To Love, Honour and Disobey. Natalie Anderson

kept the house or the serial sleazoid avoided the alimony. Knowing his powers of persuasion, she knew it was a waste of his talent. He should be in the criminal courtroom. He’d have a jury free a man despite evidence caught on camera and with DNA back-up.

      ‘So you got made partner?’

      That was why he’d married her. Not because he’d fallen as madly, deeply, passionately for her as she had for him. Not because he too had been swept away by a kind of madness. No, he’d had a far more clay-based reason for proposing than her helium-filled one for saying yes. There’d been some archaic belief in his old-school firm that the partners needed to have a stable, respectable home life. Not the girls-a-go-go playboy lifestyle that Seb had.

      She should have figured it out sooner—that he hadn’t meant any of it. He’d picked her up in a bar, for heaven’s sake—as if that were any real start to a serious relationship? In minutes he’d seduced the brains out of her. Just as he did with a different woman every week. Only she’d been so gullible and needy she’d believed him when he’d said she was special. She’d been stupid enough to step onto a plane with him and take off for a sex-drenched mini-break on an island famed for its sun and sand. An island where, if you were so inclined, you could even get married.

      And she’d been so inclined. She’d been so desperate to believe. How badly she’d wanted to believe that someone had fallen in love with her just like that. So stupid—as if that would happen? But a childhood lacking in love and full of loneliness did that to a person.

      ‘Yes.’ Seb sighed. ‘I checked all the boxes, didn’t I? Have wife, will progress.’

      ‘You don’t have a wife.’

      ‘I do,’ he replied, lifting his hand, showing the wedding band.

      ‘Another one?’ She deadpanned, ignoring the spike of adrenalin. ‘My God. You’re a bigamist.’

      He laughed. She stared as his face broke up—she saw his full lips widen, teeth flash and his eyes light. And then there was the sound. It was like having plugs removed from her ears. Hearing that freshness, she felt sweet warmth sweep inside. She couldn’t help responding, her lips curving.

      ‘Ana. We’re married. Still married, in case you’d forgotten.’

      Of course she hadn’t. She was working to end it, wasn’t she? ‘We’re only married on paper, Seb. And not for much longer.’

      ‘What do you mean only on paper?’ His eyes twinkled brighter. ‘I remember consummating our marriage, Ana. I remember the night on the balcony. I remember the way you—’

      ‘All right.’ She held up her hand, stopping what she knew was going to be a totally inappropriate recollection. ‘So I’m your wife. How the hell do you explain it?’

      ‘You don’t like city life.’ He angled his head and looked at her as if he were a medium reading her mind. ‘And for all I know that might actually be true. I decline invitations on your behalf and don’t participate in client functions myself. I’m very devoted.’

      ‘To what, my absence?’

      ‘It’s very useful.’ He nodded. ‘I can say no to my lady clients and go up in their esteem at the same time.’

      ‘They really think you have a wife secreted away somewhere?’ She was intrigued now. Did he really feed them this rubbish?

      ‘Well, I do, don’t I? But they don’t know that not even I know where the hell you’ve been. I have your picture on my desk. Looking soulfully into the lens.’

      ‘You’re kidding.’ He had to be. ‘They honestly believe you?’

      ‘I guess.’ Sebastian shrugged. He didn’t care what they all thought. Frankly since he’d been so grumpy the questions had stopped early on and he hadn’t had to lie—except by omission. And since he’d taken himself right out of the social scene and thrown himself into work, he’d proved himself beyond worthy of the promotion. It was what he should have done in the first place. There’d have been no need for that stupid piece of paper and the confusion that had blown up between them.

      He’d laugh about it one day. Honest he would. But until he’d demanded that her best friend Phil finally tell him where the hell she was, he’d always wondered if something had happened to her. Sure she’d left him a message, but when he’d followed up on it he’d discovered it had all been lies. She’d vanished. And he’d been left with that nagging worry. And the regret. He’d been horribly blunt when she’d asked him straight out about why he’d married her. He hadn’t meant to hurt her—he’d liked her and had sure as hell liked sleeping with her.

      But it only took one look at her now to know that he’d been wrong to worry. She was looking great. So much skin. So much inviting skin.

      He shouldn’t have touched her before. He was here to get closure, not to rekindle that out-of-control flame. ‘I think they think you’re not well or something,’ he said. ‘They don’t ask any more. Quiet sympathy offered all round.’

      ‘Rather than sex.’

      Oh, so she could do sarcasm, could she? He laughed, cringing a little, but he couldn’t blame her—after all, he’d told her about the last one, hadn’t he? ‘They wouldn’t dare. Not believing I’m so devoted.’

      All those inviting looks had dropped. Had he known it would be so simple he’d have invented a wife a couple of years ago. Saved himself this current mess. Getting made partner at Wilson & Crosbie had been his ambition since before university. He was there now. But there’d been no chance of a partnership while single; the old boys in the firm were ultra-conservative. They didn’t want their well-heeled lady clients eyeing him up, or the estranged young wives of their male clients confusing the agenda. And they certainly didn’t like the entire secretarial pool coming to a complete halt every time he walked past their desks. And given he’d had a fling with one that had ended with the girl in constant floods of tears at work, maybe they had a point. Apparently they felt he needed a wife.

      He’d been going to force it. Point out the ridiculousness to the firm—he was a divorce specialist, for heaven’s sake. But that had been just before he’d met Ana. Fate had lent a hand. He’d been so hot for her—whisking her off to have his wicked way. And one afternoon in Gibraltar when he’d been intoxicated by sun and sand and so much glorious sex he’d had the most stupid idea. She’d agreed and they’d married the next day.

      Her eyes slid from his. ‘So how are you going to explain the divorce?’

      He felt the devil surge in him and was unable to stop the temptation to tease. ‘Maybe there won’t be a divorce.’

      ‘What?’ Wide-eyed, she shook her head. ‘There’ll be one. You can count on it.’

      ‘You’re that desperate to be rid of me?’ Why? Did she have another man? Where was he? And why was she on a truck cruising around Africa?

      ‘Of course I am.’

      ‘Then why’s it taken so long?’ It was the best part of a year since she’d walked out and he hadn’t heard a word until those papers had landed on his desk.

      She looked away, didn’t answer directly. ‘Don’t you want a divorce? Good grief.’ Her face flashed back towards him. ‘Do you still need a wife to keep your precious job? That’s insane.’

      He opened his mouth, about to correct her, but she surged on.

      ‘I’ll fight you for it, Seb. Don’t think I won’t. Really you should sign quickly. Otherwise I might go after your money.’

      He laughed again, shaking his head at the weakness of her threat. ‘No judge would buy it, honey. You’re the one who deserted me, remember? After a mere three days of marriage. I’m the wounded party, the heartbroken one. It’s more likely that I’d get some of your money.’ It wasn’t, of course, but he’d take the chance of snatching the moral high ground