A Marriage Fit for a Sinner

Collapsing during a university lecture had finally prompted her to seek medical intervention.

The doctor’s diagnosis had left her reeling.

Even then, she’d convinced herself it wasn’t the end of the world, that compared to her mother’s fight against cancer, a fight she’d eventually lost a year later, Eva’s problem was inconsequential. Women dealt with challenging problems like hers every day. When the time came, the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with would understand and support her.

Eva scoffed at her naiveté. Scott, the first man she’d dated in the last year of university, had visibly recoiled from her when she’d mentioned her condition. She’d been so shocked by his reaction, she’d avoided him for the rest of her time at uni.

Burnt, she’d sworn off dating until she’d met George Tremayne, her fellow business intern during her brief stint at Penningtons. Flattered by his attentiveness, she’d let down her guard and gone on a few dates before he’d begun to pressure her to take things further. Her gentle rejection and confession of her condition had resulted in a scathing volley of insults, during which she’d found out exactly why her father had been pressing her to work at Penningtons after graduation.

Oscar Pennington, already secure in his conscript of Sophie as his heir, was eager to offload his remaining daughter and had lined up a list of suitable men, George Tremayne, the son of a viscount, being on the top of that list. George’s near-identical reaction to Scott’s had hurt twice as much, and convinced Eva once and for all that her secret was best kept to herself.

Finding out she was yet another means to an end for Zaccheo had rocked her to the core, but she’d taken consolation in the fact the secret she’d planned on revealing to him shortly after their engagement was safe.

That secret was about to be ripped open.

As she turned up the volume of her music Eva knew disclosing it to Zaccheo would be the most difficult thing she would ever do.

CHAPTER TEN

ZACCHEO SCROLLED THROUGH the missed calls from Eva on his phone as he was driven away from the private hangar. Romeo had relayed her increasingly frantic requests to reach him. Zaccheo had deliberately forbidden his number from being given to her until this morning, once he’d confirmed his return to London.

His jaw flexed as he rolled tight shoulders. The number of fires he’d put out in Oman would’ve wiped out a lesser man. But Zaccheo’s name and ruthless nature weren’t renowned for nothing, and although it’d taken three days to get the construction schedule back on track, his business partners were in no doubt that he would bring them to their knees if they strayed so much as one millimetre from the outcome he desired.

It was the same warning he’d given Oscar Pennington when he’d called yesterday and attempted an ego-stroking exercise to get Zaccheo to relent on his threats. Zaccheo had coldly reminded him of the days he’d spent in prison and invited Pennington to ask for clemency when hell froze over.

No doubt Eva’s eagerness to contact him was born of the same desire as her father’s. But unlike her father, the thought of speaking to Eva sent a pleasurable kick of anticipation through his blood, despite the fact that with time and distance he’d looked back on their conversations since his release with something close to dismay.

Had he really revealed all those things about his time in prison and his childhood to her?

What was even more puzzling was her reaction. She hadn’t looked down her nose at him in those moments. Had in fact exhibited nothing but empathy and compassion. Pushing the bewildering thought away, he dialled her number, gratified when she picked up on the first ring.

‘Ciao, Eva. I understand you’re experiencing pre-wedding jitters.’

‘You understand wrong. This wedding isn’t going to happen. Not once you hear what I have to say.’

His tension increased until the knots in his shoulders felt like immoveable rocks. He breathed through the red haze blurring his vision. ‘I take it you didn’t miss me, then?’ he taunted.

She made a sound, a cross between a huff and a sigh. ‘We really need to talk, Zaccheo.’

‘Nothing you say will alter my intention to make you mine tomorrow,’ he warned.

She hesitated. Then, ‘Zaccheo, it’s important. I won’t take up too much of your time. But I need to speak to you.’

He rested his head against the seat. ‘You have less than twenty-four hours left as a single woman. I won’t permit anything like male strippers anywhere near you, of course, but I won’t be a total bore and deny you a hen party if you wish—’