4. Dex
4
DEX
She will. She absolutely will marry me.
The alternative is unthinkable. Another man, having Sophia?
No.
“Thank you for the offer, if it was that.” She tilts up her chin. “But I’m going to use London Matchmakers .”
Jealous rage rises in me like a fire sparking into life.
I assumed she wasn’t interested in marriage and children, since my previous assistant picked her out and I’m a demanding boss. I require absolute commitment, and I pay generously for it.
But if she’s marrying? Even though I’m too old for her, and she’s too sweet for me, she’ll be mine.
If I were a good man, I would let this go.
“Why?” I snap.
“Because…” She hesitates, all the certainty of a moment ago seeping away. “Two reasons.”
“Which are.”
“Good reasons.” Nodding, she wipes her hands on her skirt and presses her lips together. She’s stalling, and it’s unlike her. Usually Miss Berry is serene and organised.
I give her time to think up her spurious excuses because I like that I’m seeing a different side to her.
“Safety,” she says after a few seconds. “He wouldn’t be a mafia boss. The London mafias are dangerous.”
“Are you suggesting I couldn’t take care of my family,” I reply slowly.
“No.” She gulps and quickly backtracks, twisting her hands together.
Nervous. No wonder. That’s a nonsense reason, and we both know it.
“Second, I want children. That’s important. A sperm sample will ensure the best possible chance, and you’ve refused to do that.” She becomes steadier as she gets more confident of her reason. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’ll get you pregnant.” I’ll be dedicated to the pursuit. It’s a given, as is our marriage. “We’ll have all the children you want.” She presumably thinks I’ll be a terrible husband and father, and that’s why she’s reluctant. But I’ll prove her wrong and do something absurdly sentimental to win her love.
Right after I look up romance in a reference book. I must have a book on this.
“I heard it can take ages.” She twists her hands. “That you have to do all sorts of things to increase the chances.”
If she thinks the idea of having sex repeatedly is off-putting, she couldn’t be more wrong. I allow myself a glimpse of the future. Her, barefoot and pregnant, our toddler in her arms. She’d welcome me home after work, and we’d play games with our children and settle them into bed. Then I’d bend Sophia over the sofa and make her scream. She’d orgasm three times before I finally spill into her.
“And?”
“I want to get pregnant quickly. So I need a sperm sample.”
A waste of time.
Alarm takes over her expression as I stand and go to the bookshelf. Pulling out a volume of the encyclopaedia—my girl is so young she probably thinks the only source of knowledge before Wikipedia was stone tablets—I open it to Fertility. Sliding reading glasses on and within a minute I have the key points.
“Less frequent ejaculation increases sperm concentration, so you’ll be more likely to get pregnant.”
She nods warily. “I heard that.”
“The other critical aspect is when you’re fertile. Where are you in your cycle?”
“I’m not talking to my boss about my menstrual cycle,” she says primly, and I raise my eyebrows.
“But you are going to talk to your husband-to-be about it. Because he wants to get you pregnant.” She has no idea how vital it is to me.
She makes a sound of dissent.
I just wait, regarding her levelly.
“It finished yesterday.” She winces.
“That explains how ferociously you shredded those poor documents last week.”
Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “Paper destruction is a healthy way to deal with PMS.”
“That’s basically what I do when I’m stressed too. But it’s the other guy who bleeds.” I check the chart of the fertility cycle.
She huffs with soft laughter.
“So you’ll be ready to conceive in about ten days.” I slam closed the book and push it back onto the shelf, then return to my desk, tossing the glasses off so I can see Sophia clearly.
Ten days until I can have her? That’s forever. It is the lifespan of a star. Civilisations will rise and fall while I wait billions of years.
“You think that old book is correct?” she says uncertainly, removing her hands from her face.
Is she doubting my books ? “I’d bet on it.”
Her complicated eyes slip down and her eyelashes fan over her cheek. She’s silent.
And for once, it’s my tension that rises. I can’t afford to let her go.
There’s a moment when negotiating with a potential spy that you must choose how to close the deal. My usual methods are pain, a threat, blackmail, or a bribe. I mentally flick through the options, and reject each one.
Panic grips me. I can feel her slipping away. This matters so much more than anything I’ve achieved in my life before, and needs a different approach.
“I bet that I’ll get you pregnant within six months.”
It’s an explosion of a statement into the quiet, and brings her gaze back to mine.
“And if you don’t?” she asks warily.
“We’ll do it a different way. Either a sperm donor, and I’ll be the father, or we’ll divorce, and I’ll help you find someone else.” It’s a crazy impulse, but I’ll risk anything to be with her.
“You’d really help me find another husband?”
No.
“Absolutely. If that’s what you want.” But she won’t. I have a billion in the bank and a very enthusiastic tongue. She’ll be too busy either sitting on my face or using her credit card emblazoned with Mrs Sophia Streatham to consider leaving.
“Think of it like a money-back guarantee. If we divorced, you’d have half my fortune, too.” And my whole bloody heart in her hands, so what’s money in comparison.
Hopefully, she’ll have a child nine months from now, but I have no intention of letting her go either way.
“I guess,” she murmurs, sounding baffled.
“We’ll get married as soon as possible, and start trying for a baby in ten days.” If the price of having her forever is six months of frustration as I can only come when she’ll conceive, well, what’s the difference? I’ve been pining after my perfect little assistant for a long time already. At least now I’ll get more of her.
Doubt still clouds her face, and she nibbles her lip.
I’m a billionaire mafia boss. It should not be this difficult to persuade a woman to marry me.
I wait.
Seconds drag past. I will win. She’s not leaving this building without agreeing. This morning, I had no idea this would happen, but the thought of Miss Berry belonging to anyone but me has made me willing to cross any line.
If I have to lock her up, so be it.
“But why?” she bursts out eventually. “Why are you offering to marry me?”
Obviously, because I’m in love with her, and want to spend the rest of my life making her happy and pregnant, not accepting cups of coffee from her and wondering if any man has touched her and therefore needs to die. That is the reason people usually get married.
“I need this, too.”