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)
“You know that’s not true. That I’ll make sure it’s not true.” His hand lifts, tenderly sliding my hair from my shoulder. Stupid me, I let him. “More than a dozen people heard Tod say you’d settle his debt however I saw fit.”
“Tod wouldn’t have said that.” Unless he’s tired of living.
“It’s all a matter of perspective, princess. And what I tell those people to say. In ten minutes, I could have everyone in this house believe I’d fucked you seven ways from Sunday over that very desk, that you’d done so, that you’d demeaned yourself… for him.”
This is such a mind fuck because what Raif did on that desk was give. Where’s that man now? I hate what he’s saying—hate more that what he says is true. People are always willing to believe the worst.
“It’s not just your reputation at stake. What about your family? Your gallery.”
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
“And then there’s Tod,” he adds, regardless. “You’d be ruining his career, too. Though maybe you think he’d deserve it.”
“I don’t. Tod wouldn’t…”
“Make you fuck me for money?” He shoots me a sad smile, the kind that makes it seem as though he’s sorry for me. Bastard. “Surely, that’s the very definition of toxic masculinity. Who’d ever want to back that artist?”
But fuck Tod and fuck this! I won’t be scorned and pitied, least of all by him.
“You’re despicable,” I spit as I press my palms to his chest and push. “I wouldn’t choose to marry you if you were the last man on this stinking planet!”
“Ah, that’s your problem,” he says, grabbing my arm again. He spins me to face him and wraps me in his arms. “You lack the choice,” his honeyed voice whispers in my ear.
“Get off me!”
“But I can make it easier for you because you’ll do it. If for no other reason than the prenup.”
“What?” My head rears back as I stare at him. Is this bloke on something?
Other than a power trip, obviously.
“A million. A million sterling in exchange for being married to me for one year.”
“Huh!” Such derision. So why is it I can hear the sounds of cash registers ringing? “You’ve got to be joking.” Right?
He says nothing, and his expression doesn’t flicker. That is some poker face. Which I suppose would go some way to explaining how I’m in this predicament. My heart hammers like it wants to break free from my chest, and the feeling of his body pressed against mine is… something I refuse to think about.
“But why would you?” A million?” I repeat, so confused. “What about the three hundred thousand that got me in here?”
“Think, Lavender. You know you’re not here by accident.”
“But—”
“Two sums of money, but one is the carrot and the other, the stick. The question is, which method do you prefer?”
“Let go of me. Please.” I can’t think when I can smell him. Feel him. See the tiny scar under his left eye.
He gives me breathing space but he doesn’t step away.
Do I want to owe him three hundred thousand and have him trash my reputation and business, or do I want to be a million better off? What kind of question is that? A crazy question. From a crazy person, surely.
“Think of what you could do with a million pounds.”
It would mean independence, whispers a tiny voice inside my head. No more feeling second best. No more Whit breathing down my neck.
“As my wife—”
“Ha!” My arms flap, and my eyes roll, and my chest feels tight. But with panic, not anticipation, right? “You’re a mental case. You must be.”
“As my wife, you’d be in the position to make so much more money.”
I turn quickly from him, though force myself to slow as I take a sedate step in the opposite direction. Any direction.
“How, exactly?” I aim the words over my shoulder as I take a turn about the room. That’s what they call it in a historical romance—that or a perambulation. “You’d better be very careful how you answer.”
I’m not a prostitute, not that I have an issue with sex workers. We’ve all got to pay our bills, and each of us can, to some extent, decide how we do that. But if he thinks I’m going down (ha!) that rocky path, I hope his tonsils will make space for his nuts when I volley them there.
“Through the gallery. I’ll introduce you to another side of London. A place where money is limitless but taste questionable.”
Despite my best instincts, I laugh. “That sounds like a very backhanded compliment.”
“It wasn’t. But the circles I mix in aren’t those of your brother.”
Pfft. Like I’d hang around with him. The stick he has up his arse is monumental. Besides, he’s too busy mooning over Mimi and their kids to bother me socially. The only time I see him is when we’re discussing the gallery or when he turns up to Sunday lunch when summoned by our mother.