Claiming My Bride Of Convenience. Кейт Хьюит

what he wanted. Now it was his turn to give me what I wanted.

      ‘Good luck with that,’ I muttered to myself, and someone turned to give me a hard stare.

      I’d always had the slightly odd habit of talking to myself, and three years on a remote island hadn’t helped matters. I gave the stranger a sunny smile and forced myself to move on.

       Where was my husband?

      Then I saw him and wondered how I hadn’t before. He was in the centre of the room, the star of the show, standing half a head taller than any other man. My steps slowed and my heart started to beat hard. He was even more magnificent in the flesh than I remembered.

      I stood there for a moment just watching him, because he was so beautiful. I didn’t want him to be, because I knew that his cold, hard beauty would distract and unsettle me, and in fact it already was. Matteo Dias was breathtaking—a dark and powerful knight in his tuxedo, the expensive material stretching over his broad shoulders and showcasing his long legs and impressive chest. Even from across the room, I could see how his grey eyes glinted like silver, and his mobile mouth captured my fascination as he spoke.

      We’d never kissed, barely even touched, and yet in that moment I was spellbound, caught by his sheer animal magnetism and intense charisma, as if we shared a physical history. As if I could actually remember the way he felt and even tasted, when I knew I couldn’t.

      I hadn’t let myself even imagine either of those things, because our marriage had never been like that. Matteo had been clear on that point right from the beginning, his lip curling in derision at the thought of so much as touching me—and I’d told myself I didn’t mind, because I didn’t want to be touched.

      I took a deep breath and started forward. ‘Matteo.’

      My voice came out more loudly than I’d meant it to, and several people turned. I heard whispers, titters, as their gazes raked over me. So the dress didn’t work, then. I’d suspected as much, but I didn’t care. Colour surged into my face but I kept my chin high, as I had all my life, no matter what it had thrown at me—and it had thrown a lot.

       ‘Matteo.’

      He turned, his eyes narrowing to silver slits as his lush mouth compressed into a narrow, unforgiving line. Clearly he wasn’t pleased to see me. I wasn’t surprised, but stupidly I still managed to feel hurt, although I tried to hide it.

      The woman by his side tilted her head towards him, her green cat’s eyes glinting with malicious laughter as she whispered in a voice loud enough to carry, ‘Oh, dear, Matteo, it looks like someone has a little crush on you.’

      A crush? Hardly.

      ‘We need to talk,’ I told him, keeping my gaze focused on his now scowling face, refusing to be intimidated by the women who circled him as if they were a flock of elegant crows and he was their carrion. Except, of course, Matteo was all predator and no prey.

      ‘Talk…?’

      He pretended to look puzzled, and I realised he was going to try to act as if he didn’t know me. The thought filled me with a sudden empowering fury. No way, sucker. Not after three whole years of doing what he’d said and staying out of his way.

      ‘Yes, talk, Matteo.’ I smiled sweetly even though inside I was trembling like a bowl full of jelly. ‘You do remember who I am, don’t you?’ I forced my smile wider as I started to say the dreaded word. ‘Your wi—’

      ‘Not here.’

      His hand clamped down on my arm and he steered me out of the ballroom as if I were an unruly member of staff. I tripped in my heels and Matteo steadied me, although I could tell the gesture was one of expediency rather than concern. My husband wasn’t merely displeased to see me; he was furious.

      That was made even more clear when he ushered me into a private room off the ballroom, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

      ‘Daisy,’ he said, his teeth gritted and his eyes flashing, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’

      I almost hadn’t recognised her. Admittedly she was reassuringly easy to forget—which was why I’d married her in the first place. The only reason I remembered her name was because of the deposits I’d made into her bank account.

      ‘Nice to see you, too,’ she muttered, with a flash of spirit I hadn’t expected.

      Hadn’t I married a mouse? A quiet, tame, unremarkable and invisible mouse, who was supposed to be grateful for what I’d done for her and stay entirely out of my way?

      ‘We had an agreement,’ I told her flatly.

      ‘To keep me prisoner on an island while you gallivant about all of Europe?’

      ‘What?’ I stared at her incredulously. ‘Is that seriously your version of events?’

      ‘We’re married, Matteo.’

      My jaw dropped and I snapped it shut. I could not believe she was playing that card, when she of all people knew what our marriage really was. ‘You signed the agreement, Daisy. You cashed the cheques. You told me it suited you.’

      Her jaw was thrust out, her expression mutinous. I’d never seen her look so fiery—but then, of course, I’d barely seen her at all, and as they say, out of sight, out of mind. Entirely.

      ‘I know I did, but it’s been three years and I want something different now.’

      ‘Oh, really?’

      I folded my arms and stared her down. She had to be easy to intimidate. She certainly had been before—although in truth I hadn’t even had to try. I’d offered her a deal—a generous, considerate, honest business deal—and she’d accepted. Clearly she needed reminding of those facts now.

      ‘So you want something different and you decide to stalk me down to a public party—’

      ‘I did not stalk,’ she snapped, cutting across me, which no one ever did. ‘I read about the party online and decided to find you here.’

      ‘I call that stalking.’

      ‘Technically, I don’t think you can stalk your husband.’

      ‘Trust me, you can—especially in a marriage like ours.’

      ‘Which is exactly what I want to discuss.’

      She gave me an acidly sweet smile as she walked across the room—or rather minced, because that dress was so ridiculous—to sit in a chair, looking as demure as I could ever hope for, even though her eyes still sparked.

      ‘What is that hideous dress you’re wearing?’ I asked, knowing I was being blunt to the point of rudeness and not caring in the slightest. ‘You look like a tube of lipstick—and a nasty shade at that.’

      Her cheeks flushed but her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I thought those snarky assistants at the boutique might be setting me up.’

      ‘Couldn’t you tell it didn’t suit you?’ Although, awful as it was, it did suit her. My gaze was reluctantly and irresistibly drawn to the slender curves the outrageously tight dress clung to. ‘What is that material? Pleather?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ She glanced down at it without much interest. ‘They insisted it was the latest style, and who am I to know any different?’

      ‘They were lying to you.’

      For some reason it annoyed me that a couple of nasty shop assistants would make a mockery of my wife. Our marriage most certainly wasn’t like that, but she was still a Dias. Even if no one knew it. Even if that was the way I’d wanted it.

      ‘I thought they might