Never Gamble with a Caffarelli

He could be deported.

Charged.

The blood suddenly ran ice-cold in his veins.

Flogged.

‘You had better have a very good explanation for why you’re in my room,’ he said through gritted teeth.

She swept her thick, wavy, glossy black mane of hair over one slim shoulder. ‘I came to see you about my house. You have to give it back.’ She nailed him with a look that was diamond-hard. ‘I’m not leaving your side until you sign me over the deeds to Tarrantloch.’

‘Monsieur Caffarelli,’ the older official spoke in a stern ‘don’t mess with me’ tone. ‘Would you please verify if this young woman is personally known or related to you? If not we will have her immediately evicted and the authorities will deal with her accordingly.’

Deal with her? Remy didn’t like the sound of that. As much as he hated Angelique, he could not stand by and see her come to any harm. He took a deep breath and put on his best ‘let’s be cool about this’ smile. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a little mix-up. I had no idea my fiancée was going to surprise me by turn—’

‘Your fiancée?’ Angelique and the senior official spoke in unison.

Remy gave the official a conciliatory smile. ‘We’ve been trying to keep our engagement a secret. The press make such of fuss of this stuff at home.’ He gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You know how it is.’

The official straightened his shoulders, his expression as formal as a drill sergeant. ‘This young woman may well be your fiancée, but it is against the laws of our land for her to be alone with you without a chaperone.’

‘So, we’ll get a chaperone,’ Remy said. ‘She won’t be with me long in any case, will you, ma chérie?’

Angelique’s eyes narrowed to hairpin slits but her voice had a false sort of sing-song quality to it that grated on Remy’s already overstretched nerves. ‘Only for as long as it takes, mon trésor.’

The official puffed himself up to his not considerable height. ‘Due to the circumstances of your fiancée’s...ahem...surprise visit, neither of you will be permitted to leave the province until you are legally married.’

‘Married?’ Angelique had joined Remy in a choked gasp of horror.

‘You’re joking?’ Angelique gaped at the official with wide shocked eyes. ‘You have to be joking!’

‘He’s not joking,’ Remy muttered just low enough for her to hear it. ‘Go along with it. Try and keep cool.’

Keep cool? Who was he kidding? He didn’t feel cool. He’d never had to think so fast on his feet in his life. Pretending she was his fiancée had just popped into his head. And it still might not be enough to get them over the line.

‘I’m not marrying you!’ She flashed him a livid, blue-lightning look. ‘I’d rather die!’

‘Yes, well, you just might get that choice,’ he said. ‘We’re not in France, Italy or England right now. Didn’t you check out the Smart Traveller website before you came?’

Her throat rose and fell. ‘I didn’t think. I just...’

‘Not thinking is something you do remarkably well.’ Remy gave her a dressing-down look. ‘You’ve made a lifetime’s work of it.’

Her small hands clenched into tight fists and her eyes gave him another deadly glare. ‘I thought you were best friends with the Crown Prince. Can’t he do something?’

‘Afraid not.’ Remy had already had this debate with his friend during university. ‘The royal family have a lot of power but not enough to overrule laws of the elder tribesmen of the province.’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’

Remy gave her a cautionary look. ‘If you’re going to stand there spluttering insults like a Roman candle firecracker, I’m not going to lay down my life for you.’

She opened and closed her mouth, seemingly lost for words. Not that it would last. He knew how quick and sharp her tongue could be. She always tried to get the last word.

He was the only person in her life who wouldn’t let her have it.

‘Monsieur Caffarelli?’ The official stepped forward. ‘We must leave now to make the necessary arrangements to conduct the ceremony first thing in the morning. We will arrange alternative accommodation for your fiancée. You will understand that she is not permitted to spend the night in your room.’

‘But of course.’ Remy gave him another charming smile. I don’t want her here in any case. ‘I understand completely. I sincerely apologise for my fiancée’s impulsive behaviour. She is a little wilful and headstrong at times, but once we are married she will soon learn to toe the line. I’ll make absolutely sure of it.’

Remy smiled to himself when he saw the two red-hot spots of colour pooling in Angelique’s cheeks. She was standing rock-steady but he knew her well enough to know she was beyond livid with him. He could see it in her stormy eyes and in the clenched posture of her jaw. Too bad they had to have a chaperone. He would have quite liked to see what that anger looked like when it was finally unleashed.

Angelique turned to look at the senior official, her expression now meek and demure, those thick, impossibly long eyelashes batting up and down for good measure. ‘Please may I have a private word with my, er, fiancé? Perhaps you could chaperone us from the lounge. We’ll leave the door open here. Would that be acceptable?’

The official gave a formal nod and indicated with a jerk of his head for his sidekick to follow him out to the lounge area.

Remy got the full, fiery force of Angelique’s gaze as she swung around to face him once the officials had gone. ‘There’s no point glaring at me like that,’ he said before she could let fly. ‘You’re the one who brought this about.’

She visibly shook with rage. It reminded him of the shuddering of a small two-stroke engine on the back of a dingy.

‘Fiancée?’ She sounded like she was choking on the word. ‘Why couldn’t you have said I was your sister or...or even your cousin?’

‘Because the whole world knows I’m one of three brothers who were orphaned when we were young. And since both of my parents were only children, I don’t have any cousins.’

Her eyes fired another round of hatred at him. ‘Did you have to make that comment about controlling me as if I’m some sort of waspish virago? You did it deliberately, didn’t you? You just can’t help yourself. Any chance you get, you like to thrust home the chauvinist dagger.’

Right now that wasn’t the only thing Remy wanted to thrust home. He had always tried to ignore the sexual attraction he felt for her. In the past she had always been banned by his family or too involved with someone else. But it was hard to ignore the tingling that was stirring in his loins right now.

And if they had been in any other place he might well have done something about it.

‘Got under your skin, did it, ma petite?’

‘You set my father up, didn’t you?’ Her expression was tight with barely compressed rage. ‘I know how your mind works. You wanted to hit him where it hurt most because of that stupid deal in Ibiza. But I’m not letting you get away with it. I’ll fight you tooth and nail until you give me back my house.’

Remy gave her a cool and totally unaffected look because he knew how much it would annoy her. ‘Fight me all you like. There’s no way I’m giving it back. I won it fair and square. Your father knew what he was getting into—he knew the risks he was taking. But I must say, I think it’s pretty pathetic of him to send you out here to try and butter me up.’

Her head jerked back. ‘You think that’s why I’m here? As if I would ever sink so low as that. You’re the last man on earth I would ever consider seducing.’

‘Likewise, ma coeur; you don’t float my boat, either.’

A flicker of uncertainty came and went in her gaze and her perfectly aligned, beautiful white teeth sank into her bottom lip.

But just for a nanosecond.

She suddenly pulled herself upright, like an abandoned hand puppet that had just been reconnected with a firm hand. ‘And as for marriage... Well, that’s just totally ridiculous. It’s out of the question. I won’t do it.’

‘It’ll just be a formality,’ Remy said. ‘We don’t have to take this seriously. It probably won’t even be recognised as legal back home. We’ll just do what they require and then we’ll leave. Simple.’

‘Simple?’ Her eyes shot their fury at him again. ‘Tell me what about this is simple. We’ll be married—’ she gave a little shudder as if the word was anathema to her ‘—or at least, we will be on paper. I don’t care if it’s legal or not. I don’t want to be married to you. I can’t think of anything worse.’

He gave her a smile. ‘We’ll get it annulled as soon as we get back to Europe.’

‘This is outrageous! This is a...a disaster!’

‘Of your own making.’ He used his ‘too cool for school’ tone again. He loved the way it triggered something feral in her. She went off like a bomb every time.

She flattened her mouth into a thin white line, her eyes looking murderous. ‘This is not my fault. This is your fault for being so determined to score points. You don’t need Tarrantloch; your family have properties bigger and better than that all over the world. Why did you have to take the one thing I love more than anything else?’

Remy felt a little niggle of guilt. Just a niggle; nothing major. Nothing he couldn’t ignore.

He’d set himself a goal and he’d achieved it.

That was the Caffarelli credo—goal; focus; win.

Remy could have taken any one of the businesses in the Marchand Holdings portfolio if he’d been so inclined, but Tarrantloch was the one thing he knew Henri Marchand would regret losing the most. He had a score to settle with Henri that had nothing to do with his grandfather’s dealings with him.

It was far more personal.

Remy had just about got the Ibiza development in the bag when an anonymous email had spooked the vendor. It hadn’t been too hard to find out who had sent it. Henri Marchand was devious but not particularly smart at covering his tracks. Remy had sworn he would get revenge, no matter how long it took.

Tarrantloch was Henri Marchand’s most valued, prized possession. It was his ultimate status symbol. Henri liked to play Laird of the Highlands with a coterie of his overfed, overindulged, overweight corporate cronies by his side.

The fact that his daughter—his only child and heir—fancied herself in love with the place didn’t come into it at all.

Not even a niggly bit.

Remy was running a business, not a charity, and the one person in the world he felt the least charitable towards was Angelique Marchand.

‘It’s mine now. Get over it.’ He refused to allow sentimentality to mess with his head. ‘It’s not like you’ll be homeless. You live in Paris most of the year, don’t you?’

Her expression was so rigid with anger he could see a muscle moving in and out in her cheek. ‘I planned to live at Tarrantloch after my retirement.’

He whistled through his teeth. ‘That’s some seriously long-term planning. You’re what, twenty-five?’

Her teeth made a grinding noise. ‘Twenty-four. I’ll be twenty-five next year in May.’

‘So, what age do swimsuit models retire?’ He couldn’t stop his gaze sweeping over her body. To say she had a knockout figure was a bit of an understatement.

More than a bit, actually.

He could not think of a body he found more delightful to look at. Distracting. He had been distracted by it for the last few years, and so too had just about everyone throughout Europe. He still remembered the first time he had driven past a billboard with the then-nineteen-year-old Angelique on it. She had been draped along the edge of an infinity pool in some exotic tropical location, wearing a couple of miniscule triangles of fabric that left just enough to the imagination to cause serious discomfort in his nether regions.

To say she had a traffic-stopping figure was putting it rather mildly.

‘I want to branch out into other areas of the business,’ she said.

‘Such as?’

She glowered at him. ‘I’m not going to discuss my career plans with you. You’ll just rubbish them. You’ll tell me I’m wasting my time or to go and get a real job or something.’

Remy felt that little niggle of guilt again. He hadn’t been exactly encouraging of her plans to pursue a modelling career. When he’d first heard she was going to quit school to sign up with a modelling agency, he’d put aside his grandfather’s ban on contact with her and had called and told her to reconsider.

But listening to advice was not something Angelique was particularly good at doing.

‘Monsieur Caffarelli?’ The official spoke from the open doorway. ‘The room is now ready for your fiancée.’ He turned to Angelique. ‘If you will come this way, mademoiselle? We have two chaperones to accompany you.’

Angelique glared at Remy as she stalked past him. He caught a whiff of her signature fragrance as she went by. It hovered about his nostrils, enticing him to breathe in deep. He had always associated the smell of sweetpeas with her—strong, heady and colourful.

His brain snapped back to attention like an elastic band being flicked by a finger.

Within hours they would be man and wife.

Usually whenever the ‘M’ word was mentioned to him he had a standard, stock phrase: over my dead body.

But somehow—right here and now—it didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

CHAPTER THREE

ANGELIQUE COULD NOT even close her eyes, let alone get to sleep. She spent most of the night pacing the floor, cursing Remy, hating him. How could he have done this to her? He couldn’t have thought of a worse punishment.

Married.

To him of all people!

It didn’t matter if it was legal or not. She had sworn she would never marry. She would never allow someone else to have that sort of control over her, to have that sort of commitment from her.

She had seen first-hand her mother’s commitment. Kate Tarrant had taken her marriage vows way too seriously. She had been browbeaten and submissive from day one. She had toed the line. She had obeyed. She had given up her freedom and her sense of self.

Angelique would never do that.

Marriage and all it represented nauseated her. Unlike most girls her age, she couldn’t even bear the thought of wedding finery. Who wanted to dress up like a meringue, be smothered in a veil and be given away like a parcel to some man who would spend the next fifty years treating her like a household slave?

There was a knock on the door and when she opened it she found a maid holding a tray with fresh fruit, rolls and steaming hot, rather unusually fragrant coffee. ‘Your breakfast, mademoiselle.’

Was this the time to announce that—despite her half-French bloodline—she actually loathed coffee and could only ever face tea first thing in the morning?

Probably not.

Not long after that maid left, another one much older one arrived, carrying a massive armful of wedding finery which she informed Angelique she would help her get into in preparation for the ceremony at ten.

‘I’m not wearing that!’ Angelique said as the maid laid out an outfit that looked more like a circus tent. A particularly beautiful circus tent, however. On closer inspection she saw there were fine threads of gold delicately woven into the fabric and hundreds of diamonds were stitched across the bodice.

‘These are the official bridal robes of the province,’ the maid said. ‘The Princess Royal was married in them in July. It is a great honour that you have been given permission to wear them.’

I can’t believe I’m doing this, Angelique thought as she stood and was wrapped in the voluminous folds. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She made a living out of wearing the minimum of fabric. Now she was being wrapped in metres of it like some sort of glittering present.

Her blood simmered.

It boiled.

How could it be possible that within a less than an hour she would be married to Remy Caffarelli?

‘Are we done?’

‘Just about.’ The maid came at her with a denser than normal veil dripping with even more diamonds and a train that was at least five metres long.

‘Oh no.’ Angelique shied away. ‘Not that.’

The maid gave her a pragmatic look. ‘Do you want to get out of here or don’t you?’

* * *

‘Are you OK with this?’ Crown Prince Talib Firas Muhtadi said to Remy as he finished his second cup of thick, rich, aromatic cardamom-scented coffee. ‘Things are really unstable right now in our province. The tribal elders are notoriously difficult to negotiate with and highly unpredictable. It’s best to do things their way just to be on the safe side. We don’t want a major uprising over an incident like this. Best to nip it in the bud and keep everyone happy.’

Remy mentally rolled his eyes as he put his cup back down on the saucer. ‘No big deal. It’s just a formality, right? It’s not like this marriage—’ he made the quotation marks with his fingers ‘—will be recognised at home.’

Talib looked at him for a long moment without speaking.

‘You’re joking, right?’ Remy said, feeling a chill roll down his spine like an ice cube. Please be joking.

‘Marriage is a very sacred institution in our culture,’ Talib said. ‘We don’t enter into it lightly, nor do we leave it unless there are very good reasons for it.’

What about total unsuitability?

Being polar opposites?

Hating each other?

‘I fought it too, Remy,’ Talib added. ‘But it’s only since I met and married Abby that I realised what I’ve been missing out on. Oh, and yes, the marriage will be considered legal in your country.’

Damn.

Double damn.

* * *

The first thought Remy had was it could be anyone under that traditional wedding dress and long veil and he would not be any the wiser. But he instantly knew it was Angelique because of the way the robes were shaking, as if her rage was barely contained within the diamond-encrusted tent of the fabric that surrounded her slim body.

And her eyes.

How could he not recognise those stormy grey-blue eyes? They flashed with undiluted loathing through the gauze of the veil as she came to stand beside him.

He suddenly had a vision of his oldest brother Rafe’s wedding day only a few weeks ago. The ceremony had been very traditional, and his bride, Poppy Silverton, had been quite stunningly beautiful and unmistakably in love. So too had Rafe, which had come as a bit of a surprise to Remy. He’d always thought Rafe was the show-no-emotion, feel-no-emotion type, but he’d actually seen moisture in Rafe’s eyes as he’d slipped the wedding band on Poppy’s finger, and his face had been a picture of devotion and pride.

His other brother Raoul was heading down the altar too, apparently just before Christmas. His bride-to-be, Lily Archer, had been employed to help rehabilitate Raoul after a water-skiing accident which had left him in a wheelchair. Remy had never seen Raoul happier since he’d announced his engagement to Lily, which was another big surprise, given how physically active Raoul had always been. But apparently love made up for all of that.

Not that Remy would know or ever wanted to know about love. He’d had his fair share of crushes, but as to falling in love...

Well, that was something he stayed well clear of and he intended to keep doing so.

Loving someone meant you could lose them. They could be there one minute and gone the next.

Like his parents.

Remy sometimes found it hard even to remember what his mother and father had looked like unless he jogged his memory with a photo or a home video. He had been seven years old when they had died, and as each year passed his memories of them faded even further. Listening to their voices and seeing them moving about on those home videos still seemed a little weird, as if a tiny part of his brain recognised them as people he had once known intimately but who were now little more than strangers.

He had completely forgotten their touch.

But there was one touch he was not going to forget in a hurry.

As soon as the cleric asked Remy to join hands with Angelique, he felt a lightning zap shoot up his from his hand, travel from the length of his arm and straight to his groin as if she had touched him there with her bare hands. He hadn’t touched her even when her father had brought her with him when he had socialised with Remy’s grandfather in the years before their fall out. Being eight years older than her, Remy had occasionally been left with the task of entertaining her during one of his grandfather’s soirées. Even as a young teenager she had shown the promise of great beauty. That raven-black hair, those bewitching eyes, those lissom limbs and budding breasts had been a potent but forbidden temptation.

He had always made a point of not touching her.

Would the cleric expect him to kiss her? Not that the idea didn’t hold a certain appeal, but Remy would rather kiss her in private than in front of a small group of conservative tribesmen.

After all, he didn’t want to offend them.

Angelique’s hand was tiny. His hand almost swallowed it whole. But then the whole of her was tiny. Dainty. He felt a primal stirring in his loins when he thought of what it might be like to enter her. To possess her. To feel her sexy little body grip him tightly...

Whoa, keep it in your trousers. Remember, this is just an on-paper marriage.

The cleric went through the vows and Remy recited his lines as if he were an actor reading them from a script. No big deal. They were just words. Meaningless words.

When Angelique came to her lines she coughed them out like a cat with fur balls. She almost choked on the promise to obey him.

‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ The cleric gave Remy a man-to-man smile. ‘You may lift the veil and kiss your bride.’

Angelique’s eyes flickered with something that looked like panic. ‘I’d really rather not.’

Remy didn’t give her time to finish her sentence in case she blew their cover. Besides, he’d kissed dozens of women. All he had to do was plant a perfunctory kiss on her lips and step back. Everyone would be happy.

Easy.

He lifted the heavy veil from her face and planted his mouth on hers.

* * *

Angelique had spent years during her teens imagining this very moment—the first time Remy kissed her. She had imagined it when other dates were kissing her, closing her eyes and dreaming it was actually Remy’s mouth moving on hers, his hands touching her, his body wanting her. Quite frankly, those mind-wanderings of hers had made some of those kisses—not to mention some of her sexual encounters—a little more bearable.

But not one of her imaginings came anywhere near to the real deal.

Remy didn’t kiss sloppily or wetly or inexpertly.

He kissed with purpose and potency.

The firm warmth of his lips, the taste of him, the feel of him was so...so intensely male, so addictive, she couldn’t stop herself from pushing up on tiptoe to keep the connection going. His mouth hardened and then she felt his tongue push against her lips just as she opened them.

His tongue slid into her mouth and found hers.

She heard him smother a groan as her tongue tangled with his.

She felt his body stir against her as he gripped her by the hips and pulled her flush against him.

She heard the cleric clear his throat. ‘Ahem...’

Remy dropped his hands. He looked slightly stunned for a moment, but then he seemed to give himself a mental shake before he grinned charmingly and rather cheekily at the cleric. ‘Almost forgot where I was for a moment.’

The cleric gave him an understanding smile. ‘It is very good to see an enthusiastic couple. It bodes well for a happy and fulfilling marriage.’

Angelique ground her teeth. Remy was enjoying this much more than he should. She could see the glint in his eyes as they reconnected with hers. She gave him an ‘I’ll get you for this later’ look but he just grinned even wider and gave her a wink.

‘The Crown Prince and his wife have a put on a special banquet in honour of your marriage,’ the cleric said.