Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“It would be an act of mercy, really. Educating those poor souls as you lighten their burgeoning bank balances.”
“Criminal bank balances?”
He doesn’t answer. “In twelve months’ time, your prenup settlement wouldn’t look like small change compared to the gallery’s potential profit margins.”
“You’re selling me a line.” And I hate how hopeful I sound.
“It’s a pretty line, right?”
“So you’re lying?” My heart sinks.
“Why would I?”
“For the same reason you got me in here.” I throw up my hands. “Because it suits your purposes, whatever they are.”
“I just happen to know a lot of people who have more money than either sense or taste.”
Not him, I think, glancing at the Hockney-esque piece hanging in the alcove to the right of the antique fireplace. I slide my shoe over the rug underfoot, then turn to run my fingers over the antique bureau. The room is filled with so many expensive and tasteful touches. He might rely on the excellent taste of an interior designer, but he clearly has pockets deep enough to carry it off.
“Just twelve months,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets as he watches my slow path around the room.
My thinking pace and space.
“Then we’ll part amicably. I’ll have what I need, and you’ll have a powerhouse gallery.”
“What’s wrong with it the way it is?” I ask from the other side of the room. The Hockney is real—and worth a bloody fortune!
“Nothing. If you like shipping containers.”
“It’s not that bad,” I retort, even if this is something I’ve thought myself. “Bigger isn’t always better.”
“That’s a lie we sell ourselves,” he says, low-voiced and gravelly.
I try to ignore the sexual suggestion in that. I’m mostly successful.
“It could be so much better. You have plans. Ambitions, right?”
“And I suppose you want a cut of that success.” A money laundering attempt, if I ever heard one.
“I have no interest in your business, Lavender.”
I suppose Tod did say he owns half of London’s nightlife. Spain’s too?
“So why me?”
“You’re smart and pretty. Astute,” he adds, sauntering closer. “You have ambitions and objectives, and that makes you hungry. You’re not afraid to color outside of the lines, and I not only respect that but also appreciate it.” His hot gaze flicks over me.
“That doesn’t mean I’ll do anything criminal,” I say, guarded. The two police cautions I have for reckless behavior (or criminal damage, I suppose) were the end of my crime spree.
“That also counts. I need a respectable wife, one from a good family. Someone who has their own life and who won’t poke their nose where it isn’t wanted.”
“Because that doesn’t sound super shady,” I mutter. “Is this a Jorg Peitschmann?” I ask, running my fingers over a toffee-colored wooden carving.
He nods. And I think, good taste.
“I don’t expect you to do anything illegal or immoral, Lavender.”
My gaze slices up. “Is this about an inheritance?” I’d recently read a romance with a storyline like that, though I sensibly keep that to myself.
“It’s complex.”
“I’m pretty sure I can keep up,” I retort spicily.
“I know you can, and I will tell you when the time comes.”
“In the meantime, you’ll just treat me like a mushroom? Kept in the dark and feed me on—”
“I’ll treat you like an equal.”
Wow. I expected him to say princess and was fully prepared to tell him where he could stick that notion. I mean, I like being treated like a princess. What girl doesn’t? But there’s a time and a place.
I turn and lean back against the bureau—unbothered. Calm. On the outside, at least—as I fold my arms. “A wife in name only? That’s what you need?”
“A wife who resides under the same roof as me.”
I open my mouth to protest when he adds, “I need the illusion of truth. A shared roof. A shared table… a shared bed would be my preference.”
A wife at sex worker prices, my mind whispers. Superstar sex worker prices. But as his eyes smolder and his hand strokes my face, my brain amends this to, those would be some benefits.
“I won’t pay you for sex,” he adds, “or expect it. But it doesn’t mean I won’t hope and dream about it.”
But I’m already shaking my head because what he’s offering is too tempting.
“I’m not the girl you need. I can’t involve myself in this.”
“Then we’re moving away from the carrot and back to the stick. Make no mistake, Lavender, I will use it to hurt you.”
5
LAVENDER
The air is cool in the early morning, the sky a mixture of indigo and orange as, somewhere out of my line of sight, the sun begins its ascent.
I’ve been in some scrapes in my time. I’ve made dubious and spur-of-the-moment decisions but never completely sober. And I am right now.
Sober yet reckless beyond compare.
Raif says our marriage will be contracted, business only, and if I stick to the rules, I’ll be a million richer in twelve months. Crazy pants, right? But so tempting.