Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal

Yes, she thought darkly, definitely bad news.

On so many counts.

* * *

Behind her, stock-still on the pavement, knowing the doorman had been covertly observing the exchange and not giving a damn, Marc watched her disappear from sight, the skirts of her gown billowing around her long, long legs, that glorious chestnut hair catching the light. In his memory he could still taste the silken scent of the pale skin at her wrist, the warmth of the pulse beneath the surface.

Then, his expression still mask-like, he turned away to climb back into his car, and be driven to his own hotel.

As if mentally rousing himself, he reached for the crumpled note in his breast pocket. He slipped it back into his wallet, depleted now of the four hundred and fifty pounds that were in her possession. As his wallet held his gaze, he felt as if the contents were reminding him of something important to him. That he would be wise not to forget.

How much he had wanted to silence that acidly saccharine mouth of hers, taunting him in a way that right now, in the mood he’d been in all evening, had not been wise at all… Silence it in the only way he wanted…

No. Tara Mackenzie was not for him—not on any terms. All his life he’d played the game of romance by the rules he’d set out for himself, to keep himself safe, and it was out of the question to consider breaking them. Not even for a woman like that.

After all, he mused, had it not been for the wretched Celine he would never even have encountered her. Now all he wanted was to put both of them behind him. For good.

It would be less than a fortnight later, however, that he would be forced to do neither. And it would blacken his mood to new depths of exasperatedly irate displeasure…

* * *

Tara was looking at kitchens and bathrooms online, trying to budget for the best bargains. However she calculated it, she still definitely needed at least another ten thousand pounds to get it all done. And even living in London as cheaply as she could—including staying in this run-down flat-share—it would take, she reckoned, a good six months to save that much.

What I need is some nice source of quick, easy dosh!

She gave a wry twist of a smile tinged with acerbity. Well, she’d made that five hundred pounds quickly enough—just for keeping the oh-so-charmless Marc Derenz safe from Blondie.

Memory swooped on her—that velvet touch of his mouth on the tender inside of her wrist…

A rasp of annoyance broke from her—with herself, for remembering it, for feeling that tremor that it had aroused go through her again now.

He only did it to taunt you! No other reason.

With an impatient resolve to put the wretched man out of her thoughts, she went back to her online perusal. Moving to Dorset—that was important to her. Not some obnoxious zillionaire who’d put her back up from the very first. Nor some man who could set her pulse racing…a man who was so, so wrong for her…

A thought sifted across her mind. Would there ever be a man who was right for her, though?

Yes, she thought determinedly—one day there would be. But she wasn’t going to find him here in London, in her life as a model. No, it would be someone she’d meet when she’d started her new life in the country. Someone who didn’t know her as a model at all, and who didn’t see her as a trophy to show off with. Her thoughts ran on. Someone who was, oh, maybe a vet—or a farmer, even—at home in the countryside…

She pressed her lips together, giving a smothered snort. Well, one thing was for sure, it would not be Marc Derenz. And, anyway, she was never going to set eyes on him again.

A sharp rapping on the front door of the flat made her jump. She gave a sigh of irritation. Probably one of her flatmates had forgotten her keys.

She put her laptop aside, padded to the door, and opened it.

And stepped back in total shock.

It was the last person on earth she’d ever expected to see again.

Marc Derenz.

CHAPTER THREE

MARC’S MOOD WAS BLACK. Blacker even than it had been that torturous evening at the fashion show, with Celine trying to corner him. He’d hoped the brush-off he’d given her would mean she’d give up. He’d been wrong.

She was still plaguing him—still set on inviting herself to the Villa Derenz on the blatant pretext of house-hunting. It had been impossible to refuse Hans’s apologetic request—and now he’d been landed with them arriving this week.

Marc’s reaction had been instant—and implacable. He’d blocked her before—he would just have to do it again. However damn irritating it was to have to do so.

His eyes rested now on the means he was going to have to use. Tara Mackenzie.

He knew her name, and it had been easy enough to find out where she lived. He cast a disparaging eye around the dingy apartment. The front door opened on to the lounge, which was cheaply furnished and messy—belongings were scattered on battered settees, and a rack of washing was drying in front of the window.

His gaze swept round to the woman he’d tracked down.

And he veiled it immediately.

Even casually dressed, in jeans and a loose shirt, Tara Mackenzie was a complete knockout. Every bit as stunning as he remembered her. The same insistent, visceral response to her that he’d felt at that fashion show, that he’d been doing his damnedest to expel from his memory, flared in him again. Deplorable, but powerful. Far too powerful.

He crushed it down.

She was staring at him now, with those amazing blue-green eyes of hers, and had opened her mouth to speak. He pre-empted her. He wanted this sorted as swiftly as possible.

* * *

‘I need to talk to you. I have a business proposition to put to you.’

His voice was clipped to the point of curtness. Just as it had been before at the fashion show. Tara’s hackles rose automatically. She was still reeling from seeing him again—still reeling from the overpowering impact he was having on her, that seemed to be jacking up the voltage of her body’s electricity as if she’d suddenly been plugged into the mains.

This time he was not in a hand-made tux, but in a dark grey killer business suit that screamed Mr Rich and Powerful! Don’t mess me about!

Just as the look on his face did. That closed expression on his hard-planed, utterly unfairly devastating features and the obvious aura of impatience about him. His automatic expectation that she would meekly listen to whatever it was he was about to say.

He went on in the same curt, clipped voice, his faint accent almost totally supressed. ‘Extend the role you adopted at the fashion show and you can make five thousand pounds out of it,’ he said, not bothering with any preamble.

Tara frowned, and then she smiled, enlightenment dawning. It wasn’t a genuine smile, but it helped her control that voltage hammering through her.

‘Blondie still pestering you, is she?’ she put to him.

She saw his expression tighten at her sardonic observation. Obviously he was annoyed, but he was acknowledging, tacitly, what she had said.

‘Well?’ It was his only response.

‘Tell me more.’ Tara smiled sweetly.

The electricity kindled by his utterly unexpected arrival had sparked a kind of exhilaration in her. It dawned on her that he was resenting having to approach her. And that, she knew, feeling another spark inside her, was really quite gratifying…

Just why that should be so she did not pause to examine.

He took a short breath, his eyes still like lasers on her. ‘A week of your time—ten days at the most. It would be…residential,’ he said, ‘but entirely…’ His eyes suddenly closed over their previous expression. ‘Entirely synthetically so. In other words, on the same basis as before.’ A tight, non-humorous smile tightened his mouth. ‘For appearances only.’

Was there a warning in the way he’d said ‘only’? Tara didn’t know and didn’t care. It was entirely irrelevant. Of course it was ‘appearances only’. No other possibility. Any woman thinking anything more of him would need her head examined!

‘You would,’ he continued, in that businesslike voice, ‘be my house guest.’

Tara’s eyebrows rose. ‘Along with Blondie, I take it?’

He gave a brief nod. ‘Precisely so.’

‘And I get to run interference?’

He nodded again, impatience visible in his manner but saying nothing, only letting those laser eyes of his rest on her, as if trying to bend her to his implacable will.

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was something in them that was a like a kick in her system—something that flashed like a warning light in her head…as if she stood upon the brink of a precipice she hadn’t even realised was there.

Just as suddenly it was gone. Had she imagined it? That sudden change somewhere at the back of those unreadable slate-dark eyes? Something he’d swiftly blanked? She must have, she decided. There was nothing in his expression now but impatience. He wanted an answer. And fast.

But she did not like being hustled. She took a breath and met his eyes, though she was conscious of the way she’d crossed her arms firmly over her chest, as if keeping him and his imposing, utterly out of place presence at bay.

‘OK, do I have this right? You will pay me five thousand pounds to spend up to ten days, max, as your house guest, and behave—strictly in public only—’ she made sure she emphasised that part ‘—as if I am your current squeeze, just as I did on that limo ride the other night, while your other house guest—Blondie—gets the message that, sadly for her, you are not available for whatever adulterous purpose she would like you to be. Is that it?’ She raised her eyebrows again questioningly.

His expression did not change. He merely inclined his sable-haired head minutely.

Tara thought about it. ‘Half up front,’ she said.

He didn’t blink. ‘No. You might not show up,’ he said flatly.

His eyes flicked around their shabby surroundings and Tara got the message. Someone who had to live in a place like this might indeed walk off with two and a half thousand pounds.

She made herself look at him. The man was loaded. He had to be, the way he behaved, the lifestyle he had—chauffeur-driven limo, hanging around at couture fashion shows in swanky hotels. No way was she going to be short-changed by him. After all, pro rata, the five hundred pounds for the bare half-hour previously was way more generous than this offer.

‘Ten thousand,’ she said bluntly.

It would be chicken-feed to a man like him, but a huge sum for herself. And exactly what she needed for her cottage. For a moment she wondered if she’d overplayed her hand. But then, maybe she should be glad if she had. Could she really face spending any more time in the company of this man? The reasons not to were not just her resistance to his rock-like personality…

Caution started to backfill the ridiculously heady sense of sparking exhilaration she had felt. Caution that came too late.

The voltage in those eyes seared. Then abruptly cut out. ‘OK. Ten thousand,’ he gritted out. As if she’d just pulled a tooth from his steeled jaw.

That spark of exhilaration surged again inside her, overriding the vanished and defeated caution. Boy, was he mad she’d pushed the price up!

She felt herself smile—a genuine one this time. And then, abruptly, her triumph crashed. With a gesture that was vivid in her memory, he was coolly extracting his gold-monogrammed leather wallet from his jacket, peeling off a fifty-pound note. Then a second one.

Reaching forward, with a glint in his eye that gave her utterly insufficient warning, even though it should have, he tucked the two notes into the front pocket of the shirt she was wearing.

‘A little something on account,’ he said, and there was a purr in his voice that told her that this was exactly what she knew it was.

His comeback for her daring to tip him with his own money.

She opened her mouth to spit something at him but he was turning on his heel. Striding from the room. Informing her, as he rapidly took his leave, that arrangements would be made via her agency.

Then he was gone.

Taking a long, deliberate breath, she removed the two fifty-pound notes from her breast pocket and stared at them. That, she reminded herself bluntly, was the nature of her relationship with Marc Derenz. And she had better not lose sight of it. The only reason he’d sought her out was to buy her time, because she could be useful to him. No other reason.

And I wouldn’t want it to be for any other reason!

Her adjuration to herself was stern. Just why it was that Marc Derenz, of all the men she’d ever encountered in her life, could have this devastating effect on her, she didn’t know. She knew only that no good could come of it. Her world was not his, and never would be.

* * *

It was hard to remember her warning to herself as, a week later, she turned to look out through the porthole of the plane heading for the Côte d’Azur. Their destination had been a little detail Marc Derenz had omitted to inform her of, but she had no complaint. Just the opposite. Her mood was soaring. To spend a whole week at least on the fabled French Riviera—and be paid for doing so! Life didn’t get any better.

She didn’t even care that she was being flown out Economy, in spite of how rich the man was. And, boy, was he rich! She’d looked him up—and her eyebrows had gone up as well.

Marc Derenz, Chairman of Banc Derenz. She’d never heard of it, but then, why would she have? It was headquartered in Paris, for a start, and it was not a bank for the likes of her, thank you very much! Oh, no, if you banked at Banc Derenz you were rich—very, very rich. You had investment managers and fund managers and portfolio managers and high net worth individual account managers—all entirely at your disposal to ensure you got the very highest returns on your millions and zillions.

As for her destination—the Villa Derenz was featured in architectural journals and was apparently famous as being a perfect example of Art Deco style.

It was something she could agree with a few hours later, as she was conducted across a marble-floored hall and up a sweeping marble staircase like something out of a nineteen-thirties Hollywood movie.

She was shown into a bedroom, its décor pale grey and with silvered furniture. She looked about her appreciatively. This was fabulous. It was a sentiment she echoed when she walked out onto the balcony that ran the length of the frontage of the villa. Her breath caught, her eyes lighting up. Verdant green lawns surrounded the brilliant white building, pierced only by a turquoise circular pool and edged by greenery up to the rocky shoreline of the Cap. Beyond, the brilliant azure of the Mediterranean confirmed the name of this coastline.

She gazed with pleasure. No wonder the rich liked being rich if it got them a place like this.

And I get to stay here!

She went back inside to help the pair of maids unpacking her clothes. They weren’t her own clothes—a stylist had selected them, on Marc Derenz’s orders, Tara assumed, as being suitable for the role she was going to play. For all that, she would definitely enjoy wearing them. Actually wearing them for herself, not for other women to buy—it would be a novelty she would make the most of.

She would make the most of everything about her time here. Starting with relishing the delicious lunch about to be served to her out on the balcony, under a shady parasol, followed by a relaxing siesta on a conveniently placed sun lounger in the warm early summer sunshine.

Where Marc Derenz was she didn’t know—presumably he’d turn up at some point and she would go on duty. Till then…

* * *

‘Don’t burn.’

The voice that woke Tara was deep and familiar, and its abrupt tone told her instantly that concern for her well-being was not behind the statement.

Her eyes flared open, and for a moment the tall figure of the man who was going to pay her ten thousand pounds for staying in his luxury villa in the South of France loomed darkly over her.

She levered herself up on her elbows. ‘I’ve got sun cream on,’ she replied.

‘Yes, well, I don’t want you looking like a boiled lobster,’ Marc Derenz said disparagingly. ‘And it’s time for you to start work.’

She sat up straight, feeling her arms for the thin straps of her swimsuit, which she’d pushed down to avoid tan marks on her shoulders. As she did so she felt the suit dip dangerously low over her breasts. And she felt suddenly, out of nowhere, a burning consciousness of the fact that those hard, dark eyes were targeted on her, and that all that concealed her nakedness was a single piece of thin stretchy material.

Deliberately, she busied herself picking up her wrap, studiedly winding it around herself without looking at him. Whether he was looking at her still she did not care.

I’m going to have to get used to this—to the impact he has on me. And fast. I can’t go on feeling so ridiculously self-conscious. I’ve got to learn to blank him.

With that instruction firmly in mind, she finished knotting her wrap securely and looked across at him. Against the sun he seemed even taller and darker. He was wearing another of his killer business suits, pale grey this time, with a sharp silk tie and what would obviously be twenty-four-carat gold cufflinks and tiepin.

Tara made herself look and sound equally businesslike. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘What’s the next thing on the agenda, then?’

‘Your briefing,’ Marc Derenz replied succinctly.

His pose altered slightly and he nodded his head at a chair by the table, seating himself on a second chair, crossing one perfectly creased trouser leg over the other.

‘Right,’ he started in a brisk voice as she sat where he’d bade her. ‘There are some ground rules. This, Ms Mackenzie, is a job. Not a holiday.’

* * *

Marc rested his eyes on her impassively. But he was masking a distinctly less impassive emotion. Arriving here from Paris to find her sunning herself on the balcony had not impressed him. Or, to be precise, she had not impressed him with her lack of recognition that she was here to fulfil a contractual obligation. In every other respect he’d been very, very impressed…

Dieu, but she possessed a body! He’d known she did, but to see it displayed for him like that, before she’d become aware of his presence, had been a pleasure he had indulged in for longer than was prudent.

Because it didn’t matter how spectacular her figure was, let alone her face, this was—as he was now reminding her so brusquely—a job, not a holiday.

Certainly not anything else.

His thoughts cut out like a guillotine slicing down. In the days since he had hired her to keep Celine Neuberger at bay he’d had plenty of second thoughts. And third thoughts. Had he been incredibly rash to bring her here? Was he playing with matches near gunpowder?

Seeing her again now, viewing that fantastic body of hers, seeing her stunning beauty right in front of him again, and not only in the memories he’d done his best to crush, was…unsettling.

Abruptly he reminded himself that she was not a woman from his world, but a woman he’d admitted into his life briefly, under duress only, and not by free choice. That that did not mean he could now break the rules of a lifetime—rules that had served him well ever since the youthful fiasco over Marianne that had cost him so dearly. Oh, not in money—in heartache that he never wanted to feel again.

But I was young then! A stripling! It was calf love, nothing more than that, and that’s why it hit me so hard.

Now he was a stripling no longer, but a seasoned man, in his thirties, sure of himself, and sure of what he wanted and how to get it. Sure of his relationships with the women he selected for his amours. Women who were nothing like the one now sitting opposite him, taking money for her time here.

That was what he must remember. She would—that was for certain. It was the reason she was here…the reason she’d accompanied him from the fashion show. She’d made it perfectly clear then—and again when she’d so brazenly upped what he’d been prepared to offer her to come out here now. That was warning enough, surely?

However stunning her face and figure—however powerful her appeal—his relationship with Tara Mackenzie must be strictly professional only. She was here, as he reminded himself yet again, only to do a job.

It was, therefore, in a brisk, businesslike tone that he continued now. ‘The Neubergers are arriving this evening. From then on, until they leave, you will assume the role you are here to play. What is essential, however,’ he went on, ‘is that you understand you are here to act the part only. You are not to imagine we actually have a relationship of any kind whatsoever or that one is possible at all. Do you understand me?’

* * *

Tara felt herself bridling as his dark eyes bored into hers. He was doing it again! Putting her back right up. And not just in the way he’d said things—in what he had said.

Warning me off him. Telling me not to get ideas about him. Oh, thank you—yes, thank you so much, Monsieur Derenz. It was so necessary to warn me off you! Not.

Would she really ever consider a man with the personality of a lump of granite, who clearly thought every woman in the world was after him?

Indignation sparked furiously in her. ‘Of course, Monsieur Derenz. I understand perfectly, Monsieur Derenz. Whatever you say, Monsieur Derenz,’ Tara intoned fulsomely, venting her objection to his high-handed warning.

His eyes flashed darkly and his arched eyebrows snapped together in displeasure. ‘Don’t irritate me more than you already have, Ms Mackenzie,’ he said witheringly.

‘And don’t you, Monsieur Derenz,’ she shot back, bridling even more at his impatient put-down, ‘entertain the totally unwarranted assumption that I have any desire to do anything more than act the part I am here to play! And,’ she continued, refusing to be cowed by the increasingly black look on his face, ‘I expect you to do likewise. There is to be no repeat of that little wrist-kissing stunt you pulled just before I went back into the fashion show!’ She saw his expression stiffen and ploughed on. ‘No unwarranted body contact at all. I appreciate that my role must be convincing—but it is for public view only.’

Even just pretending to be on intimate terms with him was going to be a challenge. A challenge that, now she was seeing him again, was making a hollow form inside her. Oh, what did the wretched man have that got to her like this?

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