Highly Unsuitable. Кейт Хьюит

level of determination of the partners to make a go of it—and on their suitability in the first place.’

      ‘How sad.’ She spoke the words beneath her breath, and then turned to face him. To search for the reason he held such an unrelenting, rejecting view on the subject. ‘Your parents are divorced, aren’t they? Is that why—?’

      ‘Don’t think I had a disastrous childhood, Claire. I didn’t.’ He inclined his head, all sign of emotion carefully locked away once more behind the corporate mask. ‘Yes, my parents are proof that what I say is true, but I would have formed that conclusion anyway. Given the divorce statistics, it’s the only logical thing to believe.’

      ‘And logic is everything?’ Had he wrapped himself so deeply in reasoning that he could no longer see the emotional side of life? She didn’t want to believe it. There had to be a live, feeling man in there somewhere.

      Just waiting to be rescued with the warmth of a woman’s love? With the warmth of her love? She would have to be crazy even to try it. Doubly crazy to try it in her current circumstances.

      ‘That’s right.’ Unaware of her thoughts, he gave her an approving glance. ‘Compatibility is what counts. If two people can work together for the same goals, that makes them a really strong team. We’ll have that, Claire, and we’ll be happy. I’m certain of it.’

      ‘Happy.’ But love could happen. He was wrong about that. Not that it made any difference to her now. She searched the aristocratic face, with its winged brows and firm, straight nose, and forced herself to accept the dictates of fate—and her situation.

      They would never reach marriage, she would make certain of that, but she would have to agree to the idea for now. She drew a deep breath and willed her voice not to quiver.

      ‘I accept your proposal.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE grooves beside Nicholas’s mouth deepened, curved into something more than sternness but less than a smile. ‘Thank you, Claire. You’ve made me a happy man.’

      A certain stiffness eased out of his posture. He had probably been poised to banish her back to the clerical pool post-haste if she said no to his preposterous marriage proposal!

      ‘You might end up sorry you ever asked.’

      In fact, I’m quite sure of it. Although I doubt you’ll be half as sorry as I am right at this moment.

      She glanced at the calendar on the wall. Today was Thursday. On a Thursday three months ahead exactly, Sophie would finally be out of the clutches of her ex-boss. The day and date for that final payment were stamped indelibly on Claire’s consciousness.

      She recalled another significant Thursday from a history lesson long since gone. The Wall Street Crash of 1929 had occurred on a Thursday, and it had eventually led to the Great Depression.

      At this point the comparison seemed apt.

      Well, the words had been spoken now. They couldn’t be taken back. But she could and would take control of what happened next. Of everything that happened from here on. She had to if she didn’t want to go mad.

      ‘As I said, I accept your proposal, but I do have conditions.’

      ‘Do you?’ One brow rose in haughty enquiry. ‘Spit them out. I’m all ears.’

      All ears and aggressive waiting. She couldn’t let him intimidate her.

      ‘What I would like to suggest is a six-month engagement period.’ Her glance was direct, determined. Calm, she hoped. ‘We may have worked together for a while, but I couldn’t go ahead with such a major step as marriage without getting to know you a whole lot better than I do now.’

      In a written contract she would have referred to this as the escape clause. The six-month period would allow plenty of time for her to make the final payment to Sophie’s blackmailer, break off the engagement, and walk away. Nicholas would have to accept it. Would have to accept that she had left room for doubt right from the start.

      I’m sorry, Nicholas, but on reflection I’ve decided I can’t marry you after all. We just wouldn’t suit, you see, because I’m a romantic and you’re—well, you’re not.

      There would be no position for her then, even in the clerical pool. Indeed, it would be unbearable to stay on. She would leave Monroe’s, and Nicholas, for ever. It was a price she would have to pay.

      ‘Unless you had planned to wait longer than that to marry, anyway?’

      ‘No.’ The uncompromising word suited the man who had uttered it. ‘I see no point in prevaricating once my mind is made up. In fact, I’d prefer to make the period of engagement three months.’

      He stood from his chair, the sleek lines of his body hard beneath the tailored grey suit.

      In moments he was at her side. His broad shoulders loomed over her lighter frame, crowding her, making her aware of him all over again. Of his strength, his scent, and the aura of power that surged through every square inch of him, calling to every part of her.

      ‘That’s more than enough time for you to get to know me in any way you feel is lacking at this stage. I see no need for us to wait longer.’

      Claire fought the pull of attraction that urged her to forget reason, to break out of her caution and give him whatever he wanted. With interest.

      ‘Five months would be better.’

      She gave him the benefit of a determined look down the length of her nose. Not an easy feat when she had to look up at him to do it. When she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet and agree to anything he suggested, and then some.

      His irritation showed in the deepening furrow between the sharp, piercing eyes. ‘Four months.’

      Claire ran mental calculations. If everything went okay she should be able to manage it. Provided they didn’t go into extravagant plans that could get too complicated too soon. ‘All right. I’m willing to accept that. Four months it is.’

      All she needed now was a little time to pull herself together. To get control of the maddening awareness that arced and jolted through her, that insisted she get closer, despite how stupid that would be. To stop her foolish emotions from trying to do cartwheels of excitement because Nicholas had asked her to marry him. She could rest assured that his emotions hadn’t been anywhere near the building at the time.

      He smiled. The cat that had got the cream. ‘We’ll marry on the first Saturday after those four months are up. So you’re even gaining a couple of days on top of your bargain. You should be pleased. You negotiate well.’

      ‘When I’m falling in with your terms.’ It felt more like a sentence than an agreement. She couldn’t share his pleasure.

      ‘Something like that,’ he agreed.

      From here, she could reach out and touch his jaw if she wanted. Could trace the tanned skin that even this early in the day carried a hint of dark beard stubble. Could ruffle his thick black hair. The knowledge that she did want to do all of those things didn’t help her state of mind.

      ‘What of your other conditions?’ For a moment heat had darkened his eyes again, but it was masked now. He glanced at the view, then turned back to her. ‘You’ll be well provided for should I drop dead early, if that’s the kind of thing you’re wondering about.’

      ‘It’s not.’ She drew a steadying breath. This was the tricky part. ‘I’d like to keep our engagement secret, then marry quietly when the four months is up.’

      ‘Why?’ The warmth melted away as though it had never been.

      Because that way there’ll be no fuss when I call it all off.

      ‘I don’t like fanfare, and my sister…’ In this instance Sophie would prove conveniently useful. ‘Sophie’s out