The Million Pound Marriage Deal. Michelle Douglas

he married Sophie, it would secure Carol Ann’s future. He recalled those few weeks he’d brought her to London to live with him and acid burned his throat. He’d had such high hopes, but she’d become so distraught. She’d become so ill. And he’d been helpless to ease her homesickness and her grief at being torn from her home.

      Peter had always felt responsible for Sophie in the same way Will felt responsible for Carol Ann. And if anything were to happen to Carol Ann...

      His hands clenched. He couldn’t bear the thought, but it reminded him of all the unspoken promises he’d made to Peter when he’d sworn to keep an eye on Sophie—promises to help her wherever and whenever he could. And here was the perfect opportunity to do exactly that.

      ‘I trust you, Sophie.’ And there weren’t too many people he did trust.

      She pursed her lips. ‘I’ve been in the papers a lot recently—always linked with a different guy. I know how much you hate any kind of tabloid attention.’

      ‘Do you mean to continue appearing in the gossip pages?’

      ‘God no!’

      He believed her. ‘Which makes it a non-issue.’

      She stared at him for a long moment. ‘If you were serious about this, we’d need lawyers to draw up pre-nup agreements. I couldn’t take you for anything more than that million pounds.’ The blue in her eyes started to dance. ‘And you couldn’t take my little property in Cornwall.’

      ‘Every word is music to my ears, Sophie.’

      He poured out two glasses of champagne, and handed her one before raising the other in the air. ‘I’m game if you are.’

       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘READY?’

      Sophie swung from where she stood in front of a gently crackling fire that was more for show than warmth, and nodded across the room to an unsmiling Will. ‘Absolutely.’

      It was only four days since their crazy lunch in Soho, four days in which they’d signed their names to a contract to seal this crazy deal. Four days in which to consider pulling out.

      She pushed her shoulders back. It might be crazy but she wasn’t pulling out. All she needed to do to send determination rippling out to every near and far-flung part of her being was to think of Carla. They would make this work.

      She glanced at Will again. He made no move to lead her downstairs.

      They’d been given a suite at the castle—two bedrooms with a shared sitting room and bathroom. It had taken her less time to freshen up than it had him. Which indicated his enthusiasm for the task at hand. She clapped her hands together and tried to look not terrified. ‘Ready whenever you are.’

      The housekeeper had ushered them to these rooms when they’d arrived. Lord Bramley had not greeted his grandson at the door. Nor had Carol Ann.

      If either event had disconcerted or disappointed Will, he’d not betrayed the fact by so much as a flicker of an eyelash.

      He ran a critical eye over her now, raising gooseflesh on her arms. ‘You look perfect.’

      Her lips twisted. She did.

      His eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

      ‘If there’s one thing I can do right it’s to wear the appropriate clothes whatever the occasion.’ And when one got right down to it, it was an utterly pointless talent—so trivial.

      She wore black three-quarter-length capris, a silk vest top in cream and a cashmere blend long-line cardigan in a shade of dusky pink. Complementing the outfit was a pair of pink and rose-gold sandals, light make-up and a loose ponytail. She didn’t need to glance into the mirror above the mantelpiece to know she looked the epitome of casual country chic.

      ‘What are you afraid you can’t do? Pull this charade of ours off?’

      He wore a pair of navy chinos, loafers and a lighter blue button-down shirt that moulded itself to his chest in such a way that it took an enormous amount of effort on her part to not notice. Or, at least, to appear not to notice.

      ‘You look perfect too. We look perfect together.’

      ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

      No wonder his start-up company was so successful—he was dogged, persistent when he sensed a problem, and, she suspected, ruthless. Not that she had any intention of hiding her current concerns from him. For heaven’s sake, the man had promised her a million pounds! She had to do her absolute best here for him. She had no intention of letting him down—for his sake, for her own sake, but mostly for Carla’s sake.

      And Peter’s.

      ‘Sophie?’

      ‘We look perfect.’ She twisted the ring on the third finger of her left hand, before holding that hand up. ‘We have the ring to prove it. But we need to act perfect too.’

      He lowered himself to the edge of the sofa. ‘Explain.’

      She remained right where she was, too keyed-up to take a seat. ‘Look, everyone is going to assume we’re lovers, right? There are certain...intimacies we need to—’

      ‘We’re not having sex! We agreed.’

      He remained seated, but it felt as if he’d leapt to his feet and stabbed a finger at her. Her heart gave a sick thud. ‘Wow! I don’t know whether to be offended that you’re so repulsed at the thought of sleeping with me or not.’

      This time he did shoot to his feet. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

      ‘Well, it’s by the by and totally unimportant for the current conversation. Sex is not the only kind of intimacy couples in love share.’ She planted her hands to her hips to hide how awkward she felt. ‘Or has that fact passed you by?’

      He dismissed that with a single wave of an imperious hand. ‘We’ll play it by ear—wing it. Make it up as we go along.’

      Did he really think that’d work? An unwelcome thought shuffled through her. She wanted to swat it away, but... ‘Are you hoping we succeed? Or that we’ll fail?’

      ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

      She couldn’t take his money. Not if this were a farce. She searched his face.

      ‘I want this to work. It has to work.’ His nostrils flared. ‘What is your problem?’

      Her problem was his absolute lack of enthusiasm for her company. On their flight to Inverness he’d buried himself in paperwork, barely exchanging two words with her. And at the moment it seemed he could barely stand being in the same room with her. It was some kind of Peter hang-up. She recognised it because she had a few of those of her own.

      ‘My problem is that you can barely bring yourself to touch me.’

      He scowled. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

      She held out her hand. ‘Then hold my hand.’

      His scowl deepened but he took her hand. She immediately felt less alone.

      Oh, but that scowl!

      She tugged him closer and turned him so they could survey their reflections in the mirror above the mantelpiece. ‘Now there’s a lover-like expression if I ever saw one.’

      He tried to smooth his face out and she was seized with a sudden urge to giggle.

      ‘This isn’t funny.’

      But his eyes lightened as he said it and her smile widened. ‘It’s hilarious. You’re just too tense to admit it. You’re always tense when you mention Scotland, so I suppose it only makes sense that