The Marriage Proposition Read online

  “It’s not personal—it’s strictly business.”

  Nick continued slowly, “I thought perhaps we could drop the confrontation—try to get to know each other a little.”

  Paige shrugged. “I don’t see the need. As long as you recognize me at the wedding ceremony itself, that’s all that matters.”

  Nick sighed with exasperation. “You won’t give an inch, will you, Miss Harrington? I understand how you must hate the feeling you’ve been…sold off, but—”

  “I’m not for sale,” Paige said sharply. “I’m strictly on loan.”

  Legally wed,

  But he’s never said…

  “I love you.”

  Wedlocked!

  The Marriage Proposition

  by

  Sara Craven

  The series where marriages are made in

  haste…and love comes later….

  Sara Craven

  THE MARRIAGE PROPOSITION

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘AND tonight,’ Angela said triumphantly, ‘we’re going to the Waterfront Club.’

  Paige, who’d been brushing her hair, stopped and gave her friend a steady look.

  ‘Isn’t that Brad Coulter’s place?’ she queried.

  ‘Well, yes.’ Angela picked up a bottle of scent from the dressing table, sniffed it abstractedly and put it down again. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I certainly hope not.’ Paige paused. ‘Unless you’re taking your matchmaking talents for a run-out.’

  ‘Brad, my sweet, is an attractive and eligible man, and he’s clearly smitten. So where’s the harm?’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten one small detail,’ Paige said evenly. ‘I happen to be a married woman.’

  Angela snorted. ‘Try reminding your husband of that. Some marriage—when you don’t even live in the same country.’

  Paige shrugged. ‘That’s the way it suits us. At least until the divorce comes through,’ she added drily.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Angela.

  ‘However that doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything to upset the applecart in the meantime.’ Paige resumed work on her hair. ‘The grounds will be two years’ separation. Clean, tidy and final. And nothing for the scandalmongers to get their teeth into.’

  Angela raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you claiming that Nick has been equally discreet?’

  Paige put the brush down, and began to rub lotion into her hands. ‘I’ve never made any claims on Nick’s behalf,’ she pointed out. ‘He leads his own life.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ Angela’s tone was waspish. ‘If he wasn’t prepared to waive his bachelor ways, why on earth did he ask you to marry him?’

  ‘He had his reasons.’

  ‘And why the hell did you agree?’

  Paige smiled at her in the mirror. ‘I had mine, too.’

  ‘You make it all sound so rational,’ Angela grumbled. ‘And yet you were only together for—how many weeks?’

  ‘Just over seven, if my memory serves me,’ Paige said reflectively.

  ‘It’s hardly the kind of thing you forget,’ Angela returned, and Paige’s lips tightened.

  ‘No. But it’s the kind of thing you want to escape from with as little hassle as possible.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Angela frowned. ‘On the other hand, in such a brief time you didn’t really give it a chance to succeed. Have you thought about that?’

  ‘Believe me, the marriage had failure written into it from day one. But it was a mistake which can be put right, simply and painlessly. However, in the meantime I prefer attractive men—however eligible—to keep well away, until the dust has settled.’ Paige replaced the cap on the hand lotion. ‘And that includes Brad Coulter.’

  ‘My sweet, you’re going home tomorrow, and everyone visits the Waterfront at least once during their stay on St Antoine. It’s one of the rules.’ Angela’s tone was persuasive. ‘And it’s hardly an intimate dinner à deux. Jack and I will be with you, after all.’ She paused. ‘And I know that Brad’s reserved a special table for us.’

  ‘Besides, as you all live and work on St Antoine, you can’t really afford to upset him,’ Paige supplied resignedly. She pulled a face. ‘I don’t really have a choice in all this, do I?’

  ‘Now you’re making me feel guilty.’ Angela glanced at her watch. ‘Hell, it’s time I was getting ready too.’ She squeezed Paige’s shoulder. ‘And look gorgeous. Competition is fierce at the Waterfront.’ She winked cheerfully, and vanished.

  As the door closed behind her friend, Paige unpinned her determined smile and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the dressing table and cupping her chin in her hands as she studied herself.

  The trouble is, she thought, I’m not actually a competitor, and even if I was I doubt if I’d be battling for Brad Coulter. Or anyone, for that matter.

  Because all I really want is my freedom.

  Angela had spoken about her brief marriage as if it had been a love match that had somehow come off the rails.

  What on earth would she have said if she’d known the truth about Paige’s ill-starred foray into matrimony? That it had been nothing more or less than a business deal. A form of words to enable Nick Destry to take his seat on the board of Harrington Holdings.

  Her great-grandfather had no doubt thought he was being very clever when he’d made it a legal requirement for only members of the family to serve on the board. But then he’d been born into an era of large families. He had probably expected future generations to be equally fruitful, and equally successful at keeping intruders at bay, she decided objectively.

  In his time, too, financing for the company had been easier to obtain. A series of gentlemen’s agreements conducted in London clubs. All very cosy and agreeable.

  She supposed the deal struck with Nick Destry’s merchant bank had been much the same—except that Nick was no gentleman. And cosiness and affability had not been included in his make-up. Nor had fidelity or a sense of decency, she reminded herself tautly.

  Apparently he’d made it clear from day one that he was unimpressed by the company’s record in recent years, and that he would only negotiate the finance they needed in return for a measure of control. When old Crispin Harrington’s ruling on family membership had been pointed out to him, he’d shrugged.

  ‘I’m unmarried and you’ve got a single daughter,’ he’d told Paige’s father with cool insouciance. ‘We’ll have a ceremony to make it legal, then the lady and I can go our separate ways.’ A pause. ‘I presume divorce won’t affect my status on the board?’

  And, gasping, Francis Harrington had admitted it wouldn’t.

  Divorce, Paige thought, was not a contingency that would ever have occurred to her great-grandfather—or not where the Harrington name was concerned, at least. Other people might lead that kind of erratic life, but it could only be deplored and pitied. Certainly never emulated.

  He must be spinning in his grave at this very moment, Paige thought, grimacing.

  But then her own head had whirled when the scheme had first been tentatively proposed to her.

  ‘I’ve made it quite clear to Destry that the decision is entirely yours,’ her father had said anxiously. ‘That there’ll be no coercion of any kind and that the entire arrangement must be strictly temporary, leaving you free to get on with your own life after the statutory period.’

  Paige had sat very still, her hands folded
in her lap. She had looked at her father, but she hadn’t seen him. The image in her head had been a very different one—a dark, impatient face, with a high-bridged nose and strong, hard mouth. Not handsome, but with an intrinsic dynamism that surpassed conventional good looks. And charm, when he chose to exert it.

  That mouth could soften, she’d thought detachedly. Twist ruefully into a smile to make your bones melt—if you were susceptible to such things.

  A tall, lean body, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped that looked equally good in City suits and casual gear.

  A low voice with a cool drawl, that could also resonate with hidden laughter.

  As a package, it couldn’t be faulted.

  And she hadn’t wanted any of it.

  She looked at herself, slowly and with consideration. Took in the light brown hair with the elegant blonde highlights, the wide cheekbones, the green eyes with their curling fringe of lashes. The cool, almost tense lines of her mouth.

  And he, she thought flatly, hadn’t wanted her either. Checkmate. Death to the king.

  She should have said no there and then. Every instinct she possessed had screamed at her to curtly refuse to lend herself to something so blatantly opportunist—and medieval.

  Her father had expected her to reject the idea. She’d seen it in the defeated slump of his shoulders. The faint greyness which had replaced the usual ruddiness of his complexion. And this had scared her.

  She’d said, her voice faltering a little, ‘Are you telling me this is the only way you can get the finance you need? That a seat on the board is the price?’

  Her father had not met her gaze. ‘The bank requires a measure of control for this kind of injection of capital.’ He’d sounded as if he was repeating something he’d learned by rote. ‘They reserve the right to impose conditions. This is one of them. And, because of Crispin’s absurd rule, this is the only way it can be achieved.’

  He’d paused. ‘But no one is going to make you do this, Paige. It must be your own decision. And if you refuse—well, we’ll find our funding elsewhere. Somehow.’

  She had said flatly, ‘I suspect if it was that simple you’d have done so already. Right?’

  There had been another silence, then he’d nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll do it.’ She had made her tone firm, even positive. ‘After all, it’s only a form of words. A signature on a different sort of dotted line. And as soon as the legal requirement’s been fulfilled we can divorce. End of story.’

  Except that it had only been the beginning…

  She paused, aware that her heart was thudding suddenly. That she’d allowed herself to stray towards forbidden territory. And that she needed to stop right there.

  Restlessly, Paige got up from the dressing stool and walked barefoot across the room, out through the tall glazed doors on to the balcony, the folds of her white silk robe swishing round her long legs as she moved.

  The sun was setting, and the Caribbean was pulsing with crimson and gold.

  Leaning on the wrought-iron balustrade and staring at the sea, Paige thought, not for the first time, that Jack and Angela’s hotel was one of the most idyllic places she’d ever visited. It occupied one of the prime sites on the island, which undoubtedly helped.

  She’d met Angela on their first day at convent boarding school, and they’d been friends ever since. While Paige had gone in for magazine journalism, Angela had become a nurse. She’d met Jack when he’d been admitted to her ward with a badly broken leg, and Paige had been astonished when Angela told her, liltingly, a few weeks later, that she was marrying Jack and going back to St Antoine with him to help run the Hotel Les Roches. She was still frankly amazed to see how easily her friend had adapted to her new life.

  The hotel had been the home of Jack’s family for several generations. With the closure of the sugar plantation which had been their livelihood, his father had begun the work of extension and renovation which would transform the old mansion into accommodation that would combine luxury with informality. And Les Roches had been fabulously successful ever since.

  She’d had a wonderful holiday, Paige told herself, but she wouldn’t be altogether sorry to go home. These warm tropical nights could be dangerous, and Brad Coulter had been spending far too much time at the hotel lately—even for a close friend of the proprietors.

  Anyone else in her position, she thought, would have enjoyed a no-strings flirtation and gone home smiling at the end of it. So why couldn’t she?

  It couldn’t be because she felt obliged to remain faithful to her marriage vows. Nick certainly felt no such compulsion. In fact the whole church ceremony had been a cynical charade, and she couldn’t imagine why he’d insisted on it—unless it had been to placate his elderly grandmother who, as well as being his only living relative, was French and a confirmed traditionalist.

  Fortunately, she also lived in France, and so would not be aware of how little time her grandson and his bride had actually spent together—even under the same roof. Because, although she would no doubt regard a mariage de convenance as a sensible solution to a difficult problem, she would still demand that appearances be maintained.

  But Nick was not one for appearances, Paige thought, biting her lip. Nor was he any good at pretending…

  She stopped abruptly, aware that this was another strictly no-go area.

  She should concentrate on the positive side of the situation, she decided bracingly. Remind herself that the months and weeks of their separation were ticking away to zero. And freedom.

  She turned back into her room with a slight shiver. Sunsets always made her melancholy. And tomorrow it was back to the grindstone.

  The dress she chose was a black silky slip with narrow straps, cut cleverly on the bias. She hung a teardrop pearl on a fine gold chain at her throat, and the matching drops in her ears. Her sandals were high-heeled and stylish.

  Not to die for, she thought, reviewing herself critically in the full-length mirror. She would never be that. But, all the same, looking good.

  The Waterfront had been built on a promontory overlooking St Antoine’s most sheltered harbour. It was a large single-storey building, as local regulations demanded, and provided conference facilities, a health club, and its own discreet casino. In addition it had two excellent restaurants, one of them open air with a thatched roof, overlooking the water, with cabaret in the high season and live music for dancing all the year round.

  Brad Coulter was waiting for them in the foyer. He was a stockily built man with a ruggedly handsome face. His blue eyes lit up when he saw Paige.

  ‘You look wonderful.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Angie, have you persuaded her to stay a while longer?’

  ‘Not so far, I’m afraid.’ Angela shook her head ruefully. ‘She seems determined to catch that plane tomorrow. Some nonsense about having to earn her living.’

  ‘She could do that here.’ Brad smiled at her.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Paige shook her head, glancing around her, absorbing the ambience of luxury combined with good taste. ‘You don’t need a PR person. This place clearly sells itself.’

  ‘There are other positions—other roles we could discuss, maybe.’ He was still holding her hand, and Paige detached herself gently.

  ‘It’s a nice thought, but I’m not really looking at the moment. Thanks.’

  ‘Well, let me at least show you around,’ Brad suggested. ‘Let you see the layout.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Jack said heartily. ‘We’ll see you in the bar presently.’

  And Paige, with murder in her heart, allowed herself to be led away.

  In spite of herself, she found she was enjoying the tour. Brad was clearly proud of what he’d achieved, and rightly so. And he had firm ideas about his plans for the future, she realised with frank appreciation.

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to stay here?’ he asked, his eyes searching as he poured them both a drink in his private office.

  ‘Absolutely convinced.’ Paige took t
he glass from him with a murmur of thanks. ‘In fact, I’m not sure I shouldn’t be recruiting you instead, for Harrington Holdings. We could do with your kind of vision.’

  His brows lifted. ‘Things not going so well?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ve had a so-so year. More than our fair share of problems.’ She paused, pulling a mock-guilty face. ‘And, as you can see, I’m a lousy PR girl, because I shouldn’t even be talking like this. I ought to be saying that everything in the garden is lovely.’

  ‘Well, there are no journalists present, and your secrets are safe with me.’ He looked at her enquiringly. ‘So, if your heart’s not in it, why do you work in public relations? Maybe the time is right for a change of career.’

  ‘I’ve already had one. I started out on a women’s magazine, working in features.’

  ‘You got tired of that?’

  ‘By no means. I was persuaded that I was needed elsewhere. And my family can be very persuasive.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then perhaps I should try a little coaxing myself.’

  She was aware that he’d moved closer along the big white leather sofa they were sharing.

  She stiffened, her hands clasped together in her lap, her whole body language a warning to him not to stray any nearer. She offered him a taut smile. ‘I’m really not open to any kind of inducement at the moment. I have problems of my own to sort out.’

  ‘I know you’re married,’ he said. ‘Angie told me. But she also said it hadn’t worked out. So that needn’t be a barrier. I’m divorced myself, and it isn’t the end of the world.’ He paused. ‘Unless you’re still carrying a torch for the guy?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Her voice sounded clipped and very clear. ‘We weren’t together long enough to light one.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean a thing.’ The blue eyes were shrewd. ‘Sometimes it can just take one look across a room full of other people.’