Buying His Bride of Convenience Read online

  This archaic marriage clause had never been an issue. After all, everyone married eventually. It was what people did, especially those of the aristocracy. But times, along with social mores, changed.

  Daniele had been a toddler when his grandfather had died and his own father had inherited the estate. Being the second son, Daniele had always known Pieta would inherit when their father died. He was comfortable with that. He didn’t want it. He hated the draughty old castello that leaked money as quickly as it leaked water, and he especially hated the idea of marriage. It had given him perverse satisfaction throughout his adult life to remain single, to be the antithesis of the dutiful, serious Pieta.

  But now Pieta was dead.

  For two months Daniele had clung to the hope that Pieta’s wife Natasha might be pregnant—if she was and the child was a boy, the child would inherit the estate and Daniele would be free to continue living his life as he’d always enjoyed.

  It transpired that Natasha was indeed pregnant. Unfortunately, Pieta wasn’t the father. Before her husband was even cold in the ground, she had embarked on an affair with their cousin Matteo, the cousin who had lived with them as a sibling from the age of thirteen. The disloyal bastard himself had told Daniele that she was pregnant with his child.

  Now there were two routes that could be taken. Daniele either found himself a wife and gave up all his cherished freedoms to inherit an estate he didn’t want, or their disloyal cousin inherited everything his father and brother had held dear.

  He clenched his jaw and rolled his neck, thinking of his mother and her own love and pride in the family and the estate she had married into as a nineteen-year-old girl.

  When it came down to it, there was only one route.

  ‘I have to marry.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And soon.’

  ‘Yes. Do you have anyone in mind?’ Francesca asked quietly. She knew how much he loathed the idea of marriage. She had an even sharper legal mind than Pieta had done. If she couldn’t think of a way to overturn the clause without Matteo taking everything, then it couldn’t be done.

  One day it would, he vowed. The next generation of Pellegrinis would never be forced into a deed they didn’t want, a deed that came with such a heavy price.

  Daniele’s mind flickered through all the women he’d dated throughout the years. He estimated that of those who were still unmarried, approximately one hundred per cent of them would high-tail it to a wedding dress shop before he’d even finished proposing.

  And then he thought of his last date. The only date he’d been on that hadn’t ended in the bedroom.

  Unthinkingly, he touched his bruised nose. The steri-strips Eva had so carefully put on him were still there, the wound healing nicely. He remembered the distaste that flashed in her crystal-clear blue eyes whenever she looked at him.

  She’d acted as a translator for him on his first trip to Caballeros a month ago. On an island surrounded by so much destruction, the prevalent colour brown with all the churned-up mud, she’d shone like a beacon in the gloom. Or her scarlet hair had, which she wore in a girlish ponytail. It was a shade of red that could only have come from a bottle and contrasted with her alabaster skin—she must lather herself in factor fifty sun cream on an hourly basis to keep it so colour free—so beautifully he couldn’t see how any other colour, not even that which nature had given her, could suit her so well.

  Despite dressing only in scruffy jeans and an official Blue Train Aid Agency T-shirt, Eva Bergen was possibly the most beautiful and definitely the sexiest woman he’d met in his entire thirty-three years. And she hated his guts.

  Daniele looked at his sister’s worried face and gave a half-smile. ‘Yes,’ he said with a nod. ‘I know the perfect woman to marry.’

  When he left the apartment an hour later, he reflected that whatever else happened, at least his mother would finally be happy with a choice he’d made.

  * * *

  Eva queued patiently at the staff shower block, playing a game on her phone to pass the time. There was limited fresh water at the camp and the staff rationed their own use zealously. She’d become an expert at showering in sixty seconds of tepid water every three days. Like the rest of the staff, she experienced both guilt and relief when she took her leave, which was every third weekend, and she had the luxury of flying over to Aguadilla and checking into a basic hotel. There, at her own expense, she would laze for hours in sweet-smelling, bubbly, limitless water, dye her hair, do her nails and cleanse her skin, all the while trying to smother the guilt at all the displaced people at the camp who couldn’t take a few days off to pamper themselves.

  One thing that wasn’t in short supply at the camp was mobile phones. It seemed that everyone had one, even the tiny kids who barely had a change of clothes to their name. The current craze was for a free game that involved blasting multiplying colourful balls. A technology whizz had linked all the camp players together, refugees and staff alike, to compete against each other directly. Eva had become as addicted to it as everyone else and right then was on track to beat her high score and crack the top one hundred players. At that moment, playing as she waited for her turn in the skinny showers, she had three teenagers at her side, pretending to be cool while they watched her avidly.

  When her phone vibrated in her hand she ignored it.

  ‘You should answer that,’ Odney, the oldest of the teenagers, said with a wicked grin. Odney was currently ranked ninety-ninth in the camp league for the game.

  ‘They’ll call back,’ Eva dismissed, mock-scowling at him.

  With an even wickeder grin, Odney snatched the phone from her hand, pressed the answer button and put it to his ear. ‘This is Eva’s phone,’ he said. ‘How may I direct your call?’

  His friends cackled loudly, Eva found herself smothering her own laughter.

  ‘English?’ Odney suggested to the caller, who clearly didn’t speak Spanish. ‘I speak little. You want Eva?’

  Eva held her hand out and fixed him with a stare.

  Glee alight on his face, Odney gave her the phone back. ‘Your game didn’t save,’ he said smugly to more cackles of laughter.

  Merriment in her voice—how she adored the camp’s children, toddlers and teenagers alike—Eva finally spoke to her caller. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Eva? Is that you?’

  All the jollity of the moment dived out of her.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  She knew who it was. The deep, rich tones and heavy accent of Daniele Pellegrini were unmistakable.

  ‘It’s Daniele Pellegrini. I need to see you.’

  ‘Speak to my secretary and arrange an appointment.’ She didn’t have a secretary and he knew it.

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t want to see you.’

  ‘You will when you know why I need to see you.’

  ‘No, I won’t. You’re a—’

  ‘A man with a proposal that will benefit your refugee camp,’ he cut in.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Meet me and find out for yourself. I promise it will be worth your and your camp’s while.’

  ‘My next weekend off is—’

  ‘I’m on my way to Aguadilla. I’ll have you brought to me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight. I’ll have someone with you in two hours.’

  And then he hung up.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVA’S HEART SANK at the sight of the plush hotel at the end of the long driveway Daniele’s driver was taking her down. It was the same hotel Daniele had tricked her into dining with him in at on their ‘date’. She supposed anywhere else would be beneath him. The Eden Hotel was the most luxurious hotel in Aguadilla and catered to the filthy rich. She was wearing her only pair of clean jeans and a black shirt she’d been unable to iron thanks to a power cut at the camp. She couldn’t justify using the power that came from the emergency generators to iron clothing when it was needed to f
eed thousands of people.

  When Daniele had driven her—he’d actually deigned to get behind the wheel himself then—into the hotel’s grounds the first time her hackles had immediately risen. She’d turned sharply to him. ‘You said this was an informal discussion about the hospital.’ She’d thought they would dine in one of the numerous beachside restaurants Aguadilla was famed for that served cheap, excellent food, upbeat music and had an atmosphere where anyone and everyone was welcomed.

  ‘And so it is,’ he’d replied smoothly, which had only served to raise her hackles further. They’d walked past guests dressed to the nines in their finest, most expensive wear. She’d been as out of place as a lemming in a pigpen.

  Dining in the restaurant had been a humiliating experience the first time around but this time she at least had that experience to fall back on, and it served to steel her spine as she walked into the hotel’s atrium with her head held high. She wouldn’t allow herself to feel inferior even if she did look like a ragamuffin, despite her sixty-second shower.

  A hotel employee headed straight for her. At close sight she saw the title of ‘General Manager’ under his name on the gold pin worn on his lapel.

  ‘Ms Bergen?’ he enquired politely, too well trained to even wrinkle his nose at her.

  She nodded. She guessed she’d been easy to describe. Just look for the scarlet-haired woman who doesn’t fit in.

  ‘Come with me, please.’

  Like a docile sheep, she followed him past an enormous waterfall, past the restaurant she’d dined in a month ago, past boutiques and further restaurants and into an elevator that came complete with its own bellboy. It was only when the manager pressed the button for the top floor that warning bells sounded.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To Mr Pellegrini’s suite.’

  They’d arrived at the designated floor before he finished answering. The bellboy opened the door.

  Eva hesitated.

  Dining in a private hotel suite had very different connotations to dining in public. Under no sane marker could it be considered sensible to go into a rich man’s suite alone.

  The manager looked at her, waiting for her to leave the safety of the elevator and be led into the lion’s den.

  All she had to do was say no. That would be the sensible thing. Say no. If Daniele Pellegrini needed to see her so badly that he’d flown to the Caribbean for the sole purpose of talking to her, then he could dine with her in public. She could demand that and he would have no choice but to comply.

  But, for all his numerous faults, including being a sex-mad scoundrel with no scruples over who he bedded, her gut told her Daniele was not the sort of man to force a woman into anything she didn’t want. She wasn’t being led into the lion’s den to be served as dinner.

  She stepped out of the elevator and followed the manager up the wide corridor to a door on which he rapped sharply.

  It was opened immediately by a neat, dapper man dressed in the formal wear of a butler.

  ‘Good evening, Ms Bergen,’ he said in precise English. ‘Mr Pellegrini is waiting for you on the balcony. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘A glass of water, please,’ she said, trying very hard not to be overawed by the splendour of the suite, which was the size of a large apartment.

  Having a butler there relieved her a little. It was good to know she would have a chaperone, although she couldn’t fathom why she felt she needed one.

  The manager bade her a good evening and left, and Eva was taken through a door into a light and airy room, then led out onto a huge balcony that had the most spectacular view of the Caribbean Sea, dark now, the stars twinkling down and illuminating it. To the left was a private oval swimming pool, to the right a table that could comfortably seat a dozen people but was currently set for two. One of those seats was taken by the tall, dynamic figure of Daniele Pellegrini.

  He got to his feet and strolled to her, his hand outstretched.

  ‘Eva, it is great to see you,’ he said, a wide grin on his face that was in complete contrast to the set fury that had been on it three days ago when he’d demanded she fix his nose.

  Not having much choice, she reached her own hand out to accept his. Rather than the brisk handshake she expected, he wrapped his fingers around hers and pulled her to him, then kissed her on both cheeks.

  Her belly did a little swoop at the sensation of his lips on her skin, diving again to inhale his fresh scent, which her senses so absurdly danced to.

  As much as she hated herself for the vanity of it, she was thankful she’d so recently showered. Daniele looked and smelled too good, his easy, stomach-melting smile back in its place. And he was clean, his dark grey trousers and white shirt immaculately pressed. Everything here in this hotel, including the guests, was spotless. Standing before this beautifully smelling, impossibly handsome man made her feel, again, like a ragged urchin. No matter how hard she tried to keep herself presentable, living in a refugee camp where dust and mud were prevalent made it an impossible task.

  She was even more thankful when he let her go, and had to stop herself wiping her hand on her jeans in an attempt to banish the tingles from where his fingers had wrapped around hers.

  ‘Your nose looks like it’s healing well,’ she said, for want of something to say to break the fluttering beneath her ribs. The swelling had gone down substantially and her vanity flickered again to see the butterfly stitches she’d applied were still perfectly in place. There was slight bruising around his left eye but that was the only other indication he’d been in a fight. Her curiosity still itched to know who his opponent had been. One of Caballeros’s corrupt officials? A jealous boyfriend?

  ‘You did a good job.’

  She managed the smallest of smiles. ‘Did you see a doctor?’

  He made a dismissive noise in his throat. ‘No need.’

  The butler, who she hadn’t noticed leave the terrace, returned with a tray containing two tall glasses and two bottles of water.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d prefer still or sparkling so I brought you both,’ he said, laying them on the table. ‘Can I get you anything else before I serve dinner?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Another Scotch for me,’ Daniele requested. ‘Bring the bottle in.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Alone again, Daniele indicated the table. ‘Take a seat. To save time, I’ve ordered for both of us. If you don’t like it, the chef will cook you something else.’

  Eva bristled. She wasn’t a fussy eater—with her job she couldn’t be—but his presumption was another black mark against him. ‘What have you ordered?’

  ‘Broccoli and Stilton soup, followed by beef Wellington.’ He flashed his smile again as he took his seat. ‘I thought you’d be homesick for English food.’

  Bemused, she took the place laid out opposite him. ‘Homesick for English food? But I’m from the Netherlands.’

  ‘You’re Dutch?’

  His surprise almost made her smile with the whole of her mouth but not out of humour, out of irony. They’d spent a whole evening together in which he’d flirted shamelessly with her but not once had he cared to ask anything of substance about her. She’d just been a woman he was attracted to, whom he’d been determined to bed. He’d assumed she’d be so honoured to be singled out by him that she would accompany him to his suite—this suite?—like some kind of fawning groupie and climb into bed with him. ‘Born and raised in Rotterdam.’

  A groove appeared in his forehead. ‘I thought you were English.’

  ‘Many people do.’

  ‘You have no accent.’

  ‘English people notice it but you’re Italian so it’s not obvious to your ear.’

  The butler brought Daniele’s bottle of Scotch and asked if Eva wanted anything stronger to go with her meal.

  She shook her head and fixed her eyes on Daniele. ‘I think it’s best I keep a clear head this evening.’

  Dan
iele smiled grudgingly. He should keep a clear head himself but after the last few days he liked the idea of numbing everything inside him. The Scotch would also help him get through the forthcoming conversation.

  ‘What other languages do you speak?’ Eva spoke English so precisely and fluently it hadn’t occurred to him that she was any nationality but that. When he’d first met her she’d acted as a translator for him and his now despised cousin Matteo. He had only a rudimentary comprehension of Spanish but her translations between them and the Caballeron officials had sounded faultless.

  ‘I speak English, Spanish and French with full fluency and passable Italian.’

  ‘Prove it,’ he said, switching to his own language.

  ‘Why?’ she retorted, also in Italian. ‘Are you trying to catch me out?’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘You call that passable?’ It had been rapid and delivered with near-perfect inflection.

  ‘Until I can watch a movie in the host’s tongue without missing any cadence, I don’t consider myself fully fluent,’ she said, switching back to English. ‘I have a long way to go before I reach that with Italian.’

  ‘Then let us speak Italian now,’ he said. ‘It will help you.’

  Her ponytail swished as she shook her head. ‘You said you had important things to discuss with me. Your English is as good as mine and I would prefer to understand everything and not have anything lost in translation that will give you the advantage.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘I admire your honesty.’ It was a rare thing in his world. His family were faultlessly honest with him but since he’d really stamped his authority in the architecture world and made his first billion—canny investments alongside his day job had helped with that—he hadn’t met a single outside person who openly disagreed with a word he said or ever said no to him.

  The butler returned to the terrace with their first course. He set the bowls out on their placemats and placed a basket of bread rolls between them.

  Eva dipped her head to inhale the aroma and nodded approvingly. ‘It smells delicious.’