The Gamble

4. Lavender

“I’m sorry, what?”

I give my head a tiny shake, then rub my finger over the sudden ache between my brows. One minute, I’m considering selling sex to the hot man with the magic tongue, and now I’m hearing things.

Should I blame the orgasm or the champagne?

“It’s a little unorthodox, I know.”

“Oh. Good.” I nod. Not that I’m agreeing. “At least I know I’m not hearing things.”

“Unorthodox, as I said.”

“Or completely bonkers. Crazy. See also: stark raving.” I bark out an empty-sounding laugh. “You think the way to get your money back is with wife duties at sex worker’s prices? Really expensive sex worker prices, but still.”

I wonder how many sexual encounters three hundred grand buys you?

“This is a business proposal, not a romantic entanglement. I would be paying you for your time. Not your—”

“Blow job skills? Good, because I’m not sure I could compete. Some might argue I should be paying you.” I want to slap my hand across my mouth. Why the hell am I paying him compliments?

“Would you care to repeat that?”

The grin of shit-eating proportions spreading across his face says I don’t need to. His deliciously handsome, delightful-to-ride face.

My God. Shut up, brain!

And my brain said, “Hold my beer.”

“Or maybe that was part of the plan? Get Lavender pussy drunk on all those fun, sexy chemicals so she can’t make good decisions.”

“Do you often refer to yourself in the third person?”

“Or maybe going down on me was supposed to be an incentive.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t?” he asks with a mocking graveness.

“You should’ve taken your shot while the chemicals were still flowing,” I retort, skirting the truth because the alternative is asking for riding his face to be written into the marriage contract.

Raif Deveraux (henceforth referred to as “The Husband”) shall go down on Lavender Love Whittington (henceforth referred to as “The Wife”) no less than three times per week.

“We could do that.”

“What?”

“I like how you leave it open-ended.”

I blink rapidly as my brain plays catch-up.

“No less than three times per week.” The way his eyes move over me feels like a promise. It leaves every inch of my skin tingling. And, as though I need the added visual, he swipes his thumb across his full bottom lip. “Hell, make it three times a day.”

All the waves of pleasure. All between my legs.

Meanwhile, upstairs, my brain is still trying to make sense of this situation.

“Yes, well,” I say, “as nice as it was, it won’t be happening again.” Why do I sound like Dolores Umbridge all of a sudden?

“Princess.” He steps into me and takes my face between his hands. “Nice doesn’t pull my hair. Nice doesn’t fuck herself on my face.”

Maybe I’m having an aneurysm. Who the heck says stuff like that?

“This is madness,” I maintain, covering his hands with mine. “I’m not marrying you with or without the obvious marital benefits. Not to pay off a debt that isn’t even mine.” I slide his hands away and turn. I don’t get very far before he grabs my upper arm.

“You don’t seem fearful by nature.”

I glance pointedly down where his fingers hold me. It feels like a small win as they unfurl.

“It’s got nothing to do with fear,” I retort over my shoulder, taking another step in the opposite direction.

“You don’t seem foolish either.”

“I’m not.” I swing back to face him, hands tightened into fists. I hate, hate being called names. Sticks and stones do hurt. Insults glue themselves to you, and people remember. “Here’s an idea for you.” I flick back my hair, not giving him an inch. “Propose to Tod. He’s single and of marriageable age. And it’s his debt, after all.”

“Tod isn’t—”

“Your type? If it’s just a business deal and ‘not a romantic entanglement,’” I say, putting the phrase into air quotes, “it won’t matter, will it?”

“I can’t marry a man.”

“It’s the twenty-first century. You can marry a table lamp if you like.” My shoulder lifts and falls spikily.

“Except I don’t like.”

“Are you homophobic, Raif?” I fold my arms across my chest, my words and demeanor suddenly antagonistic. “Are you one of those toxic male types?”

“Wouldn’t toxic be the man who got you into this?”

“That’s obviously for me to deal with, but I can pass on your proposal if you’d like.”

“I need a wedding that’s believable.”

“Lots of men come out in their fifties—”

“I’m thirty-six,” he grinds out.

“I expect you’d be very popular.”

He shakes his head like he has shampoo in his ear. “I can’t marry a man.”

“Nonsense,” I scoff. “I was bi for a while.” For around three days. “You’d be shocked at the lack of attention paid to that announcement.”

His brows dip, and he cants his head. “My proposal is business and all for you.”

“Well, I don’t want it! You can stick your business proposal up your—”

I suddenly find my hands in his. I tend to wave them around when I’m overwrought. Maybe he thought I was about to wrap them around his neck. Without the romantic connotations. But while I might be the one with the crazy arms, he’s the one who should be in an asylum!

“Lavender.” The way he says my name feels like the brush of velvet concealing a blade’s edge. “This isn’t a chance meeting.”

I look up into his bitter coffee eyes. Or maybe bitter is just me. “You have the wrong girl.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

“Are you?”

His head jerks in a singular nod.

“Then don’t.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Then you’re not really sorry,” I say, pulling away.

“Okay, I’m not. But I have my reasons for that.”

“Reasons I don’t give a stuff for! I won’t do it,” I add, sounding like my nephew, who is currently in his tantrum era.

“London, in many ways, is like a small town. Believe me, you wouldn’t like the news of our assignation to get out.”

“You overestimate my reputation. No one will care if I’ve been in here boffing you for hours. Or even boffing you, Tom, Dick, and Harry, and the whole Chelsea football team.”

“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.

“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.”