The Bride Fonseca Needs

Well?

Now she scowled.

I’m thinking.

Think faster.

Darcy threw her phone down for a moment. Pressure was building in her chest. And then the picture of the property she loved so much caught her eye. If she did this, she would get that.

We all have a price.

She picked up the phone, almost daring it to ping again with some terse message—because if it did she would tell Max where to go. But it didn’t, almost as if he knew how close she was to saying no.

She took a deep breath and texted.

If—and that’s a big if—if I agree to do this I want £345,000.

She let out a breath, feeling like a mercenary bitch. But it was the price of the flat she loved. And if she was being a mercenary bitch she was nothing in comparison to Max. His soul was black.

She continued.

Also, this farcical marriage will last only for as long as it takes Montgomery to announce his decision, and then you will give me a stunning reference which will open the door to whatever job I want.

Her heart thumped hard as she looked over the text, and then her finger pressed the ‘Send’ button. ‘Delivered’ appeared almost straight away.

It took longer than she’d expected, but finally Max’s response came back.

Done and done. Whatever you want. I told you. Now, what’s it to be?

Darcy’s finger traced over the picture of the flat. In a few months she could be living there, with a new job. A new start. A settled existence for the first time since she’d been a child. And no Max messing with her hormones and her ability to think clearly.

She texted quickly before she lost her nerve: Yes.

Almost immediately a message came back.

Good. My car will pick you up in an hour. We’re going to Paris.

The ring. For a moment Darcy almost texted Max back, saying she’d changed her mind, but her fingers hovered ineffectually over her phone. And then she got distracted.

What the hell did someone wear on a whirlwind trip to Paris to buy an engagement ring for a fake wedding?

* * *

In the end Darcy decided to wear one of her smarter work outfits: a dark navy wrap dress with matching high heels. She felt self-conscious now, in the small plane, and resisted the urge to check and see if her dress was gaping a little too much. The way Max had looked at her when she’d walked out of her apartment building had almost made her turn around and change into jeans and a T-shirt.

He was dressed similarly, smart/casual in a dark blue suit and white shirt. When she’d walked over to the car earlier he’d smirked slightly and said, ‘We’re matching—isn’t that cute?’

Darcy had scowled and dived into the car. When he’d joined her she’d said, ‘Can you put up the partition, please?’

She’d been more discomfited than she’d liked to admit by this more unreadable and yet curiously accessible Max. The boundary lines had become so blurred now they were non-existent, and she’d needed to lay down some rules.

When the window had gone up she’d crossed her arms over her chest. Max’s eyeline had dropped to her cleavage.

‘We need to discuss some formalities.’

Max’s eyes had snapped up. ‘Formalities?’

‘All this marriage is, as far as I’m concerned, is a serious amount of overtime. You’re basically paying me to be an executive PA par excellence. It’s still just work. And if I hadn’t agreed to this I would still be tendering my notice because of what happened the other night.’