Rafael's Contract Bride. Nina Milne

tipped his palms upward. ‘How can I hope to persuade you to work for me if I don’t know what I’m up against?’

      ‘Fine.’

      If he wanted straight shooting she’d give it to him. After all, right now she didn’t have to be a lady, and he’d given her carte blanche to be honest. Better for him to understand that her desire not to work for him was genuine and absolute. This was a man who went for what he wanted, and for unfathomable reasons he wanted her—Cora Brookes. Not Lady Cora Derwent.

      For a second the idea held a fascination and, yes, a lure all of its own...

      Time for a mental shakedown. The words fascination and lure were not apposite, and it was time to prove to Rafael and herself that she had no intention of calling him her boss. Ever. All her life she’d been surrounded by people like him, and for the past few years she’d worked for her parents—she knew what it was like.

      ‘I don’t like the way you think your wealth and your looks entitle you to—’ She broke off at the sudden flash of something that crossed his face.

      ‘Entitle me to what?’ he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

      ‘Entitle you to whatever you want—glamorous women, fast cars, private jets, endless favours... I don’t like the sense of superiority...’

      ‘My wealth entitles me to whatever I can afford, as long as I’m not hurting anyone or doing anything illegal.’ There was no sign of a smile now, no hint of charm or allure.

      ‘It doesn’t entitle you to feel superior.’

      Any more than her family’s bloodline entitled them to do that.

      ‘I don’t feel superior.’

      ‘But you do feel entitled.’

      ‘To what? To buy a sports car? To hire a private jet? Yes.’

      ‘What about the women?’ Because, in all honesty, that was what stuck in her craw the most. ‘They are flesh and blood—not carbon fibre or titanium.’

      ‘I know that, and I’m thankful for it.’

      The amusement in the tilt of his arrogant lips made her palm itch.

      ‘I get that—but you still see them on a par with the car and the jet. As accessories.’

      How many pictures had she seen of Rafael with a different model, actress or celebrity on his arm?

      Rafael opened his mouth and then closed it again; a flush touched the angle of his cheekbones. ‘I don’t see women as accessories.’

      Aha! ‘Do I sense a touch of defensiveness there?’

      ‘No.’ A scowl shadowed his face and his dark eyes positively blazed. ‘I don’t accessorise myself with women. I don’t collect them and I make it very clear upfront that my maximum relationship span is a few days and that I don’t believe in love.’

      Although the heat had simmered down in his eyes every instinct told her she’d hit a nerve.

      ‘But you do admit these women all have to look good?’

      ‘I admit I have to be attracted to them.’

      For a second she saw the smallest hint of discomfort flash across his expression.

      ‘But that would be true regardless of my wealth.’

      ‘I think you’d find that without your wealth and looks you would have to lower your standards.’

      ‘In which case the women I date are as shallow as I am.’

      ‘And you don’t have a problem with that?’

      ‘Nope. I see no need to apologise for dating beautiful women.’

      ‘What about the fact you only go out with beautiful women?’

      ‘I don’t force them to go out with me, and I make them no promises.’

      ‘But even you admit it’s shallow?’

      ‘It’s called having fun, Cora. I believe in fun. As long as no one gets hurt. I’ve earned my money fair and square and if I choose to spend it on living life to the full then I won’t apologise for it.’

      ‘So the whole fast cars, beautiful women, party lifestyle is all you want from life?’

      Why did it matter so much to her?

      Because she wanted to shout, What about women like me? Don’t we rate a look-in? What about those less endowed with natural charm and grace? People like me, who knock things over, say the wrong thing or—worse—say nothing at all. The ones who haven’t been touched by the brush of success. What about us?

      ‘Not all I want, no.’ His lips were set to grim and a clenching of his fist on the mahogany tabletop suddenly made him appear oceans apart from shallow playboy.

      ‘What else do you want?’

      ‘I want to make Martinez Wines a success, I want to run the London Marathon, to climb Ben Nevis, travel the world with a backpack, sail the oceans... I want to live life to the full and set the world to rights.’

      Cora stared at him, unsure whether he meant it or was mocking her.

      ‘What do you want, Cora?’

      The question was smooth, but laced with a sting.

      What did she want right now? A vast amount of money—enough to repay her parents for the loss of the Derwent diamonds, stolen thanks to her naïve stupidity.

      What did she want from life? She wanted the impossible—approval, love, acceptance from her parents, who had shown nothing but indifference to the child they perceived as surplus to requirements.

      For an instant she envied Rafael Martinez his brash desire to live his life as he wanted, by his own rules. He wanted to live life to the full and she wanted...

      ‘I want... I want...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I want to get on with my life. Be happy.’

      But as she stared at him, so handsome, so arrogant, smouldering, for an instant she wanted him—wanted to be one of those gorgeous women he was attracted to. She wanted, coveted, yearned for Kaitlin’s looks and her presence—that elusive ‘It’ factor her sister possessed in abundance. How shallow was that? Clearly the atmosphere was affecting her and it was time to get a grip.

      ‘Are you happy now?’ he asked. ‘Do you enjoy being an administrator?’

      ‘It’s what I need to do.’

      It had been a cry for approval. Another step on her quest to be a useful daughter. She had slogged through a business studies degree and offered to help manage the Derwent estate. Had been doing just that when she had messed up—big-time. Following the diamond heist her parents had told her they could no longer trust her to carry out her job ‘with any level of competence’. The memory of the ice-cold disdain in her mother’s tone brought back a rush of humiliation and guilt. Reminded her of her imperative need to repay her debt.

      ‘It pays the bills.’

      Her minimal bills. For an instant the depressing contents of her weekly supermarket shop paraded before her eyes. Every spare penny put aside.

      For a second a look of puzzlement crossed his face as he surveyed her. ‘Well, the role I have on offer will definitely help with that. If you can get over your prejudice.’

      ‘What prejudice?’

      ‘The “I can’t work for you because I disapprove of your lifestyle” prejudice.’

      ‘It’s not a prejudice. It’s a principle.’

      ‘No it’s not. A principle is when you don’t do something for moral reasons. Working for me wouldn’t be immoral. So...’ His voice was deep, serious, seductive. ‘Promise you’ll