Claiming My Bride of Convenience

In fact, I was hungry. I’d missed dinner last night, intent on finding Matteo. With little choice, anyway, I followed him into the suite’s small sitting room. I’d dithered about staying in such a top-drawer hotel, but I’d wanted to be near to the ball and I’d justified the expense by asking for the hotel’s cheapest room—which was still luxurious by my standards.

Now I wondered what the concierge must have thought this morning, discovering that the owner’s wife had requested such a thing.

‘Here we are.’

All urbane hospitality, Matteo began taking the domed lids off several silver dishes, and the tantalising aroma of freshly baked croissants wafted out.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, so very solicitously, as I sat down.

‘Yes, please.’

I watched as he loaded up a plate with croissants and fresh fruit, wondering what on earth he was doing here. What could he possibly want from me?

My stomach cramped at the possibilities—as well as at the scorching memory of that kiss last night. A punishing, proving kind of kiss, and it made me cringe in shame at how I’d responded to it.

Matteo handed me the plate of food and a cup of steaming coffee before sitting down opposite me.

‘Now,’ he said with a smile. ‘We can talk.’

He was being friendlier than I’d ever seen him before—although admittedly that was a total of two times.

After leaving Matteo last night I’d escaped to my room, longing to forget my own folly. As smart as I liked to think I’d become over the last few years, there was still a bit too much of the country bumpkin’s wide-eyed optimism about me. I’d convinced myself I was being savvy and proactive, going to find my husband and ask for an annulment, but I realised last night I’d just been horribly naïve.

Of course Matteo wasn’t going to give me what I wanted, and of course I wouldn’t be able to get it without his consent. Worse, I’d started to wonder why it even mattered. Matteo was right; Mr Right wasn’t waiting for me in Amanos or anywhere. Why bother upending my life on the off-chance I’d find a man who most likely didn’t exist?

‘What do you want to talk about?’ I asked now—because surely it was better to know than not?

Matteo sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, his voice as unruffled as if he were talking about a slight alteration to his plans for the day. ‘I wish to renegotiate the terms of our marriage.’

I eyed him warily, suspicious of his rather smug look—much like the typical cat with the cream, except Matteo was more of a tiger. Last night, curled up in bed, I’d heartily wished I’d never come to Athens to track him down, and even almost wished that I’d never married him in the first place.

Although, despite everything, I couldn’t quite make myself wish that...

‘Well?’ he said, dark eyebrows arched. ‘Aren’t you curious?’

‘Nervous, more like. Suspicious.’

‘Suspicious! I’ve always treated you fairly, Daisy.’

I could hardly argue with that. A million euros was hardly unfair. And yet at the same time, I knew Matteo had had all the power, all the time, and that seemed unfair. I was at his mercy, whether I wanted to be or not...and I was afraid we both knew it. He certainly did.

‘Why don’t you just tell me what you want?’ I said, tr

ying to sound briskly practical and most likely failing. ‘Then we’ll go from there.’ Or not.

‘Very well.’

Matteo put down his coffee cup and leaned forward, his look of intent both purposeful and predatory. I tried not to shrink back. Tried not to remember how persuasive his kiss had been, his hands... No, I most certainly did not want to think about that right now.

‘I’ve decided I wish to make our marriage...real.’

‘Real...?’ I repeated dumbly. Surely he couldn’t mean what my mind had foolishly leapt to because of that awful, amazing kiss? ‘Our marriage is pretty real, Matteo. Signed and everything.’ I laughed weakly.

‘No, glykia mou, it is not. Most definitely not. But it will be.’

His teeth gleamed as he smiled and I simply stared. ‘What does glykia mou mean?’ I asked after a moment, because I couldn’t process anything else about his statement just yet. After three years on Amanos, I could speak some Greek but that phrase escaped me.

Matteo’s smile widened. ‘My sweet.’