Chapter Four #2
I lower my gaze to my glass, flummoxed by his observation. This isn’t a date. So why does it feel like one? Why is he looking at me with such intensity? The way a chocoholic stares at a box of truffles.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “That top suits you.”
It’s just an old pink tunic that I picked because it has a few sequins and makes me feel Christmassy. I’ve matched it with cut-down jeans and some flat sandals. I’m also wearing a pair of dangly reindeer earrings with flashing noses. He glances at them and his lips twitch, but he doesn’t comment.
“All right,” I say. “Out with it. You’re making me nervous.”
That makes him chuckle. “Why? We’re just two old friends catching up. I haven’t seen you in years.”
“We haven’t just bumped into one another. You’ve purposefully come all the way over here to see me, I know you have. So you might as well tell me what’s going on. Did Caesar send you?”
His eyes gleam. “Absolutely not.”
His vehement answer makes my eyebrows rise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “He told me what you asked him.”
My lips part, but words fail me. Slowly, my face heats. Resentment rises inside me at the thought of Caesar telling people what I’d assumed was a private matter between us.
“Have you come to mock me, then?” I say sharply. “Or warn me off? Accuse me of being a fortune hunter?”
“No.” He has a mouthful of wine. Then he leans forward, his forearms on the table, closing the distance between us. “You asked the wrong brother,” he says softly. “Ask me, instead.”
I stare at him.
The silence stretches out between us. I’m conscious that time is still moving.
Glasses clink, chairs scrape, music is playing, people are talking and laughing.
The fairy lights are flashing on and off.
A waiter walks past us carrying two glasses of mulled wine to a nearby table, and the smell of cinnamon and orange drifts to my nose.
But for me, time has shuddered to a stop. The only thing that exists in the world are Marcus’s cognac eyes, warm, intense, and looking into mine with an indefinable emotion. Hope? Desire? Excitement? All three?
“What?” I say.
He waits for it to sink in.
“Why?” I ask eventually. “Has Caesar said no?”
“I have no idea what his answer will be.”
“You’ve taken pity on me and decided to offer your services?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“I have a counteroffer for you.” His lips curve up a little. “Marry me.”
“It doesn’t make sense, because…” I stop as I realize what he’s said. “Wait. What?”
“Marry me.”
My heart slams against my ribs, and my jaw drops. “What? Marcus! What are you talking about? We can’t get married. How… what… when… why…”
My head is spinning. I knew he liked me, but… he wants to marry me? It’s incredible. Ridiculous. A stupid idea.
So why has my heart lifted in my chest like a helium balloon?
He exhales. “Let me explain. Our father called us into a board meeting yesterday. I told you he was thinking of retiring.”
I nod, an automatic reaction, as I’m unable to see where this is going.
“He revealed that one of the biggest agricultural empires in New Zealand has put in an offer for AgriTech, for almost double its current value.”
My jaw drops. “Oh my God. Your dad isn’t considering it, surely?”
Marcus sits back then and runs a hand through his hair.
I know what Ashford AgriTech means to him and his siblings.
Their father might be the genius behind the technology, but all three of them have worked super-hard to get where they have, and they’re all devoted to the company.
The thought of it being sold would crush them all.
“The board has concerns about succession. It wants reassurance about leadership continuity before it rejects a serious acquisition offer.”
“Leadership continuity…”
“You want a baby,” he says. “I need a wife and heir. We’re a perfect match.”
Gradually, understanding sinks in. This isn’t a romantic proposal. Of course it isn’t. He’s offering a business transaction.
The balloon inside me pops and slowly deflates. Stupid, stupid Wren. How incredibly na?ve I am.
However, even though I’m hurt and embarrassed and want to run away as fast as I can and sob into my pillow, at the same time I feel a twinge of interest.
“You want to prove to the board that you’re responsible and trustworthy,” I say slowly.
“Partly.”
“And an heir secures your father’s legacy.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Do all three of you need to get married and have children?”
“I don’t think so. Just one of us needs an heir.”
“It sounds…”
“Medieval? Yeah. But it’s common in business.
The Rutherfords—the family who have put in the offer—are a very old family.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they could trace their heritage back to the Norman Conquest. Tom Rutherford is in his seventies, and he’s everything you’d expect of the head of a patriarchal business.
He’s ruthless and cutthroat, but he’s also incredibly savvy.
He has lots of sons and dozens of grandchildren.
His company will never lose the family name. ”
“But while your father has no grandchildren, the board can’t be sure what will happen after your father retires.”
“That’s right.” He looks out of the window, his eyes distant.
“My great-grandfather, William Ashford, came over from England in the nineteen-fifties with twenty pounds in his pocket and a head full of dreams. He worked as a laborer on someone else’s land and saved almost every penny he earned until he was able to buy a small farm of his own.
His son built on what he had and doubled the amount of land they owned.
But it was still a relatively small farm. ”
I study his profile, thinking how much he’s changed over the years. He still looks like the young Marcus in many ways. But he carries himself differently now. There’s a confidence and authority that wasn’t there before. It’s very attractive.
“It was my father who figured out how to maximize pasture efficiency,” he continues.
“Who developed soil sensors, pasture-growth prediction software, satellite mapping, livestock tracking collars. Who made it simple for farmers to know exactly when and where to move cattle for optimal grazing. He figured out how to grow more grass than anyone else on earth. He’s a genius. ”
His gaze comes back to me. “The board wants to secure his legacy. And so do I. I will not—” and he stabs the table for emphasis “—let that man buy the company he created. I will do everything in my power to stop that happening.”
“I understand. I really do. And I admire you for it. But…” My brows draw together. “Why me? You must be surrounded by dozens, if not hundreds, of women more suitable to your world than I.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I get that we’re friends, and you know that I asked Caesar for a baby, and so you think it’s solving both problems. But surely, you’d be much better off with someone who was comfortable in your world.
Come on, Mars, look at you—your designer jeans, your expensive watch.
Ordering the second most expensive wine on the menu.
I bet your chauffeur-driven car is an Aston Martin or something. ”
“It’s a Bentley Flying Spur.”
I know enough about cars to know it’s expensive, sleek, and flashy. Very Mars Ashford.
“I’m a primary school teacher,” I remind him.
“I drive a ten-year-old Toyota Corolla. I buy the wine that’s on offer at the supermarket.
I can’t afford to go on vacation this year.
We lead completely different lives. I’d be lost in yours.
A marriage of convenience would be a lot easier with someone more suitable than me.
” It pains me to say it, but I mean every word.
He doesn’t look shocked. He sips his wine, studying me with those cognac-colored eyes.
“I’m not offering a marriage of convenience,” he says. “I want a real marriage. And a real family. I’m not going to be a donor. I’ll be a husband, and then a father, too.”
I stare at him, completely speechless.
I thought I understood Marcus Ashford. But suddenly I’m not sure of anything at all.