‘You gave me your word eleven months ago.’

‘And you gave me yours. I am not the one planning to break my vows.’

For an age they simply stared at each other, neither bending. The tension between them had become so thick a steak knife would have had trouble cutting through it. Yet Nicolai could not help but admire her. There were not many people brave enough to face him off.

Rosa caved in first. Extending her hand, she said, ‘We will shake on it. One month, Nicolai. And if at the end you refuse to give me my divorce then I will show you just how dirty I can play.’

Her fiery declaration sent a frisson of excitement racing through his veins. As he reached for her hand he realised it was the first time their flesh had touched since they had exchanged their rings.

And as he walked back down the stairs, victory still ringing within him, Nico realised it had also been the first time he had set foot in her suite since she had moved in.

About the Author

MICHELLE SMART’s love affair with books began as a baby, when she would cuddle them in her cot. This love for all things wordy has never left her. A voracious reader of all genres, her love of romance was cemented at the age of twelve when she came across her first Mills & Boon® book. That book sparked a seed and, although she didn’t have the words to explain it then, she discovered something special—that a book had the capacity to make her heart beat as if she were falling in love.

When not reading, or pretending to do the housework, Michelle loves nothing more than creating worlds of her own featuring handsome brooding heroes and the sparkly, feisty women who can melt their frozen hearts. She hopes her books can make her readers’ hearts beat a little faster too.

Michelle Smart lives in Northamptonshire with her own hero and their two young sons.

This is Michelle’s stunning debut— we hope you love it as much as we do!

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Rings That Bind

Michelle Smart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Gilly

CHAPTER ONE

ROSA BARANSKI SAT on the kitchen worktop, ostensibly waiting for the coffee percolator to finish, and gazed down at the slate tiles. She hated the flooring. Even with the benefit of under-floor heating it always felt so cold.

It was incredible to think she had once lived in a house of the same proportions as the place she currently called home. In that, her first children’s home, she had shared the house with forty other children and an ever-rotating shift of adults. The home had been a hub of noise and chaos, something she had hated until she had discovered how terrifying silence could be and how loneliness could destroy your soul.

Back then, her bedroom had been around the same size as the one she had now. Then, she had shared it with four other girls.

In those dark days and nights she had dreamed of escape.

Around two decades on, and for entirely different reasons, she had come to the painful conclusion that she needed to escape again. At least now she had the power simply to leave.

But she could not do anything until she had spoken to Nico. However much her stomach churned at the thought, she could not leave without an explanation. It wouldn’t be fair.

For what seemed the hundredth time she read the text message on her phone, her stomach twisting at the bland, almost curt words that leapt off the screen. It was from her brother. She’d received it a week ago and could not stop reading it. She should delete it but she couldn’t. It was her only tangible link to him.

Shifting her position in order to peer out of the window, she felt her belly do a funny skipping thing as she spotted the sleek black Maserati crunch slowly over the long gravel driveway before disappearing from view.

Nicolai was home.

The dread coursing through her bloodstream was reminiscent of the first time she had met him. She had attended an interview for the role of his temporary PA, providing maternity cover for his regular PA, who had gone into early labour.

She had sat in a large waiting room with five other potential candidates. she hadn’t been able to help but notice that the secretary who had been placed in charge of them visibly braced herself every time she knocked on his office door. The other candidates must have noticed it too. All of them had sat in hushed, almost reverential silence.

If Nico Baranski’s reputation had not already preceded him, the sight of the candidates’ faces after they had been interviewed would have been enough to terrify them. One by one they left his office ashen-faced. One woman had been blinking back tears.

Rosa had been the last to go in.

By that point her nerves had been shredded.

She had entered the plush, masculine office and been confronted with an immovable body behind a huge oak desk and a hard, unwavering stare.

She had breathed a visible sigh of relief.

Far from the living embodiment of an ogre her febrile mind had conjured during the long wait for her turn, Nicolai Baranski was but a mere mortal. An enormously well-built, gorgeous mortal, but a mortal all the same.

Her relief had been so great her nerves had disappeared.

When he had finally spoken, inviting her to sit in rapid Russian, she had responded in kind without missing a single beat.

Only by the flicker of an eyebrow had he shown any response to her fluency.

‘It says on your résumé that you studied Russian at university and then spent a year working in St Petersburg for the Danask Group after your graduation, before transferring back to London,’ he had said, flipping through a pile of paper in front of him.

‘That is correct.’

He looked up, the brilliance of his light green eyes piercing her. ‘Your references are excellent. You are clearly a valued member of the Danask Group. Why do you want to leave?’

‘I have gone as far as I can and I am looking for a new challenge. I have already worked my notice with them,’ she added, knowing this position needed to be filled quickly.

‘How many other jobs have you applied for?’

‘None. This is the only one I thought suitable.’

‘You do realise the job involves a lot of travel?’

‘That is one of the reasons I applied.’ The idea of escaping London and her deteriorating home life sounded wonderful. Not that she would say such a thing to him. Rosa kept a strict demarcation between her business and her personal life.

‘You will often be required to leave the UK at short notice.’

‘I will carry a travel case at all times for such eventualities.’

‘You should know I am not interested in hiring someone who clock-watches.’

‘I am aware of your reputation, Gaspadin Baranski,’ she replied, matching his coolness of tone. ‘You pay an excellent salary for good reason.’

He studied her with narrowed eyes before pulling a document wallet out of his top drawer and handing it to her. ‘Translate that for me.’

The document was in Russian. She scanned it for a moment before translating. When she was done, Nico leaned back on his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘When can you start?’

And that was it. The job had been hers. She had started immediately.

Now, she inhaled deeply and slowly, pulling the ponytail at the back of her head as tight as she could.

If there was one thing she had learned it was that when there was a potentially unpleasant job to do it was better to face it head-on. Get it over with. Even if it meant telling her husband news for which she had no way of knowing how he would react.

It wasn’t until she heard movement from the door connecting the house with the underground garage that she snapped out of her stupor and jumped down, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold floor.

Shoving the phone into her pocket, she used all her powers of concentration to keep her hands steady and pour coffee into the waiting mug without spilling it everywhere.

Would he even bother seeking her out? Or would he hide away in his study as he so often did nowadays?

She listened to the sound of the study door being opened, followed less than a minute later by the sound of the same door closing. Muted footsteps grew closer until he was there, leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen doorframe, filling the space, arms folded across his broad chest.

‘Hello, Rosa.’

‘Hello, Nico.’ She threw him a brief smile, praying he couldn’t see the way her knees knocked together. Even though it was Sunday, and he had spent a good portion of the day travelling, he was impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt, an incredibly snazzy silver-and-pink tie, and tailored dark grey trousers. It made her pale blue jogging bottoms and white T-shirt look positively grungy by comparison. ‘Good trip?’

He considered, folding his arms across his chest. ‘It could have been worse. I’m not yet convinced they are the kind of people I wish to do business with.’

Which undoubtedly meant he would not be investing in the mineral extraction facility he had spent the best part of a week scrutinising.

‘Coffee?’

He nodded. ‘Where’s Gloria?’ he asked, referring to their housekeeper.

She opened a cupboard and pulled a mug out. ‘Her grandson has a bad dose of chicken-pox and she wants to give her daughter a break, so I’ve given her the weekend off.’

A furrow appeared on his brow. ‘Why would you do that?’

Rosa rolled her eyes and poured coffee into the mug before adding a splash of milk. A few drops spilled onto the granite worktop. She wiped it absently with her wrist. ‘I did it because she was worried about her daughter.’

‘Her daughter is a fully grown woman.’

‘That doesn’t mean Gloria has abdicated her maternal feelings.’ Not that Rosa knew anything about being the recipient of maternal feelings. Not since the age of five, when her mother had abandoned her. She held the mug out to him. ‘Besides, it worked in my favour. I need to talk to you.’ And she would prefer not to talk in front of an audience.

‘That can wait for a minute. I have something for you.’ Unfolding his arms, Nico produced a small gift-wrapped package and handed it to her, taking his mug in exchange. ‘Happy birthday.’

Stunned at the gift—two days too late—she stared up at him. ‘Thank you.’

His light green eyes sparkled. ‘You’re welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t make it back in time to take you out.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Business comes first.’ She tried to speak without rancour. Business always came first. In effect, their whole marriage was nothing more than a business transaction.

When she had agreed to what could only be described as a marriage of convenience, she could not have known there would come a point when something she accepted as part of the pact they had made would start to eat at her. She could not have known that something inside her would shift.

The idea of marriage—indeed, the deed itself—had come about in California. They had spent over a week there, working on the purchase of a mining facility. Once the final contract had been signed Nico had insisted on treating the whole team to a meal to celebrate.

They had been the last two standing. After ten days of continuous slog, Rosa had been ready to let her hair down. To her surprise, Nico had been in the mood to cut loose too.

When he’d suggested a drink in the bar that jutted out over the calm ocean she had readily agreed.

It was the first time they had been alone together in what could have been described as a social setting.

They had settled in a corner, the lapping ocean surrounding them. On Nico’s instructions the bartender had brought two shot glasses and a bottle of vodka to their table.

Nico had poured them both a hefty measure and raised his glass. ‘To Rosa Carty,’ he had said with an approving nod.

‘To me?’

‘The most efficient PA in the western hemisphere.’

She had been flummoxed at the unexpected compliment. ‘I just do my job.’

‘And you do it superbly. I am the envy of my compatriots.’

Before she could respond her phone buzzed for the ninth time that evening.

‘Who keeps messaging you?’ he asked with a definite hint of irritation.

‘My ex,’ she muttered, firing a text back.

‘Your ex? If he is an ex, why is he contacting you?’

‘It’s personal.’

He leant forward. ‘We are off the clock now, Rosa. We are socializing, not preparing a board meeting. Tell me.’

They might be ‘off the clock’, as he so eloquently put it, but there was no mistaking a direct order. ‘I changed the locks of my flat before coming to California. He’s not very happy about it but I’m fed up with him turning up and letting himself in whenever he feels like it.’

A shadow crossed Nico’s eyes. ‘Has he threatened you?’

‘Not in a physical sense. He’s convinced that if he keeps the pressure up I’ll go back to him.’ She straightened her spine. ‘But I won’t. Sooner or later he’ll get the message.’

‘When did you end it?’

‘Two months ago.’

‘You’d have thought he’d have got the message by now.’ As if proving his point, her phone buzzed again.

Before she could open the message he reached over and removed the mobile from her hand.

‘If you keep answering you’ll only encourage him,’ he said in a no-nonsense manner.

‘If I don’t answer he sends twice as many.’ As she spoke Nico’s smartphone beeped in turn.

He looked at the screen, then back at Rosa. ‘How long were you with him?’

‘Three years.’

He held His smartphone up. ‘I enjoyed the grand total of two dates with Sophie before she started hinting at making things permanent.’ His lips tightened. ‘I ended it but she will not accept it. It is always the same. Women always want to make things permanent.’

‘That’s because you’re such a catch,’ she said, snatching her phone back. ‘How old are you? Thirty-five?’

‘Thirty-six,’ he corrected.

She looked back down at her phone and read the latest pleading message. ‘Well, then—they all think you’re ready to settle down.’

‘Not with one of them.’ He downed his shot of vodka and then tapped the side of Rosa’s full glass. ‘Your turn. And if you don’t turn your phone off I will throw it in the ocean.’

‘Try it,’ she said absently, her attention focused on the screen in front of her. She had tried everything to make Stephen get the message. Being nice. Being cruel. None of it was getting through to him.

Before her finger could even touch the keypad to form a response Nico took the phone out of her hand and threw it over the railing and into the ocean. It made a lovely splashing sound before disappearing into the dark water.

The anger that surged through her blood at this high-handed, outrageous act was as unexpected as the deed itself.

She stared at him in disbelief.

There was no contrition. He simply sat there with one brow raised, his features arranged into a perfect display of nonchalance.

She could never have known then that less than twelve hours later she would marry him.

But she had married him. And now she had to deal with the consequences.

Walking over to the long breakfast bar, grabbing her mug of coffee on the way, she hooked a stool out with her foot and took a seat. Her stomach was doing funny flipping motions and she could not take her eyes off the beautiful giftwrapping. It must have taken him ages to get it so perfect.

It was not until she turned the gift upside down to unwrap it that she saw the sticker holding the ribbon to the box. She recognised the insignia on it and knew in an instant that it had been professionally gift-wrapped. She tried not to let dejection set in. So what if he hadn’t wrapped it himself? He had thought of her.

Tearing it open, she found a bottle of expensive perfume.

Nico took the stool opposite and gazed at her expectantly. Black stubble had broken out on his chiselled jawline which, combined with his neatly trimmed goatee, gave him a slightly sinister yet wholly masculine air. His usually tousled black hair was even messier than usual. Rosa found herself fighting her own hands to stop herself from smoothing it down—an urge that had been increasing over recent months, and an urge that only served to prove that the course of action she was about to take was for the best.

She looked back at the gift. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’ Then she made the mistake of turning it over in her hand and catching sight of the duty-free label on the bottom.

It brought to mind the old T-shirt she recalled one of her foster sisters continuously wearing: ‘My dad went to Blackpool and all he brought me was this lousy T-shirt’. Most likely it was the only gift the child’s father had brought her.

In Nico’s case he had been to Morocco. And all he had brought her was some duty-free perfume. As a birthday present.

If she hadn’t known how offended he would be she would have laughed. Although generous to a fault, Nico was simply not wired to lavish gifts on people. He hadn’t even bought her a Christmas card—had been astonished to receive the gift of a silk tie and cufflinks from her.

She would bet none of his lovers had ever been kissed off with an expensive piece of jewellery. His brain did not work that way. The very fact that he had bought something for her touched her deeply, lodging a crumb of doubt into her certainty.

‘So, what did you do for your birthday?’ he asked as if he hadn’t stood her up at the very last minute, as if she hadn’t been all dressed up and waiting for him.

Since she had stopped working for him he had stood her up at the last minute a couple of times. She tried very hard to be philosophical about it—with his line of work, and the different time-zones he travelled between, it couldn’t always be helped.

When she had worked for him they had spent around half their time abroad. Since she had left Baranski Mining three months ago they had shared a roof twenty-nine times. She had counted.

She had never been able to shake the feeling she was being punished for having the temerity to refuse his offer of a permanent role.

His failure to return home for her birthday had felt like having a twisting knife plunged into her heart.

‘Stephen took me to La Torina.’

‘Stephen?’

For the ghost of a second she could have sworn his sensuous lips tightened, that the pupils of his eyes pulsed. She blinked, certain she was imagining it, and found his features arranged in their usual indifference.

She nodded, challenging him, willing him to make something of it.

‘Do I take it Stephen is the sender of the flowers on the reception table?’

‘Yes. Aren’t they beautiful?’ She took a sip of her coffee and waited for some form of reaction from him.

‘They certainly brighten the room up.’ His tone was casual. They could be discussing a dull day at the office. ‘Did you sleep with him?’

She didn’t flinch or hesitate, simply held her chin aloft in silent defiance. ‘Yes.’

Her stomach clenched as she gazed into the piercing green eyes of the man she had married. She searched intently, looking for a sign of something—some form of emotion, something to show he cared. But there was nothing to be found. There never had been. It shouldn’t matter. After all, emotions had never been part of the deal between them.

Their marriage hadn’t been all bad. For the most part it had been good—at least until she had left Baranski Mining. They had worked fantastically well together, both professionally and socially.

She remembered one evening when they had attended a charity auction and the auctioneer had had a large dollop of cream stuck to his ear. She and Nico had sat there like robots, not daring to look at each other, the corners of their mouths twitching with mirth. It hadn’t meant anything, but it had been one of those rare moments when she had felt perfect alignment with him.

It was a moment of togetherness, and they had become few and far between.

And it did matter.

His indifference hurt more every time she looked at it.

‘I would say good for you,’ he said, studying her closely. ‘It is time you took a lover. But there is something ironic about you falling into bed with the man you married me to escape from.’

The irony had not been lost on her either.

If Stephen had called ten minutes earlier the outcome would have been very different.

She had just come off the phone to Nico, and he had given her a brusque explanation of why he wouldn’t make it back in time to take her out for her birthday.

She’d been all dressed up with nowhere to go.

And she’d made the mistake of reading her brother’s text message for possibly the hundredth time.

It had been one of the lowest points of her life.

Then Stephen had called to wish her a happy birthday. If she hadn’t felt so heartsick she would have hung the receiver up. Instead she had found herself agreeing to a meal.

Company. That was what she’d craved. Freddy Krueger could have offered her a date and she would have accepted.

‘Nico, I—’

‘Let us pause this conversation for a minute,’ he interrupted, getting to his feet. ‘It has been a long day. I could use a proper drink and something comfortable to sit on.’

A drink sounded good to her. Lord knew she needed something to numb the curdling of her belly. Because, for all the seeming indifference of his words, Nico’s powerful body was taut with tension, like a coil waiting to spring free.

She followed him through to the spacious living room and curled up on the sofa while he poured them both a hefty measure of vodka.

It was certainly a day for irony. Vodka had played its part in the start of their marriage and now it would play its part in its demise. She took a long sip, welcoming the numbing burn of the clear liquid, before placing it on the coffee table.

She waited until he had settled in the sofa opposite before speaking. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Nico, this isn’t working.’

‘What isn’t working?’

‘This.’ She threw her arms in the air and gave a rueful shrug. ‘Us. Our marriage. I want out.’

CHAPTER TWO

ROSA WAS UNNERVED by Nico’s stillness. He leant forward, his muscular forearms resting on his thighs, his glass cradled between his large hands. ‘Are you getting back together with Stephen?’

‘No…’

His eyes did not leave her face. ‘You left him because he suffocated you.’

‘I’m not getting back with Stephen.’

‘He wouldn’t take no for an answer,’ he continued. ‘You were on the verge of getting a restraining order against him when you married me.’

‘I know.’ She expelled stale air through her teeth and closed her eyes. She had no wish to explain the utter desperation she had felt on her birthday, the horrendous feeling that there was not a soul in the world who cared if she lived or died. ‘Sleeping with him was a mistake that will not be repeated.’ A huge mistake. A massive mistake of epic proportions. But it did have one advantage—it had allowed her to see the enormous error she had made marrying Nico.

‘Is there someone else?’

‘No. There is no one else.’ How could there be?

‘Then why do you want to leave?’

She wished he wouldn’t look at her with such menacing stillness. Nico always kept his cards close to his chest, but she couldn’t help feeling as if he were trying to penetrate through to her brain and dissect the contents. If only she had the slightest clue as to what he was thinking.

‘Because it isn’t working for me any more.’ She reached for a squishy cushion and cuddled it to her belly, hoping the comfort would quell the butterflies raging inside. ‘We agreed from the start that if either of us wanted to leave we could, without any fuss. Nico, I want a fresh start. I want a divorce.’

Nico remained still as he stared hard at the woman he had married, his eyes flickering down to the gold band she wore on her finger. A ring he had put there.

‘I am well aware of what we agreed, Rosa. However, it is unreasonable for you to suddenly state you want a divorce and not give me a valid reason.’

‘There is no single valid reason.’ She tugged a stray lock of her ebony hair behind her ear. ‘When we agreed to marry it seemed the perfect solution for both of us—a nice, convenient open marriage. No emotional ties or anything messy…’ Her husky voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know exactly what I want from a marriage—I don’t know if I even want a marriage—but, Nicolai, I do know I want something more than this.’

It was the use of his full first name that convinced him she was serious. She had addressed him by his shortened name since they’d exchanged their wedding vows. That, and the fact they were speaking in English.

Rosa adored the Russian tongue. They rarely spoke her native language when together.

His hands tightened around his glass and he took a long sip of the clear, fiery liquid. Rosa was a lot like vodka. Clear and pure-looking, but with a definite bite. In her own understated way she did not take crap from anyone.

He pursed his lips as he contemplated her, sitting there, studying him with an openness he had always admired. He had admired her from the start.

After his PA had gone into early labour he’d had no choice but to approach an employment agency to fill the role. There had been no one in his employ suitable for it.

The agency had duly sent six candidates—all of whom, they’d assured him, were fluent in Russian. By the time he had interviewed the first five he’d been ready to sue the agency. The candidates had been useless. Never mind that their Russian had been far from fluent, he doubted they could have organised a children’s party.

And then in had walked Rosa Carty, the model of calm efficiency.

Her Russian was flawless. Perfect. He would trust her to organise a state funeral.

He had offered her the position immediately and she had started on the hoof, with no training or guidance. She had stepped into the breach as if she had always been there.

She had never flirted with him, had never dressed as anything but the professional she was, had never brought her private life to the office. She had been perfect.

Marriage had always been an institution he admired but one he had long accepted would not be for him.

Five months on and he had been in his office with Serge, his finance director and an old friend from his university days. They had been going over the figures for his buyout of a Californian mine when there had been a sharp rap at the door and Rosa had walked in.

He had known immediately something was wrong. She would never have dreamt of interrupting a meeting unless it was important.

‘We have a slight problem,’ she had said in her usual understated fashion. ‘There is a discrepancy with the output figures.’

She had lain the offending document before him and pointed to a tiny section highlighted in pink. The figure in question had been out by less than an eighth of one per cent, but in financial terms equated to over a million pounds.

At least ten pairs of eyes, including his own, had gone through the document. Rosa was the only person to have picked up on the error.

After agreeing on an action plan, she had set off to implement it. He’d had no doubt the whole thing would be rectified by the end of the day.

‘Your PA is really something,’ Serge had said with a shake of his head when she’d left the office. ‘When Madeline comes back from maternity leave can I have Rosa in my department?’

Nico had shrugged noncommittally. Even at that stage he had known he wanted to keep Rosa as his PA—had been busy strategising ways to keep her working directly for him without landing himself with a lawsuit from a disgruntled Madeline.

‘Is she married?’ Serge had asked with a sudden knowing look in his eyes. ‘She is exactly the kind of woman a man like you should marry.’

If Serge hadn’t been one of his oldest friends Nico would have fired him on the spot for insubordination.

‘There is nothing worse than a newly married man,’ he said drily.

‘Marriage has been the making of me,’ Serge countered amiably. ‘Seriously, my friend, Rosa would be perfect for you. She’s got the same coolness as you. You have mentioned breaking into the Middle East. Socialising is a big part of their business culture and marriage is very much respected. Rosa would be an asset to you. Besides,’ he continued with a flash of his teeth, ‘a man can’t stay happy all his life!’

Days later he had travelled to California with Rosa and an army of workers. As the days passed, Serge’s words had kept repeating in his head.

By their last day he had almost convinced himself that his friend could be on to something.

He had engineered things so that he and Rosa were alone after the celebratory meal, sitting in the balmy night air, drinking vodka. Usually his employees’ private lives and private time were strictly off-limits, but that night he had wanted to test if their compatibility in the office could be matched in a social setting.

The constant buzz of her phone had driven him to distraction. Well, it had been more the fact that she’d kept ignoring him to answer those annoying messages that had irritated him. And the fact that he’d disliked her responding to someone who was so clearly deranged. So he’d thrown her phone into the ocean.

She had simply glared at him, a small tick playing under her left eye. ‘That was unnecessary.’

‘Every time you respond you give him false hope,’ he pointed out. ‘The only way to be rid of him is to cut all communication. I will replace your phone. Now, drink your shot.’

For the breadth of a moment he thought she would throw the glass at him.

Instead she lifted the shot and downed it. In one. Done, she slammed the glass back on the table and eyeballed him with caramel eyes that swirled with amusement. ‘There. Happy now?’

A bubble of laughter climbed his throat. He had never imagined his starchy, temporary PA possessed a personality.

‘So you never contemplated marrying…?’

‘Stephen,’ she supplied with a hiccup. She put her hand to her mouth and threw him a wry smile. ‘No. Never in a million years would I have married him. Although I’d love to marry someone, right now, just to get him off my back.’ She shook her head. ‘I do like the idea of marriage, but I’d be a rubbish wife. I’m married to my work and I much prefer my own company.’

Nico nodded, understanding. ‘I like the idea of a wife who can accompany me to functions and hold an intelligent conversation.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘But the thought of all that emoting couples are supposed to do leaves me cold.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she agreed with pursed lips.

He looked, at her—really looked at her. Serge’s assessment had been right. Rosa would be an asset to any businessman. And he would be that businessman.

She could be a female version of him! Both were perfectionists. Both were dedicated to their work. Nico had long wanted marriage for the respectability it afforded, but after Galina—his one heavy entanglement and the only failure in his life—he had known he was not cut out for relationships. He was not made that way.

‘We could marry,’ he said idly, watching closely for her reaction.

The vodka Rosa had just poured into her mouth was spat out.

‘Think about it,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘We would be perfect together.’

‘Yes,’ she said, pulling a face once she had finished choking. ‘And all those socialites would have to stop harassing you for marriage.’

‘More importantly, from your perspective, Stephen would get the picture that you are never coming back. But that’s neither here nor there. You are a woman of great intellect. We work well together. There is no reason we could not have a successful marriage.’

‘This all sounds fabulous,’ she said, with a roll of her eyes. ‘But there are a couple of slight problems.’

‘Which are?’

‘One: we don’t fancy each other.’

Even Nico was vain enough to bristle slightly at that remark. ‘That means there is no chance of us falling into bed and messing things up by letting emotions get in the way.’ Although, looking at her, he had to admit there was something appealing about her in a fresh-faced, pretty kind of way. Not that he would ever be tempted to do anything about it. No. Rosa was not his type at all.

‘Two.’ She ticked the number off on her fingers. ‘I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure.’

‘Neither do I. But as this is a business proposal that would not be a problem.’

Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘My God, are you serious?’

‘Absolutely. Think about it, Rosa. We would be perfect together. We both want marriage…’

‘Just not to anyone who would expect us to compromise our lives for it,’ she finished with an unexpected sparkle.

‘This calls for a drink.’ He poured them both another hefty measure of vodka and chinked his glass to hers. On the count of three they downed them.

Done, Nico reached for his smartphone and started a search.

‘We can marry here, tonight, in California,’ he said, reading quickly. ‘As long as we’ve got our passports, we’re good to go.’

‘Excellent.’ She pulled her briefcase onto her lap and rummaged through it.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for a pen and some paper.’

‘What for?’

She had looked at him, amusement written all over her face. ‘If we’re going to get married it’s only right we make a contract for it. Shall I write it in English or Russian?’

And that had been it. They had married, still slightly tipsy, the next morning.

Not once had he been given cause to regret their impulsive decision—the only impulsive decision he had made in his thirty-six years.

And now she had the nerve to sit there, eleven months on, and tell him she had changed her mind.

Not only that, but she had slept with her ex.

A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach—so violent he almost retched.

He was in no position to complain. He should be able to accept that. They had made an agreement that theirs would be an open marriage. As long as they exercised discretion they could sleep with whomever they chose.

Was he not a modern, twenty-first-century man? He had no right to feel possessive about a woman who was his wife in name only.

Intellectually, he knew all the right things to think.

Under the surface of his skin, though, his latent Neanderthal had reared up and punched him hard, right in the solar plexus.

She had slept with someone else. That little gem had lodged in his chest and was piercing into him with regular stabbing motions.

She had slept with someone else and had the nerve to think that she could call the shots.

He had bought her a birthday present. The first personal gift he had ever bought a woman. And she had slept with someone else.

Had she slept with her ex as punishment for him not returning in time for her birthday? With any other woman the answer would be a resounding yes. But Rosa was not made in the same mould as other women. Or so he had thought.

‘You should have told me you were unhappy.’ As he spoke, something rancid nibbled away at his gut—which he tried to quash with another sip of his vodka.

She threw him a wan smile. ‘I’m not unhappy—more lonely, I guess.’

‘That would not have been a problem if you had taken the job permanently when I offered it to you.’

It was an issue that still rankled. A week before Madeline, his original PA, had been due to return from maternity leave, she had dropped the bombshell that she would not be coming back. He’d hidden his delight, wished her well, and promptly offered the job to his wife.

She had refused to take it. She’d turned his generous offer down, just as she’d refused all subsequent offers of employment within the Baranski Mining empire.

Ever since he had accrued enough money to purchase Reuben Mining and turn it into Baranski Mining no one had ever refused him anything.

‘Nico, I was lonely when I worked for you.’

How was that even possible? They had spent nearly every waking hour together.

He took another long sip of his vodka. ‘I do hope this decision will not affect our trip to Butterfly Island,’ he said, struggling to keep an even tone. He must be more exhausted than he had appreciated, because his mood was darkening as rapidly as his musings. And the rolls of nausea were increasing.

She sighed and pulled out the band holding her ponytail, before immediately gathering all the stray locks and tying it up again, stretching her creamy skin taut.

He preferred it when she wore her silky black tresses loose, as she did on the occasions when they accompanied each other to social functions. With her hair loose, her angular features softened, her caramel eyes, under which purple smudges currently resided, became rounder.

‘We are due to fly there in a fortnight,’ he reminded her tightly. ‘We had an agreement and I expect you to honour it.’

The new PA he had appointed three months ago, when Rosa had refused the job, had proved herself to be spectacularly useless. And the one he had hired after sacking that one. And the next. As he had found since Rosa had moved on, when compared with his wife’s calm, dedicated efficiency, they were all useless.

Rosa’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘You expect?’ she questioned in that husky voice he usually found so soothing.

‘Yes. A commitment is a commitment. Like our marriage.’

Dimly he recalled a conversation one evening about how his plans for mineral mining in the Indian Ocean were firming up. He was readying for the contractual stage now, which meant he would need a Russian-speaking assistant to accompany him to Butterfly Island for the contract completion. He remembered complaining of the impossibility of finding someone and training them up in time, which was when Rosa had offered to accompany him instead. Just as he had hoped she would. She had landed a job working as a translator for another London-based Russian firm, but was willing to use her holiday entitlement to assist him.

‘I know.’ Her nose wrinkled. She gave a little shiver and rubbed her arms, pushing her full breasts together; unaware that the late-afternoon sunlight filtering in through the big bay window illuminated her white T-shirt, making it virtually transparent.

He averted his eyes and willed away the tingles of awareness spreading through him.

What the hell was the matter with him? His wife had told him she’d slept with her ex and wanted a divorce, and his body was still capable of reacting to her?

Although she was not his type, intellectually he was aware that Rosa was an attractive woman. That awareness had been growing in recent months. There had even been times when…

No. He had never allowed the idea of anything physical between them to take root. If it had been anyone but Rosa he would not have thought twice about acting on it, but he had never been able to shake the feeling that sleeping with her would be akin to opening a can of worms.

Maybe he should have done.

‘I would be grateful if you could take someone else in my place.’

Her words cut through his inappropriate meanderings.

‘Impossible. It is far too short notice.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Rubbish. You employ plenty of linguists of both nationalities.’

He fought to keep his tone even. ‘But none as good as you—as you well know. And even if I could find and train someone at such short notice, it is you I want.’

‘Really?’

The inflection in her tone made him pause. Somehow he didn’t think she was referring to work.

‘I’m sorry, Nico, but it’s out of the question. I know it is an inconvenience, but two weeks is by no means too short notice.’

Two weeks to find another Rosa was impossible.

‘I’ve been looking on the internet and we can sort the divorce out ourselves.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Our divorce,’ she said evenly. ‘There’s no point in us appointing lawyers. I don’t want anything from you, and unless you want something from me—’

‘I don’t recall agreeing to any divorce,’ he cut in, the grip on his glass tightening.

She had it all figured out. She seriously thought she could tell him she wanted a divorce and then waltz off into the moonlight.

The nausea rolled up into his throat and lodged there, burning his vocal cords.

She seriously thought he would let her go.

Her warm eyes chilled and narrowed. ‘Actually, you did. When we married. Remember?’

He forced his throat to work. ‘That was eleven months ago. My feelings on the matter have changed.’ Hell could freeze over before he let her leave.

‘Well, mine haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, my feelings on divorce are the same as they were then.’ She got to her feet and stood as tall as her short, curvy frame would allow. ‘I’m sorry if my decision somehow inconveniences you—I had assumed you wouldn’t be bothered—and I’m sorry if somehow I have disappointed you, but, Nicolai, I can’t stay in this sham of a marriage for a second longer.’

Sadness rang in her eyes before she turned and headed for the door.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Her spine became rigid. ‘To collect my belongings. I packed earlier.’

‘And where do you intend to go? To Stephen?’

As he spoke her lover’s name the glass in his hand shattered.

CHAPTER THREE

ROSA VACUUMED THE last tiny shard of glass from the thick carpet.

Her hands had finally stopped shaking, but her heart still thundered painfully against her ribs.

Nico’s face…

When that glass had shattered there had been a moment when she had thought his face would crack too.

Other than the usual business talk, it seemed he had barely noticed her existence in months. He might not have cared that she had slept with someone else, but she had been a fool to hope he would give her a divorce without putting up a fight.

She should have known better. If there was one thing she knew about her husband it was that he did not like to lose. At anything.

She had known Butterfly Island would be a problem—after all, he seemed to spend the majority of their limited time together bitching about the latest unfortunate to be appointed the role of his PA—but she had put that down to his being miffed that she had refused the job. Her husband’s success and power had put him in the unfortunate position of seldom being denied anything he wanted. He had not taken her refusal to continue working for him well—had taken it as a personal slight. Which, of course, it had been—but not in the way he assumed.

By the time her contract with Baranski Mining had expired Rosa’s feelings towards him had become far too complicated for her even to consider staying on. She had fervently hoped some distance from him would settle the weird hormones unleashed by their working so closely together. It hadn’t worked. She had been left rattling round their huge home alone while he travelled the globe, rarely spending more than a couple of nights in London at any one time.

She had missed him. God help her, she had missed him.

She was wedging the vacuum back in the cupboard when Nico came out of the downstairs bathroom, where he had been washing shards of glass off his hand. Somehow the shattered glass hadn’t even nicked him. The man must be made of Teflon.

She had no idea what he had done to his hair, but even taking into account its usual messiness it was sticking up as if he’d rubbed a balloon on it.

For some reason this tugged at her.

The cool façade had definitely cracked.

His features were arranged in their usual indifference, but the pulse in his jaw was working double-time. This was the closest to angry she had ever seen him.

Closing the cupboard, she took a deep breath. ‘In answer to your question, I’m going to stay at a hotel until the lease on my flat expires.’ Thank God she’d had the foresight to grant her tenants only a short-term lease. She missed her cosy flat dreadfully. But at least in a hotel she wouldn’t be alone, and in the meantime she could start hunting for a new flatmate to share with.

If there was one thing she hated it was living alone. Marrying Nico had, at the time, been a godsend. With Stephen gone, she had been trying to find a flatmate—someone who was happy to share a home with her without wanting to spend every evening drinking wine and having girly chats.

Nico’s mad idea had been the answer to every prayer she’d had. He wouldn’t expect anything from her other than intellectual stimulation. In return she would have his name and a ring on her finger. Symbols that she belonged to someone. And he wore her ring. A metaphorical symbol that he belonged to her too.

‘I think not.’ His green eyes had darkened into an almost sinister gleam. ‘You see, Rosa, under no circumstances will I allow you to leave. I do not want a divorce. Go up to your room and unpack—you’re not going anywhere.’

Rosa reared back and stared at him. Surely he hadn’t just said what she thought he had? ‘You won’t allow me to leave?’

His mouth formed a thin, grim line. ‘You are my wife.’

‘Exactly. I am your wife—not your possession.’

‘In certain cultures that is one and the same thing.’

‘Well, luckily for me we’re in the UK, and not some backwards country where women have no voice.’

‘I will never agree to a divorce.’

She studied him carefully, half expecting him to crack a smile and say he was joking. Surely he could not be serious? However, she did have one more ace up her sleeve—no one could ever accuse her of being anything but thorough. ‘If you won’t agree to a divorce I will apply for an annulment. This marriage was never consummated. Therefore it is void.’

Not bothering to wait for a response, Rosa walked away. Determined to keep a cool head, she walked steadily up the stairs to her suite, placing a hand to her chest in a futile attempt to temper her thundering heart.

Thankfully she’d had the foresight to pack earlier—a job that had taken less than an hour.

Heavy footsteps neared her and mentally she braced herself.

Nico crossed the threshold into her bedroom, his features so taut he might have been carved from ice. His eyes, though…His eyes shimmered with fury.

‘You do realise you can’t stop me?’ she said coldly.

He folded his arms across his chest, accentuating the breadth of his physique. Nico really was a mountain of a man, filling the space around him, dwarfing everything in the vicinity. ‘I think you’ll find I can.’

‘By using force?’ She didn’t believe he would do that. Not for a second. He might be over a foot taller than her, and packed full of solid muscle, but she knew perfectly well he would never use that to his advantage.

His lips curved into a cold smile. ‘I don’t need to use physical force, Rosa. I have other advantages to stop you leaving.’

‘Why are you being like this?’ She forced her voice to remain calm. ‘Why can’t you just accept I want out?’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ he said, stalking towards her, his eyes glittering. ‘You see, daragaya, I have just learned that not only have I been cuckolded but, to add insult to injury, you want to humiliate me too.’

It was the casual, almost sneering way he called her his darling wife that did it. Something inside of her snapped. Gazing up at him, mere feet away, close enough for her to feel the heat emanating from his powerful body, she said, ‘Cuckolded? Humiliated? What planet are you on? How many women have you slept with since we married?’

Oh, he had been discreet. She would give him that. But there was no way a man as overtly masculine as Nico would go eleven months without sex.

‘Do not try to twist the subject. We are not talking about me. We are talking about you and the fact you want to advertise to the world that we never have consummated our marriage.’

‘You know damn well I won’t be doing anything of the sort.’

‘You think the press won’t leap on a nugget like that? You think I want to be the butt of everyone’s gossip? To know friends and business acquaintances will speculate over the reasons you and I never had sex?’

Rosa turned her face away, a slow burn crawling up her neck.

Lord, she did not want to think of them having sex. It was bad enough dreaming about his hard, naked body taking her passionately and then waking up in the morning with a burning need deep inside her, knowing there was nothing she could do about it other than take as cold a shower as she could bear and push it from her mind. At least she could control her conscious thoughts.

She took a step away from him—away from that citrusy, masculine scent that was starting to swirl around her senses. ‘I don’t relish that scenario any more than you, but if you refuse a divorce you will leave me no other option than to go down the annulment road.’

‘I will deny it,’ he said, staring at her unsmilingly. ‘I will tell the courts that you are a fantasist.’

‘You would lie under oath?’

The ring of shock in Rosa’s eyes was all too apparent.

In truth, Nico had shocked himself.

Would he really go that far? Under ordinary circumstances the answer would be a resounding no. But these were far from ordinary circumstances.

Her suitcases sat neatly by her bedroom door. A sign of her intent.

Of her defiance.

Without any pause for thought, he reached for the nearest, flicked the clips to spring it open and tipped the contents into a heap on the floor.

‘I will do whatever is necessary to uphold my reputation,’ he said, staring intently into her startled eyes. He clenched his hands into fists and held them tightly by his sides to prevent them doing the same to the other suitcase. He had made his point. ‘You are a Baranski and will remain a Baranski for as long as I deem necessary.’

Rosa backed away from him like a wary cat, tugging at her ponytail, loathing written all over her pretty face. ‘I’ll be a Carty again before you can blink,’ she said, her chest rising up and down with rapid motion. ‘I’ll change my name back by deed poll if necessary. And if you think upending my possessions is going to make me stay, then you are delusional.’

He would never have guessed his starchy wife was capable of anger. Irritation, yes. Mild annoyance on a bad day, maybe. But full-blown anger? No.

She had not even raised her voice but he could feel it—those tiny ripples of fury kept under the tightest of reins.

What would it be like to unleash that passion? A passion he had blithely ignored over the eleven months of their marriage, not even aware of its existence.

It had been there all along. And another man had been the recipient of it.

The knowledge lingered in his senses like a pungent smell.

And it made him react in ways he had never believed himself capable of.

‘I have a proposition for you,’ he said, breaking the taut silence.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

‘I do not want a divorce or an annulment. I like our marriage—it suits me very well.’ And he was damned if he was going to let it end on her terms. If they were going to divorce it would be on his terms and his terms only.

‘It doesn’t suit me.’

Clamping down on the fresh flash of rage that followed this little declaration, he forced his voice to remain calm. ‘I realise that. However, as you have done so much research you must be aware that we cannot divorce until we have been married for a year—which in our case is a whole month away.’

‘That doesn’t mean we can’t start the ball rolling,’ she said, displaying the stubbornness he had always admired in her when she had worked for him, working regular twelve hour days in an effort to ensure everything was in perfect order.

It was the same stubbornness she had displayed when she’d refused his every overture to work with him permanently.

With a flash of insight he realised the more he tried to force her to comply the more she would dig her heels in. Her obstinancy was liable to take the form of an immovable object.

Why had he never noticed how sexy such stubbornness could be?

He squashed the thought away.

‘Give me a month—until the date of our first anniversary—to change your mind,’ he said, in the most reasonable voice he could muster. ‘Come to Butterfly Island with me as planned—you’re a first-class PA and linguist, and there is no one capable of doing the job as well as you. Do that and I will grant you a divorce. Refuse, and I will fight you every inch of the way.’

‘I won’t change my mind.’

‘That remains to be seen. But unless you give me the next month to try you will find yourself with one almighty fight on your hands.’ Deliberately he stepped towards her, over the puddle of clothes, encroaching on her personal space—a move he had never made in all the time he had known her. ‘I will contest it every step of the way. If I wanted, I could play dirty and drag it on for years. And guess what? I never lose.’

A small tick pounded under her left eye, so tiny it was barely perceptible. He had only seen that particular affliction once before. Smelling victory, he pressed on a little further, leaning close enough to smell her clean, feminine scent. He swallowed the moisture that formed in his mouth.

‘One month, Rosa. I don’t think that’s a very long time to wait for a lifetime of freedom.’

She gazed back at him, the tiny tick still pounding, before she visibly hardened. ‘I want it in writing.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ His lips curled. He had never been so insulted. ‘I am giving you my word.’

‘You gave me your word eleven months ago.’

‘And you gave me yours. I am not the one planning to break my vows.’

For an age they simply stared at each other, neither bending. The tension between them had become so thick a steak knife would have had trouble cutting through it. Yet through the seeping tension he could not help but admire her. There were not many people brave enough to face him off.

Rosa caved in first. Extending her hand, she said, ‘We will shake on it. One month, Nicolai. And if at the end you refuse to give me my divorce then I will show you just how dirty I can play.’

Her fiery declaration sent a frisson of excitement racing through his veins. As he reached for her hand he realised it was the first time their flesh had touched since they had exchanged their rings.

And as he walked back down the stairs, victory still ringing within him, Nico realised it had also been the first time he had set foot in her suite since she had moved in.

A black Jeep awaited them at the landing strip that constituted Butterfly Island’s airport.

It was roasting hot, the heat shimmering like waves off the ground. Even though Rosa had had the foresight to change into a light, cotton summer dress, her skin was dampening by the second.

It had been eighteen hours since they’d left London and she was shattered. The thirteen hour flight on Nico’s plush private jet hadn’t been too bad, but she had been far too wired to sleep. Unlike Nico, who had the amazing knack of being able to sleep on command.

Fortunately she’d had a pile of documents to read through to keep her occupied. She’d devoted all her spare time over the past fortnight in getting up to speed on the contracts. There had been little else for her to do. Nico had been as elusive over the past two weeks as an escaped hamster.

The one-hour connecting flight to Butterfly Island on a four-seat Cessna had been a more cramped affair. Nico had sat in front of her. They had been close enough to touch—close enough for her to smell him.

She had spent the flight breathing through her mouth.

A squat, elderly gentleman who looked dressed for a safari, in a cream pocketed shirt, cream shorts, a panama hat and long white socks, got out of the Jeep and strode over to them. For his part, Nico had relaxed his strict business attire by removing his jacket and tie and rolling up his sleeves.

‘Nicolai—as always, it’s a pleasure to have your company.’

‘Likewise.’ Nico shook the offered hand vigorously. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Rosa. Rosa, this is Robert King—owner of Butterfly Island and King Island.’

His wife? Nico had introduced her as his wife? In the eight months she had continued working for him after their quickie wedding he had never introduced her as anything other than his assistant. They had agreed that when it came to business it was best to keep things on a professional footing.

Before she could think about this in any depth she was pulled into the American’s arms. ‘Wonderful to meet you, Rosa. Your husband has told me all about you.’ He released her, but kept hold of her forearms so he could look at her. ‘Nicolai, you never told me what a beauty she was.’

Nico placed an arm around her waist in what could only be described as a possessive manner, forcing a reluctant Robert to release her. Rosa, already reeling at being called a beauty, was so shocked at this unexpected and blatant show of possessiveness that she froze.

‘Rosa’s beauty speaks for itself,’ said Nico in his gravelly tones. ‘Now, have all the arrangements been made?’

She was not sure if she’d imagined it, but she could have sworn Robert dropped him a quick wink. ‘Everything’s in hand.’

The minor stupor caused by Nico’s introduction and his unprecedented hold on her receded, and she extracted herself from his arm. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you too, Mr King, but—as I’m sure my husband has already informed you—I have accompanied him as his assistant and not his wife.’

‘His assistant, eh?’ Robert’s wink was a lot more obvious this time. ‘I get you, I get you. Say no more. Now, you folks must be exhausted after all that travelling. Let’s get you to your accommodation so you can freshen up. Oh—and, Rosa? It’s Robert.’

The air-conditioning in the Jeep had been turned to full blast. Rosa welcomed the freshness after the stifling heat of the airstrip. It was the only thing she did welcome as the men started to talk business. Robert didn’t exactly freeze her out of the conversation but all his attention was focused on Nico. She had a feeling if she offered an opinion he would ruffle her hair and tell her not to worry her pretty head about it. It was infuriating, but not half as infuriating as Nico’s obliviousness to it.

She comforted herself with the knowledge that once Robert had seen her work he would see for himself that she was there not out of the virtue of being Nico’s wife but out of the virtue of being good at her job.

Still, it made for an uncomfortable journey—at least for her.

Butterfly Island was small by anyone’s standards. According to her research, its circumference was only a touch over nine miles. They reached the complex where they were to stay for the next fortnight in less than ten minutes.

To Rosa’s eyes it certainly lived up to its high-class honeymoon resort billing. When over the past fortnight she’d allowed herself to think of being in a lovers’ paradise with the man who was her husband but not her lover, she had consoled herself that she would be too busy working to have time to witness any open signs of affection displayed by the other guests.

The driver pulled up outside a large, one-storey Tuscanstyle villa.

‘I’ll leave you two to settle in.’ Robert grinned, throwing her a wink. ‘Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll get a golf-buggy to collect you after breakfast and bring you to the hotel. The conference room’s all ready to go. And, Rosa—’ he winked at her again ‘—the spa here has been named one of the best in the world. My staff have all been instructed to give you preferential treatment on anything you desire.’

‘That is very kind. I’ll be sure to remember that.’ She smiled. The shimmering heat of the day and the ambient atmosphere of the island had already started working its magic on her. What was the point in getting antsy? He was an old man. She would change his mind soon enough. ‘See you in the morning.’

Entering the villa, she tightened her ponytail and sighed with pleasure.

‘Shall I take your luggage to your bedroom?’ the driver asked, depositing their cases on the terracotta floor.

‘I shall deal with it,’ Nico said, slipping him some local currency.

Once they were alone, he turned to Rosa. ‘I need to check in with the Moscow office, so take a look around.’

Leaving him to it, she headed off into the open-plan living quarters, which were as airy and sophisticated as one would expect for a villa of this calibre. On the gleaming dining table stood a bucket of champagne on ice, a large bowl of fresh fruit and a vase of the prettiest, most delicious-smelling flowers she had ever seen or sniffed. Tucked away discreetly in a corner to the rear was a large, fully equipped office, which she gave a cursory once-over before heading to the patio doors. Inspecting the office could wait. She would spend the next fortnight virtually chained to the desk.

She stepped out onto the decking. A sprawling lawn ran down to a sandy-white beach.

Bubbles of excitement started thrumming through her veins. Dozens of co-mingling scents converged under her nose, from fragrant flowers and freshly cut grass to the salty scent of the sea.

Rosa closed her eyes. She had travelled to many countries with Nico during her time as his PA. Relaxation had never been on the agenda. This trip would be no different. She was here to work.

All the same…

They’d always stayed in luxurious accommodation, but it had always been functional rather than beautiful.

Butterfly Island was stunning. This villa was stunning.

Wistfulness clutched at her belly. What would it be like if she were here with a lover? Someone she trusted enough to place her heart in his hands, who would not squeeze all the life out of it?

She scrubbed the image away—especially the image of Nico that kept trying to intrude. Finding another lover was the last thing on her mind. Sleeping with Stephen had been an act of folly—an act of desperation to purge the hurt that had almost consumed her whole.

CHAPTER FOUR

AFTER ONE LAST longing gaze at The beach, Rosa went back inside to search for the bedrooms. The first was easy to find, and immediately she chose it for herself. The bedroom, large and opulent, would be any honeymooner’s dream. Its raised emperor four-poster bed even had the clichéd rose petals scattered all over the silk sheets. The en suite bathroom was amazing. The bath! She had never seen anything like it: sunken, with gold taps around the edges, it was large enough to swim in.

To stake her claim, she chucked her handbag on the bed and then left it to find Nico’s bedroom.

A few minutes later, her brief good mood having plummeted, she found Nico in the partitioned office, his laptop open, still talking on his smartphone.

He took one look at her face and disconnected the call.

‘What is wrong?’ he asked. ‘You look as if someone has stolen your luggage.’

She stood before him. ‘There’s only one bedroom.’

She waited for his disapproval.

He leaned back in the Captain’s chair and stretched out his long legs. ‘Naturally there is only one room.’

‘What do you mean, “naturally”? I was assured by Camilla, or Emily, or whoever it is that currently runs your London office, that a two-bedroomed villa had been reserved for us.’

‘I changed it.’

Her chin nearly hit the floor. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘Because we are married, and married couples rarely sleep in separate beds. Unless, of course, they are not sharing conjugal relations.’

She shook her head slowly, wishing she could slap the smug arrogance off his face. ‘You clever bastard.’

‘I shall take that as a compliment.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ She knew exactly what he was playing at. ‘I’m not sharing a bed with you. I assume it is enough that people think we are sleeping together?’

He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I do not control how other people think.’

‘You’ll have to sleep on the sofa.’

‘I think not. I will be sleeping on that big, comfortable bed. If you wish to join me…?’ He raised an eyebrow in invitation.

She blinked in shock.

Had that really been a suggestive tone in his voice? Surely not…

Unnerved, she took a step back.

Nico sat up and rested his forearms on his thighs, openly studying her. ‘Does the thought of sharing a bed with me scare you?’

‘Of course not,’ she lied, inching back a little further—as far as the edge of the desk. He was still too close, but there was no way she was going to scurry off like a frightened rabbit just because he was close enough for her to smell his fruity scent.

They had worked side-by-side for the best part of a year and his scent had hardly ever been a problem for her—at least not until the last few months of her tenure. That had been one of the reasons she had turned down his offer of a permanent position. Nico smelled far too good for her sensibility.

‘Then what is your problem?’ His eyes gave a sudden gleam. ‘Worried I won’t be able to keep my hands off you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ As if Nico had ever looked at her with anything other than platonic eyes.

‘Why would you think that ridiculous? You’re an attractive woman—sharing a bed with you would be a temptation for any man.’

To her horror, she felt her neck burn. She turned her head, unable to look at him, suddenly scared of what he would see. ‘Now you are being ridiculous.’

His voice dropped to a murmur. ‘I’ve thought about you a lot these past few weeks.’

She fixed her gaze on a pretty landscape painting on the wall. ‘Sure you have.’

He had the audacity to laugh, with a low, gravelly timbre that sent tiny tingles dancing on her skin.

‘You are angry with me for not spending any time with you. That would have been easily rectified if you were still working for me. You would have travelled with me.’

‘Your ego astounds me.’ She paused to swallow a lump that had formed in her throat. ‘However, if your idea of getting me to change my mind about our marriage was to leave me alone for a fortnight, it was one heck of a rubbish plan.’

‘I had matters to arrange and business to tie up before this trip.’ He leaned closer and cupped the curve of her neck. ‘Did you miss me?’

His unexpected action caught her off-guard. She would not have been more surprised if he had told her he was gay. She could understand the arm around her waist when they had been with Robert—Nico was doing all in his power to set her up to look a liar and a fool if she went down the annulment route—but this?

She had to fight with everything she had not to respond to the feel of his warm palm against her sensitised skin. She would not fall into his blatant trap.

‘No.’ She pulled away from his clasp—his second touch in less than an hour. ‘I didn’t miss you. Now, will you stop playing games? It’s making me uncomfortable.’

His lips curved slightly. ‘I am not playing games.’

‘That’s what it feels like.’

‘You agreed to give me the chance to prove our marriage deserves another shot.’

‘So far you have failed spectacularly. And pretending you find me attractive is not the way to go about it either.’ Not after eleven months of complete uninterest.

‘Have you considered that maybe I am not acting?’

The breath caught in her throat. If she hadn’t already known how indifferent he was to her physically, she might almost have believed him.

She dragged air into her lungs and took a step to the side. ‘Actually, no. I don’t believe that for a second. You don’t find me attractive. You’re just using your masculinity to try and drive me into some kind of feminine stupor. You think I will fall for your charms and thus save you the unpleasantness of a public divorce—and save you from the hundreds of women who will come beating on your door, begging to be the new Mrs Baranski.’

He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘You have me all figured out.’

‘You’re an easy read.’

What else could it be? Their marriage hadn’t just been platonic, it had been positively frigid. Intellectually, they got along beautifully. They could talk business until the sun came up. But there had been no physical contact of any kind, not even when they had drunk more vodka together than was good for them. They would attend functions where couples were together in every sense of the word—holding hands, sneaking kisses. For all their cordiality, she and Nico wouldn’t even wipe a fragment of lint from each other’s clothing.

It was what she had signed up to. But she’d had no idea when she drew up that stupid contract that it would come to hurt so much and gnaw at her insides.

‘If I were to tell you I find you incredibly sexy, would you think I was lying?’

‘We both know I am not your type.’ Even when passing her a mug of coffee he made a concerted effort not to touch her.

‘Maybe my tastes are becoming more discerning.’

‘Unluckily for you, my tastes aren’t. If you think I want to share a bed with a man who has a deli counter of blondes queuing for a space in his bed, you have another think coming. Believe me, that was a strong positive for me when we made our no-sex pact.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.