Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?. Nicola Marsh

What’s your answer?’

      To her chagrin he grinned, a wide, self-assured grin of a fat cat toying with a baby mouse.

      ‘It’s killing you, isn’t it?’

      In an instant she knew what he was referring to. He used to tease her about being a nosy busybody all the time, so he’d know how much his bombshell was burning her up with curiosity.

      As if she’d give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

      Keeping her expression carefully blank, she shrugged. ‘You’re not the only one who’s changed. What you’ve done in the last ten years, why you chose not to tell me the truth out at the farm, that’s your business.’

      She leaned forward, tapped her presentation folder sitting in prime position in the middle of his desk.

      ‘And this is mine, so let’s cut to the chase. Are you willing to make this deal or not?’

      ‘That depends on you.’

      He sat, leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, stretching the fine cotton of his business shirt tight against his chest, drawing her attention, tempting her to stare, to linger, to envision what he looked like without it.

      Not that she had to try too hard. She’d had an up close and personal look earlier that day and a glimpse of that entire bronze, hard chest was burned into her memory bank no matter how many times she hit the mental delete button.

      She shook her head to clear it. ‘Of course I want this deal to happen. It’s why I’m here.’

      The only reason I’m here, hung unsaid between them as she matched his steady stare, not blinking, not moving a muscle.

      To her surprise he broke the deadlock first by reaching for the folder and pushing it towards her with one finger.

      ‘I’m not interested in your money.’

      That got her attention.

      ‘Pardon?’

      He tapped the folder. ‘What your company’s offering in here, the remuneration for use of the farm. I’m not interested.’

      Her hopes sank faster than her first attempt at rowing on the Thames as she struggled to come up with a new twist on her pitch, something, anything, to convince him to agree to this deal.

      ‘But I do have something else in mind.’

      She didn’t like the hint of subterfuge in his smoother-than-caramel tone, the gleam of devilry in his toffee eyes.

      ‘Like what?’

      He pushed away from the desk, came around and squatted down next to her, way too close, way too overpowering, way too much.

      ‘I’ll agree to your precious deal if you agree to mine.’

      His silky smooth tone sent a shiver of dread creeping across the nape of her neck, for she had no doubt whatever demands he made she’d be forced to agree.

      Hanging onto her cool by a thread, she tossed her hair over her right shoulder and fixed him with her best intimidating glare.

      ‘Go on, then. State your terms.’

      Placing a finger under her chin, he tipped it up, his slight touch sending unexpected heat spiralling through her and slashing a serious hole in her concentration.

      ‘It’s quite simple. I hold onto the farm for now, give you complete access for however long you need it, on one condition.’

      She leaned forward, drawn towards him against her will, his finger less of a guide than her own stupid attraction when it came to this man.

      ‘Spit it out.’

      With his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, he murmured, ‘You become my wife.’

      With their lips so close, so tantalisingly close, and the ever-present heat shimmering between them like an invisible thread binding them despite time apart, it took a few seconds for his words to penetrate.

      When they did, she jerked back, shock rendering her speechless.

      Her mouth opened, closed, as her mind spun with confusion. She could’ve sworn he’d just proposed…

      ‘You heard me.’

      He straightened, and while half of her wanted to clobber him for the ludicrous statement he’d just made, the other half irrationally missed his proximity.

      He perched on the desk, towering over her.

      ‘Marry me. That’s my condition.’

      ‘Are you out of your mind?’

      She leaped to her feet, stood toe to toe with him. ‘What sort of stupid condition is that? Like I’d ever marry you, like I’d agree to—’

      ‘The idea didn’t seem so distasteful ten years ago. As I recall, you used to love talking about marrying me.’

      Heat flooded her cheeks and she clenched her hands to stop from reaching out and strangling him.

      ‘Come off it, I was young and stupid then.’

      ‘So you’re old and wise now?’

      His mouth twitched and the itch to strangle him intensified tenfold.

      ‘In that case, you’ll see how much sense this makes.’

      ‘None of this makes sense!’

      Her temper, which she’d learned to control over the years, exploded like a tinder-dry bush touched by a match. ‘You’re insane! You’ve been playing some warped game ever since I saw you this morning and I have no idea why. You pretend you’re still working on the farm, you hide your new job from me, then you come out with this ridiculous proposal.’

      She paused, dragged in several breaths and released her hands before her nails sliced into her palms.

      ‘I came to you in good faith, to try and put a simple deal forward, and what do I get in return? A bunch of patooey!’

      ‘Patooey?’

      This time, his mouth creased into a wide grin and she almost committed murder on the spot.

      ‘Is that London speak for bullsh—’

      ‘It sure is and you’re full of it.’

      Hands on hips, she leaned into him, shoving her face in his.

      ‘When did you become such a jerk, Mancini?’

      While Nick’s smile didn’t slip, his cool composure cracked a little. The woman he once loved thought he was a jerk and while it shouldn’t matter, it did.

      But he wouldn’t dwell on that. The old Britt was still there, under the fancy business suit and blonde-streaked hair; she’d just shown him with that magnificent temper bursting like a tropical thunderstorm.

      The old Britt wouldn’t agree to his proposal, while the career-focused woman in sky-high stilettos and a designer suit would if he presented it the right way.

      ‘Consider this a business transaction, a win-win situation for us both. Nothing more, nothing less.’

      He saw a flicker of interest flash across her face at his mention of business before her temper flared again.

      ‘You’re crazy! Stark raving mad!’

      She raked her hands through her immaculately blow-dried hair, sending it into the frizz he remembered. ‘What’s that expression Papa used to say? Sei pazzo, you’re crazy, that’s what you are.’

      His heart griped as it always did at the mention of his father.

      ‘You remember that?’

      All the fight drained out of her and she slumped back into the chair, deliciously defeated, and he yearned to sweep her into his arms and