The Spaniard’s Blackmailed Bride

Trish Morey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Anne Gracie, who introduced me to Diablo.

One fantastic author.

An even better friend.

Thanks, Anne, this one’s for you!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS much too late for a social call.

Briar Davenport crossed the entrance hall uneasily, the click of her heels on the dusty terrazzo tiles echoing in the lofty space while a premonition that all was not right in the world played havoc with her nerves.

Late-night visitors rarely meant good news.

The chimes rang out yet again and she reined in an unfamiliar urge to yell for whoever it was to hang on. But Davenports never yelled through doors—even when their senses were strained tight from trying to work out which family heirloom to send next to auction—it was bad enough that these days they were reduced to opening them.

Her hand hovered over the door handle for a moment while she took a deep breath, trying to calm her frayed nerves and think logically. It didn’t have to be bad news. Sooner or later their run of bad luck had to change. Why not tonight?

Then she pulled open the door and bad luck just got worse.

‘You!’

Diablo Barrentes leant into the open doorway, one arm propped high above her head, his black-clad torso arching over hers, and it was all she could do not to reel back from the sheer force of his hard-wired body. In the spill of the entry lighting he looked more like an extension of the night sky than a man—dark and filled with untold dangers. Tonight his shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail that did nothing to detract from his masculinity and everything to emphasize his dramatic buccaneer looks, but it was the flash of triumph in those black-lit eyes, the slight upturn at the corners of his full lips, that turned her thoughts to sudden panic and had her fingers itching to jam that piece of timber right back where it had come from.

Instead she forced herself to stand her ground, jagging her chin higher as if it might increase her already not insubstantial height. In heels her eyes fell but an inch short of his.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m surprised,’ he said, one side of his mouth rising higher as if amused by her efforts to match his height. ‘I half expected you to slam the door in my face.’

Oh, Lord, the last thing she needed was to be reminded of how much her fingers itched to do just that. Already her grip on the door had turned her knuckles white as she schooled her voice to clipped civility. ‘Then I don’t need to tell you you’re not welcome here.’

‘Still, I am here.’

Four words, four simple words, and yet spoken in the remnants of that rich Castilian accent like a threat. Fear tracked a spidery path through her veins.

‘Why?’

‘And how delightful to see you too, Briar,’ he said, ignoring her question while emphasizing her incivility. But being polite was hardly a concern to her right now. Not when his accent curled around her name as if he were devouring it.

As if he were devouring her.

She shivered. If he thought that, then he was definitely reading the wrong menu.

‘Believe me,’ she squeezed out, battling to keep her voice even, ‘the pleasure is all yours.’

He laughed, barely more than a chuckle, a low sound that rumbled, somehow insinuating itself into her flesh and right through to her bones.

‘Sí,’ he agreed, his eyes making no apology as they traversed her length, all the way from her eyes, searing a trail over her curves and down her designer denim-clad legs to her pink leather boots, and then all the way up again.

The slow way.

The hot way.

His eyes, heavy with raw heat and firm possession, finally returned to hers and it was all she could do to remember to breathe.

‘It’s been my pleasure, indeed,’ he murmured.

Anger bubbled to the surface with her very next intake of air, overtaking the slow sizzle his hooded gaze had left in its wake. How dared he look at her that way—as if he owned her? He had no right! Diablo Barrentes was kidding himself if he ever thought he would possess her. He’d never even come close.

Even so, she couldn’t stop herself crossing her arms over her chest. If her nipples looked anywhere near as rock-hard as they felt, he would be in no doubt as to how that seemingly lazy once-over had affected her, and she didn’t want him to know about it. She would rather not have to acknowledge that fact herself.

‘You still haven’t told me why you’re here.’

‘I’ve come to see your father.’

‘I doubt it. I seriously doubt my father would ever want to see you again—not after everything you’ve done to undermine his business and ruin our lives in the process.’

He shrugged, lifting his thick dark eyebrows in a way that told her he didn’t care what she thought, infuriating her even more.

‘Your doubts are not my concern. My business, however, is, and right now you are preventing me from conducting that business. So, if you’ll just move aside?’

She straightened, not budging an inch. ‘It’s late. And, even if it weren’t, you’re wasting your time. You’re the last person my father would want to do business with.’

His jaw shifted sideways as he leaned forward, his black eyes coming closer.

‘Then obviously you have no idea what your father is capable of.’

His warm breath brushed her face, testosterone laced with coffee overlaid with something far more potent—

Was it ruthlessness?

Or cruelty? And for the first time her fear became tangible. Now it wasn’t only the sight of him or the sound of his hard words in a smooth accent that she had to deal with; now she had the very essence of him assailing her lungs, assaulting her senses, testing her sanity.

And it was too much.

In spite of the balmy autumn night she could feel the heated moisture break out on her forehead; she could feel every muscle tightening in preparation for fight or flight.

What had brought this man here tonight? Why would he possibly think he would be offered entrée into their house—after doing his utmost to bring her family and two hundred years of history crumbling down with them?

Right now, it didn’t matter. Because there was one thing she registered instinctively—that, whatever this man was doing here, no good could come of it. And he’d made her family suffer enough as it was.

The answer was as patently simple as it was critical. Diablo Barrentes wouldn’t cross this threshold, not while she rode shotgun.

‘Briar? Who is it, dear?’

Surprised her mother was still awake, she still only let her head tilt slightly in the direction of her voice. There was no way she was taking her eyes off the dark nemesis before her. ‘It’s no one important. I’ve taken care of it.’ And with a rush of satisfaction she reached for the handle and attempted to ram the door home.

She didn’t even come close. Like a lightning bolt, his hand shot out, palm flat and long fingers outstretched, arresting the path of the heavy door dead. Then, with just one cast-iron shove, he pushed it right back and clean out of her grasp.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she cried out in both fury and shock as the door swung wildly past her, leaving him standing exposed in the open doorway like some angry black spider determined that its meal was not going to escape.

‘Briar!’ her mother cried, her voice tense and sharp as a rapier. ‘Let Mr Barrentes in.’

She turned to face her mother fully this time. ‘You can’t be serious. Not after—’

‘I am serious,’ the older woman said in barely more than a whisper, one arm held tight around her chest, the fingers of her other hand nervously clutching at her throat. ‘Your father’s been expecting him. Come in, Mr Barrentes. Cameron’s waiting for you in the library. I apologise for my daughter’s lack of decorum.’

Briar reeled as if she’d been slapped in the face. But her mother had a point. So much for her Davenport breeding; it had gone out the door the moment she’d opened it, no match at all for dealing with a man like Diablo.

‘It’s quite all right,’ he said, striding past Briar’s stunned form with barely an acknowledgement. ‘I find there’s nothing I enjoy more these days than a woman with spirit.’

Her mother closed her eyes and seemed to sway on her feet for a moment. ‘Quite,’ she said, after recovering her composure, not quite able or willing to meet her daughter’s concerned gaze. ‘Well, if you come this way, Mr Barrentes…’

‘What’s going on?’

Carolyn Davenport turned to her daughter, or rather almost to her, focusing on a point somewhere over her shoulder. ‘Perhaps you could close the door, dear; there’s a real chill in the air tonight. Then maybe you could get the men some coffee and brandy? I’m sure they have plenty to discuss.’

Her mother had to be kidding. If there was a chill in the air it had more to do with the black cloud she’d just admitted into the house rather than the ambient temperature. And be damned if she’d serve what little was left of the good brandy to the likes of Diablo Barrentes, the man who’d almost single-handedly cost one of the oldest and most respected Sydney families its fortune.

‘I’ll get my father anything he needs,’ she conceded, swinging the door closed, realising she was abandoning any hint of good breeding and yet unable to stop herself. ‘But I’m sorry, Mother, Diablo can fend for himself.’

Half an hour later she was still simmering over the presence of their unwanted guest when her mother found her sitting alone in the kitchen.

‘Has he gone?’ she asked.

Her mother shook her head and Briar felt her blood pressure spike before forcing her attention back to the screen. Not that she could concentrate when her head was full of one take-no-prisoners Spaniard. Damn the man! What could he possibly want of her father now? There was nothing left for him to take. Even the family home—the last remaining asset—was now mortgaged to the hilt.

‘What are you doing, sweetheart?’ her mother asked as she came around behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and stroking with gentle pressure. Briar smiled as she leaned her head into the caress, feeling some of her tension dissipate under her mother’s touch.

‘It’s that schedule I’ve been working on, listing the furniture and artworks you and Dad decided you could bear to part with. I’ve spoken to the auctioneer and, rather than sending everything off in one big lot, it looks like if we send the right pieces to auction every two or three months, we’ll still have enough to meet our commitments.’

‘Oh? Is that right?’ Her mother’s hand stopped moving and she shifted to the stool alongside, the tight frown that marred her brow as she contemplated the detail of the spreadsheet’s contents adding at least ten years to her age.

And suddenly Briar regretted her earlier behaviour at the front door. Carolyn Davenport had been barely more than a shell of her former self lately, her skin pale and drawn, her emotions brittle. The stress of their money troubles was taking its toll on all of them, but on none more so than on her mother, who was still feeling the loss of her eldest child two years before. Almost too reluctant to venture downtown any more, she’d been constantly humiliated by the newspaper articles documenting the family’s downfall and the endless pitying looks from one-time society friends. And, despite the provocation of the most arrogant male in the world, Briar hadn’t helped the situation by behaving more like a teenager in a snit than the twenty-four-year-old woman she was.

With a few quick clicks of her finger, she saved the spreadsheet and closed down the computer. Being reminded of the family heirlooms that would soon no longer be theirs was no doubt the last thing her mother needed right now. ‘Don’t worry; I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks. We’ll work our way through this, I know we will. And if that job I was promised at the gallery comes through, things will be even better.’

Her mother placed her hand over hers and patted it lightly. ‘You’re so good to do all of this. And with any luck we might not have to sell everything after all. Your father’s hoping there might just be another way out of this mess.’

Briar swivelled around to face her mother, her hands held palms up. ‘But what else is there? We’ve done the rounds of the banks and the financiers; we’ve tried everything going. I thought we’d run out of options.’

‘All except one,’ she said, her eyes taking on a sudden spark. ‘Just today it seems we’ve been offered something of a lifeline. The loans paid off and a settlement—a large one, enough for us to get the staff back and live like we used to, without having to sell everything and scrimp and save. It’ll be just like before—like nothing ever happened. Except…’ Her mother’s fast and furious speech ran down as she turned her head in the direction of the library, a look of bleakness extinguishing the spark, turning her eyes grey and cold, frosty needles ascended Briar’s spine.

‘Oh, no! You can’t mean Diablo? Please tell me this has nothing to do with why that man is here tonight.’

Her mother didn’t answer and despair pumped unchallenged through her system. She launched herself off her stool and put her hands up in protest. ‘But this is all his fault! He’s almost single-handedly brought about the downfall of the Davenport family. Why should he then turn around and offer help? It makes no sense. There’s nothing left for him to take.’

Her mother stood and came closer, tucking one renegade tendril of hair behind her daughter’s ear before running her hands down her arms, squeezing them at her elbows. ‘Right now we’re hardly in a position to be choosy.’

‘But he’s so awful! The way he swaggers around Sydney like he owns the place.’

Her mother raised her eyebrows on a breath. ‘Well, these days that’s probably somewhere close to the truth.’ She smiled weakly. ‘But just think, he can’t be all bad. He must have some redeeming features, don’t you think?’

Briar snorted. ‘They’re well and truly hidden if he has.’

‘And he is a very good-looking man.’

‘I guess, if you go for the bandit look.’ She frowned, the direction her mother’s arguments were taking suddenly niggling at her. ‘Anyway, we’re talking about Diablo Barrentes. The same Diablo Barrentes who has set out to bring down the Sydney establishment, and the Davenport family first and foremost. What’s it matter what he loo—’

‘Briar—’ her father’s gruff tones interrupted them from behind ‘—I’m glad you’re still up. Can you spare me a minute or two?’

She breathed a sigh of relief. Her father’s appearance meant Diablo must have gone at last, and good riddance to him. She was sick of feeling on tenterhooks in her own home. And at least now she might find out what was going on. If her father was planning on accepting help from Diablo, she’d have a few things to say about it first.

‘You go with your father,’ her mother urged, her smile too thin, too unconvincing, as she gestured towards the door. ‘We’ve finished anyway.’

She caught the loaded look that passed between her parents. Something was going on. Why didn’t her parents look happier if there was a lifeline in the offing?

Or were Barrentes’s terms too costly?

A sick feeling snaked in her gut. Nothing would surprise her. Diablo would be sure to want to stick the boot in now that he had her father down.

Damn the man. She’d do everything possible to ensure they could avoid his greedy clutches.

‘Actually,’ her mother piped up, catching her daughter’s hand in a sudden change of heart, ‘maybe I should come along with you.’

‘No!’ insisted Cameron, insinuating himself between the two women and breaking their grasp. ‘You stay here,’ he directed at his wife. ‘This won’t take long. And then I could probably use another coffee.’

‘So are you ever going to tell me what’s going on?’ Briar asked her father a few moments later, wishing he would say something—anything—as he led her through the house. His silence was unsettling. ‘What did Diablo want?’

Just outside the library he paused and turned to her, taking both her hands in his, the look on his face almost one of defeat, and this close up she was shocked to see how dark and heavy those circles under his eyes really were. It might be late but it was clear the stress of their circumstances was eating away at him, too. From inside the library the old grandfather clock ticked away the seconds ominously.

‘Briar,’ he said on a sigh, ‘before we go any further, I want you to know that I didn’t want this to happen, you have to believe that.’ He peered at her so intently she could feel his utter desperation, his bony hands cold and unsettlingly clammy around her own.

She swallowed. ‘You didn’t mean what to happen?’

‘I need you help,’ he continued, evading her question, ‘even though I know that what I am asking of you may be too much.’

‘It’s okay,’ she replied with a confidence she didn’t feel, squeezing his hands back. She tried desperately to raise a smile but a racing heart and a mind filled with shadows and creeping foreboding wouldn’t let her. ‘So what is it you want me to do?’

A dark flicker of movement wrenched her attention away from her father as a prickle of awareness skittered along her skin.

Diablo! So he hadn’t left after all! And now he stood leaning casually against the doorway. Although the look on his face was anything but.

Victory, his features proclaimed.

It was there in the dangerous glint in his eyes. It was there in the voracious tilt of his smile. And it was there in the menacing darkness of his attitude.

‘It’s really quite simple,’ Diablo announced, answering for her father, his teeth flashing dangerously as he levered himself away from the door and closer to her.

‘Your father merely expects you to marry me.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘IF THAT’S your idea of a joke, Mr Barrentes…’ Briar’s voice sounded strangely calm in spite of the explosions going off behind her eyes ‘…I’d say you were seriously overdue for a sense of humour transplant.’

He laughed. Or rather he rumbled, that low rolling sound that vibrated uncomfortably through her.

She bristled, trying to dispel the rush of heat that came with his proximity. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see the joke.’

His mouth quietened, his eyes stilled. On hers. ‘That’s because it is no joke. Your father has agreed that you will marry me.’

For a moment she was speechless. But only for a moment. Then it was her turn to laugh, wiping away his wild assertions with a sweep of one hand. ‘You’re crazy! Dad, tell him how ludicrous he sounds. There’s no way you’d ever expect me to do something so absurd as to marry someone like him.’ She looked at her father, inviting him to agree—imploring him to agree—but her father said nothing, his eyes more desolate than she’d ever seen them, and the laughter died on her lips just as hope died in her heart.

‘Briar,’ he said in the bare bones of a whisper, reaching for her shoulder, ‘you have to understand—’

A hitched moment of realisation passed and then, ‘No!’ She recoiled from both his touch and from what his eyes told her. ‘There’s nothing to understand.’

‘Please,’ her father pleaded, ‘before you mother hears us.’ He motioned them both into the room before closing the door behind them. ‘You must listen to me.’

Her mind a blur, she let herself be bustled inside the room before she turned on her father, blurting out just how she felt. ‘How can I listen when what you say makes no sense?’

‘And how can you say it makes no sense,’ Diablo argued from the sidelines, one arrogant eyebrow cocked, ‘if you don’t listen?’

She snapped her head around in his direction. ‘If I’d wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it.’

He didn’t look nonplussed. Far from it. In fact he looked altogether too pleased with himself as he leant back against her father’s desk, his hands planted wide either side of him, pulling his shirt taut across a muscled chest that looked far better than any man’s had a right to. The open V of his shirt revealed olive skin that was impossibly smooth, almost glossy, and a hint of dark chest hair. She forced her eyes higher, aware that she’d been staring. Her mother was right. Diablo Barrentes was one good-looking man. Why did someone so detestable have to be blessed with such good looks and such a killer body? There was clearly no justice in this world.

He smiled then, as if amused by what her face betrayed of her thoughts. ‘You are as prickly as your name suggests, my wild rose.’

‘I am not your wild rose! Don’t you understand? I don’t want to marry you. And there’s no way on earth you can make me.’

She turned her attention back to her father as another cog suddenly slipped into place. Suddenly her mother’s ‘he must have some redeeming features’ discussion made sense, though not the sudden secrecy. ‘What’s this really about? Why did you make us come into the library? Mother knows about this arrangement, doesn’t she?’

Her father looked grey. ‘She knows something of the proposal, it’s true.’

Briar’s gut churned. ‘Something of the proposal’? What more could there possibly be? What she was hearing already set her stomach roiling. And the very concept that her future had been mapped out by her own parents—the two people she’d always assumed loved her and wanted the best for her—was too much.

‘So you’ve discussed this then, between yourselves like some kind of domestic transaction. I can just imagine how the conversation went: “Shall we renovate the beach house? Maybe trade up to the new Mercedes? Oh, and while we’re at it, maybe we can marry Briar off to Diablo Barrentes.”’

She swivelled her head and firmly fixed Diablo in her sights. ‘You’ve worked out between yourselves that you’re going to marry me off to the person this family detests more than anyone in the world. How could you do that?’

Diablo didn’t flinch at her words, his eyes merely glinting menacingly. Her father, however, was getting more agitated.

‘Briar, calm down, we have no choice!’

‘There’s always a choice! Like I have a choice. Because there’s no way I’m marrying Diablo Barrentes. I wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on earth.’ She swung around in Diablo’s direction and looked square into his dark fathomless eyes. ‘I’d rather die!’

This time the merest tic in his cheek was the only indication that her words had met their mark. ‘It’s drama you studied at university, then,’ he delivered in a tone that told her how unimpressed he was with the proceedings. ‘I was obviously under a misapprehension.’

‘I studied fine arts,’ she hissed. ‘Not that it’s any business of yours.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You surprise me, given you have such a flair for the dramatic.’

‘And you have such a flair for the insane! How could you possibly imagine I would marry you? What were you thinking? That you could marry your way into Sydney society? It won’t work. People aren’t going to forget how you rode roughshod over everyone in your path to get to where you are today.’

He surveyed her through half-hooded eyes that failed to hide those dark simmering depths. ‘You resent me for building my own fortune, instead of having it bestowed on me through some accident of birth like you and your kind?’

‘I resent you because you’ve built your fortune by pulling others down, my father included.’

‘Is that so? And yet now I’m offering your father a chance to get re-established. He can see the sense in the offer. And yet still you resent me.’

‘I will always resent you.’

She turned in frustration to her father. ‘Please, tell me this is all a joke. You can’t really expect me to marry this arrogant Spanish import. This is twenty-first century Sydney, after all. We don’t do arranged marriages!’

Her father shook his head sadly. ‘Briar…’ His voice choked off as he sank down into an armchair, dropping his head into his hands. ‘Oh God, I’ve been such a fool.’

She rushed to him and knelt at his side, latching both hands on to his forearm, willing him some of her strength and hope. ‘Dad, listen to me. We don’t need Diablo’s money. I’ve got it all worked out. We can survive just like we planned—with my job and by auctioning the good furniture periodically. We don’t need to go crawling to people like him. We don’t need his money.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ her father murmured, shaking his head from side to side.

‘It is that easy,’ she assured him. ‘We don’t have to make this deal. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet—because we can survive without it. So what that we won’t have servants?—We can cope. We’ve been coping. And I’ll have a job soon.’

‘We’re not coping! Look at the state of the house—it’s killing your mother that she can’t keep up with everything.’

‘Who cares if the floors don’t get cleaned every day? Things will get better, you’ll see.’

Her father grabbed her by the shoulders, his desperate fingers clawing into her flesh so hard it hurt. With his hurt, she knew. ‘No, it’s not that easy,’ he reiterated. ‘You have to listen. We have no money left. No credit. Nothing.’

‘We do,’ she argued, wanting to stop his pain. ‘Or we will, and enough to keep us going and to get us through these times. We don’t need anyone else’s money, let alone his. Let me go and get the schedule I’ve been working on. I’ll prove it to you. I’ve worked it all out.’

‘Briar,’ was all he said as he dropped his grip to her hands, holding on to them for all he was worth, not letting her rise. ‘Thank you. You’re such a good child. I’m so proud of you.’

She looked into her father’s eyes and saw his approval beaming out at her. She relished the moment as he pulled her close, wrapping her securely in his arms, and for a moment they were the only two people in the room. Nobody else counted. Nobody else mattered. Her father thought he had been carrying the entire burden of their debt on his shoulders. Now he knew that Briar had also been searching for solutions. And everything would look different when he’d seen her calculations. She’d soon show him they didn’t need to resort to people like Diablo for the funds to ensure their future.

‘So when are you going to tell her?’ jarred a voice from outside her perfect understanding. And she stilled within the circle of her father’s arms as dread turned her blood to ice.

‘Tell me what?’ she asked huskily, drawing back to search her father’s face. What the hell else could there be?

He looked down at her with his empty eyes and it was impossible not to feel his despair drape around her, damp and pungent. ‘There’s nothing left.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, willing life into his eyes, searching for the merest flicker of hope. ‘“Nothing left”?’

‘It’s all gone. All of it.’

‘But we’ve still got the house and the furniture! I told you…’

But, even as she was speaking, his head was shaking from side to side.

‘Gone,’ her father said. ‘All that was left is gone. It’s Diablo’s now. Everything. The house, the furniture. Everything.’

Fury took charge of her senses. She rose up and wheeled around. ‘You bastard!’ She moved closer. Never before had she had an urge to tear someone limb from limb but tonight was becoming a night for firsts. Her first arranged marriage. Her first fiancé. Why not her first homicide? She lifted one hand, resisting the desire to lash out at his smug face, instead curling it into a fist between them.

‘You scheming bastard. Not content to obliterate four generations of work, you couldn’t let up until you had taken every last thing, even our family home, and consigned us to the gutter. What a hero. Do you feel proud of yourself now?’

In the space of a blink he’d ensnared her wrist, the heat from his grip like a brand on her arm.

‘I’m offering a way to keep you all out of that gutter. I’ve told your father—he can keep the house and everything in it along with a sizeable lump of cash every year. All you have to do is be that good daughter your father seems to think you are. All you have to do is marry me and all your family’s unfortunate financial problems will be a thing of the past.’

The grip around her wrist tightened, forcing her towards him, closer to his dark eyes and his tight body and his masculine heat. If his gaze at the door had been sizzling hot, his hold and his closeness was like an incendiary device set to slow burn. Already her skin sizzled into life; how long would it take to get to flash-point?

‘Put like that, it seems you leave me no choice,’ she said through gritted teeth, watching his eyes flare with an anticipated victory.

‘I’m glad you’re willing to see reason at last,’ he said, loosening his grip.

‘Oh, yes, I see reason. I’ll take the gutter over you any day!’

She took advantage of his shock by wrenching her arm free, massaging the burning skin as she wheeled away.

‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for!’ Diablo countered. ‘You have no idea what it’s like to live in poverty, always desperate to find your next meal, never able to make ends meet, and with your pampered upbringing you won’t survive ten minutes out in the real world.’

She spun on her heel, lifted her chin determinedly. ‘Oh, we’ll survive.’

He scoffed. ‘What—you see yourself as the noble poor? Allow me to let you in on a secret—there are no noble poor. There are only the poor, the hungry and the desperate. There’s no place for nobility in that line-up. The gutter is no fairy tale romantic notion.’

She regarded him levelly. ‘What a coincidence,’ she mustered. ‘Neither, it seems, is marrying you.’ She turned to where her father still sat, looking like an empty shell of a man, a fallen ruler, vanquished and heartsick for what he’d lost, and pain for what he was feeling now encompassed her like a tide rolling in.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t do it. I just can’t marry him.’

Her father nodded his head and she knew that it was not in agreement but in resignation. He seemed to shrink before her eyes. ‘I understand,’ he croaked. ‘I should never have had to ask you. It’s all my fault—my fault. Now I just have to find a way of telling your mother that we no longer have a home.’

Briar’s heart plummeted.

‘Oh, God, you mean she doesn’t know? I thought she must have been in on this crazy idea.’

‘She doesn’t know we’ve lost Blaxlea. I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily. But now…’

‘Oh, Dad, no…’

The grandfather clock clicked loudly in the ensuing silence as the mechanism for the chimes kicked in, the prelude for ringing out the midnight hour.

Diablo strode between them. ‘Can you do that to your mother, then? Deny her the chance to see out her days in this house rather than some doss-house? What kind of a daughter are you really?’

She said nothing, just let her eyes tell him how much she hated him while inside her heart ached for her mother. Because Diablo was right—how could she do that to her mother after what she’d been through? After losing Nat, then the business and along with it their fortune, to lose the family home would kill her.

‘I can see you need more time to think about it,’ Diablo decided. ‘So I’m prepared to give you one more chance. You have until the clock strikes twelve to decide once and for all. Marry me and your family live in comfort for the rest of their days. Turn me down and you’ll be out of this house by the end of the week.’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘Watch me,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if you have anything left to pack.’

‘Even you couldn’t be so cold-hearted!’

‘It’s not up to me any more,’ he said as the clock finished its chimes and made the first of twelve strikes. ‘It’s up to you what happens next. Luxury or poverty, it’s your call. Will you abandon your parents in their hour of need or will you restore your parents to the life they desire?’

The clock struck again. ‘That’s two,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re thinking.’

Oh, she was thinking all right. Panicked thoughts with no beginning and no end and no hope. And, between them all, the clock struck again.

Would it kill her to marry him? Maybe not, but there was no doubt it would definitely kill her mother to leave Blaxlea, her childhood home and the seat of her mother’s family for generations.

And would she ever forgive Briar for rejecting the financial lifeline that Diablo was now offering?

The clock struck again and she looked up in panic. Had she missed one? How much time was left? There was too much to consider.

Why, oh, why, did it all have to come down to her? Oh Nat, she pleaded, what should I do? But she knew without question that if her big brother had survived the crash that had cut short his life, he wouldn’t hesitate to help. He’d do whatever it took to help his parents out, even if it meant sacrificing his own career and his own future into the deal. So why did the thought of sacrificing her own chances seem so abhorrent? After all, all she had to do was to marry Diablo.

Marriage…

The clock sounded again, straining her nerves to breaking-point. It was almost time.

Marriage sounded so final. But then hadn’t she always planned on getting married one day? Indeed, she’d been groomed from the day she was born for being a society wife with a rich husband…Would it really matter if it was to Diablo? And it didn’t have to be for ever. He’d get sick of her before too long—she’d make sure of it—and then he’d have to agree to divorce her. How long would it take—one year? Two? She’d make sure there were no children to suffer in the fallout. And then she’d have her life back. It wouldn’t kill her. Marrying Diablo didn’t have to be a life sentence.

All too soon it was just an echo that rolled around the room. The clock had rung out for the last time. The witching hour was here—the time when bad things crawled out of the night and ruled supreme. Diablo, the Spanish devil, was nothing if not faithful to the old legends.

She looked across at her father, who sat there looking like the beaten man he was. He looked up at her as if he’d realised too that this was it, his eyes bearing a rare spark of defiance. ‘Don’t do it,’ he urged in a gruff entreaty as he rose to his feet, some measure of his fighting spirit renewed. ‘This is my fault—all of it. You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes. We’ll make it through somehow.’

She smiled and mouthed a silent thank you.

‘Well?’ demanded the Spanish devil, drawing closer, obviously impatient to seal the deal. ‘What have you decided?’

‘That I hate you,’ she snapped. ‘With all my heart and soul.’

He lifted a hand to her face quickly and she recoiled, but his touch, when it came, was surprisingly gentle as he ran the backs of his fingers along the line of her jaw. She shuddered at the sizzle of flesh against flesh as his eyes bored into hers, rendering her breathless, unable to move. ‘Hate is such a useless waste of passion.’ He sighed and turned away and she dragged in air hungrily.

‘But so be it. Under the circumstances,’ he stated coldly, ‘I want you all packed and out of here by the end of the week.’

‘No!’

He spun around. ‘What do you mean, “no”? My terms were clear.’

‘It means we won’t be leaving.’

‘Briar,’ her father implored, ‘don’t do it. You can’t—’

Diablo held up one hand that silenced her father in a heartbeat as he scrutinised her face, the barest hint of a smile returning as the dark vacuum of his bottomless eyes sucked in hers. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted.

She took a deep breath and prayed for strength. Because she needed strength if she was going to do this. And she had no choice but to do this.

For my mother, she told herself, for my family.

‘I’ll do it,’ she whispered, feeling like a swimmer out of her depth, going down for the third and final time.

‘I’ll marry you.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘WHAT’S taking you so long?’ asked Carolyn Davenport, bustling with excitement as she swept into Briar’s room, holding her turquoise gown’s ample skirts up high and trailing a silky layered train in her wake. ‘It’s just fabulous downstairs,’ she announced. ‘Everyone’s here. Even with the short notice, I think the whole of Sydney society has turned out.’

Only out of morbid curiosity, thought Briar cynically as she applied the finishing touches to her make-up. No matter what story Diablo’s spin doctors had concocted to release to the press, there wasn’t a chance anyone believed theirs was a love match.

Anyone, that was, apart from her mother.

Carolyn Davenport had taken the news of the impending nuptials like the true society doyenne she was, swinging into mother-of-the-bride mode as if she was born to it. Any hint that she’d known about a link between her daughter’s rushed marriage and the fact that now suddenly they had servants again, with the funds to pay for them and much more besides, like her brand new Lisa Ho gown, for example, seemed to have been conveniently deleted from her memory. Her mother seemed all too ready to believe in the whole sorry fairy tale.

‘Fairy tale romance’, my eye, Briar thought, reflecting on the latest headline as she snapped the blusher compact closed. But even the business pages hadn’t been immune to the press bombardment.

‘Marriage Merger’ had been their angle—‘a blending of new money with old, the brash success of the young entrepreneur merged with the proven track record of the establishment’.

How the papers would lap it up if she came clean with her own version of the headline—‘Blackmail Bride—sold to save her family from financial ruin’. But that story would never come out, no matter how true.

‘You could do with more colour than that,’ her mother protested, as Briar dropped the blusher back into a drawer. ‘You look so pale tonight—I knew we should have got your make-up done professionally. Are you feeling nervous?’

‘Not really.’ Feeling sick, more like it. Briar looked briefly back in the mirror to check—even against the white silk of her simple toga-inspired gown she looked pale—but then, what make-up was going to be a match for her mood? There was only so much you could do with powder and paint.

‘Never mind,’ her mother said, when it was clear her daughter was going to make no attempt to redress the issue. ‘I’m sure a glass of champagne will soon put some colour in your cheeks.’

Briar’s stomach clamped down in rebellion. Champagne was the last thing she needed. After all, tonight was hardly a celebration.

‘Come on, then,’ her mother urged. ‘Diablo’s waiting for you downstairs. Just wait till you see him; he looks so dashing tonight.’

‘That’s nice,’ she responded absently, slipping her feet into heels. Who cared what he looked like? He could be the most handsome man in the world, but it would still be the devil in disguise waiting for her. And frankly, he could just keep on waiting. Just because she’d agreed to marry him didn’t mean that she’d be dancing to his tune any time soon.

She’d done a lot of thinking over the last two weeks and she’d worked out her own musical score for this marriage. Diablo craved respectability and an entrée to Sydney society. He didn’t care about her and he almost certainly didn’t even like her. Given that the feeling was mutual, it shouldn’t take much to convince him that the best way to make this marriage work was for them both to lead separate lives. At least until he tired of her and agreed to a divorce. That way life might be bearable. She could put up with a year or two of inconvenience if she knew that at the other side of it she’d be free.

‘Oh, hasn’t Carlos done such a wonderful job with your hair?’ her mother exclaimed with delight. ‘It suits that gown perfectly. Although I still don’t understand why you wanted to wear that old thing. It is a special occasion, after all.’

Not that special. And this ‘old thing’ was barely twelve months old and only worn once as it was. But still, she turned and smiled at her mother’s never-ending enthusiasm. Someone had to be enthusiastic about this wedding and who better than her mother? Already she looked so much better than she had just two short weeks ago when this crazy marriage plan had been unleashed, her features less drawn, her frown vanquished. It wasn’t just that their financial situation had taken a turn for the better, she knew, but because her mother genuinely seemed to want this marriage to work out.

‘I’m just saving my splurge for the big event,’ she told her, with a passion she didn’t feel, taking her mother’s arm and pulling her in close. ‘Come on, let’s go meet these guests.’

The champagne flowed so freely it seemed the huge ballroom was awash with it. Champagne, old money and the celebrity A-List blended together in the Blaxlea ballroom, which fairly gleamed since the team of cleaners Diablo had organised to go over the place had done their bit. Huge arrangements of flowers were doubled in the enormous mirrors, their colours reflected in the crystal chandeliers, while a full wall of feature windows welcomed in the diamond lights of Sydney Harbour at night.

It was some place all right and it could have been his outright—indeed it had been, for just one night. But he was happy with his deal—they could keep the title to the house. Tonight he would gain himself something much more important than just bricks and mortar and a few hundred feet of prime Sydney Harbour frontage. Tonight he’d cement his place and his future with the society that had resisted him for so long.

Already he could sense the change in the way he was perceived, by the constant string of congratulations he’d received from people who would have crossed the street to avoid him in the past, as he stood alongside Cameron Davenport waiting for the ladies to appear. In marrying Briar there was no way they could ignore his hold on the Sydney property industry any more. Now he had the Davenport seal of approval. Now there would be no stopping him.

How fortunate that a man so unskilled in the ways of his business should have had such a suitable daughter. For there was no one he’d rather cement his future with than Briar Davenport. She would make the perfect wife. The bonus was she would also make a pleasant bed-warmer. Siring children with her would be no hardship.

There was a stir amongst the crowd before everyone hushed and his eyes drifted upwards to where the two women stood at the top of the stairs, the older woman in plumage peacock-bold, the daughter so deathly pale as to render any other mere mortal invisible.

But not Briar. Her skin might be pale but her eyes shone like dream stones, amber and intense. And the dress might be colourless but it could not disguise the exquisitely feminine form beneath. A tiny waist that only accentuated the lushness of her breasts and hips, and legs that went forever and then some.

Briar. Like the rose that grew wild, spreading branches rambling, soon she would be clambering all over him. Already he could feel those long limbs wrapped around him, clinging to him, supported by him. Already he could hear her crying out, begging him for release. His body stirred in anticipation as the women slowly descended the wide staircase.

Oh, no, siring children with her would be no hardship at all.

The women reached the foot of the stairs. Carolyn took her husband’s arm. Diablo held out his hand for Briar and for the first time she looked at him.

Something jolted through her as their eyes connected, a prelude for the bolt of electricity that was unleashed when their hands touched. His dark eyes narrowed and regarded her strangely.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Like a virgin sacrifice about to be tossed to the lions.’

How appropriate, she thought, though hardly willing to buy into that particular discussion. ‘And you,’ she replied, ‘look like the proverbial cat that got the cream.’

He drew her hand closer, pressing his mouth, warm and moist, to her skin while his eyes held hers. ‘Not yet; so far I only have the unopened package. But, I must confess, I’m looking forward to opening it up and then—’ his eyes narrowed and focused like dark torchlight ‘—and then sampling the treasure within.’

She dragged in air and turned her head away, suddenly too uncomfortable, too giddy, too hot. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her that there was plenty of colour in her cheeks now. Diablo’s words had achieved in an instant what the finest cosmetics in the world had failed to do.

Yet it wasn’t just his words heating her body. Her mother hadn’t been exaggerating. Tonight he looked magnificent in clothes that would have made a lesser man look ridiculous and yet on Diablo merely accentuated his masculine power. A snow-white shirt contrasted with his smooth olive skin and black fitted trousers that finished above hand-stitched leather boots. Over it all he wore a long black jacket with a Nehru collar that emphasized his long, lean length. With his hair tied back, all he needed was a gold hoop in his earlobe and he could have been a pirate out on the town celebrating his latest conquest.

And, if that wasn’t enough, just breathing the same air, laced with the heady tang of his aftershave, was like getting a shot of testosterone.

And damn him but somehow that scent was like a lure, snagging on her defences, tangling with her resistance. Purposefully she stiffened her spine. She would not be attracted to such a man. It couldn’t happen.

Someone—her father—made a toast and the room erupted into applause and congratulations. Briar made out not a word of it as she scanned the crowded ballroom without taking in a thing. She was too busy working out what to do next. They would have to talk—privately—and soon. Diablo had to be made to see under what terms she was prepared to marry him and that those terms in no way included him sampling anything!

‘Darling? Briar?’

It was hearing her name that brought her back and she turned to him, ready to protest that she was hardly his darling, but something in his eyes stopped her in her tracks.

‘Didn’t you hear the guests? They’re waiting for us to seal our betrothal with a kiss.’

And, before she could protest this latest indignity, that there was no way she would kiss him, least of all in front of two hundred people, his mouth was on hers and any protest was muffled, melted, by the sheer impact of his lips.

They were soft, she realised with surprise—soft but sure. He looked so powerful dressed as he was all in black, hard and unyielding, and yet his lips moved over hers with an elegance of movement and a grace that was as surprising as it was intoxicating.

Heat rolled through her in waves, a surging tide of warmth that crashed and foamed into her extremities and set her flesh to tingling and her protests all but forgotten. The room shrank around them until there was just this kiss, these sensations, this mouth, weaving magic on hers.

And then he lifted his mouth from hers and sounds and colour and people invaded her numbed senses once more. She blinked as the crowd cheered; she blinked as her state of daze sloughed away; she blinked as Diablo smiled back at her, success lining that passionate slash of mouth, as she realised what she’d done.

Dear God! She’d let Diablo Barrentes kiss her, in public. And his expression told her he was gloating about it. She lifted one hand, touched the back of it to lips that still hummed from his touch, but he stilled the movement, pulling her hand down within his.

‘You don’t wipe me away that easily.’

She didn’t doubt it, her mouth still full of the taste of him.

‘We have to talk,’ she croaked as her parents were absorbed into a circle of guests and a buzz of conversation went up all around them. ‘Tonight. In private.’

The spark in his eyes flared, one dark eyebrow lifted in surprise. ‘I did not expect you to be so accommodating quite so readily.’

Already rattled by his kiss, she was in no mood for his easy confidence.

‘We have to talk! We need to set down some ground rules for this arrangement.’

He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, handing her one. ‘Oh? That sounds very important.’ He took a bored sip of his wine that told her he thought it sounded anything but. ‘In that case we will talk. But later.’ He took her free hand, surrounding it in his warmth, and headed into the ballroom. ‘First the happy couple must mingle with our guests seeing they’ve come especially to wish us well.’

‘You mean they’ve come to knit at my execution. They’re nothing but ghouls, wanting to witness the ultimate degradation of one of their own.’

He stopped dead and lowered his head to hers, his body close, his voice a clipped whisper in her ear. ‘You had a choice. You did not have to agree to this.’

‘I had no choice, and you know it. You left me without any choice at all.’

‘Wrong,’ he hit back. ‘You could have walked away from me and—’ he swept his champagne-bearing hand around the room ‘—and all of this.’

‘I couldn’t—’

‘No! You could have, but you didn’t—for whatever reasons you had, you chose not to! And, having made your decision, I expect you to live with it. Now, I suggest we meet some of our guests.’

It was many hours and many more cases of champagne later that the party wound down, leaving only a few of Cameron’s colleagues, who seemed all too content to settle in for brandy and cigars in the library. Carolyn had excused herself an hour ago, pleading too much excitement, and Briar sympathised.

It had seemed an endless night, moving on from one group of people to the next, filling the time with the same small talk, trying to instil the right measure of excitement into her voice. She could see the doubts, she could see the cynical way half the attendees accepted the marriage, the questions they asked, aimed to find any chink in the story, seeking out the truth they knew was there if they just dug in the right place.

She could even see the looks of envy that were fired her way from women who obviously thought Diablo was some kind of catch. Just because he hadn’t been embraced by Sydney society didn’t mean there wasn’t a queue of women lining up to be photographed on his arm.

Diablo had carried himself through the night like a consummate professional, letting his answers trip from his tongue—their attraction had surprised them both but now they couldn’t wait to be married, and the icing on the cake was his father-in-law-to-be’s sudden change in fortunes.

And all the while he’d bluffed his way through the potential minefield of the evening, he’d never let her stray more than inches away, his arm proprietorialy looped over her shoulders or around her waist, or just reaching out to stroke her arm, or tuck a strand of hair away from her face. Briar, on the other hand, had smiled through gritted teeth at the pointed questions and gentle caresses and wished the whole evening over. After what felt like an eternity, thankfully, it nearly was.

‘Now, you wanted to talk.’

They had just bid farewell to the last of the departing guests at the front door. She shook her head, revelling in being able to put some distance between them at last. At last the pretence was over. But the strain of deflecting their barbed queries coupled with Diablo’s constant presence at her side had left her with such a thundering tension headache that all she wanted to do now was to go to bed. The last thing she wanted to face was an all too revealing statement of how she saw their marriage working.

‘It can wait,’ she conceded, rubbing her temples. ‘I’m just glad this farce of an evening is over.’

But Diablo was talking to a passing waiter and she didn’t think he’d heard her.

‘Why do you call it that?’ he said, turning back to her a moment later and proving her assumption wrong. ‘Our engagement is no farce, nor will our marriage be.’

‘You know it’s a farce! And having to pretend that this relationship is anything other than the business transaction it is, it’s just impossible.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You think this marriage is merely a business transaction?’

‘Isn’t it? It’s hardly a love match.’

He ushered her into a small sitting room opposite the ballroom just as the waiter returned, bearing a tray with two glasses, one a tumbler of what looked like Scotch, the other a tall frosty glass, its contents sparkling. He lifted them both from the tray and held out the tall glass as the waiter exited, closing the door behind them.

‘What is it?’ she said, not taking it.

‘Drink it. It’s an old Spanish headache remedy. It will make you feel better.’

Briar eyed the glass suspiciously. There was no telling what ingredients might go into making an ‘old Spanish headache remedy’. ‘And you care how I feel? I don’t think so.’

He shrugged, still holding the glass even as he took a sip from his own. ‘You would rather keep your headache?’

She murmured her thanks as she took the glass, aware she was being churlish, wondering at his ability to rub her up the wrong way. She sniffed tentatively at the glass, took a sip and, with surprise, instantly recognised the slightly bitter taste of paracetamol. ‘Old Spanish headache remedy’ indeed. She lifted her eyes to meet his and found them creased at the edges, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

He was laughing at her.

‘Now,’ he continued, ‘let’s stop wasting time. Tell me about these “ground rules” you’re so keen on implementing.’

‘Do we have to do this now?’ she protested, after finishing the contents of her glass. She wasn’t up to going ten rounds with anyone right now—let alone with Diablo. ‘It’s late. Can’t it wait?’

‘No. We will be married in two weeks and for much of that time I have business overseas. If you want anything incorporated into our pre-nuptial agreement, then you best tell me now.’

His cold words broke over her like a rogue wave, catching her unawares, tumbling her into the sandy depths. ‘What pre-nuptial agreement?’

‘Oh, come, come.’ He swept away her protest with one potent hand. ‘Surely you didn’t expect we would be married without one? As you say, ours is hardly a love match.’

For a moment she bristled at his ready agreement with her summation. Only then common sense prevailed. If his terms for this marriage could be in writing, so too could hers. Two could play at that game.

‘Of course, you’re right,’ she conceded, feeling a surge of confidence. ‘A pre-nuptial agreement would be for the best. Then we both know where we stand.’

He downed the rest of his drink in one mouthful and she watched as he swirled the smooth liquor around his mouth and kick back his jaw as he sent it southwards. And through it all his eyes smouldered, never shifting from her, as if weighing her up, evaluating her.

‘Sí, exactly. So tell me, Briar, where do you stand? What terms would you like included in the arrangement that outlines our future life together?’

‘You mean our marriage together,’ she corrected.

He smiled in a way that made her shiver. ‘I said what I meant. Now it’s your turn.’

She swung around and laced her fingers together, taking a couple of breaths before she was ready to face that bottomless dark gaze once more. She could feel her colour rising again and gave thanks for the low lighting. What she had to say was difficult enough without one hundred watts to illuminate it. ‘It’s really quite simple,’ she began, turning. ‘As you agreed, this marriage is hardly a love match. And, in that case, I think it’s sensible that we understand what we bring to the marriage—in your case, it’s money. In mine, it’s my family connections.’

She hesitated. Diablo’s body language as he sprawled into one of the wing-chairs and looked up at her was not giving anything away.

‘You think all you have to offer is your family connections?’

‘Isn’t that the reason you came up with this plan?’

He said nothing. Just surveyed her some more. In apparently excruciating detail. Her skin bristled with irritation under his deep-seated gaze, her senses fusing.

‘Go on,’ he urged at last, without bothering to answer her question.

‘So I’ve come up with a plan as to how we’re going to work this out. Clearly, we have no choice now but to go ahead with this marriage but, equally clearly, it’s obvious that neither of us is completely happy about the arrangement.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says both of us! We’re both doing this out of necessity, nothing more. And, like the performance I put on tonight, I want you to know that I’m prepared to put on a public face after we’re married that says we’re man and wife.’

‘How accommodating of you.’

‘Well, I understand how important this is to you—and to me and my family. I’ll do my best to make it work, to give a convincing performance as your wife.’

‘And in private?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You talked about how things would be in public. I’m wondering what you have in mind for our private life, when nobody else is watching.’

The heat continued to build under her skin. Of course, he wasn’t about to make this easy for her. She stiffened her back, kicking up her chin resolutely. ‘Then we live our lives separately, just as we have until entering this sham of a marriage. In public I agree to play your wife, even your adoring wife on the occasions that demand it. Out of the public eye we will lead separate lives. If you want this marriage of convenience to satisfy your need for connections, then so you shall have it, but you can’t expect anything more.’

His only response was a blink of his eyes, slow and loaded. Then he leaned forward.

‘And just how separate a life do you expect to lead while you occupy my bed?’

She snorted, outraged at the idea. ‘That’s just it. I won’t be. Given your track record, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding yourself someone who is more willing in that department. All that I ask is that you be discreet about it.’

He brushed aside her slur with a shake of his head. ‘You haven’t thought this through.’

‘Of course I have…’

‘No. Clearly you have missed something. For how are you to bear my children if you won’t at least share my bed? Or are you merely suggesting a much kinkier way of getting pregnant?’

The heat under her skin flared into a sizzle, spreading its warming tentacles out to her furthest regions. He wanted her pregnant? He wanted her to bear his children? But that would mean making love with him!

Making love with Diablo. What would that be like? All olive skin and lean muscled limbs, control and power and heat. She shivered.

‘In your dreams!’

Because there must be no children to complicate this marriage, no fallout for when they divorced, as she’d already decided they would.

His smile started and ended at his lips, his eyes refusing to get involved. ‘So you know about my dreams? How convenient. Because soon I won’t just have you in my dreams. Soon I will have you underneath me, in my bed—or out of it, as you clearly seem to be advocating.’

She battled with shredded senses to regain some kind of foothold in this argument. But she was slipping, losing grip. She was supposed to be stating her terms. When had this become a discussion about where the act of sex itself would take place?

‘Why do you try to twist everything I say? I’m trying to be reasonable here.’

‘And you think it’s not reasonable for a wife to bear her husband his child?’

‘In normal circumstances, certainly. But this marriage is in no way normal. You know as well as I do that this arrangement is no more than a contrivance, to pay off my father’s debts and to make you look better in the world.’

He paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘If you say so. But think how much better I will look with a wife and a clutch of children. They will be half Davenports after all, socially acceptable, born into the same society that tried to keep me out for so long. Because I’m not operating under any misapprehensions—tonight I was accepted because you were on my arm. But people don’t change their colours so quickly. If anything were to happen between you and me, if our marriage was to end acrimoniously without children, I have no doubt the door to Sydney high society would soon be slammed in my face once again. And I have no intention of that happening. Children are what I want and children are what you will give me.’

‘So that’s why you want me—as some kind of brood mare, to bear your devil’s spawn.’

The corners of his mouth curved up. ‘Are you so disappointed it’s not for your sweet nature?’

She fumed with irritation. ‘You can’t make me sleep with you.’

He was out of his chair and before her in an instant, his stance dangerous, confronting. He reached out to her and his attitude suddenly softened. He touched fingertips to her cheek, trailing down below her chin and raising it closer. His other hand slipped around her neck.

‘No,’ he whispered, so close to her face she was sure he must hear the slam of her blood in her veins. ‘But maybe I can convince you.’

She could hardly breathe, let alone respond, as his fingers stirred into a slow caress at her neck that left her dizzy and swaying on her heels, her headache all but forgotten under his searing touch on her bare skin. She gasped in air, his face so close that the taste of him filled her senses, and memories of those lips and a stolen kiss resurfaced into a solid, shocking need for a replay.

‘You’re trembling,’ he said.

‘I…I’m cold,’ she lied.

He drew her closer, pressing his lips first to one cheek and then the other before drawing back.

‘I think,’ he whispered, ‘it could be fun warming you up, convincing you that making love would not be such a bad thing between us.’

She pressed her eyes shut, but behind closed lids she could still see him, larger than life, supremely confident, could still feel the sensual dance of his fingers against the bare flesh of her back.

‘And if you’re not enough for me?’ she gasped breathlessly, looking up in challenge, desperate for any kind of defence against this slow, sensual onslaught. He answered by gathering her full length against him and shock rendered her speechless. Through their clothes, she could feel his power pulsing, straining, waiting to be unleashed.

Unleashed inside her!

It wasn’t just shock that kept her from protesting. It was fascination she felt, a desire to explore more of these new sensations, a yearning for something forbidden, something carnal that this man promised, that held her mute.

‘Oh,’ he murmured, tugging on one diamond stud in her ear with his teeth, ‘I will be more than enough.’

And then he let her go so swiftly she almost collapsed to the ground. She spun away, panting and dizzy, not doubting him, the throb of her pulse echoing in newly awakened flesh, already aching and ready and lush.

‘So,’ he said so calmly that it was as if the last few minutes had never happened. ‘Now that we’ve settled that, if you have no further suggestions for inclusions into our pre-nuptial agreement…?’ He hesitated a moment or two. ‘No? Then I’ll see you at the wedding.’

She was still catching her breath, her heart still thudding, as he turned and swept from the room, his long coat swinging in his wake like a cape. Her skin still tingled from his touch, her senses still humming.

So much for her resolve to keep separate lives. How long would it take him to ‘convince’ her that her place was in his bed? She clutched her arms about her as she remembered the feel of his lean body pressed against hers and the way her own body had responded. Probably no more than five minutes based on what had just transpired.

Damn the man! But it didn’t have to be the end. So it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped—she’d just have to change her plans accordingly.

He might think he’d won that round, but there was still one hell of a battle to come.

It wasn’t over yet!

CHAPTER FOUR

‘I’M SO sorry, Briar, this is all my fault.’

Briar squeezed her father’s hand as they waited for the organ music to come to an end. How strange it was that she should be the one calming him down right now.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ she assured him with a confidence dredged up from somewhere. ‘You had no choice.’

‘But Briar—’ he began.

‘None of us had any choice,’ she insisted. ‘He never gave us a chance. But at least now we’ve managed to save Blaxlea from his clutches.’

Her father squirmed in his dark suit. ‘Briar—’

But her father’s words were cut off with the strains of the wedding march ringing out, signalling that it was time to walk down that aisle and meet her fate, signalling that it was time to meet her soon-to-be husband. A quiver of sensation zipped through her, leaving her blissfully numb in its wake, so that when her father tugged her forward into the church she went without resistance.

‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’

It had to be a dream—a bad dream. Any second now she’d wake up in her own bed with the morning sun streaming through the curtains and this nightmare would fade with the darkness and she’d laugh at how ridiculous it had all been…

‘You may kiss the bride.’

Oh, God. A brain spinning with the effects of weeks of barely sleeping suddenly clicked into gear and registered the truth.

There would be no waking up to the light. There would be no laughter. Instead her nightmare stared down at her, his dark eyes chasing away the morning, chasing away all hope. They regarded her now, the heated possession contained within terrifying as he drew closer, collecting her into his arms.

Her eyes looked too big for her face, her skin so pale and her limbs so fragile it was a wonder she didn’t snap. Instead she came softly into his arms in a rustle of creamy silk, unprotesting rather than willing, and he swallowed back a sudden and totally unfamiliar urge to comfort her. But he didn’t have to comfort her. She was his now. She would accept her fate eventually.

And then his mouth slanted over her cool lips and heat arced between them in a rush.

He felt the jolt that moved through her; angling her mouth into a better fit, he felt the heat suffuse her flesh, melting her to him, and suddenly his kiss took on a life of its own and anticipation of contact more carnal hummed through his senses. If she responded this readily to just a kiss, then how much more might he heat up her temperature tonight, when they were alone?

He drew back, watched the tawny colours in her eyes eddy and swirl before coolness once again iced their depths and turned them defiant and glinting like topaz. She couldn’t disguise her cheeks so readily, though, the bright slashes of colour evidence that even if her spirit wanted to fight, her flesh was more than willing. It would be a pleasure seeing her skin flush all over. And then it would be more than a pleasure bringing her spirit into line.

Organ music soared through the lofty chapel as he laced her hand through his arm as they prepared to walk back down the aisle together as man and wife, the battery of bridesmaids and groomsmen her mother had organised from the ranks of cousins hanging behind. With Briar’s two best friends now living overseas and unable to make the wedding, Carolyn had only been too pleased to take matters into her own hands and organise everything.

Her mother stopped them before they’d gone two paces, hugging her daughter tightly and greeting her new son with a kiss as tears of joy streamed down her face.

‘If only Nat were here to see you now,’ her mother cried, and Briar bit down on her bottom lip. At least he’d been saved from witnessing this humiliation. Her father added his quiet congratulations as slowly they continued down the length of the aisle, having their progress constantly interrupted by the babble of family members, friends and colleagues, all of them from the bride’s side of the church.

The press had occupied Diablo’s side; only now they’d vacated their seats to form a camera-wielding posse in front of them, leaving a sprinkling of actual guests on the groom’s side of the church. Did this scattering of individuals constitute all of Diablo’s family and friends? She’d heard that he’d lost both his parents, but what kind of man operated so alone in the world that he had so few other contacts? And while he was frequently featured in the social pages, he’d never been seen with the same woman twice. What kind of lone-wolf had she married?

She slid a glance up at him and his eyes and jaw gave her the answer in an instant. Hard. Uncompromising. Difficult.

No wonder he had no friends.

Then they were outside in the bright sunny afternoon and enduring what felt like a never-ending round of poses and photographs.

‘Smile,’ the photographers called, reminding her once more to paste one on. Because it was expected of her. Because it was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

But how did you smile when you’d just been bound legally to a man you hated, when you’d been forced into a marriage because you had no other choice, for without it your family would be reduced to nothing?

How did you smile when it was the last thing in the world you felt like doing?

The official photographer requested one more pose before they headed for the reception. He arranged them in yet another clinch, this time with Diablo behind, his arms circling her waist, and she stood stock-still, trying to ignore his warm breath in her hair and the tingling of her scalp. He nuzzled his face against her hair and breathed deeply.

‘Mmm,’ he whispered, the sound vibrating right down to her toes, ‘you look and smell delicious enough to eat.’

Breath snagged in her throat as a wave of heat roiled through her. Those lips had taken her unaware during the wedding—it wasn’t hard to imagine them pushing a trail southwards, kissing, suckling, devouring. She shivered. She didn’t care what he thought and she most certainly didn’t want to hear it or anything that reminded her of what lay ahead. She swivelled her head away from the photographers and hissed, ‘Rest assured, it’s not for your benefit.’

‘And does that matter?’ he asked, lifting one of her hands in his own and pressing his mouth to the back of it as camera flashes went off wildly all around them, desperate to catch the apparently gallant gesture. ‘When it is indeed me who will benefit. Do you realise how much I am looking forward to this night, to peeling this garment away and seeing how beautiful you are underneath, how beautiful you are everywhere?’

Remnant heat from his last assault sparked inside her, flames licking sensitive flesh to life. She squeezed down on her muscles, hoping to clamp down on the effect of his words. ‘How unfortunate,’ she bit back unsteadily, ‘that the feeling isn’t mutual.’

‘When the time is right,’ he growled, with just a hint of aggravation, ‘all of what we feel will be mutual. I am a generous lover, my wife; you will not be disappointed.’

She gasped and tried to push herself away but suddenly the air lacked oxygen, burnt up in the blast furnace atmosphere his words generated and in the stirring press of solid flesh behind her. Instead of letting her go, his grip around her waist tightened, keeping her impossibly close to him and his burgeoning hardness. Right now there was fabric between those places they touched, fabric that still seemed tissue thin, but later—later there would be nothing between their skin but air—and, later still, not even that.

The photographer signalled an end to the formal shots. ‘You can let me go now,’ she protested. ‘We’re all done.’

‘No,’ he disagreed, while still easing his grip around her waist enough so she could spin away in a flurry of silk and exasperation. ‘We’re not done—not by a long shot.’

‘We’re leaving in ten minutes. I want you to be ready.’

Briar jumped. If the low voice whispering in her left ear hadn’t been enough reason to scatter her thoughts and send her pulse jumping, her new husband’s seemingly casual gesture of running his fingers up her right arm certainly had been. She excused herself from the group of guests she was talking with and followed the path Diablo had taken from the enormous marquee that had been set up in the grounds.

‘Diablo,’ she said, hitching up her skirts and skipping after him as he entered the house, ‘where are we going? There’s a suite been prepared here. I assumed…’

He spun around and smiled suddenly, disarming her as he stopped in front of the majestic staircase. ‘Is it not traditional in this country for a groom to take his new bride away for a honeymoon?’

‘You know it is. But ours is hardly a traditional marriage. Our honeymoon is likely to be over before it’s begun. Frankly I can’t see the point.’

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