The Gamble

5. Lavender

The air iscool 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.

My brother might be a billionaire, but this is the nearest I’ve ever come to wealth. That’s not to say he doesn’t look after us all—his siblings and our mum, but the benefits come with strings. The way Whit fusses is like an old woman, and his money comes with rules and regulations, conditions and provisos. I’m grateful for his help—of course I am—but I’m also tired of being questioned. Of feeling controlled.

What I wouldn’t do to live my life on my own terms.

What I would do is marry a stranger, as it turns out. Even if his reasons aren’t yet apparent.

We even shook on it once he’d removed the clause that I have to sleep with him. Sleep might’ve been what he said, but I’d be lying if I wasn’t thinking about other things that happen in a bed. I suppose that’s where the panic came from. What if I have a horny dream and wake up in the middle of molesting him? I’d die a thousand deaths. I’d have to go and live on a llama farm in Peru or something!

Carrot or the stick, I remind myself. Like the million-pound payoff is a small thing to me. It’s more than just a monumental payday. It’s an opportunity for freedom. I’ll be master of my own destiny instead of being watched like a hawk as the whole family waits for my next fuckup.

A quickie ceremony and then, twelve months to that date, I’ll laugh my way right to the bank. A bubble of excitement rises inside me. Once freed from my role as the troubled middle child, who on earth will I be?

“Coming?”

Nope, that was just an aftershock of pleasure. It happens every time I look your way.

Flicking his finished cigarette across the pristine driveway, Raif indicates one of the cars parked to the right, the row of vehicles like a high-end motor show.

I watch the cancer stick swallowed up by the well-tended plants bordering the driveway, then wonder why that whole action didn’t seem disgusting because smoking is a filthy habit—one that kills. It doesn’t make me a teensy bit wet.

It strikes me that this agreement, this marriage, might be easier—safer—if Raif didn’t look like some film noir antihero. He might as well have morally ambiguous written all over him. And the fact that he gives head like a lesbian is, quite frankly, annoying.

After the fact, at least.

Because now I can’t stop thinking about it.

“Lavender?”

“Sorry.” My answer is automatic as I will my feet to begin moving. “I was just taking a moment to process your repulsive habit.”

“And that’s what you were just doing? Staring at me in disgust?”

Ignoring his tone, I glance his way. “What else?”

His answering laughter glows inside my chest as hot as the glow on his just-finished cigarette. “Because it looked like you were considering jumping my bones.”

I fold my arms across my chest, realizing my nipples are visible under my dress. “I think I can resist.”

Note to self: less perving and ramp up the distaste.

“You’re sure? If you change your mind,” he adds as I reach his side, “you just let me know.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“You want to do that for me?” he asks at the passenger door of a midnight-colored sports car.

I reach for the door handle, which isn’t where it should be. “Yes, you’d be into that, wouldn’t you.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” He grins as his hand snakes around my waist, the sudden heat of his body about as unappealing as his cigarette. “Allow me.”

I don’t see a handle, but whatever he touches opens the door. However, rather than out, the car door whooshes vertically. I make a noise of surprise, though cover it with another meant to convey my indifference.

“Very impressive,” I mutter, patting his chest. “Who do you think you are? Batman?”

“I can be whoever you need me to be,” he says in a low, rumbly tone.

“What’s this?” Narrowing my eyes, I slide my fingers wider as I feel something hard under them.

“My pen.”

“It’s a bit big for a pen.”

“Thank you.”

“Urgh.” That tone again. I roll my eyes. “That’s no pen. It feels like a knife. Why would you be carrying a knife?”

“Maybe it’s to open my mail.”

“There’s no way I’m getting in that tin box if you’re carrying a blade.”

I barely have time to inhale when he slides his hand into his pocket, tossing the knife to the manicured shrubbery.

“That’s not safe. A kid could pick it up.”

“Not in here.”

I frown. He frowns. Then he frowns some more as pulls out his phone. He hammers out a text, the offers me his hand.

“Someone will come and get it,” he grates out.

I tsk, mostly to hide my delight. “Your employees must love you.”

Once inside, I straighten my dress over my legs as Raif leans his forearm on the roof, watching.

“It must take a lot of effort to maintain that level of contempt for the world.”

“Oh, it’s not for the world.” It’s very hard to maintain an air of superiority when I feel like I’m sitting on the floor. I try anyway.

“I guess that makes me special.” The corner of his mouth crooks wickedly.

He has the kind of bone structure that would make a young Ian Somerhalder sob. And those cat’s eyes. Creation was very generous to him, but while he might be driving Batman’s car, Raif seems more supervillain.

“Special, yes,” I say with a sigh. “Let’s go with that.”

The echo of his laughter resounds even as he closes the passenger door. As he rounds the car, I sit on my hands to stop myself from biting my thumbnail. He climbs into the driver’s seat and, with a deep, throaty purr I feel deep in my pelvis, the car springs to life.

The imposing gates open automatically and, as we reach the road, I notice a few straggling partygoers climbing into a black cab, mostly worse for wear.

“Where did Tod go?” I ask suddenly. Though he got me into this, I’d barely given him a second thought since I’d walked out of the room. After throwing my champagne glass at him.

Raif barely shrugs. “I guess he left.”

“How do I know you didn’t stuff him in a suitcase and chuck him in the Thames?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“How do I know you’re not going to do the same to me?”

“I guess you don’t.”

I harrumph, my mind turning back to Tod. He probably left with the first pair of open arms. Or legs, more likely. I don’t usually begrudge him, but then he doesn’t usually sell me to the highest bidder without a second thought.

“Maybe I should’ve let you use his head for a cocktail bowl,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“I said it would be nice if I knew where we were going.”

“To get your passport.” He glances my way. “And an overnight bag.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

“Lavender.”

The sun warms my bum deliciously as my handsome husband calls my name. Eyes still closed, I stretch, recognizing his scrumptous cologne, my tummy flipping as I anticipate the dark sheen of his hair and those smoky gray eyes. The white of his teeth as he sends me a knowing smile.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. It’s time to wake up.”

A warm hand folds around my shoulder, golden sand ticking my legs as I nuzzle it and—

“We’re here, princess.”

I jerk awake with an inelegant snort to find my field of vision filled by, well, a vision. Black hair and a knowing smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t the sun roasting my bum but the car’s seat warmer. And the man whose smoky eyes dazzle me don’t belong to my husband.

At least, not yet.

Who the hell goes to sleep in the car of their pseudo kidnapper?

“I thought we agreed on fiancée.”

“Urgh!” I roll my eyes, mostly annoyed with myself for letting that out. “Potato, potahto,” I mutter. The man who was carrying a knife, for fluff’s sake!

“So… two potatoes?”

“Whatever,” I retort, attempting to deliver the word without breathing because my mouth tastes like the bottom of a budgie cage, which is a sure sign my breath smells of death.

“Why are you in my personal space?” I demand, pushing ineffectually at his chest.

“You have a little?” As he moves back, Raif tentatively touches the corner of his mouth.

With a scowl, I wipe the back of my hand across my lips. Great. Not only do I snort, have bad breath, and a bad temper but I also drool.

What a catch, right?

“We’re here. At your place.”

“Okay.” I reach for the handle. Of course, it’s not in the usual place. Stupid fancy car.

“Let me.”

“I can do it,” I protest, but Raif leans across me anyway, bringing with him the scent of warm skin and expensive cologne. Better than death and funky budgie cages. The door moves open, and I rock forward in the chair. This is not the easiest car to extract yourself from, though my dress—and the potential for nipple slippage—doesn’t help.

“Wait.”

I hear his door open.

“I don’t need help.” I rock harder, my heart skipping a beat at the thought of allowing him to help. To stare down my cleavage. “I can manage.”

Shoe leather scuffs, and then he’s there, in front of me. “I know that, but we’re both going the same way.”

“I wasn’t planning to invite you in,” I retort, putting my hand in his and ignoring the flash of paler skin on the underside of his wrist. He has long, elegant fingers—talented and dexterous, my insides recall. A strong wrist encircled by a plain-looking watch with a leather strap.

“Then it’s good I wasn’t about to wait on an invitation.” One jerk and I’m out. He doesn’t let go of my hand, sliding his fingers between mine.

“You’re worried I might climb out the back window?” I demand as he swings open the garden gate.

“You live on the third floor.”

“How do you know—” Scratch that. “I see you’ve done your homework.” Come to think of it, I didn’t even give him my address before dropping off into snoozeville.

“I have. I told you I need the right kind of wife.”

“Then you’ve made a mistake.” I send him a look. “You obviously don’t know I’ve done much more foolish things. Like forget my purse,” I add with wide, innocent eyes as I turn to face him. “Oops!”

“This purse, you mean,” he says, pulling it out of the interior pocket of his suit jacket.

“Oh. Excellent,” I reply, my tone flat.

I whip out my key and stick it in the front door, trying very hard to ignore his low chuckle.

I make my way across the hall without waiting to see if he follows, then trip lightly up the staircase. Unlocking my blue-painted door, I stride inside.

My home is at the very top of a large Victorian gothic terrace in leafy Fulham. It’s essentially attic rooms that once upon a time would’ve housed the domestic staff of the family living downstairs. Rejigged and renovated, the space now includes two bedrooms, two tiny bathrooms, and an open-plan kitchen-living area. It’s small. Bijou, and I love it dearly. Mostly because I don’t have to share one inch of my space with my million siblings.

“Go sit down.” I gesture in the direction of the living space. “Go on, you’re making the place look untidy.” What he is making is the place look small. Intimate.

“You don’t want me to help you pack?” A smile lurks in the corner of Raif’s mouth, and his gaze flicks in the direction of the doors leading off the hallway.

“I think I can manage,” I retort with asperity. “Anyway, this wedding, whatever the destination, doesn’t suit me. I have to be back at the gallery on Monday.”

“We’ll be back in London tomorrow.”

So much for that tactic.

“Pack light. You can travel in what you’re wearing.”

Those feline eyes flick over me, and I resist a shiver.

“I’m not schlepping through the airport in this,” I say, sliding my hand over the silk. That his eyes follow the motion give me a little thrill.

“We’ll drive straight to the door of the jet. Put a sweater over your dress if you’re concerned.”

“I’m not concerned. I’m fashionable,” I say, breezing past him. Private jets and fancy cars. Good looking, fit, and hella skilled. What the heck does he need a pretend wife for?

“I won’t be a minute,” I say, turning at my bedroom door. “I promise, I won’t run away,” I add when he doesn’t immediately move.

“You wouldn’t get very far.”

There’s no threat in his reply, but I find myself shivering all the same.

Kicking my bedroom door closed behind me, I quickly thumb a text to Tod.

You’d better drag yourself out of whoever’s bed you’re in and get your skinny bum to the gallery this morning. You’re opening.

I throw my phone to the bed before I swipe it up again.

FYI, you are very far from my favorite person right now. You’d better pray something changes between now and the next time I see you.

8 SHARP!!! is my final text.

We might get a lot of tire kickers on Saturday, but we’ve also made some of our biggest sales.

I slide the straps from my shoulders and step out of my dress, annoyed when my phone doesn’t ping immediately with an apologetic text.

“Twat.”

“What was that?” Raif calls from the living room. I forgot the walls are like bloody rice paper.

“I said, what kind of car was that?” I pull open my underwear drawer.

“The one outside?”

I pause and almost add, No, the one in your pocket. But then I remember the male species is wired very differently. Like, with faults. They might only be able to seat their arse in one car at any given time, but those with the cash to do so like to have options.

“Yes, that one.”

“A McLaren.”

“Aren’t they like, super expensive?” I ask, rifling through the drawer’s contents. “Two-hundred thousand new, I heard.”

“You like cars?”

“No. One of my brothers was talking about it last week.” Brin was wanking on and on about the model he’s thinking of buying, like he’s the billionaire of the family and not Whit.

“Was that Whit?”

“No,” I call back, my brows furrowing.

“Brin?”

“Nope.”

“One of the other two, then.”

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, not for his ears. He’s done his homework.

“But this one isn’t new,” Raif calls.

“Oh.” Finding the bra I want, I drop it on top of the dresser. “I suppose that makes more sense.” Spending two hundred grand on a car is crazy pants. “My dad was always an advocate of buying used. He said the minute a car passes from the showroom floor, you’re out of pocket.” The familiar ache is swift to rise at the thought of my lovely, long-gone father.

“Your father passed?”

“Yeah.” My fingers fold around a pair of oyster-colored lace knickers. I shove the cotton bra back, pulling out the one to match, without letting myself think too much about it.

“I’m sorry. The death of a parent is…”

“Inevitable.” Or so Polly says. The natural order of things. Chucking the underwear on my bed, I grab a tank and a pair of shorts from the next drawer, intending to grab a shirt from the hanger on my way out.

“But hard, all the same, especially when you still need them.”

The sorrow in his tone catches me off guard. I guess he knows what this feels like. “So how much does a used McLaren set you back?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on things I can’t change. I pull my tank over my head.

“Used? I don’t know. But I can tell you the price of a classic model.”

Classic? But the car looked brand new. “Go on, then. How much?”

“One point two mill,” he calls back.

“For a car?” I squeak. My hands hover in the air, shock making me forget what I was doing. Was I about to twist up my hair?

“It’s an investment.”

“Hang on a minute.” I turn to face my bedroom door. “The prenup payout will be less than you paid for your car?”

“For one of my cars.”

“Thanks for the distinction.” Arsehole.

“Honestly? I expected you to negotiate me up.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” I grate out, swinging back to face my dresser again. “Because I now feel cheated.”

“Pity we already shook on it.”

“It was a verbal agreement,” I protest, whipping my knickers down my legs before yanking the new pair on. “I can’t believe you let me think you’d hold me ransom for a measly three hundred thousand pounds!”

“Wasn’t for show, princess.”

“You’re no prince,” I mutter, stabbing my legs into my shorts. “More like a toad!”

“I’m the toad because you sold yourself short?”

My head jerks up because his voice sounds closer. And he is—standing at my open bedroom door. As I stand bare breasted, in my knickers, in the middle of the floor. “Do you mind?”

He doesn’t immediately answer, his gaze an indolent slide over my skin. “Am I supposed to?”

“What would you have gone to?” I demand, refusing to cover myself while ignoring the way my nipples tingle and tighten under the heat of his gaze.

“A lot more,” he says, his voice husky now. “But a million was enough to entice you.” He drops his shoulder to the doorframe and pushes his hands into his pockets. “And, according to your balance sheets, it’s no small sum to you.”

“You did not sneak a look at my accounts.” Grabbing my bra, I whip around to face the dresser as I slip it on. What is wrong with me? I’ll tolerate his slow perusal of my boobs, and my body, but I get arsey that he might’ve seen my accounts?

My boobs are in a better state, I suppose.

“I’m surprised your accountant is so sloppy, given your brother is a fintech superstar.”

“I chose my accountant.” Against Whit’s advice. “I have a friend who works there. Sort of a friend, anyway.” One Whit warned me against, and that’s why I went with her. I hate it when he’s right. Which is pretty much always.

“I’ll put you in touch with my finance people.”

“No, thank you.”

“They’re the best in the business.”

“Because they make you look squeaky clean?”

“Who says I’m not?”

Tod, I almost say. “Call it intuition,” I say instead. “Cunning and unprincipled and unscrupulous?” I glance over my shoulder. “Ring any bells?”

“You sound like you’ve read my school reports.”

I turn so as not to let him see my smile. But I shouldn’t be smiling, should I? Not when these seem to be the foundation of this relationship.

“I didn’t sell you short,” he then says. “You just failed to negotiate.”

“I forgot to add Peeping Tom to your list of character traits.” I pull my T-shirt over my head. I turn with the intention of dropping my clothes in the hamper when I find him standing close.

“Do you leave your door open so he can watch?” His question is a dangerous purr.

“I didn’t leave it open,” I reply, lifting my chin.

“For me or for him?” His eyes move slowly over my face as though reading exactly what his proximity does to me. The way my stomach twists and the needy, empty ache blooming between my legs.

It’s been a minute.

“I’m not talking about Tod,” I reply, pleased my voice sounds steady. “And this is supposed to be a business arrangement.”

“The door was open.”

“It wasn’t an invitation for you to watch.”

His brow suddenly furrows. “My flaws don’t extend to spying on women,” he says, pulling away. “I’m not that kind of dangerous.” The rest he leaves implied.

“If you say so.”

“You packed?”

“What? No,” I add when he peels back his sleeve to glance at his watch. Pointedly. “I’m not on bloody rollerblades!”

“Better get on with it. Don’t forget your passport.”

“What for? Where are we going?” I call, moving after him as he leaves the room.

“We’re having what you might call a destination wedding.”