In fact he was marginally longer than the allotted time, and she had her suitcase packed and was at the door before he emerged from his bedroom. To her irritation her tummy did a little flip-flop—he looked gorgeous, and his smile held a vestige of triumph as he walked towards her and gestured to the sofa.
‘You may want to sit.’
‘I’m good here. Right by the door.’
Warning bells began to peal in her head; his smile was too self-assured for her liking. Dammit. Maybe he’d discovered a legal way to grant him victory.
‘Just say it, Stefan.’
‘Marry me.’
Holly stared at him as her brain scrambled to comprehend the words, tried to work out the trick, the punchline. Because there had to be one.
‘Is this your idea of a joke? It’s either that or you’ve gone loop-the-loop bananas.’
‘No joke. I’m not entirely sure on the bananas front, but it makes sense.’
‘On planet bananas, maybe.’
‘Hear me out. If we marry each other we effectively cancel out the competitive element of the will because we both fulfil the marriage criteria.’
The thought arrested her and she moved further into the room, studied his face more closely. ‘But we’d have to stay married for a year.’
‘Correct.’
‘What would happen at the end of the year?’
‘We would co-own Il Boschetto di Sole. Yesterday neither of us thought we’d own even an acre, so why not settle for fifty-fifty?’
‘Split it?’
‘Yes. Why not? This way guarantees us half each—I realise we’d need to figure out a fair way to actually divide the land, but I would be happy to do that up-front.’
Suspicion tugged at her as she searched for an ulterior motive. Was this some way to trick her out of everything? But instinct told her Stefan Petrelli didn’t work like that.
Get real, Holly.
Had she learnt nothing? Her instinct when it came to men and their motives was hardly stellar.
‘I don’t get it. Why are you happy to do this?’
‘A guaranteed fifty percent works for me. This way it also means I don’t end up with a wife who will try to manipulate me. We would both be equally invested in the marriage and the subsequent divorce. This works. For both of us. If we have to marry, it makes sense to marry each other.’
Logic dictated that he was correct. Her brain computed the facts. She knew that her father would be more than content with ownership of any percentage of Il Boschetto di Sole. Plus she had to marry someone—way better to marry someone who wouldn’t have power over her. But as she looked at him her tummy clenched at the mere thought of marrying him. She would be signing up to a year under the same roof as a man her hormones had targeted as the equivalent of the Holy Grail.
Grow up and suck it up.
This made sense—guaranteed her father ownership of the land he loved.
‘This could work.’ Deep breath. ‘But we’d need to work out the rules. The practicalities.’ Another deep breath. ‘This would be a marriage of convenience.’
To her annoyance, she could hear the hint of a question in her tone.
Clearly so could he.
His eyebrow rose. ‘Unl
ess you have something else in mind?’