Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal Read online

  Was there a warning in the way he’d said ‘only’? Tara didn’t know and didn’t care. It was entirely irrelevant. Of course it was ‘appearances only’. No other possibility. Any woman thinking anything more of him would need her head examined!

  ‘You would,’ he continued, in that businesslike voice, ‘be my house guest.’

  Tara’s eyebrows rose. ‘Along with Blondie, I take it?’

  He gave a brief nod. ‘Precisely so.’

  ‘And I get to run interference?’

  He nodded again, impatience visible in his manner but saying nothing, only letting those laser eyes of his rest on her, as if trying to bend her to his implacable will.

  And then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was something in them that was a like a kick in her system—something that flashed like a warning light in her head...as if she stood upon the brink of a precipice she hadn’t even realised was there.

  Just as suddenly it was gone. Had she imagined it? That sudden change somewhere at the back of those unreadable slate-dark eyes? Something he’d swiftly blanked? She must have, she decided. There was nothing in his expression now but impatience. He wanted an answer. And fast.

  But she did not like being hustled. She took a breath and met his eyes, though she was conscious of the way she’d crossed her arms firmly over her chest, as if keeping him and his imposing, utterly out of place presence at bay.

  ‘OK, do I have this right? You will pay me five thousand pounds to spend up to ten days, max, as your house guest, and behave—strictly in public only—’ she made sure she emphasised that part ‘—as if I am your current squeeze, just as I did on that limo ride the other night, while your other house guest—Blondie—gets the message that, sadly for her, you are not available for whatever adulterous purpose she would like you to be. Is that it?’ She raised her eyebrows again questioningly.

  His expression did not change. He merely inclined his sable-haired head minutely.

  Tara thought about it. ‘Half up front,’ she said.

  He didn’t blink. ‘No. You might not show up,’ he said flatly.

  His eyes flicked around their shabby surroundings and Tara got the message. Someone who had to live in a place like this might indeed walk off with two and a half thousand pounds.

  She made herself look at him. The man was loaded. He had to be, the way he behaved, the lifestyle he had—chauffeur-driven limo, hanging around at couture fashion shows in swanky hotels. No way was she going to be short-changed by him. After all, pro rata, the five hundred pounds for the bare half-hour previously was way more generous than this offer.

  ‘Ten thousand,’ she said bluntly.

  It would be chicken-feed to a man like him, but a huge sum for herself. And exactly what she needed for her cottage. For a moment she wondered if she’d overplayed her hand. But then, maybe she should be glad if she had. Could she really face spending any more time in the company of this man? The reasons not to were not just her resistance to his rock-like personality...

  Caution started to backfill the ridiculously heady sense of sparking exhilaration she had felt. Caution that came too late.

  The voltage in those eyes seared. Then abruptly cut out. ‘OK. Ten thousand,’ he gritted out. As if she’d just pulled a tooth from his steeled jaw.

  That spark of exhilaration surged again inside her, overriding the vanished and defeated caution. Boy, was he mad she’d pushed the price up!

  She felt herself smile—a genuine one this time. And then, abruptly, her triumph crashed. With a gesture that was vivid in her memory, he was coolly extracting his gold-monogrammed leather wallet from his jacket, peeling off a fifty-pound note. Then a second one.

  Reaching forward, with a glint in his eye that gave her utterly insufficient warning, even though it should have, he tucked the two notes into the front pocket of the shirt she was wearing.

  ‘A little something on account,’ he said, and there was a purr in his voice that told her that this was exactly what she knew it was.

  His comeback for her daring to tip him with his own money.

  She opened her mouth to spit something at him but he was turning on his heel. Striding from the room. Informing her, as he rapidly took his leave, that arrangements would be made via her agency.

  Then he was gone.

  Taking a long, deliberate breath, she removed the two fifty-pound notes from her breast pocket and stared at them. That, she reminded herself bluntly, was the nature of her relationship with Marc Derenz. And she had better not lose sight of it. The only reason he’d sought her out was to buy her time, because she could be useful to him. No other reason.

  And I wouldn’t want it to be for any other reason!

  Her adjuration to herself was stern. Just why it was that Marc Derenz, of all the men she’d ever encountered in her life, could have this devastating effect on her, she didn’t know. She knew only that no good could come of it. Her world was not his, and never would be.

  * * *

  It was hard to remember her warning to herself as, a week later, she turned to look out through the porthole of the plane heading for the Côte d’Azur. Their destination had been a little detail Marc Derenz had omitted to inform her of, but she had no complaint. Just the opposite. Her mood was soaring. To spend a whole week at least on the fabled French Riviera—and be paid for doing so! Life didn’t get any better.

  She didn’t even care that she was being flown out Economy, in spite of how rich the man was. And, boy, was he rich! She’d looked him up—and her eyebrows had gone up as well.

  Marc Derenz, Chairman of Banc Derenz. She’d never heard of it, but then, why would she have? It was headquartered in Paris, for a start, and it was not a bank for the likes of her, thank you very much! Oh, no, if you banked at Banc Derenz you were rich—very, very rich. You had investment managers and fund managers and portfolio managers and high net worth individual account managers—all entirely at your disposal to ensure you got the very highest returns on your millions and zillions.

  As for her destination—the Villa Derenz was featured in architectural journals and was apparently famous as being a perfect example of Art Deco style.

  It was something she could agree with a few hours later, as she was conducted across a marble-floored hall and up a sweeping marble staircase like something out of a nineteen-thirties Hollywood movie.

  She was shown into a bedroom, its décor pale grey and with silvered furniture. She looked about her appreciatively. This was fabulous. It was a sentiment she echoed when she walked out onto the balcony that ran the length of the frontage of the villa. Her breath caught, her eyes lighting up. Verdant green lawns surrounded the brilliant white building, pierced only by a turquoise circular pool and edged by greenery up to the rocky shoreline of the Cap. Beyond, the brilliant azure of the Mediterranean confirmed the name of this coastline.

  She gazed with pleasure. No wonder the rich liked being rich if it got them a place like this.

  And I get to stay here!

  She went back inside to help the pair of maids unpacking her clothes. They weren’t her own clothes—a stylist had selected them, on Marc Derenz’s orders, Tara assumed, as being suitable for the role she was going to play. For all that, she would definitely enjoy wearing them. Actually wearing them for herself, not for other women to buy—it would be a novelty she would make the most of.

  She would make the most of everything about her time here. Starting with relishing the delicious lunch about to be served to her out on the balcony, under a shady parasol, followed by a relaxing siesta on a conveniently placed sun lounger in the warm early summer sunshine.

  Where Marc Derenz was she didn’t know—presumably he’d turn up at some point and she would go on duty. Till then...

  * * *

  ‘Don’t burn.’

  The voice that woke Tara was deep and familiar, and its abrupt tone told
her instantly that concern for her well-being was not behind the statement.

  Her eyes flared open, and for a moment the tall figure of the man who was going to pay her ten thousand pounds for staying in his luxury villa in the South of France loomed darkly over her.

  She levered herself up on her elbows. ‘I’ve got sun cream on,’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t want you looking like a boiled lobster,’ Marc Derenz said disparagingly. ‘And it’s time for you to start work.’

  She sat up straight, feeling her arms for the thin straps of her swimsuit, which she’d pushed down to avoid tan marks on her shoulders. As she did so she felt the suit dip dangerously low over her breasts. And she felt suddenly, out of nowhere, a burning consciousness of the fact that those hard, dark eyes were targeted on her, and that all that concealed her nakedness was a single piece of thin stretchy material.

  Deliberately, she busied herself picking up her wrap, studiedly winding it around herself without looking at him. Whether he was looking at her still she did not care.

  I’m going to have to get used to this—to the impact he has on me. And fast. I can’t go on feeling so ridiculously self-conscious. I’ve got to learn to blank him.

  With that instruction firmly in mind, she finished knotting her wrap securely and looked across at him. Against the sun he seemed even taller and darker. He was wearing another of his killer business suits, pale grey this time, with a sharp silk tie and what would obviously be twenty-four-carat gold cufflinks and tiepin.

  Tara made herself look and sound equally businesslike. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘What’s the next thing on the agenda, then?’

  ‘Your briefing,’ Marc Derenz replied succinctly.

  His pose altered slightly and he nodded his head at a chair by the table, seating himself on a second chair, crossing one perfectly creased trouser leg over the other.

  ‘Right,’ he started in a brisk voice as she sat where he’d bade her. ‘There are some ground rules. This, Ms Mackenzie, is a job. Not a holiday.’

  * * *

  Marc rested his eyes on her impassively. But he was masking a distinctly less impassive emotion. Arriving here from Paris to find her sunning herself on the balcony had not impressed him. Or, to be precise, she had not impressed him with her lack of recognition that she was here to fulfil a contractual obligation. In every other respect he’d been very, very impressed...

  Dieu, but she possessed a body! He’d known she did, but to see it displayed for him like that, before she’d become aware of his presence, had been a pleasure he had indulged in for longer than was prudent.

  Because it didn’t matter how spectacular her figure was, let alone her face, this was—as he was now reminding her so brusquely—a job, not a holiday.

  Certainly not anything else.

  His thoughts cut out like a guillotine slicing down. In the days since he had hired her to keep Celine Neuberger at bay he’d had plenty of second thoughts. And third thoughts. Had he been incredibly rash to bring her here? Was he playing with matches near gunpowder?

  Seeing her again now, viewing that fantastic body of hers, seeing her stunning beauty right in front of him again, and not only in the memories he’d done his best to crush, was...unsettling.

  Abruptly he reminded himself that she was not a woman from his world, but a woman he’d admitted into his life briefly, under duress only, and not by free choice. That that did not mean he could now break the rules of a lifetime—rules that had served him well ever since the youthful fiasco over Marianne that had cost him so dearly. Oh, not in money—in heartache that he never wanted to feel again.

  But I was young then! A stripling! It was calf love, nothing more than that, and that’s why it hit me so hard.

  Now he was a stripling no longer, but a seasoned man, in his thirties, sure of himself, and sure of what he wanted and how to get it. Sure of his relationships with the women he selected for his amours. Women who were nothing like the one now sitting opposite him, taking money for her time here.

  That was what he must remember. She would—that was for certain. It was the reason she was here...the reason she’d accompanied him from the fashion show. She’d made it perfectly clear then—and again when she’d so brazenly upped what he’d been prepared to offer her to come out here now. That was warning enough, surely?

  However stunning her face and figure—however powerful her appeal—his relationship with Tara Mackenzie must be strictly professional only. She was here, as he reminded himself yet again, only to do a job.

  It was, therefore, in a brisk, businesslike tone that he continued now. ‘The Neubergers are arriving this evening. From then on, until they leave, you will assume the role you are here to play. What is essential, however,’ he went on, ‘is that you understand you are here to act the part only. You are not to imagine we actually have a relationship of any kind whatsoever or that one is possible at all. Do you understand me?’

  * * *

  Tara felt herself bridling as his dark eyes bored into hers. He was doing it again! Putting her back right up. And not just in the way he’d said things—in what he had said.

  Warning me off him. Telling me not to get ideas about him. Oh, thank you—yes, thank you so much, Monsieur Derenz. It was so necessary to warn me off you! Not.

  Would she really ever consider a man with the personality of a lump of granite, who clearly thought every woman in the world was after him?

  Indignation sparked furiously in her. ‘Of course, Monsieur Derenz. I understand perfectly, Monsieur Derenz. Whatever you say, Monsieur Derenz,’ Tara intoned fulsomely, venting her objection to his high-handed warning.

  His eyes flashed darkly and his arched eyebrows snapped together in displeasure. ‘Don’t irritate me more than you already have, Ms Mackenzie,’ he said witheringly.

  ‘And don’t you, Monsieur Derenz,’ she shot back, bridling even more at his impatient put-down, ‘entertain the totally unwarranted assumption that I have any desire to do anything more than act the part I am here to play! And,’ she continued, refusing to be cowed by the increasingly black look on his face, ‘I expect you to do likewise. There is to be no repeat of that little wrist-kissing stunt you pulled just before I went back into the fashion show!’ She saw his expression stiffen and ploughed on. ‘No unwarranted body contact at all. I appreciate that my role must be convincing—but it is for public view only.’

  Even just pretending to be on intimate terms with him was going to be a challenge. A challenge that, now she was seeing him again, was making a hollow form inside her. Oh, what did the wretched man have that got to her like this?

  Deliberately, she made herself think not about how drop-dead devastating he was, sitting there in his killer suit, drawing her hapless gaze to his hard-featured face with the night-dark eyes, but of how obnoxious his manner was. Yes, that was a much safer way to think of him!

  The best way of all, though, would be to do what he was doing, annoying though it was to admit it—treat this entire matter as simply a professional engagement.

  So, with a deep breath, and a resumption of her cool tone, she asked in a no-nonsense, businesslike way, ‘OK—so, the Neubergers... You’d better tell me what I’ll be expected to know.’

  He didn’t seem to like it that she’d taken control of the conversation—but then, she thought acidly, Marc Derenz was clearly used to calling all the shots, all the time. Maybe his employees—and she was one herself, after all, however temporary—were not expected to speak before the august chairman of Banc Derenz.

  However, he answered her readily enough, in a no-nonsense tone matching her own.

  ‘Hans Neuberger is head of Neuberger Fabrik—a major German engineering company based in Frankfurt. He is a long-standing family friend and he knows this villa well from many previous visits. Celine is his second wife—Hans was a widower—and their marriage is a relatively recent
one...less than two years. He has adult children from his first marriage—’

  ‘Who hate Celine’s guts,’ put in Tara knowingly.

  He made no reply, only continued as if she had not spoken. ‘Celine has persuaded her husband to house-hunt for a villa here, and on that pretext she has invited herself to stay, with predictably obvious intent.’

  His tone was icy and Tara found herself chilled by it. Even more so as he continued in the same cold voice.

  ‘I will not conceal from you the fact that I consider Hans’s marriage to Celine...ill-advised. The woman targeted him for his wealth, and she presumes to target myself—’ his tone dropped from cold to Arctic ‘—as a source of...entertainment.’ His voice plunged to absolute zero. ‘This demonstrates just how ill-advised their marriage is. Were Hans Neuberger anything other than, as I have said, a long-standing family friend, there would be absolutely no question. I would have no hesitation in sending her packing.’

  Tara took a slicing breath. ‘No, no question at all...’ she muttered.

  It was unnerving to see just how cold Marc Derenz could be—and how ruthless. Imperious in manner, intemperate in mood—yes, she’d seen that already—but this display of icy ruthlessness was something else...

  He got to his feet. ‘As it is, however, I am required, for Hans’s sake, to proceed by taking a more...subtle approach.’

  Tara gave a tight smile. ‘To demonstrate to her that the...vacancy in your life is fully occupied?’

  His eyes rested on her, dark and unreadable. ‘Precisely,’ he said.

  He got to his feet. He seemed taller than ever, looming over her. He glanced at his watch—doubtless one of those custom-made jobs, she assumed, that cost more than a house. Then his eyes flicked back to her. She got the feeling that he’d suddenly veiled them, and found herself doing likewise with her own. Instinctively she reached for her discarded sunglasses, as if for protection.