The Million Pound Marriage Deal. Michelle Douglas

of them in and out of his life.

       You can’t talk.

      She bit back a sigh.

      The restaurant was upmarket, of course, and eschewed modern minimalist lines that were currently in vogue, celebrating instead a colonial décor popular over a century ago. It reminded her of Raffles in Singapore. Minus the heat and humidity. This wasn’t the kind of establishment that needed to justify itself. She took a seat.

      ‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’

      ‘Yes, please. A sparkling mineral water would be lovely.’

      He blinked before his face became a smooth mask again. Ah...so he recognised her too, huh? She resisted the urge to tease him. New leaf, remember?

      She glanced through the screen of palms at the rest of the room and shook her head. ‘Horrible,’ she murmured. Normally she and Will met in the café at the Tate Modern. Where they could stare out at the vista spread before them rather than at each other.

      And where occasionally their shoulders would bump. Accidentally, of course—Will would never purposely touch his best friend’s little sister. Especially not now Peter was dead. But those accidental moments always made her feel less alone.

      ‘Crazy,’ she murmured. ‘Also you have to stop talking to yourself like this or someone will overhear.’ She thought about that for a moment and then shrugged. ‘So what?’

      It wasn’t like a century ago, when they could’ve had her committed for such eccentricity. Besides, she’d been called far less savoury things than crazy by the press...and her father.

      She watched the waiter return with both her mineral water and Will, and missed the Tate Modern’s café with its view over a grey city. But today called for more salubrious surroundings. Today was Peter’s birthday.

      Maybe that was why she felt so claustrophobic amid all this airy, white-shuttered cane and palm expansiveness.

      Will couldn’t see her as well as she could see him, but she tried not to study him too intently anyway, though the temptation lurked at the edges of her consciousness. As usual her heart-rate picked up speed at the sight of those impossibly broad shoulders, long legs and lean hips. William Trent-Paterson was built along lines that made every woman in the room stand to attention, figuratively speaking. A woman had once told her that she ovulated every single time she clapped eyes on Will.

      She tried to ignore all thoughts of ovulation, eggs and procreation. Regardless of what Will looked like she knew that, as usual, his lips would press into a thin line when he saw her.

      ‘Such a shame,’ she murmured, because, actually, she really liked him. Still, she’d love to see him run to fat. Just a little bit. Just one flaw—that was all she asked. Maybe then she’d feel on more of an even footing with him.

       You might as well ask for the moon.

      ‘Sophie,’ he said when he reached her.

      As predicted those lips pinched together. So did the skin around his eyes. It was a double shame because he had a nice smile, though she rarely saw it.

      ‘Hello, Will.’

      She rose and they gave each other perfunctory pecks on the cheeks, keeping the width of the table between them. A rush of lime and a darker musky note flooded her senses. She pulled back and planted herself in her chair again and tried to ignore the heavy thud-thud of the pulse in her throat.

      It was like this every single time—the stilted distance and the heart thudding.

      She suspected it was because there was no other person on the planet who had loved Peter as much as she had...except for Will.

      And her father, but that was too difficult.

      Since the viciousness of her parents’ separation and subsequent divorce when she was eleven and Peter sixteen—when the only thing her parents were focused on was hurting each other—she and Peter had turned to each other. They’d seemed to realise they had no other family to rely on. She’d done her best to stop him from growing too grave and serious, while he’d done his best to stop her from feeling as if she didn’t measure up. She’d looked up to him so much. Had depended on him.

      And now he was gone...

      She couldn’t believe the hole it had left in her life.

      It made her think that she and Will should hold each other tight on the occasions they did see each other, take comfort in each other. But it was never like that.

      Because Will didn’t really like her.

      But some strange sense of honour kept them in touch, some respect for Peter they weren’t prepared to surrender.

      Would he be relieved if she hadn’t shown up—if she just stopped turning up for their monthly coffee dates and occasional lunches? Would he feel he’d discharged some unspoken duty to Peter and was now off the hook? The thought made her heart ache. She couldn’t stop coming. He was one of her last links to Peter. And Peter was the only person who had truly loved her for who she was.

      She couldn’t let that go. She couldn’t let Peter go, which meant she couldn’t let Will go. And she wanted to tell him she was sorry for that, sorry if that made things difficult for him.

      But she didn’t. Because it would make him uncomfortable...and she didn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable. She’d like to make him smile if she could.

      ‘You look glum.’

      That slammed her back to the present. ‘Sorry, just feeling a bit wistful for...for what could’ve been.’

      He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and she realised he’d thought she was referring to Peter. Make things more cheerful.

      She waved to encompass the restaurant. ‘I’ve not been here before.’

      He straightened. ‘Do you like it?’

      ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, because she was always on her best behaviour with Will.

      Amazingly he laughed. ‘You hate it.’

      ‘Well, the fact of the matter is I’m starved. So as long as the food is good, I don’t care about anything else.’

      Those lips pressed back into a tight line. ‘Traditionally you barely touch any of your food.’

      ‘Today I can promise you that I’ll clean my plate.’ New leaf.

      He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘You’re planning on ordering the green salad and nothing else?’

      She snapped her menu closed. ‘I’m having the lamb.’

      ‘Excellent choice, I’ll have the same.’ He handed the waiter his menu, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘How’s your father?’

      Here began the ritual questions. She pushed down a sigh. Just once she’d like... She pushed that thought down too. ‘Triumphant that I’ve been forced to toe the line and run all of his foreseeable charity events.’

      For the moment. Beneath the table she twisted her watch around and around on her wrist. She needed a way to find a lot of money fast. Really fast. And she had no idea how she was going to do it. Her father paid her a generous allowance for acting as his event planner, but it was nowhere near enough to help Carla in any practical way...to make amends to the other woman. And she wasn’t stupid enough to ask her father for a loan. He’d take too much delight in telling her that she was a carbon copy of her mother and to go to blazes.

      Dark eyes surveyed her across the table. ‘That’s nobody’s fault but your own.’

      True, but... ‘A more gallant man would’ve refrained from pointing that out.’

      ‘I don’t feel like being gallant today, Sophie. I feel like smashing something.’

      Her