The Tycoon's Marriage Deal. Melanie Milburne
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‘My contact details. I’ve checked in at the bed and breakfast down the road.’
Tillie took the card from him, desperately trying not to touch his fingers. Those long tanned fingers. Those long tanned masculine fingers. She couldn’t stop thinking about how those fingers would feel on her skin...on her body. On her breasts. Between her legs.
She gave herself a concussion-inducing mental slap. Why was she thinking about intimate stuff like that? The only person who’d ever touched her between the legs—apart from herself—was her gynaecologist.
‘I wouldn’t have thought cottage flowers and cosy fireplaces and fancy china teacups would be to your taste,’ Tillie said.
Blake’s eyes glinted again. ‘I don’t plan to stay there long.’
What was he hinting? That he would be staying with her? Tillie inched up her chin, trying to ignore the way the backs of her knees were fizzing in reaction to the satirical light in his gaze. ‘I’m sure you’ll find much more suitable accommodation for your...erm...needs in the next town.’
The less you think about his ‘needs’, the better.
‘Perhaps, but I’m not leaving this village until I get what I want.’ Something about the set of his jaw made her realise he had the steely will and determination to achieve whatever he put his mind to. And the ruthlessness.
She kept her gaze on his. ‘Haven’t you heard that wise old adage you can’t always get what you want?’
Blake glanced at her mouth, then to the swell of her breasts behind her conservatively buttoned cotton shirt, lingering there for a nanosecond before returning his gaze to hers in a lock that ignited something deep inside her body. It was as if his eyes were communicating on an entirely different level—a primal, instinctive level that was as thrilling to her as it was foreign.
No one ever looked at her like...that.
As if he were wondering what her mouth would feel like against his. As if he were wondering what she looked like without her practical, no-nonsense clothing. As if he were wondering how she would taste and feel when he put his mouth and tongue to her naked flesh.
Even Simon had never given her The Look. The I-want-to-have-bed-wrecking-sex-with-you-right-now look. She’d always put it down to the fact he’d staunchly committed to celibacy, but now she wondered if the chemistry had ever been there. Their kisses and cuddles seemed somehow...vanilla. Unlike her, Simon had had sex previously as a young teenager, but he’d felt so guilty he’d made a pledge not to do it again until he was married. They’d occasionally petted but never without clothes. The only pleasure she’d had during the last eight years had been with herself.
But nothing about Blake McClelland was vanilla. He was dark chocolate fudge and tantalising, willpower-destroying temptation. She couldn’t imagine him being celibate for eight minutes, let alone eight years. Which made it all the more laughable he wanted her to pretend to be his fiancée.
Who would ever believe it?
‘Just for the record,’ Blake said in a voice so deep it made Simon’s baritone sound like a boy soprano, ‘I always get what I want.’
Tillie suppressed an involuntary shiver at the streak of ruthless determination in his tone. But she kept her expression in starchy schoolmistress mode. ‘Here’s the thing, Mr McClelland. I’m not the sort of girl to be toyed with for a man’s entertainment. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re a bored playboy who’s looking for the next challenge. You thought you could waltz in here and brandish your big fat bank account and get me to fall on my knees with gratitude, didn’t you?’
His eyes did that twinkling, glinting thing. ‘Not on our first date. I like to have something to look forward to.’
Tillie could feel her blush shoot to the roots of her hair. She almost expected it to be singed right off her scalp. She could barely speak for the anger vibrating through her body.
Or maybe it wasn’t anger...
Maybe it was a far more primitive emotion rushing through her in blazing, electrifying streaks. Desire. A pulse-throbbing sexual energy that left no part of her untouched. It was as if her blood were injected with its bubbling hot urgency. She shot him a glare as deadly as one of her metal cake skewers. ‘Get out of my shop.’
Blake tapped his index finger on the stack of bills on her desk. ‘It won’t be your shop for much longer if these aren’t seen to soon. Give me a call when you’ve changed your mind.’
Tillie lifted one of her brows as if she were channelling a heroine in a period drama. ‘When? Don’t you mean if?’
His eyes held hers in an iron will against iron will tug of war, making her heart skip a beat. Two beats. Possibly three. If she’d been on a cardiac ward they would have called a Code Blue.
‘You know you want to.’
Tillie wasn’t sure they were still talking about the money. There was a dangerous undercurrent rippling in the air. Air she couldn’t quite get into her lungs. But then he picked up his business card, which she’d placed on her desk earlier, and, reaching across the small space the desk offered, slid it into the right breast pocket of her shirt. At no point did he touch her, but it felt as if he had stroked her breast with one of those long, clever fingers. Her breast fizzed as if a firework were trapped inside the cup of her bra.
‘Call me,’ he said.
‘You’ll be waiting a long time.’
His smile was confident. Brazenly confident. I’ve-got-this-in-the-bag confident. ‘You think?’
That was the whole darn trouble. Tillie couldn’t think. Not while he was standing there dangling temptation in front of her. She’d always prided herself on her resolve, but right now it felt as if her resolve had rolled over and was playing dead.
She owed a lot of money. More money than she earned in a year. Way more. She had to pay her father and stepmother back the small loan they’d given her because as missionaries living abroad they were living on gifts and tithes as it was. Mr Pendleton had offered to help her but it didn’t sit well with her to take money off him when he had already been incredibly generous by allowing her to stay at McClelland Park rent-free and to use his kitchen for baking when she ran out of time at the shop. Besides, he would need all his money and more if he didn’t sell McClelland Park, because an old Georgian property that size needed constant and frighteningly expensive maintenance.
But to take money off Blake McClelland in exchange for a month pretending to be his fiancée was a step into territory so dangerous she would need to be immediately measured for a straitjacket. Even if he didn’t expect her to sleep with him she would have to act as if she were. She would have to touch him, hold hands or have him—gulp—kiss her for the sake of appearances.
‘Good day, McClelland,’ Tillie said, as sternly as if she were dismissing an impertinent boy from the staffroom.
Blake was almost out of her office when he turned around at the door to look back at her. ‘Oh, one other thing.’ He fished in his trouser pocket and took out a velvet ring box and tossed it to her desk to land on top of her stack of bills with unnerving accuracy. ‘You’ll be needing this.’
And without stopping to see her open the box, he turned and left.
JOANNE CAME INTO the office before Tillie had time to pick her dropped jaw up off the desk, much less the ring box. ‘Oh. My. God. Is that what I think it is?’ she said.
Tillie stared at the box as if it were a detonator device. ‘I’m not going to open it.’
I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.
Even though her finger still felt horribly empty after three years of wearing an engagement ring. Three years and