t counted on the newspaper spread announcing the recall of the product and his fall in fortune hitting the stands on the morning of the wedding. Nor had he counted on Amira reading the paper and deciding she didn’t want to marry someone on the verge of bankruptcy after all.
Brent eased his foot off the accelerator and indicated to take a turn into a restricted parking area. She’d learn that you couldn’t get away with treating other people like that. She wouldn’t get to fool him again.
At the jewelers they were shown straight to a private room where the owner himself placed a series of small black velvet cases on the table between them. Brent watched Amira’s face as one by one the owner opened each case and presented them to her for approval. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see—some gleam of avarice, perhaps? But no, Amira remained as cool and composed as if she was presiding at a charity fund-raiser.
“What do you think, Brent? There are so many beautiful rings here. I’m finding it hard to choose.”
She turned and gave him one of those serene smiles he recognized as the one she reserved for when she wasn’t mentally engaged in what she was doing. The smile she’d perfected for the times when she was expected to front as her grandmother’s puppet. And now she was his.
“What about this one?” he replied.
Brent deliberately reached over and picked the largest solitaire from its nest of velvet. Myriad sparks of color flew from it as the overhead lights refracted through the multiple facets. He took Amira’s hand and slid the ring onto her finger. Her swiftly indrawn breath was the only indicator of her discomfort before she gracefully removed the ring and laid it back in its case.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps something a little less overwhelming?” the jeweler suggested, sliding another case forward.
Inside was a princess cut diamond with tapered baguette diamonds set in the shoulders on each side. It was a beautiful piece.
Brent took the ring from the box and again put it on her finger. It was a perfect fit. The gold band hugged her finger, complementing the warm tone of her skin and the stones sparkled, showcased to their absolute brilliance in the setting.
“Yes, we’ll take this one,” he said without looking at Amira again. He couldn’t when all he could remember right now was the night he’d given her first engagement ring to her. He’d planned every aspect of the evening in painstaking detail. He’d opted for simple and romantic over extravagance and had organized a picnic on a point of land overlooking Auckland City’s inner harbor. As the sun had begun to set, he’d bent down on one knee and bared his heart and his love to her. He’d never believed he could be so happy when she said yes. Then again, he’d never believed she hadn’t meant it.
“No!”
Her sharp denial dragged his attention back from the past.
“Why, what’s wrong with it? It’s a beautiful piece. Worth more than many people earn in a year.”
“That’s exactly what is wrong with it. You know the people I work with, the charities I serve. This…it’s just too much. Too ostentatious. Do you have something simpler, with a colored stone perhaps?” She directed her question to the jeweler who, with a rueful look, unlocked a large wooden sliding drawer behind him and lifted a tray of rings from within.
“Perhaps one of these is more to your liking?” he inquired.
Brent sat back in his chair and watched Amira scan the assorted rings. Her eyes hovered over a section of aquamarines.
“Take those ones out,” Brent instructed. “We’ll look at them.”
The jeweler lifted the section from the tray and returned the rest of the rings to the drawer, methodically locking it again.
“This one, I think,” Amira said quietly as she picked up a smallish square-shaped aquamarine, with a sprinkling of tiny diamonds edging it.
“No,” Brent interrupted her before she could try the ring on. “This one.”
He reached across and lifted another ring, one with a much larger stone of the same cut and rimmed by white diamonds. He slid it on her finger and, holding her hand, turned it this way and that so the light caught on the stones.
“Sir, you’ve made a wonderful choice. It’s a cushion cut, just over five carats with excellent clarity, and the twenty-four surrounding stones—”
“It’s too much,” Amira protested.
“Look, you can tell your people it’s fake for all I care,” Brent said in a measured tone, totally ignoring the jeweler whose face had blanched at his words, “but you’re my fiancée. You’re wearing my ring. You think I want the world to see you wear something like this when you’re going to be my wife?”
He gestured to the ring she’d selected, then picked up the obscenely large solitaire he’d chosen first and held it in front of Amira’s face.
“This one?”
He lifted her hand to the same level.
“Or this. It’s your choice.”
Fake. The word rippled through her. Fake like their engagement. Fake like their marriage would be. Suddenly Amira felt as if she couldn’t go through with this. It was all too much. It was one thing putting on a public face to the world but quite another when she’d have to maintain the same thing at home as well once they were married. There’d be no respite.
Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband Page 5