The Bride Fonseca Needs

Immediately the hot insanity of the other night slammed back into Darcy with such force that she had to cling onto his shirt to stay standing. It was an explicit kiss, and Darcy was dimly aware that someone like Max probably couldn’t deliver a chaste kiss if his life depended on it. He was like a marauding pirate, sweeping in and taking no prisoners. It was hot, decadent, and the slide of Max’s tongue against hers made her want to press her breasts against his chest and ease their ache.

When he pulled back she went with him, as if loath to break the contact. She opened her eyes and Max said smugly, ‘That’s a bit better.’

Darcy’s brain felt sluggish as Max pulled her out of the shop, but it snapped back to crystal clarity when they faced a veritable wall of flashing lights.

‘Max! Over here! Max! Who is the lucky lady? What’s her name?’

The barrage of questions was deafening and terrifying. Max had his arm around Darcy and her hand was still gripping his shirt. She could feel the tension in his body as he said, in a masterful voice that sliced through the cacaphony, ‘We will be releasing a statement on Monday. Until then please afford my fiancée and I some privacy.’

‘Show us the ring!’

But Max’s car materialised then, as if out of nowhere, and he was guiding Darcy into the back of it, shutting the baying mob outside as it took off smoothly into the Paris traffic.

Darcy vaguely heard Max curse, and then a glass was being pushed into her hands. She looked down, feeling a little blank and blinded.

‘Take a sip, Darcy, you’re in shock... Maledizione, I should have realised... You’ve never been papped before.’

When she didn’t move he cursed again and lifted the glass to her lips, forcing liquid to trickle into her mouth and

down her throat. She coughed as it smarted and burned and realised she was shaking from the adrenalin and shock of being in front of the paparazzi for the first time.

She looked at Max, who took the glass away and put it back in the car’s mini-bar. ‘How did they know?’

He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. ‘I got my PR people to tip them off.’

Darcy thought of their kiss just inside the door, and all the lenses that must have been trained on them every moment, capturing her reaction. Not for one second did she want Max to know how angry it made her or how betrayed she felt. Stupid to think that a private moment had been invaded. It hadn’t been a private moment—it had been manufactured.

‘Well,’ she said, as coolly as she could, ‘I hope Montgomery sees it—or they’ll have wasted an afternoon when they could have been chasing someone far more exciting.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have warned you.’

Darcy feigned unconcern. ‘Don’t worry about it—at least it’ll look authentic.’

‘Good,’ Max said briskly. ‘Because we’re going to a function in Rome this evening. It’ll be our first official outing as a couple.’

Darcy looked at him and hated the way her voice squeaked as she said, ‘Tonight?’

Max nodded. ‘It’s a charity gala.’ His eyes flicked down over her chainstore dress and he glanced at his watch as he said, ‘When we get back to Rome you’ll be taken straight to meet with a stylist. She’s going to put together a wardrobe for you. And a wedding dress.’

Darcy’s hands curled into fists. She was barely aware that they were already on the outskirts of Paris again, heading back to the airport. ‘I might have plans for tonight.’

Max looked at her, and there was something distinctly proprietorial in his gaze. ‘Any plans you have from now on are my plans. And I’ve been thinking: it’ll look better if you move in with me. You should pack a weekend bag for now—we can move the rest of your stuff next week...’

Darcy didn’t even bother opening her mouth, knowing resistance was futile. That was it. In the space of twenty-four hours her life had been neatly pulled inside out, and the worst thing was she’d agreed to it all.

CHAPTER FIVE

MAX LOOKED AT his watch again. Where was she? He’d meant to go and meet her at the apartment, but he’d been delayed in the office by a conference call to New York, so he’d changed there.

He’d texted Darcy to explain and got back a terse, Fine. See you there.

Max almost smiled; he couldn’t imagine many women he knew texting him back like that. His almost-smile faded, though, when he thought of that morning and choosing the ring in Paris, and afterwards when they’d run into that wall of paparazzi.

He could still recall Darcy’s jerk of fright and the way she’d burrowed into him instinctively. He’d felt like a heel. He’d totally underestimated how frightening that might be for someone who hadn’t experienced it before. He was used to women revelling in the attention, preening, lingering... Darcy had been pale and shaking in the aftermath—not that she’d let it show for too long.

Something in Max’s chest tightened. And then she was there, in the doorway of the function room, looking for him. Hair pulled up. One shoulder bare in an assymetrical dress that clung to her breasts, torso, and hips, before falling to the ground in a swirl of black silk and chiffon.

The room fell away, and the ever-present thrum of awareness made his blood sizzle.