The Billionaire's Defiant Acquisition

He’s a man I’ve always admired. Probably the only man on the planet capable of handling you.

And Amber could have wept, because deep down didn’t she agree with her father’s words? Didn’t she revel in the way her new husband made her feel—like a contented, purring pussycat? Weren’t the times she was able to snatch with the powerful Irishman the closest thing to heaven she’d ever known?

But Conall doesn’t feel that way, she reminded herself. For him this marriage was nothing but a burden—driven by a longstanding debt to her father and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

She found herself thinking about the future, even though she tried not to—about what she would miss when it was all over. The sex, of course—but it was all the other things which were proving so curiously addictive. It was breakfast in bed at the weekends and waking up in the middle of the night to find yourself being kissed. It was walking around London and discovering that it seemed like an entirely different city when you were seeing it through someone else’s eyes, even if you were aware that your companion would rather be somewhere else.

She made herself a cup of coffee and walked across the kitchen to stare out of the window at the quiet Notting Hill street. Last night she’d woken up as dawn was breaking and the truth had hit her like an intruder trying to break in through the basement window. The realisation had shocked and scared the life out of her—once she’d finally had the guts to admit it. That she was falling for Conall and wanted to give their relationship a real chance. To work on what they’d got and see if it had the potential to last. She wanted more of him, not less, and wouldn’t she spend the rest of her life regretting it if she didn’t even try to explore its potential?

In a frantic attempt to rewind the tape—and show him she wasn’t just some vacuous airhead—she started cooking elaborate meals in the evening. Fragments of a half-finished cordon bleu cookery course came back to her, so that she was able to present her bemused husband with a perfect cheese soufflé or the soft meringues floating in custard which the French called îles flottantes.

She started reading the international section in the newspaper so she could discuss world affairs with him, over dinner. And if at times she realised she was in danger of becoming a caricature of an old-fashioned housewife, she didn’t care. She wanted to show him that there was more to flaky Amber than the mixed-up socialite who used to fall out of nightclubs.

But if she was hoping for some dramatic kind of conversion, she hoped in vain. Her cool but sexy husband remained as emotionally distant as he had ever been. And even though she adored the powerful sexual chemistry which fizzed between them, she found herself thinking it would make a nice change to have dinner together without at least one course growing cold, while Conall carried her off to the bedroom.

She wasn’t sure if she had communicated some of her restlessness, but one morning Conall paused by the doorway as he was leaving for work.

‘You’ve been cooking a lot lately,’ he said. ‘I think you’re due a break, don’t you?’

‘Is that a polite way of telling me you’re fed up with my food?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Or a roundabout way of wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner tonight?’

‘Even though it’s a weeknight?’ She tried to clamp down the stupid Cinderella feeling which was bubbling up inside her. ‘I’d love to.’

‘Good.’ He glanced out of the window as his driver pulled up. ‘Book somewhere for eight and call the office to let them know where. I’ll meet you there.’

Amber booked the table and dressed carefully for dinner, aware that she felt as bubbly and as excited as if this were a bona fide first date. She’d read a lot in the newspapers about the Clos Maggiore restaurant, known as ‘London’s Most Romantic’. The irony of its reputation wasn’t lost on her but she’d also read that the food was superb. And she wasn’t asking for romance—she knew he didn’t do that. She was just asking for more of the same.

She picked out a discreetly sexy dress—a silk jersey wrap in scarlet—and she was bubbling over with excitement as she hailed a cab and directed it to Covent Garden.

But her happy and expectant mood quickly began to dissolve because he didn’t turn up at eight. Nor at eight-twenty. With tight lips, Amber shook her head as the waiter offered her another glass of champagne. She’d already had one on an empty stomach and now her head was swimming. She felt a bit ridiculous sitting alone when all the other tables were occupied by people talking and laughing with each other. The rustic mirrored room was supposed to resemble a garden and somehow it managed to do just that. Just a few steps away from the world-famous market and you could find yourself sitting beneath a ceiling from which hung sprigs of thick white blossom, which looked so realistic that you almost felt you could reach up and pick one. It looked almost magical, but the feeling of dread which had started to build up inside her made Amber feel anything but magical

.

Did she really think that one dinner out meant that everything was suddenly going to be perfect? As if he were suddenly going to stop keeping her locked away in her own tiny little box, which was so separate from the major part of his life. That was, if he could even be bothered to show.

Surreptitiously, she glanced at her watch, not wanting anyone to think she’d been stood up—but what if she had?

And then, exactly thirty-five minutes after the appointed time, there was a faint commotion at the door and Conall appeared in the flowered archway. The other diners turned to look at him as he walked over to the table and sat down, ignoring the glass of champagne which the waiter placed before him.

‘You’re late,’ she said.

‘I know I am and I’m sorry.’

‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Did Serena keep you busy?’

He frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply, Amber—but I’m not going to rise to it. I was on a call to Prince Luciano and I could hardly cut the negotiations short to tell him I was due at dinner.’

‘But it didn’t occur to you that I might like to be involved, seeing that I was there when you first showed him the painting?’

Conall stared at her. He could see she was angry and he knew it was partly justified, but what the hell did she expect? He hadn’t planned to be late, but then—he hadn’t planned for the Mardovian royal to ring him to talk about the painting. And no, he hadn’t thought to involve Amber in the deal because this was not her life and it never would be. Soon she would be gone and their marriage nothing but a memory. Didn’t she realise that the boundaries he’d imposed were in place to protect them both? That was why he kept an emotional distance from her, why he had never repeated those earlier confidences he had shared with her, when he’d opened up to her more than he’d ever opened up to anyone and had been left feeling raw and vulnerable. What was the point of getting close to someone when the end was already in sight? When he never got close to anyone.

Yet it was harder than he’d imagined to keep his distance from the woman he’d married, or to keep thoughts of her at bay during his working day. Hard not to remember how it felt when she was in his arms at night. The growing sense that he was in danger of losing control. His mouth twisted. Because he would never lose control. Never again.

‘No, of course it didn’t occur to you,’ she continued, her voice shaking. ‘Because I’m of no consequence to you, am I? None at all!’

Conall leaned back in his chair, his narrowed eyes wary. This marriage of theirs wasn’t real, so why the hell was she making out as if it were? ‘You sound a little hysterical, Amber.’