The Marriage Proposition. Sara Craven

his time, too, financing for the company had been easier to obtain. A series of gentlemen’s agreements conducted in London clubs. All very cosy and agreeable.

      She supposed the deal struck with Nick Destry’s merchant bank had been much the same—except that Nick was no gentleman. And cosiness and affability had not been included in his make-up. Nor had fidelity or a sense of decency, she reminded herself tautly.

      Apparently he’d made it clear from day one that he was unimpressed by the company’s record in recent years, and that he would only negotiate the finance they needed in return for a measure of control. When old Crispin Harrington’s ruling on family membership had been pointed out to him, he’d shrugged.

      ‘I’m unmarried and you’ve got a single daughter,’ he’d told Paige’s father with cool insouciance. ‘We’ll have a ceremony to make it legal, then the lady and I can go our separate ways.’ A pause. ‘I presume divorce won’t affect my status on the board?’

      And, gasping, Francis Harrington had admitted it wouldn’t.

      Divorce, Paige thought, was not a contingency that would ever have occurred to her great-grandfather—or not where the Harrington name was concerned, at least. Other people might lead that kind of erratic life, but it could only be deplored and pitied. Certainly never emulated.

      He must be spinning in his grave at this very moment, Paige thought, grimacing.

      But then her own head had whirled when the scheme had first been tentatively proposed to her.

      ‘I’ve made it quite clear to Destry that the decision is entirely yours,’ her father had said anxiously. ‘That there’ll be no coercion of any kind and that the entire arrangement must be strictly temporary, leaving you free to get on with your own life after the statutory period.’

      Paige had sat very still, her hands folded in her lap. She had looked at her father, but she hadn’t seen him. The image in her head had been a very different one—a dark, impatient face, with a high-bridged nose and strong, hard mouth. Not handsome, but with an intrinsic dynamism that surpassed conventional good looks. And charm, when he chose to exert it.

      That mouth could soften, she’d thought detachedly. Twist ruefully into a smile to make your bones melt—if you were susceptible to such things.

      A tall, lean body, wide-shouldered and narrow-hipped that looked equally good in City suits and casual gear.

      A low voice with a cool drawl, that could also resonate with hidden laughter.

      As a package, it couldn’t be faulted.

      And she hadn’t wanted any of it.

      She looked at herself, slowly and with consideration. Took in the light brown hair with the elegant blonde highlights, the wide cheekbones, the green eyes with their curling fringe of lashes. The cool, almost tense lines of her mouth.

      And he, she thought flatly, hadn’t wanted her either. Checkmate. Death to the king.

      She should have said no there and then. Every instinct she possessed had screamed at her to curtly refuse to lend herself to something so blatantly opportunist—and medieval.

      Her father had expected her to reject the idea. She’d seen it in the defeated slump of his shoulders. The faint greyness which had replaced the usual ruddiness of his complexion. And this had scared her.

      She’d said, her voice faltering a little, ‘Are you telling me this is the only way you can get the finance you need? That a seat on the board is the price?’

      Her father had not met her gaze. ‘The bank requires a measure of control for this kind of injection of capital.’ He’d sounded as if he was repeating something he’d learned by rote. ‘They reserve the right to impose conditions. This is one of them. And, because of Crispin’s absurd rule, this is the only way it can be achieved.’

      He’d paused. ‘But no one is going to make you do this, Paige. It must be your own decision. And if you refuse—well, we’ll find our funding elsewhere. Somehow.’

      She had said flatly, ‘I suspect if it was that simple you’d have done so already. Right?’

      There had been another silence, then he’d nodded.

      ‘Then I’ll do it.’ She had made her tone firm, even positive. ‘After all, it’s only a form of words. A signature on a different sort of dotted line. And as soon as the legal requirement’s been fulfilled we can divorce. End of story.’

      Except that it had only been the beginning …

      She paused, aware that her heart was thudding suddenly. That she’d allowed herself to stray towards forbidden territory. And that she needed to stop right there.

      Restlessly, Paige got up from the dressing stool and walked barefoot across the room, out through the tall glazed doors on to the balcony, the folds of her white silk robe swishing round her long legs as she moved.

      The sun was setting, and the Caribbean was pulsing with crimson and gold.

      Leaning on the wrought-iron balustrade and staring at the sea, Paige thought, not for the first time, that Jack and Angela’s hotel was one of the most idyllic places she’d ever visited. It occupied one of the prime sites on the island, which undoubtedly helped.

      She’d met Angela on their first day at convent boarding school, and they’d been friends ever since. While Paige had gone in for magazine journalism, Angela had become a nurse. She’d met Jack when he’d been admitted to her ward with a badly broken leg, and Paige had been astonished when Angela told her, liltingly, a few weeks later, that she was marrying Jack and going back to St Antoine with him to help run the Hotel Les Roches. She was still frankly amazed to see how easily her friend had adapted to her new life.

      The hotel had been the home of Jack’s family for several generations. With the closure of the sugar plantation which had been their livelihood, his father had begun the work of extension and renovation which would transform the old mansion into accommodation that would combine luxury with informality. And Les Roches had been fabulously successful ever since.

      She’d had a wonderful holiday, Paige told herself, but she wouldn’t be altogether sorry to go home. These warm tropical nights could be dangerous, and Brad Coulter had been spending far too much time at the hotel lately—even for a close friend of the proprietors.

      Anyone else in her position, she thought, would have enjoyed a no-strings flirtation and gone home smiling at the end of it. So why couldn’t she?

      It couldn’t be because she felt obliged to remain faithful to her marriage vows. Nick certainly felt no such compulsion. In fact the whole church ceremony had been a cynical charade, and she couldn’t imagine why he’d insisted on it—unless it had been to placate his elderly grandmother who, as well as being his only living relative, was French and a confirmed traditionalist.

      Fortunately, she also lived in France, and so would not be aware of how little time her grandson and his bride had actually spent together—even under the same roof. Because, although she would no doubt regard a mariage de convenance as a sensible solution to a difficult problem, she would still demand that appearances be maintained.

      But Nick was not one for appearances, Paige thought, biting her lip. Nor was he any good at pretending …

      She stopped abruptly, aware that this was another strictly no-go area.

      She should concentrate on the positive side of the situation, she decided bracingly. Remind herself that the months and weeks of their separation were ticking away to zero. And freedom.

      She turned back into her room with a slight shiver. Sunsets always made her melancholy. And tomorrow it was back to the grindstone.

      The dress she chose was a black silky slip with narrow straps, cut cleverly on the bias. She hung a teardrop pearl on a fine gold chain at her throat, and the matching drops in her ears. Her sandals were high-heeled and stylish.

      Not