‘Very well,’ Alex said at last. ‘I will arrange for you to stay at the Hotel Grande Bretagne for the next few days. Tonight we can meet for dinner and...talk.’ His lips twisted, the scar pulling tight across his cheek. ‘Get to know each other as you seem to wish...and agree on all the terms.’
CHAPTER FOUR
MILLY STARED AT her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror in wondering disbelief. Could this really be happening? Everything felt surreal, from the moment Alex had ushered her out of his office and an assistant had escorted her to the limousine waiting by the kerb.
It had been only a few minutes’ drive to the luxurious hotel just off the other side of the square, and then up to the presidential suite, the most expensive and elegant accommodation in the hotel. Milly had wandered around the gracious rooms with their antiques and art—a dining room, living room, two bedrooms, both with en suite bathrooms nearly as big—wondering if this was what the rest of her life was going to be like. It seemed impossible.
Although her parents were both titled, they’d lived in shabby elegance, if that, barely scraping by on what was left of their inheritances; Milly was used to draughty mansion flats with leaky pipes and the heat cut off, or third-rate boarding schools in distant, remote locations with stern teachers and freezing showers.
Once she’d left home, she’d lived even more modestly—a cramped box room in a dilapidated student house in Edinburgh, and then a shoebox-sized studio in Paris. This was something else entirely, and it made her feel...strange. Was this what she would become used to?
But she hadn’t been left alone to dwell on it for very long; she’d barely walked through the rooms before hotel staff were knocking on the door, ushering in a three-course lunch under silver domes and then, a short while later, a personal stylist from a nearby boutique wheeled in several suitcases of clothes, with instructions for her to pick whatever she wanted. Milly was overwhelmed.
And while it was rather fun to dine on lobster salad and caramel profiteroles, and even more so to pick out several simple and elegant outfits, it was also unsettling. What did Alex Santos want in return?
She knew the answer, of course. An heir. And that thought made her tremble, a shiver that started deep inside, in the core of her being, and spread out to the tips of her fingers and toes.
She could hardly believe she’d agreed to marry a man she barely knew, and yet she felt she’d had no choice. After ending the call with Anna, Milly had realised she would do whatever it took to make her sister safe and happy. And if marrying a stranger was the price she had to pay, so be it. It could be a lot worse.
She believed—or at least she hoped—that Alex Santos was a decent man. The knowledge that she had no real basis for that assumption settled heavily inside her.
At least she would have an opportunity to find out more about him before she signed any agreements or spoke any vows. Milly knew she was resting a lot on a single evening’s conversation, but it was all she had. And hopefully, by the end of the night, she’d know more about the man she’d agreed to marry. Perhaps she’d even like him. That would be as solid a foundation for marriage as any she could hope for, and certainly better than what fools called love.
Her lips twisted grimly as she remembered how carelessly Philippe had used that word. ‘Chérie, I love you. I fell in love with you the first time I saw you...’
And like a besotted fool, she’d believed him. She’d wanted to believe him, because she’d wanted her life to be different from her mother’s... Angelique Dubois, the ageing beauty who fell desperately in love, or seemed to, all the while having her eyes on the prize.
Her mother had married for money thrice over, and was now living in Los Angeles with her D-list celebrity husband, a man whose claim to fame seemed to be how many times he could check himself into rehab. Milly had never met him, and she hadn’t seen her mother in years, except occasionally in the back of tawdry gossip magazines, usually in one of the smallest photos on the society pages.
She glanced in the mirror again, wishing she looked a little more...elegant. She’d taken a shower and spent an age styling her hair and doing her make-up with the high-end beauty products she’d been provided with, but in the end she’d wiped it all over and dragged a brush through her hair because she’d looked like she was trying too hard. She’d looked like her mother, painted with fake gloss, a shiny veneer that chipped all too easily. She never wanted to be like that.
And so here she was, dressed in a burgundy wrap dress of softest jersey, her hair in simple waves about her shoulders, not a lick of make-up on her face. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, so there was no point even trying. Alex Santos was not marrying her for her looks, that much was sure.
From the front of the huge suite a door opened and then clicked shut, and Milly’s heart stuttered. It was him, she knew it. She sensed it, even though staff had been going in and out all afternoon. It was as if the air around her had changed, and another shiver started in her core and radiated out.
‘Milly?’ His voice was terse, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor. Milly turned from the mirror, smoothing her palms down the sides of her dress as she took a steadying breath.
‘Here,’ she called, and stepped out of her bedroom into the hallway. Alex stilled just a few feet away, his gaze training on her, not a flicker of emotion on his face. It was still jarring to see his scars—half of him so very beautiful, and the other half pulled and twisted beyond recognition. She tried not to react, but she could tell she’d failed by the way his mouth tightened. She would get used to them eventually, she was sure. She wasn’t bothered by them, by any means; they were just surprising, the contrast so stark.
‘You look nice,’ he said gruffly, and dropped his briefcase by the hall table.
‘Thank you.’ She let out a nervous little laugh. ‘I’ve been ridiculously pampered since I arrived here. I feel like Cinderella.’
‘And when will the clock strike midnight, do you think?’ he asked sardonically as he tugged at his tie.
Milly watched him uncertainly, her gaze transfixed by the sight of his long, lean fingers pulling at the silken knot around his throat. He pulled it free with a snick of cloth and tossed it aside before undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. Again her gaze was helplessly drawn to his fingers, and the bit of bronzed skin he exposed—the hollow of his throat, the hint of his muscles. He was a beautiful man, and in a strange way the scars emphasised that. Her breath fluttered in her throat and she swallowed. Hard.
‘What do you mean?’ she finally asked when she’d managed to regather her senses. ‘Do you think I’m going to change my mind?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.’
‘I won’t.’ She spoke firmly, determination firing her words. ‘I’ve made up my mind and I won’t change it. But perhaps it is you who will change yours.’ Although she hoped he wouldn’t. She’d wired all her savings to pay for the deposit on Anna’s school fees, and she needed the five million euros by next week to pay the rest.
‘Hardly,’ he scoffed, and then turned to stride into the living room. After an uneasy pause Milly followed him.
She stood in the doorway and watched as he unstoppered a decanter of whisky and poured himself a finger’s worth. ‘I’ve ordered our meal to come shortly.’
‘All right.’