The Vengeful Husband. Lynne Graham

deep, dark drawl that was both well-modulated and unexpectedly quiet.

      ‘Won’t you sit down?’ Darcy invited, with an uncharacteristically weak motion of one hand as she forced herself almost clumsily down into a seat

      But then Darcy was in shock. She had hoped he would be either sensible and serious or weak and biddable. Instead she had been presented with a rampantly macho male who roared up on a motorbike and wore trousers so tight she marvelled that he could stand in them, never mind sit down. With what she believed was termed designer stubble on his aggressive jawline, he looked about as domesticated and well-behaved as a sabre-toothed tiger.

      ‘If you will forgive me for saying so...you look at me rather strangely,’ be remarked, further disconcerting her as he lowered himself down with indolent grace onto the small sofa opposite her. ‘Do I remind you of someone, signorina?’

      Darcy stiffened even more with nervous tension, and she was already sitting rigid-backed in the seat. ‘Not at all,’ she asserted with deflating conviction. ‘Now, since I’m afraid I couldn’t read your signature...what is your full name?’

      ‘Let us leave it at Luca for now. The wording of your ad suggested that the employment on offer could be of a somewhat unusual nature,’ he drawled softly. ‘I would like some details before we go any further.’

      Darcy bristled like a cat stroked the wrong way. She was supposed to be interviewing him, not the other way round!

      ‘After all, you have not given me your real name either,’ he pointed out in offensively smooth continuance.

      Darcy’s eyes opened to their fullest extent. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Before I came down here, I checked you out. Your surname is Fielding, not Darcy, and you do not live here in this cottage; you live in the huge mansion at the top of the driveway,’ he enumerated with unabashed cool. ‘You have gone to some trouble to conceal your own identity. Naturally that is a source of concern to me.’

      Stunned by that little speech, Darcy sprang upright and stared down at him in shaken disbelief, her angry bewilderment unconcealed. ‘You checked me out?’

      He lifted a casual brown hand and slowly removed the sunglasses. ‘The light is dim enough in here...’

      He studied her with a curiously expectant quality of intensity.

      And without warning Darcy found herself staring down into lustrous dark eyes fringed by glossy, spiky black lashes. He had the sort of eyes that packed a powerful punch. Gorgeous, she thought in helpless reaction, brilliant and dark as night, impenetrably deep and unreadable. With the sunglasses on he had looked as if he might be pretty good-looking, without them he zoomed up the scale to stunningly handsome, in spite of the fact that he badly needed a shave. And she now quite understood that hint of expectancy he betrayed. This was a guy accustomed to basking in female double takes, appreciative stares and inviting smiles.

      But Darcy tensed and took an instantaneous step back, her retreat only halted by the armchair she had vacated. Yet the tiny twisting sensation of sudden excitement she had experienced still curled up deep in the pit of her taut stomach, and then pierced her like a knife with sudden shame. Her colour heightening, Darcy plotted her path out of the way of the armchair behind her, controlled solely by a need to put as much distance as possible between them.

      Throughout that unchoreographed backing away process of hers, she was tracked by narrowed unflinchingly steady dark eyes. ‘Signorina Fielding—’

      ‘Look, you had no right to check me out...’ Darcy folded her arms in a defensive movement. ‘I guaranteed your privacy. Couldn’t you have respected mine?’

      ‘Not without some idea of what I might be getting into. It’s standard business practice to make enquiries in advance of an interview.’

      Darcy tore her frustrated gaze from his. Antipathy darted through her in a blinding wave. With difficulty, she held onto her ready temper. Possibly the reminder had been a timely one. It was, after all, a business proposition she intended to make. And this Luca might think he was clever, but she already knew he had to be as thick as two short planks, didn’t she? Only a complete idiot would turn up for an interview with a woman unshaven and dressed like a Hell’s Angel. A financial advisor? In his dreams! Conservative apparel went with such employment.

      Bolstered by the belief that he could be no Einstein, and rebuking herself for having been intimidated by something as superficial and unimportant as his physical appearance, Darcy sat down again and linked her small hands tightly together on her lap. ‘Right, let’s get down to business, then...’

      The waiting silence lay thick and heavy like a blanket. Settling back into the sofa in a relaxed sprawl of long, seemingly endless limbs, Luca surveyed her with unutterable tranquillity.

      Her teeth gritted. Wondering just how long that laid-back attitude would last, Darcy lifted her chin to a challenging angle. ‘There was a good reason behind the offbeat ad I placed. But before I explain what that reason is, I should mention certain facts in advance. Should you agree to take the position on offer, you would be well paid even though there is no work involved—’

      ‘No work involved?’

      Darcy was soothed at receiving the exact response she had anticipated in that interruption. ‘No work whatsoever,’ she confirmed. ‘While you were living in my home, your time would be your own, and at the end of your employment—assuming that you fulfil the terms to my satisfaction—I would also give you a generous bonus.’

      ‘So what’s the catch?’ Luca prompted very softly. ‘In return you ask me to do something illegal?’

      A mortified flush stained Darcy’s perfect skin. ‘Of course not,’ she rebutted tautly. “The “catch”, if you choose to call it that, is that you would have to agree to marry me for six months!’

      ‘To...marry you?’ Luca stressed the word with a frown of wondering incredulity as he sat forward on the sofa. ‘The employment you offer is...marriage?’

      ‘Yes. It’s really quite simple. I need a man to go through a wedding ceremony with me and behave like a husband for a minimum of six months,’ Darcy extended, with the frozen aspect of a woman forcing herself to refer to an indecent act.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Why? That’s my business. I don’t think you require that information to make a decision,’ Darcy responded uncomfortably.

      Lush black lashes semi-screened his dark eyes. ‘I don’t understand... Could you explain it again, signorina,’ he urged, in a rather dazed undertone.

      You certainly couldn’t call him mentally agile, Darcy thought ruefully. Having got over the worst, however, she felt stronger, and all embarrassment had left her. He was still sitting there, and why shouldn’t he be? If he was as single as he had said he was, he stood to earn a great deal for doing nothing. She repeated what she had already said and, convinced that the financial aspect would be the greatest persuader of all, she mentioned the monthly salary she was prepared to offer and then the sizeable bonus she would advance in return for his continuing discretion about their arrangement after they had parted.

      He nodded, and then nodded again more slowly, still focusing with a slight frown on the worn carpet at his feet. Maybe the light was annoying his eyes, Darcy decided, struggling to hold onto her irritation at his torpid reactions. Maybe he was just gobsmacked by the concept of being paid to be bone idle. Or maybe he was so shattered by what she had suggested that he hadn’t yet worked out how to respond.

      ‘I would, of course, require references,’ Darcy continued.

      ‘I could not supply references as a husband...’

      Darcy drew in a deep breath of restraint. ‘I’m referring to character references,’ she said drily.

      ‘If you wanted a husband, why didn’t you place an ad in the personal column?’

      ‘I would have received replies from men interested