Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘You had your dreams, I had mine. We weren’t in the right place back then to sustain a relationship.’

  His sincerity twanged on her heartstrings, hard, and she gulped as a fresh wave of tears swamped her.

  ‘And now? Our marriage—’

  ‘Was never about revenge, not for one damn minute.’

  He strode across the room, dropped to his knees and grabbed her hand. ‘Do you honestly think I’d use you like that?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think—’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  He hauled her into his arms and plastered his mouth to hers, obliterating the need to talk, to discuss, to rationalise, obliterating the need to do anything other than lose herself in the magic of his kiss.

  But no matter how many times he kissed her, held her, made love to her, there would always be the nagging doubt he’d done this out of spite.

  Sensing her wandering thoughts, he broke the kiss, gripped her arms as if he sensed she’d bolt.

  ‘Our marriage was purely business at the start. That was the only reason I married you.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I want it all.’

  She’d wanted to hear those words when she’d first come to him, had first poured her heart out to him.

  She’d wanted him to sweep her into his arms and tell her he felt the same way.

  But now…

  ‘You still want the same thing, right?’

  His desperate gaze searched hers and all she could manage was a slight nod.

  But her game plan had changed.

  Words were cheap. She’d learned the hard way: the first time her father had called her a filthy name and apologised with empty words, the first time he’d shoved her against the wall followed by more of those meaningless words, the first time he’d raised a hand to her, his pointless words not enough to bridge the yawning gap that had opened up between them.

  She’d fled to London, had started a new life. Ironic, as she’d never felt as safe here as she had the last few weeks, only to have it ripped away by doubts planted by the one man she’d never believe and sending her fleeing to London all over again.

  ‘I’m leaving for London.’

  His face drained of colour. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘But what about all that stuff you said? About wanting a real marriage? Surely you don’t believe Darby—’

  ‘I believe you, Nick, but I have a job to do. I can’t just walk away from that. You’re a businessman, you understand.’

  She played the business card, knowing he’d buy it. Considering the success he’d made of himself, how far he’d gone to cement his reputation, it was the one argument guaranteed to sway him.

  Ironic, she would’ve given away her precious MD job in a second if he’d professed his love a few hours earlier, but what did those three little words actually add up to? Actions spoke louder than ever and right now Nick could say anything and it would be tinged with the doubts her father had raised.

  Reaching out to her, he slid his arms around her waist, tugged her close, and she let him.

  ‘I love you, Red. You know that, right?’

  The inner girl head over heels for this guy leaped up and punched the air while her mature, sensible counterpart patted her on the head, shoved her down and said, ‘Hang on a minute.’

  ‘It’s the first time you’ve ever said it. How would I know?’

  He flinched, the hurt in his eyes driving a stake through her heart.

  ‘By my actions.’

  ‘Which one? Where you chose to lie to me rather than tell me the truth ten years ago? Where you married me to get ahead in business?’

  He laid a hand on her cheek, brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. ‘Every night of our marriage has been real, every single moment I’ve held you in my arms. You can’t fake what we have. And you can’t walk away from it.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  She dropped her gaze, focused on a tiny thread working loose from his top buttonhole.

  ‘Like hell you’re not.’

  He released her, stepped away, the tension between them palpable.

  ‘I have to do this, Nick. It’s important to me. As to what happens with us, we can work it out—’

  ‘Give me tonight.’

  She’d give him the next fifty years of her life if she could trust him, but right now she couldn’t get past the doubt, couldn’t trust herself around him, let alone anything he said.

  She needed time, space. Yeah, as if that would help ease Nick Mancini out of her soul.

  He held up a finger. ‘One night, our last together for a while. Can you give me that?’

  Words bubbled to her lips, empty, meaningless refusals about packing and winding up the local contractors Sell had used and saying goodbyes, but none of them spilled as she found herself nodding.

  ‘Okay.’

  Pulling her in for a swift kiss that left her head spinning and her heart a pounding mass of riotous confusion, he said, ‘You won’t regret it.’

  She already did as he strode out of the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  NICK could’ve wasted time and energy cursing Darby Lloyd but, instead, he put his plan into action.

  When he’d initially heard what Britt had said he’d wanted the old man dead, Darby’s hatred obliterating the temporary guilt his visit might have caused another stroke.

  The old man was vile, determined to ruin his own daughter’s happiness. What sort of a father did that to his only child, try to wreck her relationship?

  Nick had never been Darby’s favourite, especially when he’d started making it big in the district, but what about Britt? Didn’t the old guy love her at all?

  Something niggled at his conscience, wedged like a spur, digging and needling…something about Britt not knowing about Papa’s death.

  He’d put it down to Darby not giving a damn about Papa, not bothering to inform Britt about something so trivial in his high-and-mighty world, but what if there was another reason behind her lack of knowledge?

  For a woman hell-bent on gaining a promotion she’d travelled halfway around the world to do it, why hadn’t she spent more time with her father? A father who was ailing?

  He hadn’t given it a second thought, happily taking up every spare moment of Britt’s time when she wasn’t working, but now he thought about it…

  Yeah, something wasn’t right and when he’d asked her about it, had mentioned what Darby had said about not giving her any more money because she’d married him, she’d paled before swiftly changing the subject. He could’ve pushed the issue but didn’t want tonight to be about anything other than them.

  Staring around the room, he hoped he was doing the right thing.

  Would she remember?

  Would it mean anything to her?

  He’d told her he loved her but it wasn’t enough. He’d seen it in every reluctant cell of her body.

  Well, he was through talking.

  Time to prove their marriage was real in every way.

  He had no intention of letting her walk away thinking otherwise.

  Unwelcome déjà vu washed over Brittany as she stood outside her father’s room.

  She’d been a fool to come here, especially after everything that had happened, but something Nick had said about her father niggled.

  They’d been discussing Darby and she’d clammed up, not interested in rehashing anything her father had done or said when Nick had visited him.

  That was when Nick had dropped his little gem: even though Darby was a nasty old coot, he must love her enough to give her money to start a new life in London.

  Just like that, the emotional blinkers blinding her eyes lifted a fraction.

  Considering why she’d fled home, headed for the opposite side of the world to escape, when he’d told her she’d instantly assumed Darby’s reason for giving her the money had been about control as always.

  Never once had she contemplated an
y other reason.

  But the more she thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense.

  If he’d truly hated her back then as she believed, why would he cushion her? Why not see her fail and hope she’d come running home rather than give her money to prop her up?

  She had to know why he’d done it.

  Clenching and unclenching her hands, she rolled her shoulders, stretched her neck from side to side like a prize fighter about to take on the champ.

  With her muscles as relaxed as they were going to get, she knocked and entered, striding across the room to the bed, where her father lay. He looked so old and tired that she felt a sudden rush of pity, until he looked up and sent her a ferocious glare.

  ‘Thought I told you to—’

  ‘Why did you do it, Dad?’

  His upper lip curled. ‘Trust Mancini to tell you about our bargain—’

  ‘Not that. The money. Why did you give me that money and pretend it was Mum’s?’

  She’d never seen her dad anything but aloof, cold, angry after her mum left, hadn’t seen him blink when the news of her death had reached them, and for the first time in for ever she saw uncertainty cloud his eyes, contort his expression into that of a confused old man.

  He didn’t respond, his gnarled hands wringing beneath the bedcovers.

  ‘Dad? Tell me. You owe me that much.’

  She expected him to say ‘I owe you nothing’ in a classic gruff Darby response, so she almost keeled over when he pushed into sitting and beckoned her closer.

  ‘The only reason I let you go to Brisbane for that holiday is because I couldn’t stand the sight of you cowering any more.’

  He stared at the coverlet, his frown deepening. ‘Then when you didn’t come back and sent that email you were in London and weren’t coming back, I was worried.’

  ‘You’d have to care to worry,’ she said, hating the flare of hope she’d finally get some answers to questions that had plagued her for years.

  ‘I cared.’

  His shocking declaration came out a whisper and she almost slapped her ears to ensure she’d heard right.

  ‘You call abusing me caring? All those put-downs and shoves and—’ She inhaled sharply, breathed deeply, trying to relax. A futile effort, as years of resentment bubbled up. ‘You were my dad, you should’ve loved me! What did I do wrong? Why did you treat me like that? Tell me, damn you!’

  To her amazement, tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes and trickled down his wrinkled cheeks unchecked, the sorrow in his gaze wrenching a soul-deep response she didn’t want to acknowledge.

  He opened his mouth, closed it, before shaking his head.

  ‘None of it was your fault, none of it.’

  His low groan of pain had her darting an anxious glance at the heart-monitor machine but the blood-pressure numbers weren’t rising and the spiky lines were unchanged.

  ‘I was a monster. What I did was unforgivable.’

  ‘Then why?’

  He took a deep breath, knuckled his eyes before fixing them on her. ‘Because looking at you was like looking at the young version of your mother I fell in love with. Because seeing you every day reminded me of what she’d been like and what she’d become when she ran out and got herself killed. Because it hurt right here—’ he thumped his heart and this time the machine gave an alarming beep ‘—every time I looked at you and wished you were her.’

  She had her answers but they did little to erase the years of bitterness as she belatedly realised nothing he could say or do would make up for what he’d put her through.

  Then it happened.

  His trembling hand snaked towards her, palm up, begging. She stared at it, expecting to feel repulsed or, worse, fearful, remembering the last time he’d extended the same hand had been to hit her.

  None of those feelings materialised as pity trickled through her, pity for the weakened, frightened man he’d have to be to extend the hand of friendship to her after all these years, after all he’d done.

  Sadness clogged her throat as she placed her hand in his briefly, squeezing once before snatching it back.

  Maybe it was more than he deserved, but in that one, fleeting touch some of her residual anger receded, faded, eased.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, flexing the fingers on the hand she’d clasped as if not quite believing she’d done it.

  Needing to escape before she broke down, she managed a brisk nod.

  ‘So am I, Dad, so am I.’

  Brittany stepped into the Crusoe Suite, the air whooshing from her lungs as she clutched at her chest, rubbing the sudden ache centring over her heart.

  Every detail of the incredible room, from the sheer ivory chiffon draping the open-air French doors leading to a crystal horizon pool to the raised alabaster king-size bed, from the countless tea-lights shimmering in the dusk to the heady scent of frangipani lingering in the air, all screamed he remembered.

  He remembered.

  Her gaze lingered on the picnic blanket spread in the middle of the spacious room, on the feast of chocolate-dipped strawberries and double-roasted almonds and petit fours, a bottle of chilled Muscato in an ice bucket.

  All her favourites, in her ultimate fantasy room.

  When had she told him? Their first date? Their second? Their tenth?

  Irrelevant, considering he’d remembered her island fantasy and recreated it to perfection in this breathtaking suite.

  ‘I’m glad you came.’

  What little breath she had left stuck in her throat as Nick stepped into view, brushing chiffon aside to enter the suite.

  If the room was gorgeous, the view sublime, Nick was out of this world. Wearing formal black trousers and a crisp white shirt open at the neck, his hair ruffled by the ocean breeze, he padded barefoot towards her, every step accelerating her heart rate towards cardiac arrest.

  ‘I had to say goodbye,’ she managed on a squeak as he swept her into his arms, strode to the picnic blanket and gently deposited her, nuzzling her neck in the process.

  ‘Shh…’

  He brushed a soft kiss against her lips, a kiss to fuel dreams, a kiss laden with promise.

  ‘No talk of goodbyes. We have the whole night and I intend to make every second count.’

  If his kiss rendered her speechless, the clear intent in his eyes clammed her up good and proper, for there was little doubt that once they’d eaten he’d be feasting on her.

  ‘Here, drink this.’

  He handed her a wine glass, his knowing smile telling her he knew exactly how flummoxed she was.

  After several unladylike gulps, she cleared her throat and finally managed to speak. ‘This must be the most popular suite in the hotel.’

  His eyes glittered as he shook his head. ‘It’s never been booked.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This room is never available. It’s never been used.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Tonight’s the first.’

  Raising his glass in her direction, he said, ‘Rather fitting.’

  He couldn’t possibly mean…he wasn’t implying…

  ‘Are you saying—?’

  Swooping in for another stolen kiss, he whispered against her lips, ‘This is your room, Red. Your fantasy. Surely you know I could never share it with anyone else?’

  Her heart swelled with love for this amazing man.

  She loved him with everything she had but she couldn’t silence the doubt demons perched on her shoulder, whispering in her ears what she’d be giving up, what she’d be risking if she stayed now.

  While she’d taken the first tentative step towards forgiving her father, everything she’d been through with him had moulded her into the woman she’d become today: a strong, independent woman too scared to rely on anyone else, a woman wary of loving too much and giving too much.

  This room was a fantasy, her fantasy. Was her marriage the same? Started on pretence, built on shaky foundations, something transient, intangib
le, that could vanish as easily as any dreams she once had for the two of them?

  ‘Why did you build a room like this when you had no idea I’d ever see it?’

  He shrugged, his expression delightfully bashful. ‘I’ve built my dreams from nothing. And when you have nothing, hope is a powerful motivator.’

  She shook her head, confused. ‘You hoped I’d come back?’

  ‘Counted on it.’

  His confident smile set her pulse racing.

  ‘I used to come up here for time out.’ He pushed to his feet, gestured to the room. ‘Did some of my best thinking here.’

  ‘But I only came back for work and we only married out of mutual benefit for our businesses. How could you have known I’d ever get to see this?’

  ‘You would’ve come back, Red. It’s fate.’

  ‘Don’t believe in it.’

  She made her own luck, had ever since she’d had the sense to flee home and relocate to London. Fate had dealt her a bum hand in the paternal stakes and she’d lost faith in it a long time ago.

  Smiling, he held out his hand to her. ‘It’s the Italian in me. We believe in higher powers.’

  So did she at that moment as she placed her hand in his and he tugged her to her feet, where she landed flush against his body.

  ‘I also believe in us.’

  She wanted to lose herself in the moment, lose herself in the fantasy, but logic wouldn’t be denied. She was leaving tomorrow, wanted to make sure he knew where things stood with their marriage.

  ‘You didn’t ten years ago. Not enough to make us work.’

  He swore under his breath, hugged her tighter. ‘I was young, idealistic—a fool. Let me prove to you how much you mean to me.’

  ‘You don’t have to—’

  He crushed his mouth to hers, eradicating her protests, her rationale, her reason.

  She shuddered as he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping inside to touch hers, his hands tugging on the sash holding her tie-around dress together.

  It slithered to the floor in a hiss of silk, leaving her flesh bare to his exploring hands and explore they did, skimming her skin, his fingers trailing up her thighs, lingering at the edge of her panties before delving beneath.