Marriage Bargain with His Innocent

by Cathy Williams

  Head held high, poker-faced, she kept on parading around, as she was being paid to do. The evening would end soon, and then she could clear off and get home.

  * * *

  Marc Derenz took a mouthful of champagne and shifted his weight restlessly, making some polite reply to whatever Hans Neuberger had just said to him. His mood was grim, and getting worse with every passing minute, but that was something he would never show to Hans.

  A close friend of Marc’s late father, Hans had been at his side during that bleak period after Marc’s parents had been killed in a helicopter crash, when their only offspring had still been in his early twenties. It had been Hans who’d guided him through the complexities of mastering his formidable inheritance at so young an age.

  Hans’s business experience, as the owner of a major German engineering company, as well as his wisdom and kindness, were not things Marc would ever forget. He felt a bond of loyalty to the older man that was rare in his life, untrammelled by emotional ties as he had been since losing his parents.

  It was a loyalty that was causing him problems right now, though. Only eighteen months ago Hans, then recently widowed following his wife’s death from cancer, had been inveigled into a rash second marriage by a woman whom Marc had no hesitation in castigating as a gold-digger. And worse.

  Celine Neuberger, here tonight to add to her already plentiful collection of couture gowns, had made no secret to Marc of the fact that she was finding her wealthy but middle-aged husband dull and uninteresting, now that she had him in her noose. And she had made no secret of the fact that she thought the opposite about Marc...

  Marc’s mouth tightened. Celine’s eyes were hungry on him now, even though Marc was blanking her, but that did not seem to deter her. Had she been anyone other than Hans’s wife Marc would have had no hesitation in ruthlessly sending her packing. It was a ruthlessness he’d had to learn early—first as heir to the Derenz billions, and then even more so after his parents’ deaths.

  Women were very, very keen on getting as close to those billions of his as possible. Ideally, by becoming Madame Marc Derenz.

  Oh, at some point in his life, he acknowledged, there would be a Madame Derenz—when the time was right for him to marry and start a family. But she would be someone from the same wealthy background as himself.

  It was advice his father had given him: to do what he himself had done. Marc’s mother had been an heiress in her own right. And even for mere affaires, his father had warned him, it was best never to risk any liaison with anyone not from their own world of wealth and privilege. It was safer that way.

  Mark knew the truth of it—only once had he made the mistake of ignoring his father’s advice.

  Celine Neuberger was addressing him now, her voice eager, and he was glad of the interruption to his thoughts. He had been recalling a time he did not care to remember, for he had been young and trusting then, and he had paid for that misplaced trust with a heartache he never wanted to experience again.

  But what Celine had to say only worsened his mood sharply.

  ‘Marc, have I told you that Hans has promised to buy a villa on the Côte d’Azur! And I’ve had the most wonderful idea!’

  Celine’s gushing voice grated on him.

  ‘We could house-hunt from your gorgeous, gorgeous villa on Cap Pierre! Do say yes!’

  Every instinct in Marc rebelled at the prospect, but he was being put on the spot. In his parents’ time Hans and his first wife had often been guests at the Villa Derenz—convivial occasions when the young Marc had had the company of Hans’s son, Bernhardt, and had made enthusiastic use of the pool and gone sea bathing off the rocky shoreline of Cap Pierre. Good memories...

  Marc felt a pang of nostalgic loss for those carefree days. Now, all he could say, resignedly, and with a forced smile, was, ‘Bien sûr! That would be delightful.’ He tried to make the lie convincing. ‘Delightful’ was the last word to describe spending more time with Celine making eyes at him. Having to hold her at bay.

  A triumphant Celine now pushed even further in a direction Marc had no intention of letting her advance. She turned to her husband. ‘Darling, don’t feel you have to stay any longer—Marc can see me back to our hotel.’

  Hans turned to Marc, a grateful expression on his face. ‘That would be so kind of you, Marc. I have to phone Bernhardt—matters to do with the forthcoming board meeting.’

  Again, how could Marc object without giving Hans the reason?

  The moment Hans had left Celine was, predictably, off the leash. ‘Now, tell me,’ she gushed, smiling warmly up at him, ‘which would suit me best?’ She gestured at the perambulating models.

  Marc, knowing his mood was worsening with every passing moment in this impossible situation he’d been dumped in, lanced his gaze around to find the nearest model, whatever she was wearing, determined to give Celine the least opportunity for lingering.

  But, as he did so, suddenly all thoughts of Celine went right out of his head.

  During the fashion show itself he’d paid no attention to the endless parade of females striding up and down the catwalk, focussing instead on his phone. So now, as his eyes caught the figure of the model closest to where they stood, he felt his gaze riveted.

  Tall, ultra-slender—yes. But then all the models were like that. None like this one, though, with rich chestnut hair glinting auburn, loosely pinned into an uplift that exposed a face he simply could not take his eyes from.

  The perfect profile—and then, as she turned to change direction, he saw a strikingly beautiful face with sculpted cheekbones, magnificent eyes shot with sea-green, and a wide, lush mouth that was, at this moment, tight-set. The expression on her amazing face was professionally blank, but as his eyes focussed on her he felt his male antennae react instinctively—and on every frequency. She was quite incredible.

  Without conscious volition he raised his free hand, summoning her over. For a second he thought she had not seen his gesture, for she was moving as if to keep stalking around as the rest of the models were doing. Then, tensing, she strode towards him. He could not take his eyes from her...

  The thoughts in his head were flashing wildly. OK, so she was a model—and that put her out of reach from the off, because models were nearly always not from the kind of privileged background he insisted that any woman he showed interest in be from. But this one...

  Whatever she had—and he was still analysing it, with his male antennae registering her on every frequency—it was making it dangerously hard for him to remember the rules of engagement he lived by.

  As she approached, the impact she was making on him strengthened like a magnet drawing tempered steel. Dieu, but she was stunning! And now she was standing in front of him, a bare metre or so away.

  He scrutinised her shamelessly, taking in her breathtaking beauty. And then he caught a flash in her eyes—as if she resented his scrutiny.

  His own eyes narrowed reactively—what was her problem? She was a model; she was being paid to be looked at in the clothes she was wearing. OK, so in fact she might have been wearing a sack, for all he cared—it was her amazing beauty that was drawing his attention, not her gown.

  But, abruptly, he veiled his appreciative scrutiny. It didn’t matter how stunningly beautiful she was. He had not summoned her for any reason other than the one he gave voice to now. The only reason he would show any interest in her.

  ‘So, what about this one?’

  He turned to Celine. The sooner he could get the wretched woman to spend Hans’s money on a gown—any gown!—the sooner he would be able to get her back to her hotel and finally be done with her for the evening.

  His eyes went back to the model. The number she was wearing was purple—a kind of dark grape—in raw silk, draped over her slight breasts, slithering down her slender body. Again Marc felt that unstoppable reaction to her spectacular beauty. Again he did
his best to stop it—and again he failed.

  ‘Hmm...’ said Celine doubtfully. ‘The colour is too sombre for me, Marc. No.’ She waved the model away, dismissing her.

  But Marc stayed her. ‘Please turn around,’ he instructed. The gown was a masterpiece—as was she—and he wanted to see what she looked like from the back.

  The flash in those blue-green eyes came again, and again Marc wondered at it as she executed a single revolution, revealing how the gown was almost backless, exposing the sculpted contours of her spine, the superb sheen of her pale skin. And as she came back to face them he saw an expression of what could only be hostility.

  What is it with her? he found himself thinking. Annoyance flickered through him. Why that reaction? It wasn’t one he was used to when he paid attention to a woman—in his long experience women wanted to draw his attention to them! His problem was keeping women away from him, and without vanity he knew that it was not only his wealth that lured them. Nature had bestowed upon him gifts that money could not buy—a six-foot-plus frame, and looks that usually had a powerful impact on women.

  But not on this one, it seemed, and he felt that flicker of annoyance again as his gaze rested on her professionally blank face once more.

  For a second—a fraction of a second—he thought he saw something behind that professional blankness. Something that was not that hostile flash either...

  But then it was gone, and Celine was saying pettishly, ‘Marc, cherie, I really don’t like it.’

  She waved the model away again, and she strode off with quickened stride, her body stiff. Marc’s eyes followed her, unwilling to lose her in the throng which swallowed her up.

  A pity she was a model...

  For all her amazing looks, which were capable of piercing the black mood possessing him at having been landed with Hans’s wretched adultery-minded wife, the stunning, flashing-eyed beauty was not someone, he knew perfectly well, he should allow himself to pursue...

  She isn’t from my world—let her go.

  But a single word echoed in his head, all the same. Domage...

  A pity...

  * * *

  Tara wheeled away, gaining the far side of the room as fast as she could. Her heart-rate was up and she knew why. Oh, she knew why!

  She shut her eyes, wanting to blank the room. To blank the oh-so-conflicting reactions battling inside her head right now. She could feel them still, behind her closed eyes, slashing away at each other, fighting for supremacy.

  Two overpowering emotions.

  Impossible to tell which was uppermost!

  The first—that instinctive, breath-catching one—had come the moment she’d seen that man looking at her...seen him for the first time. She certainly hadn’t seen him at the fashion show, but then she never looked at the audience when she was on the catwalk. If she had—oh, she’d have remembered him all right...

  No man had ever impacted on her as powerfully—as instantly. Talk about tall, dark and devastating! Sable-hair, cut short, a hard, tough-looking face with a blade of a nose, a strong jaw, a mouth set in a tight line. And eyes that could strip paint.

  Or that could rest on her with a look in them that told her that he liked what he was seeing...

  She felt a kind of electricity flicker through her and her expression darkened abruptly. The complete opposite emotion was scything through her head, cutting off the electricity.

  Liked it so much he just saw fit to click his fingers and summon me over so he could inspect me!

  She fought for reason. OK, so he hadn’t actually clicked his fingers—but that imperious beckoning of his had been just as bad! Just as bad as the way he’d so blatantly looked her over...

  And it wasn’t the damn gown he was interested in.

  That opposite emotion, with a jacking up of its voltage, shot through her again. As if she was once again feeling the impact of that dark, assessing inspection...

  She threw the switch once more. No—stop this, right now! she told herself. So what if he’d put her back up? Why should she care? That over-made-up blonde he’d been with had treated her just as offhandedly, waving her away. So why get uptight about the man doing so?

  And so what, she added for good measure, that she’d had that ridiculously OTT reaction to the man’s physical impact on her? He and Blondie came from a world she wasn’t part of and only ever saw from the outside—like at this private fashion show. Speaking of which...

  She gave herself a mental shake, opened her eyes and continued with her blank-faced perambulations, showing off a gown she could never in all her life afford herself. She was here to work, to earn money, and she’d better get on with it.

  Oh, and if she could to stay on this far side of the room... Well away from the source of those emotions in her head.

  * * *

  ‘Marc, cherie, now, this one is ideal! Don’t you think?’

  Celine’s voice was a purr, but it grated on Marc like nails on a blackboard. However, at last, it seemed, Hans’s wife had found a gown she liked and was stroking the gold satin material lovingly, not even looking at the model wearing it. This model was smiling hopefully at Marc, but he ignored her. He was not the slightest bit interested.

  Not like that other one.

  He cut his inappropriate thoughts off. Focussed on the problem at hand. How to divest himself of Hans’s wife at last.

  ‘Perfect!’ he agreed, with relief in his voice. Could they finally get out of here?

  His relief proved short-lived. Celine’s scarlet-tipped fingers curled possessively around his arm.

  ‘I’ve seen all I want here. I’ll arrange a fitting for that gold dress while Hans and I are in London. But right now...’ she smiled winningly at Marc ‘...do be an angel and take me to dinner! We could go to a club afterwards!’

  Marc cut short her attempts to commandeer him for the rest of the evening. Never one to suffer irritation gladly, he knew his temper had been on a shortening fuse all evening. It was galling to see his father’s old friend in the clutches of this appalling woman. How on earth could Hans not have seen through her?

  But then dark memory came, though he wished it would not. Hadn’t he been similarly blinded once himself?

  Oh, he could tell himself he’d been young, and naïve, and far too trusting, but he’d been made a fool of all the same! Marianne had strung him along, playing on his youthful adoration of her, carefully cultivating his devotion to her—a devotion that had exploded in an instant.

  Walking into that restaurant in Lyons, Marianne thinking I was still in Paris, seeing her there—

  With another man. Older than Marc’s barely two and twenty. Older and far wealthier.

  Marc’s father had still been alive then, and Marc only the prospective heir to the Derenz fortune. The man Marianne had been all over, cooing at, had been in his forties, and richer even than Marc’s father. Marc had stared, the blood draining from his face, and had felt something dying inside him.

  Then Marianne had seen him, and instead of trying to make any apology to him she had simply lifted her glass of champagne, tilted it mockingly at Marc, so the light would catch the huge diamond on her finger.

  Shortly afterwards she had become the third wife of the man she’d been dining with. And Marc had learnt a lesson he had never, never forgotten.

  Now, his tone terse, he spoke bluntly. ‘Celine, I already have a dinner engagement tonight.’

  Hans’s wife was undeterred. ‘Oh, if it’s business I’ll be good as gold,’ she assured him airily, not relinquishing her hold on his arm. ‘I sit through enough of Hans’s deadly dull dinner meetings to know how!’ she added waspishly. ‘And we could still go clubbing afterwards...’

  Marc shook his head. Time to stop Celine in her tracks. ‘No, it’s not business,’ he told her, making the implication clear.

  Celine’s eyes narro
wed. ‘You’re not seeing anyone at the moment. I know that,’ she began, ‘because I’d have heard about it otherwise.’

  ‘And I’m sure you will,’ Marc replied, jaw set.

  He did not want a debate over this. He just wanted to get Celine off his hands before his temper reached snapping point.

  ‘Well, who is it?’ Celine demanded.

  Marc felt his already short fuse shortening even more. He wanted to get out of here—now—and get shot of Celine. Any way he could. The fastest way he could.

  He said the first thing that came into his head in this infuriating and wretched situation. ‘One of the models here,’ he answered tersely.

  ‘Models?’

  She said the word as if he’d said waitresses or cleaners. In Celine’s eyes women who weren’t rich—or weren’t married to rich men—simply didn’t exist. Let alone women who might possibly interest the likes of Marc Derenz.

  Her eyes flashed petulantly. ‘Well, which one, then?’ she demanded. She was thwarted, and she was challenging him.

  It was a challenge he could not help but meet—and he called her bluff with the first words that came into his head. ‘The one in the dress you didn’t like—’

  ‘Her? But she looked right through you!’ Celine exclaimed.

  ‘She’s not supposed to fraternise while she’s working.’

  Even as he spoke he was cursing himself. Why the hell had he said it was that model? The one who had stiffened up like a poker?

  But he knew why. Because he was still trying to put her out of his head, that was why—trying and failing. He’d been conscious of his eyes sifting through the crowded room even as Celine was cooing over the gown she was selecting, idly searching for the model again. Irritated both that he was doing so and that he could not see her.

  She was keeping to the far side of the room. Not coming anywhere near his eyeline again.

  Because she is avoiding me?

  The thought was in his head, bringing with it emotions that were at war with each other. He shouldn’t damn well be interested in her in the first place! For all the reasons he always stuck to in his life. But he could remind himself of those reasons all he liked—he still wanted to catch another glimpse of her.