CHAPTER FOUR

      MARRY RAFAEL? THE IDEA was so ludicrous, so incongruous, so impossible that Cora could only stare at him, her brain unable to co-ordinate with her vocal cords or inform her feet to get her the heck out of there. Forget the Spanish mafia—Rafael Martinez was obviously nuts. Loop the loop. A few bricks, a bucket of cement and shedload of mortar short of a wall.

      Then anger rushed in on a tide of outrage. ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ Or some kind of mad reality TV show in which billionaires humiliated the aristocracy.

      ‘Of course it isn’t a joke. I’d be up the creek without a paddle if you agreed.’

      There was near amusement in the rich treacle of his voice.

      ‘There is no danger of that because of course I’m not going to agree. I mean... I—’ Curiosity broke through and surfaced through the haze of anger. ‘Why? Why would you even suggest something so insane?’

      ‘Because I think marrying you will change Don Carlos’s mind.’

      ‘I told you that I am not for sale. Nor is my title. End of.’

      Finally her body caught up with events and she pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. Tried to ignore the stew of hurt that bubbled under the broth of rage. There was no need for hurt. Why should she care that Rafael Martinez was only after her title? But somehow the idea he would marry her for it made her feel....icky.

      ‘Wait.’

      The word was a command.

      ‘Please.’

      The second word was a concession that didn’t so much as make her pause.

      ‘The answer is no.’

      ‘I will pay you a substantial salary.’

      Without hesitation he named an amount of money that boggled her mind. Shame trickled through her veins as the words resonated in her brain and flooded her with temptation. The figure of her debt flashed in neon colours—and the yoke of guilt relaxed its hold on her for a heartbeat. The salary he proposed would nearly wipe out the amount she owed her parents. Could be put towards the flood repairs on Derwent Manor. Then pride stiffened her spine. There was no universe in any parallel existence where this marriage could take place.

      ‘Still no. The whole idea is ludicrous.’

      To say nothing of stupid. And yet Rafael Martinez was many things...unscrupulous, arrogant...but he wasn’t stupid.

      ‘Wrong. This idea is an opportunity. For both of us.’ He leant back and looked up at her, seemingly at ease with their positions. ‘If I marry you Don Carlos will see that I have changed my lifestyle. He will also, I think, be happy to sell his vineyard to Lady Cora Derwent’s husband. After all, the Derwent blood is as noble as his.’

      Cora frowned at the note of bitterness in the honey of his voice. ‘You want a vineyard so much that you are willing to get married? Doesn’t that strike you as a little over the top?’

      ‘No. And I am not proposing we stay married. Once the knot is tied I will move full speed ahead to secure the deal.’

      ‘Won’t that look a little odd?’

      ‘Not if I handle it right. I don’t want to risk Don Carlos selling it to someone else. This would be a very temporary marriage of convenience. The whole charade should only last a month, tops. Hopefully way less.’

      ‘There would be nothing convenient about us being married.’ This she knew.

      ‘What about the money? Most people would agree that is a pretty convenient amount to have in the bank. Plus you’ll be able to enjoy a few weeks of luxury.’

      Cora closed her eyes, grasped the back of the wooden chair and tried to fend off temptation. An image of her parents’ faces when she repaid them the worth of the Derwent diamonds seeped into her retina—surely that would win her a modicum of approval, a way back into the fold?

      The price to pay: a temporary marriage. A few weeks, ‘tops’, with Rafael Martinez.

      Opening her eyes, she regarded him, saw the incipient victory in his dark ironic gaze. ‘And where would you be whilst I lolled about in the hypothetical lap of luxury?’

      Perhaps sarcasm would hide the fact that she was still standing there, a participant in a conversation she should have closed down long ago.

      ‘Lolling right alongside you. This marriage would have to look real. The world will have to believe that we were swept off our feet in a romantic storm.’

      For reasons she did not want to look into a small shiver ran through her whole body at his words. Absurd. The need to hang on to reality was imperative.

      ‘As if anyone would believe that.’ Good. That had been exactly the right mix of scoffing and disdain.

      One dark eyebrow rose. ‘Why wouldn’t they? It’s plausible enough—we met at Cavershams in the line of business and bam.’

      The snort that escaped her lips might not have been ladylike, but it was way more ladylike than the words on the tip of her tongue. ‘Get real! You’ve admitted yourself that you don’t do romance—you do fun.’ With women so different from her it was laughable.

      ‘So you’re saying marriage can’t be fun?’

      The question stopped her in her tracks. Her parents’ marriage was one of duty, not fun. Their commitment to the Derwent estate and the family name was unquestionable, and that was what their life revolved around. Fun wasn’t part of the programme.

      Rafael’s lips curved up into a smile that turned all her thoughts into a fluffy white cotton ball. ‘I promise you as much fun as you like in our marriage.’

      Irritation permeated the after-effects of the Martinez smile. How could he sit there as if the whole idea of a fake temporary marriage was commonplace? Was he flirting with her, mocking her, or just having a good old laugh at her expense?

      ‘No one in their right mind will believe the “romantic storm” theory.’

      ‘Everyone will believe it. I promise.’

      And suddenly the heat that surrounded her was nothing to do with the Spanish sun. Because Rafael rose, stepped around the table to within touching distance, where he halted.

      ‘The world will believe that I have eyes only for my wife. That I am head over heels in love.’

      The words were like molten chocolate—the expensive type...the type that tempted you to believe you could eat it by the bucketful and it would be positively good for you.

      No. Chocolate—expensive or otherwise—was only good for you in moderation, and it seemed clear that this man didn’t do moderation. Whereas ‘Moderate’ was Cora’s middle name.

      ‘It won’t work.’

      Thud, thud, thud. Any minute now her heart would leave her ribcage as he took another infinitesimal step towards her, his eyes resting on her face with a look so intense it took all her backbone to stay upright and not ooze into a puddle at his feet.

      ‘Care to bet?’ he drawled.

      Right