Wife By Arrangement. Lucy Gordon

      ‘It depends what makes you dance for joy. Shall we say ten thousand pounds to start with? Play your cards right, and I think you could do very well out of me.’

      ‘And I think the sooner you leave you the better. I’m not interested in you or your money, and if you say another word I shall call Security.’

      ‘Twenty thousand pounds.’

      ‘Shall I gift-wrap these items for you, sir, or have you changed your mind now you know you’ll get nothing from me?’

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘I think you’d better find a woman who’s selling herself. I’m only selling perfume. I take it you don’t want these.’

      He shrugged. ‘There’d hardly be any point, would there? Of course, it’s a shame about the commission you would have earned.’

      ‘Commission be blowed!’ Heather said very deliberately. ‘The store is about to close. Goodbye! Don’t come back!’

      He gave her a grin that contained a hint of challenge, and walked out with the air of a man who’d achieved something, although for the life of her she couldn’t think what.

      She was furious, both with him and herself. He’d raised false hopes for her pay packet, and he’d insulted her. But, far worse, for a brief moment he’d persuaded her to find him charming. Part of her had enjoyed the light-hearted game she’d thought they were playing. But then she’d seen the cold calculation in his eyes, and she’d known that the woman who went to this man’s bed for money would be a fool. And the woman who did it for love would be an even greater fool.

      She hurried home. Her flatmate was out so she had the place to herself as she prepared for the evening ahead with Lorenzo Martelli, the young man Sally called ‘her lover’. He wasn’t her lover, nor had he tried to urge her into bed, for which she liked him more.

      In the month she’d known him she seemed to have been under a spell, something lovelier than reality, with none of reality’s pain and trouble. She didn’t call it love, because the word ‘love’ summoned up Peter, and a wilderness of suffering at the brutal way he’d dumped her. She only knew that Lorenzo had charmed her out of her sadness.

      She’d met him through a buyer in the Gossways Food Hall. The Martellis dealt in Sicilian fruit and vegetables, much of which they grew on the vast family estates around Palermo. What they couldn’t supply themselves they bought in from other growers, taking nothing but the very best. Even so, Gossways had a special deal under which it accepted only produce grown by the Martellis themselves. Lorenzo had recently been appointed export manager of the business, and was visiting customers, introducing himself.

      He lived like a young king at the Ritz Hotel. Sometimes he took her to eat there; sometimes they found a tiny place by the river. But always there was a gift, sometimes valuable, sometimes silly, given with a tribute in his eyes. She didn’t know what it might mean for the future. Lorenzo had a touch of the playboy whose charm and looks won his way through life. She guessed that back in Sicily there were a dozen young women who would be disappointed if he were to marry. Of course, she wasn’t counting on marriage. She told herself that many times. She knew that his charm and admiration were doing her a world of good, and when he left without her she would cope somehow.

      Tonight she found his message on the answer-machine, urging her to wear the pale blue silk dress he’d bought for her, which brought out the dark blue of her eyes. They were large eyes, and they gave her face distinction, even beauty.

      As always he arrived five minutes before the agreed time, with a red rose, which he gave her with a flourish, and a pearl necklace which he’d bought to go with the dress.

      The sight of him made her smile with happiness. He was a handsome young giant, six foot two, with a booming laugh and good-natured grin that invited the whole world to share his pleasure.

      ‘Tonight is a great occasion,’ he told her. ‘My older brother, Renato, has arrived from Sicily.’ He added ruefully, ‘I should have gone home two weeks ago. He knows I stayed because of you, and now he wants to meet you. We are his guests at the Ritz tonight.’

      ‘But we were going to the theatre—’

      ‘Could you bear not to? I have rather neglected business recently—’ he flicked her cheek gently ‘—all your fault.’

      ‘Tossing me into the lions’ den, huh?’ she asked with a chuckle.

      He put his arm around her. ‘We’ll go in together.’

      On the short journey to the Ritz he talked about his brother, who ran the vast family estates in Sicily. By hard work and shrewd dealing he’d transformed the vineyards and olive groves, making them produce three times as much, buying up land, expanding, making Martelli the top name in fine produce in every luxury store and hotel throughout the world.

      ‘He thinks of nothing but work,’ Lorenzo complained. ‘How he can make more money, and more money. Me, I prefer spending it.’

      ‘I’m sure he knows that. He wants to see who you’re spending it on.’ She touched the pearls, which were elegant and restrained, but clearly expensive.

      ‘He’s ready to like you. Trust me.’ As they reached the Ritz and he handed her from the taxi, Lorenzo murmured, ‘Don’t be afraid of him.’

      ‘I’m not. Are you afraid of him?’

      ‘No way. But he’s the head of the family, and in Sicily that’s very important. However fierce he was, he was always my wonderful big brother who’d stick by me, help sort out my problems—’

      ‘Deal with the girls’ fathers?’ Heather suggested mischievously.

      Lorenzo cleared his throat. ‘That’s all in the past. Let’s go in.’

      Heather was curious to meet this man who was so important in Lorenzo’s life. She looked around at the luxurious restaurant with its elegant marble and floor-to-ceiling French windows, hung with heavy red curtains.

      On the far side a man sat alone at a table. He rose as they approached him, a polite smile of welcome on his face. Heather strove to match it through the tide of indignation that welled up in her.

      ‘Good evening, signorina,’ Renato Martelli said, giving her a courteous little bow. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

      ‘You mean, meet me again, don’t you?’ she asked coolly. ‘You surely can’t have forgotten our encounter in Gossways this afternoon?’

      ‘What’s this?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘You’ve met before?’

      ‘Earlier today,’ Renato Martelli confirmed. ‘I was impatient to see the lady of whom I’ve heard so much, so I adopted a subterfuge, for which I hope I’ll be forgiven.’ He was smiling as he raised her hand to his lips.

      Heather regarded him wryly. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

      Renato gallantly pulled out a gilt-and-plush chair for her, and the three of them sat down.

      ‘What subterfuge?’ Lorenzo asked, looking from one to the other.

      ‘Your brother came to my counter, posing as a customer,’ Heather told him.

      ‘I thought we could assess each other in a more natural atmosphere,’ Renato explained.

      ‘Each other?’ she murmured.

      ‘I’m sure you formed your own opinion of me.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘I certainly did.’

      She left it there. She was far from finished but she didn’t want to look as though she were sulking. A waiter appeared with the menu and when he’d given the order Renato added, ‘And a bottle of your very finest champagne.’

      At this hint of approval Lorenzo grinned. Perversely Heather found herself even more