The Marriage Takeover

“I want my ring on your finger without delay.”

Lang took her hand as he continued, “So what’s your answer? Are you going to marry me?”

Cassandra snatched her hand away. “I don’t understand why you want to marry me…. And don’t mention sex….”

Blue eyes laughing, he said, “I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m sure there are dozens of women who would be prepared to keep you happy in bed.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. But I don’t want a succession of bed partners. I want a wife.”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

The Marriage Takeover

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

LANG DALTON’S silver-grey, chauffeur-driven limousine had been waiting for them at San Francisco International Airport. Ensconced in the purring luxury, Cassandra Vallance sighed and glanced at the dark-haired, good-looking man by her side.

In response to the apprehension in that glance, Alan Brent took the hand that was wearing his diamond cluster, and patted it with a there-there gesture that was meant to calm and comfort.

Safely cut off from the driver by a glass partition, he said, ‘I know this weekend was sprung on us, but try to relax, darling. Lang Dalton may be a multi-millionaire and the Great I Am, but there’s really nothing to worry about.’

‘I know so little about him. Has he a wife?’

‘Yes, he married a woman the media once described as “America’s most beautiful socialite”. I gather she comes from one of California’s top families, the kind who hobnob with film stars and presidents.’

‘Have they been married long?’

‘About a couple of years.’

‘Does he know we’re getting married?’

‘Yes. I told him myself. Though I probably didn’t need to. He seems au fait with everything that goes on. Where he gets all his information is a mystery.’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘Although I’ve been working for him for over four years, I’ve only met him once,’ Alan told her. ‘That was about eighteen months ago when he came over to England.’

‘What’s he like?’ The question came in a rush. Until now, for some odd, unaccountable reason, she had been loath to ask.

‘Hard, autocratic, ruthless, a bit of a cold fish, just as his reputation suggests. Not the kind of man to get on the wrong side of.

‘Most people seem to be a bit in awe of him. There was a story going around that even his own PA was afraid of him…

‘But, on the plus side, he’s known to have firm principles, to care for the environment, and to be both honest and scrupulously fair, even generous.’

Seeing she still looked far from happy, Alan added, ‘So what if he is something of a despot? He can’t eat us.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself, but my instincts won’t buy it. I feel…’

She came to a halt and glanced away, unable to tell him exactly what she did feel. Coming from a woman who was regarded as being intelligent, efficient and level-headed, it would sound ridiculous to say, ‘I have a kind of foreboding. A premonition that something disastrous is going to happen and my life will never be the same again.’

His eyes resting on her lovely profile, Alan pressed, ‘How do you feel?’

‘Threatened,’ she confessed.

‘Oh, come on!’ He laughed, unable to understand her fears. ‘Lang Dalton isn’t an absolute ogre… And it’s not like you to be so melodramatic.’

‘I don’t know what’s come over me,’ she admitted. ‘But I can’t get it out of my head that nothing’s going to go right.’

His brown eyes growing impatient, Alan urged, ‘Think positive. All you have to do is take care not to get on the wrong side of him…’

She bit her lip, knowing quite well this feeling of being threatened wasn’t rational, but unable to dismiss it.

‘Look at it this way: in the unlikely event of you incurring his dislike or disapproval, the worst he can do is dispense with your services. I’d hate to part with you, you’re the best PA I’ve ever had, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

‘Now for goodness’ sake stop worrying and enjoy the chance to see something of California. The Big Sur is one of the most scenic stretches of coastline anywhere in the world, and when we head south we’ll have an ideal opportunity to see it from the air.’

When she said nothing, Alan added, ‘We’re really very lucky. This kind of social get-together is unprecedented. Usually Dalton keeps his business affairs and his private life totally separate.’

‘Which makes me wonder what prompted this particular invitation,’ she remarked uneasily.

Knowing they hadn’t been so much invited as summoned, Alan shrugged. ‘Presumably it’s a new policy.’

‘I still can’t understand why he insisted that I should accompany you.’

‘Perhaps it was a question of numbers. We’ll be joining a kind of small house party, I gather. And he didn’t exactly insist…’

But Lang Dalton had ordered arbitrarily, ‘I want you to come over to San Francisco for a long weekend and bring Miss Vallance with you.’

Alan sighed inwardly. Knowing that Cassandra had always wanted to travel, he’d presumed she would be pleased. Only as they’d reached their destination had he realized that, for some reason he still couldn’t fathom, she felt quite the opposite.

‘Look, darling, I’m sorry you’re so averse to the whole thing, but it would have been difficult to refuse…’

With his entire future depending on not crossing Lang Dalton, it would have been suicidal, and Cassandra knew it.

She was proud of Alan who, at only twenty-five, was head of Finance at the London offices of Dalton International, and had a brilliant career predicted for him.

‘And it’s only for four days,’ he added, no longer trying to hide his exasperation.

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’m behaving like a perfect idiot.’ She smiled, a smile that lit her green eyes and brought her heart-shaped face to glowing life. ‘Please forget all I’ve said and let’s make the most of the weekend.’

‘That’s my girl.’

As he finished speaking, the limousine drew up outside the twin towers of the glass and concrete building that housed Dalton International.

Almost before the chauffeur had opened the car door, a brisk young man appeared to greet them. Having taken charge of their luggage, he escorted them up in the high-speed elevator to the bright, baking heat of the roof, where a helicopter was waiting on the pad.

Moments later, rotor-blades whirling, they lifted off into the sun-filled dome of a cloudless blue sky, the spectacular skyline of downtown San Francisco falling away beneath them. Cassandra could only admire the meticulous efficiency of the whole operation.

After a breathtaking flight down the rugged coast, they turned inland and headed for the Sierra Roca, where Lang Dalton had his home. The superb scenery became sun-baked and mountainous, and the conclusion of their journey proved to be equally impressive.

Once again a sleek limousine was standing by to ferry them the short distance from the landing-pad to a white, one-storey, Spanish-style hacienda.

Built around a huge central patio and swimming pool, it was surrounded by extensive gardens, archways, bougainvillaea-draped terraces, fountains and statuary.

From the air the lavish spread had looked like a film set, the very epitome of where the wealthy and privileged lived.

When the big car slid to a halt on the paved apron outside the main entrance, their uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the door. Almost before they had time to get out, a white-coated servant appeared and whisked away their small amount of luggage.

At the same instant a tall, wide-shouldered man with thick, sun-bleached fair hair appeared on the terrace and came down the shallow flight of steps to meet them.

His clothes were casual: well-cut olive-green trousers and a silk, open-necked shirt. He looked completely assured and coolly elegant.

‘Brent…’ He shook hands with Alan, and turned to look at Cassandra.

She saw his face was lean and tanned with thickly lashed, heavy-lidded eyes, and a strong, bony nose. He was about thirty-two or three, she judged, much better looking than she had imagined, and even more formidable.

‘Miss Vallance…’ There was a ghost of a polite smile around his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m Lang Dalton…’

Very conscious of the way he dwarfed her five feet seven inches, and of the mature width of his shoulders, she murmured a formal, ‘How do you do?’

‘Welcome to the Villa San Gabriel. I hope you had a good flight?’ His voice was attractive and unexpectedly cultured, his speech clipped and decisive.

His hand, well-shaped and muscular, closed over hers, and she felt a rising panic as he looked her over from head to toe, coolly appraising.

She was dressed in a businesslike grey silk suit and her ash-brown hair had been tamed into an elegant coil which emphasized her long, slender neck, her high cheekbones, and the pure line of her jaw.

With that wonderful bone-structure she could have been part Cherokee, he thought. Her winged brows and slightly slanting green eyes, her wide, generous mouth and cleft chin made her one of the most unusually beautiful women he’d ever seen.

Seeing she was made uncomfortable by his silent scrutiny, he said, ‘I decided it was high time I met you.’

‘I’m surprised you even knew of my existence.’ Her husky voice, and the way she withdrew her hand, betrayed her nervousness.

‘I make it my business to know about the people who work for me.’

But surely he couldn’t know about all the people in such a vast organization? She felt afraid. Singled out. Like a victim chosen to be sacrificed.

Abruptly, he said, ‘You’re not at all as I’d…’ There was a fleeting pause before he added, ‘Pictured.’

‘Neither are you.’ The imprudent words were out before she could stop them.

‘Oh? What had you expected?’

Someone short and paunchy, thick-necked and balding, with an aggressive, belligerent manner, rather than this air of contained but absolute authority.

But she could hardly tell him that. ‘I—I hadn’t realized you’d be quite so young.’

A strange inflection in his voice, he said slowly, ‘And I hadn’t realized you’d be quite so beautiful.’

As he spoke she saw that his teeth were excellent, his mouth wide and firm, the upper lip thinner than the lower… A controlled mouth, she thought, yet it held a disturbing touch of sensuality. Despite the hot sun, a strange shiver ran through her.

He noticed that betraying movement, and eyes that were a deep blue with darker rims to the irises caught and held hers.

Possibly he read the apprehension in their green depths, because he asked silkily, ‘Are you afraid of me, Miss Vallance?’

‘Aren’t most people?’

Even as she regretted her unthinking retort, she recalled Alan saying, ‘There was a story going around that even his own PA was afraid of him…’

If she had let it pass casually he might have taken the remark at face value, but, only too aware of her blunder, she found herself flushing furiously.

A white line appeared round his mouth. ‘I see you’ve been listening to some old gossip.’

There was a frozen silence, then Alan, who had been standing by unheeded and forgotten, stepped forward and, giving her a warning look, began hastily, ‘I’m sure Cass didn’t mean—’

‘Perhaps you’ll allow Miss Vallance to speak for herself,’ Lang Dalton broke in curtly.

Cassandra lifted her chin and looked him in the face. His grim expression told her that any attempt at an explanation could only make matters worse.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did.’

‘Even if it were true?’

‘Especially if it were true.’ By her side, she felt Alan stiffen, and wondered despairingly why she, who was normally prudent and diplomatic, seemed hell-bent on signing her own death warrant.

Trembling a little, she waited for the axe to fall.

Instead, the anger in the dark blue eyes changed to ironic amusement. ‘I see you have a sense of humour.’

‘A sense of self-preservation might be more use.’

He laughed, white teeth gleaming against his tan. ‘I thought perhaps you liked to live dangerously?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not the type. Too chicken.’

‘Somehow I doubt it. But I’ll be able to judge for myself when I get to know you better…’ There was a lot about this woman he still didn’t know. But he fully intended to.

Disconcerted by the steely purpose she sensed beneath the mundane words, she glanced at Alan, who, excluded from the conversation, moved a little restlessly.

Lang Dalton’s gaze flicked to him, and then back to Cassandra. ‘In the meantime, I expect you’d like to have a shower and get settled in before dinner?’ He lifted a hand.

A Mexican houseboy in white baggy trousers and a tunic appeared as if by magic.

‘Manuel will show you both to your rooms.’

‘Thank you.’ With a feeling of reprieve, Cassandra turned and followed the short, slim youth up the steps and across the wide terrace, conscious that Lang Dalton stood quite still where he was and watched them.

When they were well out of earshot, Alan remarked, ‘Well, it could have been worse, I suppose… And presumably there’ll be other people present from now on. It won’t be just the two of us in the hot seat…’

But it hadn’t been the two of them. After that first handshake, Lang Dalton had virtually ignored Alan’s presence and singled her out in a way that had totally unnerved her.

‘And, in spite of getting off to an unfortunate start, he seemed to like you.’

No, Lang Dalton hadn’t liked her; Cassandra was certain of that. Something had made her of interest to him. Something, intuition told her, that would disturb her, if she knew what it was.

Her sense of fear and foreboding had, if anything, increased rather than lessened. She felt like someone standing blindfold on a narrow ledge at the top of a precipice, only too aware of the danger, but without a clue how she got there or how to save herself.

The houseboy led them through an impressive, creeper-hung doorway and into the cool interior of the villa.

They were surprised to find themselves in a kind of large atrium, with a roof open to the rafters, and a series of wide archways that led off in various directions.

To the left, on slightly different levels, was a spacious living and dining area. Plain white walls, terrazzo floors, green plants, and the minimum of furniture, made it pleasant and restful, while one or two dramatic, abstract paintings added life and colour.

Clearly it was the home of a couple who liked their living to be stylish and uncluttered.

‘This way, señor, señorita…’ At the end of a wide corridor the houseboy opened a door to the left. ‘This is your room, señor.’ Then to Cassandra, ‘If you will follow me, señorita… Your room is along this way.’

For some reason she had expected them to have adjoining rooms, and her heart sank. Giving Alan a rather uncertain smile, she turned and obediently followed the youth.

By the time she had been shown to a room on the opposite side of the house, Cassandra had realized that she was about as far away from her fiancé as it was possible to be.

Was that a deliberate policy? she wondered. Or was it simply that the closer rooms had already been allotted to other guests?

There had been no sign of anyone else, apart from the servants and Lang Dalton himself, but perhaps they hadn’t arrived yet, or were taking a siesta?

Her room, with its pastel-coloured walls, off-white carpet and draped muslin curtains, was delightfully cool and spacious. Her luggage had been placed on an old Spanish chest.

The outer wall was a series of arches, each with sliding glass panels which opened on to the central patio and pool. With its blue water and palm trees, its colourful loungers and umbrella-shaded tables, it looked extremely enticing, but was totally deserted.

For a moment she was tempted to find the swimsuit Alan had suggested she pack. But, as a guest, she could hardly use the pool without being invited to.

Instead she would take a shower. There was a sumptuous en-suite bathroom, with a frosted-glass shower stall, lots of mirrors, and a large sunken tub with steps leading down.

It was a far cry from the poky little bathroom she shared with Penny—once her room-mate at college, now her flatmate—where the bath was watermarked, the shower dripped, and one small, spotted mirror was hung a foot too low. Imagining her friend swooning at so much sensuous luxury made her smile.

Hearing about the proposed trip to California, and shrewdly noting Cassandra’s reaction to it, Penny had exclaimed, ‘And this is so awful? I thought you’d always wanted to travel? Believe me, I’d give my eye-teeth to be in your shoes. I practically swoon at the thought of staying with a millionaire…’

Then, with a snort of disgust, she’d said, ‘Some people—naming no names, but follow my eyes—just don’t appreciate how lucky they are!’

Cheered by the thought of the other girl, Cassandra unpacked and put away her clothes, leaving out fresh undies and a simple silk sheath in subtle shades of turquoise, green and gold.

Showered and dressed, she had just brushed her hair and was about to take it up into its usual coil, when there was a discreet tap at the door.

So Alan had managed to track her down.

A smile on her lips, she hurried to open it, and found the houseboy hovering.

‘Señor Dalton asks that you will join him for a pre-dinner drink.’

Scarcely ready, she hesitated. ‘At once?’

‘Sí, señorita.’

Knowing it would be unwise to keep him waiting, she braced herself and, leaving her hair curling loosely on her shoulders, closed her door and followed the slight figure.

Through the open windows she could faintly hear what sounded like one of the gardeners at work with a lawn mower. Apart from that, and the splash of an unseen fountain, it was almost eerily quiet, and there was still no sign of a soul.

When they reached the living area, the houseboy informed her, ‘Señor Dalton is on the terrace.’

‘Thank you, Manuel.’

He gave her a shy smile and departed, soft-footed.

The sliding glass opened on to a secluded terrace roofed with vines and screened from the pool and patio by a white, wrought-iron grille.

There was some comfortable-looking outdoor furniture scattered about, and a small but well-stocked refrigerated bar at one end.

Lang Dalton, who was lounging in a fan-backed wicker chair, rose to his feet at her approach and came to meet her.

She had been praying that his wife would be there, that other guests would be present, but he was alone.

Wearing a white evening shirt, a black bow-tie and a lightweight dinner-jacket, he looked both handsome and charismatic.

Taking her hand in a formal gesture, he said, ‘I must apologize if I’ve rushed you?’

‘No, not at all,’ she murmured, hoping he hadn’t noticed her stiffen at his touch.

Still holding her hand, he queried, ‘Are you happy with your room?’

‘Very happy, thank you… And Cleopatra herself would have approved of the bathing facilities.’

His eyes amused, he said, ‘I doubt it. We’re fresh out of asses’ milk.’

Made uncomfortable by his maleness, his undeniable and unexpected attraction, she withdrew her hand, and asked as lightly as possible, ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Everyone being…?’

‘Well…the rest of your guests.’

She saw his firm lips twitch.

The knowledge that her reference to other guests had appealed to his sense of humour made her add uneasily, ‘Alan said something about there being a small house party.’

‘In the event, I changed my mind,’ Lang Dalton told her smoothly. ‘There are no other guests.’

Feeling as though the ground had been cut from under her feet, she said blankly, ‘Oh.’

‘I hope you’re not too disappointed?’

The gleam in his eye made it clear that he knew how she felt and was enjoying her discomfort.

Recovering her equilibrium, she schooled her expression into an untroubled mask, and answered, ‘No, not at all. Who was it said “Fewer people can only be an advantage”?’

‘Bravo!’

She got the distinct impression that he was applauding her performance more than the sentiments.

His glance moved from her face to the tumble of silky hair, and, lifting his hand, he picked up a loose tendril and straightened it before letting it spring back. ‘Naturally curly?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a stifled voice.

Alan had made no mention of Lang Dalton being a philanderer, so perhaps his intention had merely been to tip her off balance once more.

If so, he’d succeeded.

Head tilted a little to one side, he studied her. ‘With your hair down, you look delightfully young and innocent.’

Though the words were flattering, she felt oddly convinced that no compliment had been intended. In fact his appraisal bordered on the critical, and, wondering if he found her appearance too casual for his liking, she began a shade defensively, ‘Well, I usually take it up, but I…’

‘But you didn’t have enough time…’ He ran the tips of his fingers lightly down one cheek, making her shiver. ‘And you’re not wearing any make-up. Dear me, in spite of your tactful denial, I must have rushed you.’

It was a moment or two before she managed to say jerkily, ‘In this kind of heat I prefer not to wear any make-up.’

‘Truth, or discretion?’ he queried, his smile openly mocking.

‘Truth.’ With well-marked brows and lashes, and a flawless skin, she didn’t really need make-up.

‘Sit down, Miss Vallance.’ He indicated a chair next to his own. ‘Or may I call you Cassandra?’

‘Please do,’ she agreed with distant civility, and sat down with the greatest reluctance. Oh, why wasn’t his wife here?

‘What would you like to drink, Cassandra?’

‘Something long and cold and not too alcoholic, please.’

Seeing him lift a blond brow, she added, ‘I still feel a little dehydrated from the flight.’

‘Then we’ll make it a very weak margarita.’ Crossing to the bar, he rimmed two glasses with salt and poured crushed ice into a cocktail shaker, before asking, ‘Do you like flying?’