The Ceo's Contract Bride

“We Have To Be Lovers.”

“We what?” Gwen growled. “No way. That’s so not part of the deal. We’ve been there and done that. It didn’t work then—it sure as hell won’t work now.”

“My father’s expecting to see a devoted couple.”

Gwen froze. She had a very bad feeling. “How devoted?”

“We have to convince him it’s a love match.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Look, let’s not forget what you get in all this. You’re not doing it out of love.” He’d dealt his trump card, and they both knew it. She’d do anything to keep her house. Anything. If that meant being Declan’s radiant, devoted bride, she had to agree.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” Her voice was reduced to a whisper.

“We’d better get some practice in, then.”

The CEO’s Contract Bride

Yvonne Lindsay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With heartfelt thanks beyond words, to my wonderful husband, children and family, for all your support and encouragement and for always standing by me and believing in my dream.

Dear Reader

When I was in primary school I met a girl who’d been “promised” to a young boy by her family. I remember being amazed that a marriage could be arranged when you were so young, and it was the fodder for many a daydream. Since then, I’ve always loved to read tales of arranged marriages and marriages of convenience, and I had a lot of fun writing this one, where I pushed together two people who really felt they ought to be apart.

The first version of this story won the Romance Writers of New Zealand 2004 Clendon Award. Back then Declan had a different name and was helping his brother out as a topless waiter when he met Gwen. The original idea came from my hairdresser who, together with a group of good friends, has ladies’ days that are catered by…you guessed it…hunky male topless waiters. Of course, that part of the story has now gone, but the incendiary attraction between Declan and Gwen still burns, as does, I hope, your enthusiasm for the Knight brothers. Watch out next for Mason and Helena’s story—available this March—for one more New Zealand Knight!

With very best wishes,

Yvonne Lindsay

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Coming Next Month

One

“Six weeks until the tender closes, mate.”

Declan Knight leaned back his office chair and grimaced at his youngest brother’s words as they echoed down the telephone line. He shot an irritated glance at his Rolex—yeah, six weeks. He could count off the seconds he had left to find the finance he needed to pull this project off.

“Don’t remind me,” he growled.

“Hey, it isn’t my fault Mum put that stipulation in her will for our trust funds. Besides, who’d have thought you’d still be one of New Zealand’s most wanted bachelors?”

Declan remained silent. He sensed Connor’s instant discomfort over the crackling line.

“Dec? I’m sorry, mate.”

“Yeah, I know.” Declan interrupted swiftly before his brother could say another word. “I gotta move on.” Move on from the reality that he hadn’t been able to save Renata, his fiancée, when she’d needed him most. For a minute he allowed her face to swirl through his memory before fading away to where he kept the past locked down—locked down with his guilt.

“So, you want to go out tonight? Have a drink maybe? Show the Auckland nightspots how to have a really good time?” Connor’s voice brought him back instantly.

“Sorry, previous engagement.” Declan scowled into the mouthpiece.

“Well, don’t sound so excited about it. What’s the occasion?”

“Steve Crenshaw’s prewedding party.”

“You’re kidding, right? Watch-the-paint-dry Steve?”

“I wish I were kidding.” The pencil Declan had been twiddling through his fingers snapped—the two pieces falling unheeded to the floor. His staid and übercautious finance manager was marrying the one woman in the world who was a constant reminder of his failure, and his deepest betrayal—Renata’s oldest and dearest friend, Gwen Jones.

“Maybe you should ask him for some tips on how to find a wife.”

Declan’s lips tweaked into a reluctant smile as he heard the suppressed laughter in his brother’s voice. “I don’t think so,” he answered.

“You’re probably right. Okay then. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Ciao, bro’.”

Declan slowly replaced the receiver. It wasn’t that he was short of women, in fact the opposite was true, but he sure as hell didn’t want to marry any of them. There wasn’t a single one who wouldn’t expect declarations of undying devotion—devotion he was incapable of giving.

He’d been there, done that. He would bear the scars forever. Losing Renata had been the hardest thing in his life. He was never going down that road again. And he wasn’t going to make promises he knew he couldn’t hold to. It just wasn’t his style, not now, not ever.

If he hadn’t had his business to pour his energies into when Renata had died he may as well have buried himself with her. In some ways he probably had, but it was a choice he’d made, and one he stuck to.

He spun out of his chair and headed for the shower in the old bathroom of the converted Art Deco building, thankful—not for the first time—that he’d kept a fully functional bathroom in the office building. It gave him no end of pride to base the administrative side of his work here—his first completed project—the one his father had said would never succeed.

The house had been in a sorry state of repair, stuck in the middle of what had once been a residential area and which had slowly been absorbed by the nearby light-industrial zone. It had been just the sort of project he’d needed to get his hands on, literally, and had given him the opportunity to showcase his talents to restore and convert historical buildings for practical as well as aesthetic means. Cavaliere Developments had come a long way from the fledgling business he’d created eight years ago—and had a long way further to go if he had any say in the matter.

As he peeled off his work clothes, bunching them into a large crumpled ball in his fists, he wondered for the hundredth time if maybe he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew with the Sellers project. Buying the building outright wasn’t the problem, he could do that without a blip on his financial radar. But converting it to luxury apartments, reminiscent of the era the building was constructed, took serious bucks. Bucks his board of directors, now headed by his father, would never authorise.

He’d worked out a way he could do it, though, a way to skip past any potential stonewalling by the board, and had liquidated everything he owned—his house, his stock in his father’s company—everything, except his car and this building. He’d even temporarily moved in with his other brother, Mason, to minimise his expenses. But without the buffer of more funds his dream would be out of the running before he could even begin.

Declan rued, not for the first time, how easily he’d let his father take control of the board of directors when Renata died. How, in his grief, he’d let Tony Knight capitalise on his situation and take the seat of power for the one thing Declan had left that still meant anything. The old man had called most of the shots ever since. The board would never sanction taking on a loan the size he needed to make this job work.

But he had to make it work. He just had to. Somehow he’d get his hands on the money to make this dream come alive. After that, he’d resume control of his own company. It was all that mattered anymore, that and ensuring that he never laid himself open to being so weak that he’d lose control ever again.

Gwen Jones snapped her cell phone shut in frustration and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of her car. If she couldn’t put a halt to her wedding proceedings she’d be out of more than the deposits, she’d be out of her home, too. It had been Steve’s idea to mortgage her house, and she’d reluctantly agreed, on the condition they only draw down sufficient funds to cover the wedding and some additional renovation costs on the late-nineteenth-century villa. But now he’d drawn down the lot and skipped the country. She’d never be able to cover the repayments on her own and she’d be forced to sell the only true home she’d ever known.

How could he do this to her?

Gwen flipped the phone open again and stabbed at the numbers, silently willing her maid-of-honour and hostess for tonight’s celebrations, Libby, to be off the line. But for the sixth time in a row she went straight to Libby’s answer phone, and there was no point in leaving another, even more frantic, message. Worse, there was no one answering at Cavaliere Developments. Even the cell number given in the message at Cavaliere rang unanswered before switching to the out-of-office auto service.

She raked impatient fingers through her long blond hair and tried to ignore the burning sensation in her stomach. Somehow, she had to be two places at once—but which was the most important? Cancelling her prewedding party for the forty or so friends Steve had said they couldn’t afford to invite to the wedding, and which was due to start within the hour, or telling Declan Knight that his finance manager, her fiancé, had just fled the country after clearing out Cavaliere Developments’ bank account along with her own?

There was no contest. As much as she dreaded facing him, she had to tell Declan.

She shifted gear and crawled another half metre forward, cursing once more Auckland’s southern motorway gridlock that held her helpless in its grip, and tried to console herself the Penrose exit was only a short distance away.

By the time she pulled her station wagon up at the kerb outside Cavaliere Developments’ offices the sharp burning in her stomach had intensified. She slammed her car door shut and, walking with short swift steps to the front of the building, popped an antacid from the roll in her bag.

Declan Knight hated her already, but when he heard what Steve had done…They didn’t still shoot the messenger, did they? Her stomach gave a vicious twist, wrenching a small gasp of pain from her throat. She had to pull herself together.

The sparsely designed single-storey building, so typical of houses built in New Zealand during the late twenties, loomed in front of her. The old front lawn had been converted into car parks, but some of the gardens had been kept and edged the front of the building. Standard roses and gardenias scented the summer evening air.

She forced one foot in front of the other until she reached the entrance and dragged a steadying breath deep into her lungs before pushing open the front door to the reception area.

“Hello?” She waited, one hand clutching the straps of her bag while the other settled against her stomach as if doing so could calm the galloping herd of Kaima-nawa wild horses that pranced there.

Nothing.

He had to be here. His distinctive classic Jag was still parked in the driveway that ran down the side of the house. Steve had just about bent her ear off covetously extolling the virtues of the black 1949 XK120. She could recite every statistic about the vehicle, from its butter-soft leather upholstery to the horsepower rating under the hood. The car was the perfect accessory for the man Declan Knight had become and the man Steve, she now knew, had envied with every bone in his body. With Declan’s aura of success, devilish smile, long hair and cover-model body, he was a must on every society matron’s guest list and came complete with a different woman for every day of the week.

Quite a different guy to the one Renata had so excitedly introduced her to just over eight years ago. Quite a different guy to the one who, blinded by grief, had reached for her in the awful dark days after Renata’s death, and then, with the lingering scent of their passion still in the air, had accused her of seducing him. He had cut her as effectively from his life as a surgeon removes a cancerous growth.

Her mouth flooded with bitterness at the memory. She swallowed against the sour taste and resolutely pushed the past aside. Their actions had been a complete betrayal of Renata’s memory. Thinking about it sure wouldn’t help now. The only thing she could do was fulfil the promise she’d made as Renata sliced through the rope that threatened to pull them both to their deaths—to look out for Declan where she’d failed to do so for her dead friend.

Gwen looked around the empty reception area. For a Friday it was unnaturally quiet, but, of course, instead of hanging back for an end-of-week drink, everyone was on their way to her party. Everyone except the groom. She had to get through this as quickly as possible and then let Libby know the wedding was off. Oh, Lord, today was a total nightmare with no respite within her grasp.

She popped another antacid and her heart skittered in her chest. Maybe she’d even missed Declan altogether—he could’ve taken a ride with someone else. No, not with the front door still unlocked, she rationalised.

Focus, she admonished herself, you can’t afford the luxury of falling apart now. Gwen gripped the handle of her bag and strode through the front reception and down the hallway that led to the private offices. She hesitated as she reached the office Steve had used. At the lightest touch the door swung open.

It looked so normal inside. No clue to show that the man who’d worked here until lunchtime today had been on the verge of fleeing the country, his job and his fiancée. She pulled the door shut behind her, wishing she could as effectively close the door on her troubles. She wouldn’t find the help she needed here.

Somewhere at the back of the house she heard a faucet snap closed.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” she called out.

As she reached the end of the hallway an erratic squeaking penetrated the air, as if someone was wiping a cloudy mirror with his hand. She laid her ear against the nearest door. The noise peppered the silence again with its staccato screech, setting her teeth on edge. She hesitated, her hand resting against the painted surface of the door. Should she knock?

Suddenly the door swung inwards, pulling her off balance. Wham! She crashed face first against a bare wall of male torso. She dropped her handbag in shock and her hands flung upwards to rest against a bare chest. Her senses filled with the aroma of lightly spiced, warm, damp skin, dizzying her with its subtle assault. Of their own accord, her eyes fastened to the slow rise and fall of the broad, tanned expanse of skin in front of her. To the flat brown nipples that suddenly contracted beneath her gaze.

Declan Knight. She remembered the taste of him as if it were yesterday.

Her gaze dropped swiftly over muscled contours and her breath caught in her throat. Please don’t let him be naked. A rapid sigh of relief gusted past her lips at the view of a fluffy white towel wrapped low around his hips. A tiny droplet of water followed the shadowed line of his hip and arrowed slowly downwards.

Her mouth dried.

With Herculean effort she willed her eyes to work their way up—past the well-developed pectoral muscles, up the column of a strong masculine neck, where strands of glistening black hair caressed powerful shoulders, and all the way to where they finally clashed with cold, obsidian-coloured eyes.

He still held her. The gentle clasp of his long fingers belied the burning imprint that scorched through the filmy sleeves of her blouse and contrasted against the chilled disdain in his gaze. Fingers that tightened almost painfully as he recognised just who he held.

He let go rapidly, leaving her to find her own balance. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He looked as though he wanted to get straight back into the shower stall after touching her. Heat burned a wild bloom of colour across her cheeks and anger rose swift and sharp from the pit of her belly. Her fingers curled into impotent fists at her side.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Gwen reached up one hand and rubbed absently at her arm, although the movement only served to highlight the absence of his touch rather than negate it. “I need to talk to you—it’s important.”

“Go and wait out the front. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Right. Of course. I’ll do that then.” Gwen retrieved her handbag from by her feet and stormed back to the reception area, her heart hammering in her chest. What was wrong with her? Where was her brain? She really had to pull it together.

Slowly she counted to ten, focusing on each inward and outward breath. It was a simple strategy, and effective. One she’d perfected when she’d first arrived in New Zealand, from Italy, at nine years old—abandoned to the care of a disapproving maiden aunt by her capricious mother, who preferred her jet-set lifestyle without a child to hinder her liaisons.

“Steve’s not here.”

Gwen flinched at the sound of his voice and turned to face her nemesis. He’d obviously roughly towel-dried his hair, and although he’d dressed quickly he hadn’t taken the time to dry himself properly. The fine cotton of his dress shirt clung in patches like a second skin to his damp skin. She snapped her eyes away, drew her back up as straight as she could manage and lifted her chin to meet his penetrating regard head-on.

Despite working within the same industry, they’d managed to avoid making contact on more than a cursory social level. Even on those occasions, at company functions, they’d managed to avoid having to be polite to one another. A cursory nod of acknowledgement, a not-quite-there smile when in a group of colleagues. They’d kept their distance. Distance he was obviously equally determined to maintain.

“I know.” Her voice sounded as though it came from a stranger. Stilted, forced. Now that the time had come, the words dried up uselessly in her throat.

“So why are you here? If this is supposed to be one of those face-your-past things before you get married—”

“No! Oh, God, no. Definitely not.” How could he even think she wanted to bring that up again? The humiliating rejection after they’d futilely sought comfort in one another. She never wanted to cross that road again. Ever.

She watched as he pulled a vibrantly coloured, rolled up silk tie from his trouser pocket and threaded it underneath his collar. Gwen cleared her throat of the obstruction that threatened to choke her as she remembered just how dexterous those long fingers could be. How she’d been at their absolute mercy.

“Steve’s gone,” she blurted in an attempt to clear her mind of the sensual fog that clouded her thoughts.

“Gone? What are you talking about? We’re all supposed to be at your party in about—” he broke off to look at his watch.

“About thirty minutes.”

“So, we’ll see him there. What’s the problem?” Halfway through settling the knot of his tie at the base of his throat, his hands stilled. Her eyes still locked on his hands, Gwen stared at the slightly roughened edges of his fingers, evidence that given the opportunity he was as hands-on as any of his workers, at the graze across the knuckle on his index finger. At anything but the question in his eyes.

“Steve’s left the country.” The words tasted like charcoal in her mouth.

“Left the country?”

“With all our money. Yours and mine.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Gwen held her ground. She only wished she was kidding. Sudden seriousness chased the derisive look from Declan’s face as his eyes raked her face for any sign of a lie.

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

She shook her head slowly. The sting of moisture pricked at the back of her eyes and she pressed her lips into a firm line, blinking back the urge to let loose her fears.

“When? How?”

“He left a message on my cell. I was working in the Clevedon Valley—there’s no reception—he knew I wouldn’t get the call until I came out of the black spot. By then it was too late to stop him.”

“You’re saying he rang to tell you this? Why would he do that?”

Steve’s gloating satisfaction replayed in her mind. She’d never forget that tone in his voice, the absolute glee that he’d gotten away with it combined with the fact that he’d known all along there’d been something between her and Declan in the past. He’d found a way to hurt them both. The man he’d most wanted to be and the woman he’d thought Declan still wanted. But he’d been wrong. Totally wrong.

“Does it matter why he did it? The fact is he did. He’s cleaned us both out!” Her hands twisted the strap of her handbag. Round and round until it resembled a piece of rag caught in a drill bit at high speed.

Declan swore under his breath and booted up the computer at the front desk. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he logged onto his bank’s Internet service, then stilled as the reality sunk in.

“I’m gonna kill the bastard.” His voice low, feral.

“Well, take a number and stand in line. You’d better call the police. If you’ll excuse me, I have a party to stop and a wedding to cancel.” She pivoted on her heels and walked back out the door, half expecting any minute for him to call out to her to stop. To say something, anything. But he didn’t.

Minutes later, fighting to control the anger that surged and swirled inside him, Declan hung up the phone from the police. There was little that could be done right now. He’d visit the station first thing in the morning.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, selecting and discarding ideas as to what to do next. Steve Crenshaw had single-handedly dealt the blow that could devastate Cavaliere Developments and put his entire staff out of work. Informing his board of directors would be the logical thing to do; no doubt the police would want to speak to them, too, once he’d formalised his statement.

He slammed his hands flat on the desk. Damn! To be so close, to be on the verge of success and have it all snatched away. That Gwen Jones had been the bearer of these particular bad tidings should have struck him as cruelly ironic. She was synonymous with everything that had gone wrong in his life in the past eight years.

It disturbed him a great deal more than he wanted to admit, seeing her so up close and personal just now—and to his absolute disgust his reaction hadn’t been entirely emotional. All along, while Steve had crowed about his forthcoming nuptials he’d pushed away the thought of the other man’s hands against Gwen’s alabaster skin. But Declan had no claim on her—nor did he want one.

Still, her vulnerability struck him square in the solar plexus. She was as much a victim in this as him. More, in fact. She’d been on the verge of marrying the creep in eight days time. What did that say about her taste in men?

A flicker of an idea hovered on the periphery of his mind, then flamed to full-blown life. He’d be nuts to even consider it—but maybe that’s exactly why it would work.

Despite everything, he would help Gwen Jones.

And whether she realized it now, or not, she would help him, too.

Gwen parked her station wagon in the secured basement parking allocated to Libby’s waterfront apartment, then rode the lift to her floor. Outside the apartment the pain in Gwen’s stomach wound up another notch. Judging by the racket on the other side of the door Libby hadn’t had time to cancel the party—if she’d even retrieved Gwen’s message by now. Gwen swiftly depressed the doorbell and turned away, forcing herself to take in a deep, steadying breath. The outlook through the massive window at the end of the corridor, over Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour, usually had a calming effect on her, but tonight the city view glittered like tears reflected on the inky harbour, doing nothing to soothe her splintered thoughts.