Christmas Contract For His Cinderella. Jane Porter

any time be a good time?” he countered.

      The car turned at the corner, passing more historic buildings that formed the heart of the city of London, making Monet wonder where they were going to eat in this particular neighborhood before her attention returned to Marcu.

      “No,” she answered with a sigh, even as she reached up to tuck a long tendril behind her ear. She was tired and uncomfortable and she wanted out of her slim dress and heels. She wanted the delicate underwire bra off and the smoothing undergarments off so that she could climb into pajamas and eat warm comfort food and sip a big glass of red wine. Merlot. Burgundy. Shiraz. “I have no desire to work for you, ever.”

      “I know,” he answered even as the driver pulled over in front of one of the big dark buildings, parked, and exited the driver’s side, again wielding the umbrella. He opened the back door and Marcu stepped out and then reached in to assist her. She avoided his hand, neatly stepping away to make sure there was no contact between them.

      He shot her a sardonic glance but said nothing as the driver walked them to a plain wooden door. Marcu reached out and touched one gray stone. There was a long pause and then the door silently opened. They stepped inside a dimly lit, severe-looking entrance hall. The door closed behind them and Monet gazed around, curious but also confused by the stillness and emptiness of the impersonal cream-and-gray space. There were stairs at the back of the hallway and a service elevator to their right but that was all.

      “I normally prefer the stairs,” Marcu said, “but you’ve been on your feet all day, so I suggest we take the elevator.”

      They did, traveling down, but it was impossible to say how far down they went, before the doors silently opened, revealing a black-and-white marble parquet floor, massive columns, and what looked like the entrance to a huge bank vault. Walls glimmered gold and silver on the other side of the vault entrance. She glanced at Marcu, an eyebrow lifting in silent enquiry.

      He gestured for her to proceed through the open vault door, where they were greeted by a gentleman in a dark suit and black shirt. “Mr. Uberto,” the man said. “It’s good to have you back.”

      They were ushered past an elegant bar of stainless steel and thick glass where a bartender was mixing drinks, then through another archway to a dining room dotted with chandeliers. The chandeliers were an eclectic mix of styles and time periods, and hung from a silver ceiling casting soft pools of light on pale lavender velvet chairs and upholstered booths. There weren’t more than a dozen tables in the room. There were men at some tables, and couples at others. Monet and Marcu were taken to yet another room, this one small and private, with just one table. The chandelier was all pink glass, and the upholstery on the high back chairs was gray.

      Monet sank into her well-upholstered chair with an appreciative sigh. It felt even more welcoming than it looked. “This is quite a place,” she said, as waiters appeared in quick succession with bottles of chilled mineral water, olives, and pâté with slivers of toasted baguette.

      “It was once part of the Bank of Sicily. It’s now a private members’ club.”

      “I suspected as much.” She reached for an olive and popped it in her mouth, suddenly ravenous. “Let me guess, your father used to have a membership here, and they extended an invitation to you?”

      “My grandfather used to own the bank, my father closed it, and when he couldn’t find someone to buy the building for its proper value, I took it on and turned the Vault into a private club five years ago.”

      “What happened to the rest of the building?”

      “It’s now a members-only hotel and spa.”

      “Do you use the same door to access the hotel and spa?”

      “No, there is a different entrance.”

      “Why?”

      “Because membership to the hotel doesn’t give one automatic membership to the Vault.”

      “Is this where you stay when you’re in London?”

      “The top floor is my apartment, yes.”

      “It’s quite spacious.”

      “You don’t make that sound like a question,” he replied, leaning back in his chair.

      “It’s not,” she answered, before thanking the waiter who presented her with a silver menu. She glanced down at it, scanning the delectable offerings. She could have been perfectly happy with just pâté and toast but once she spotted the flat-iron steak she knew what she wanted.

      After ordering, Marcu got straight to the point. “I do need you, urgently. I would have liked to leave tonight, but obviously it’s too late now. So I’ll organize travel for the morning—”

      “Marcu, I haven’t said yes.”

      “But you will.”

      She rolled her eyes, frustrated, and yet part of her frustration was based on the truth in his words. She did owe him. “January would be so much better for me.”

      “I’ve already told you, I have a conference in the Far East in January, and I would like to have things sorted by then.”

      “Sorted as in...?”

      “Married, with Vittoria at home with the children. I worry more about the children when I am far away. This way they’d have their nanny, Miss Sheldon, who’s on leave at the moment, and a mother—”

      “But they don’t have a close relationship with this new mother, do they?”

      “They’ve been introduced.”

      She felt a bubble of incredulous laughter. “I don’t know who to feel more sorry for, your future wife, or your children. Where is your sensitivity—?”

      “Oh, that’s long gone. I’m as hard as they come now.”

      “Your poor future wife.”

      “I’m not romantic. I never have been.”

      “So says the man who loved opera? Who’d listen to Puccini for hours?”

      “You loved opera. I simply supported your passion.”

      She eyed him, trying to come to terms with this new version of Marcu. He was so hard to stomach. “You do know you’d be better off hiring a new nanny, or even two, to job-share than trying to fix things by acquiring a wife. Wives do come with feelings—”

      “Not all women require extravagant gestures. Vittoria is quite practical. And I’m hoping you can be practical, too. I’ll pay you one hundred thousand euros for the next five weeks,” he added. “Hopefully that will adequately cover any lost wages from Bernard’s.”

      “And if they don’t take me back afterward?”

      “You will continue to earn twenty thousand euros a week until I find you a new position.”

      She was intrigued and appalled. “That’s a lot of money.”

      “My children are worth it.”

      “So you are still consumed with guilt over your wife’s death.”

      “I’m not consumed with guilt, just determined to make amends. They are very good children, but they are also in need of a mother. I do not, and cannot, meet all their needs, which is why I’m determined to marry again. A mother will be better equipped to handle their ups and downs and various emotions.”

      “This mother you speak of will be practically a stranger to them.”

      “But they will form a relationship. I don’t expect it to happen overnight, but I do believe it will happen eventually, and I imagine when a new baby arrives, the children will be excited to have a new brother or sister.”

      Monet studied him for a long moment. Did he really think his children, who had already been deprived