The Marriage Pact

“I’m confident a marriage between us would work.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Copyright

“I’m confident a marriage between us would work.”

Adam continued, “Neither of us will be expecting romantic love, just commitment. To our marriage. To Jamie. To each other. And there’ll be no pulling out after I’ve settled your sister’s debts. The marriage will take place a month from now.”

A month from now. Suddenly it seemed alarmingly real. “How—how can you know I’ll make a good wife,” Claire stalled, her voice husky. “You hardly know me!”

“I know you’ll be a good mother to Jamie. You have a natural affinity for children—and Jamie has taken to you already. You never know, we might even want to stay together forever.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Elizabeth Duke was born in Adelaide, South Australia, but has lived in Melbourne all her married life. She trained as a librarian and has worked in many different types of libraries, but she was always secretly writing. Her first published book was a children’s novel, after which she successfully tried her hand at romance writing. She has since given up her work as a librarian to write romance full-time. When she isn’t writing or reading, she loves to travel with her husband, John, either within Australia or overseas, gathering inspiration and background material for future romances. She and John have a married son and daughter, who now have children of their own.

The Marriage Pact

Elizabeth Duke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD been a dream of Claire’s to visit Venice one day. Magical, romantic Venice...the fairy-tale city floating on the sea.

Now she was here, and after only two days of a planned week in Venice, working as a nanny, the dream trip of a lifetime had turned to disaster.

She was broke, she’d lost her job and her employers were sending her back to London in disgrace!

Worse, she’d missed out on a free flight back home to Australia.

It was her own stupid fault for taking on the job in the first place. She’d had reservations from the start about the Danns, her English employers. The husband’s lingering gaze and the wife’s cold-eyed scrutiny should have warned her. But they’d been desperate for a temporary nanny at short notice, and she’d been desperate for her air fare back to Australia—which had been the lure they’d dangled—so she’d agreed.

The two children, three-year-old Holly and four-month-old Edward, had clinched it. Their big blue eyes and adorable smiles would have melted the most steely heart.

Her first two days in Venice had passed without warning of what was to come. Her employers—both London doctors—had attended conference sessions each day at their waterfront hotel overlooking the Venetian Lagoon while she’d cared for their two children.

She’d taken them for leisurely walks along the bustling boat-lined promenade, explored the Grand Canal by water-bus and had wandered round St Mark’s Square, where the impressive arcaded buildings and the Byzantine splendour of the Basilica had taken her breath away. Holly, naturally enough, had been more interested in the pigeons.

They’d even had a short gondola ride with the children’s parents, which she would have enjoyed far more if Hugo Dann hadn’t been surreptitiously eyeing her up and down from his seat opposite.

It had been in St Mark’s Square on her second day, as Holly had been waving her arms around to keep the fluttering pigeons from landing on her head and shoulders, that Claire had first met the other Englishman. The one she’d noticed at breakfast the past two mornings at the hotel, sitting at a table by himself.

On both occasions she’d tried her best not to stare at him, knowing he must be used to women ogling him and was probably conceited enough already. With his dark-eyed good looks, perfect physique and his air of easy self-confidence, he looked just the type who’d expect it.

She’d come to loathe and despise those cool ladykiller types. Nigel had been a man like that, though he’d been fair and blue-eyed—a golden Apollo with dancing eyes and a devastating charm who’d made her feel that she was the only woman in the world. Only she hadn’t been. More fool Claire Malone for falling for his slick English charm in the first place!

As the sexy Englishman had boldly approached her in the square later that second morning, she’d eyed him warily, her body tensing, stiffening in rejection. Or was it self-protection?

It had annoyed her that she had to tilt her head back and look up a considerable way to meet him eye to eye. No doubt he loved that feeling of superiority and raw macho power. She’d drawn herself up to her full height of five feet seven inches. No man, least of all this lethal-eyed English Adonis, was going to make her feel all helpless and feminine!

‘I’ve seen you at breakfast at the hotel,’ he offered as an opening gambit, a far too friendly sparkle in his wide-set dark eyes. From Quadri’s famous café nearby the outdoor orchestra struck up with gusto, the wail of violins swirling round them in the limpid morning air.

‘Oh, really?’ There was no way she was going to admit that she’d noticed him. She didn’t want to notice him now, but she couldn’t very well avoid it. He was wearing the same shirt and jeans he’d been wearing at breakfast, a casual denim shirt that showed off his broad chest and impressive shoulders and thigh-hugging jeans that showed off—

She snapped her gaze away. This man was dynamite! He positively radiated raw sexuality and strength.

She wondered what he was doing alone here in Venice.

Not that she cared. Men were out of her life from now on... Nigel had seen to that.

From the opposite side of the piazza, the orchestra from Florian’s, the equally famous rival café, sprang to life with a rousing tune of its own, flooding the square with sound.

‘You’re here in Venice on your own? Apart from your children, I mean?’ The Englishman’s gaze flicked curiously to the sleeping baby strapped to Claire’s back and to the little girl who was now clinging to her skirt. Was he wondering how she could afford a trip to Venice with two kids? Or...did he have something else in mind?

Her eyes narrowed in quick suspicion. Was he trying to find out if she was available? Available...for what?

Her chin rose a notch, her grey eyes glinting, cooling to silver ice. There was no way she was going to let this man get the idea she was on the loose! Let alone available. Available for sharks like him to pick up.

‘They’re not my children. I’m just looking after them.’ Her tone was crisp. ‘And I’m not here alone—I’m with their parents. You might have seen them back at the hotel.’

Then again maybe he hadn’t. They always came down to breakfast late, with the excuse that they needed to go through their conference notes for the day. But she suspected that they simply wanted to sleep in and have breakfast by themselves later without the distraction and demands of their children. The baby was bottle-fed so didn’t rely on his mother for feeds.

‘Ah. So you’re just helping out with the children...’ Now the stranger’s dark eyes positively gleamed.

She took an instinctive step back, her own eyes glittering with derision. I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it. Go find some other easy female.

‘I’m their nanny,’ she told him curtly, and began to walk on.

In a neat tigerish stride, he fell into step beside her. ‘Their permanent nanny? Or were you only hired for this Venice trip?’

She paused, frowning. Why would he want to know that? Simply to keep her talking?

‘I’m just filling in for their regular nanny, who has a bad ear infection and wasn’t able to fly.’ Meredith, an old friend from Australia, had recommended her as a fill-in, knowing she’d just thrown in her job. Knowing she’d had to—to get away from Nigel.

‘At the end of this week,’ she swept on, using clipped tones to discourage him, ‘I’ll be flying back to Australia.’ Back to the problems at home.

‘Ah...Australia. So that’s the accent. I was wondering. Um... You intend to look for another nanny job back in Australia?’

Her eyelashes flickered under his coolly interested gaze. Did he have a nanny fetish?

‘I doubt it,’ she answered dryly, adding in cutting tones, ‘I’ll be looking for a job as an accountant or auditor, which is what I’m qualified for and the kind of work I was doing until just recently.’

So put that in your pipe and smoke it, buddy, she thought with another upward jerk of her chin. If you imagined I was a brainless, man-crazy bimbo, ready to jump at the chance of a hot little dalliance with the likes of you, think again!

‘Well,’ he returned in a silky drawl, revealing by his next remark that he had been thinking along those lines, ‘Living proof that brains and beauty can on occasion co-exist.’ He quirked an admiring eyebrow at her, his dark eyes dancing.

For heaven’s sake, the man was flirting with her! ‘Can on occasion co-exist,’ indeed! What a disgusting male chauvinist he was!

‘I wonder if the same can be said about you?’ she whipped back in a withering tone, her eyes flashing contempt. ‘Or are you just a pretty face?’

The deep brown eyes flickered. Then he smiled, a sudden stretching of his lips, showing a flash of even white teeth and a burst of crinkles and dimples where there’d only been a tanned smoothness before.

She felt an unexpected jolt. That quick smile had a megawatt impact.

Oh, no, you don’t, she thought, rallying. Your devastating English charm won’t work on this girl, my friend. I’m immune to the flashy charms of gorgeous-looking Englishmen. Give me a rugged, down-to-earth, honest, decent Aussie guy any day.

I should be so lucky, she mused with a grimace, doubting if honest, decent men existed anywhere any more.

‘Why are you here?’ she tossed back at him as she began to walk on, not caring if he answered or not. Not being interested in dancing-eyed charm machines. She just wanted to switch the spotlight off herself. Or, better still, shake him off altogether.

But in a single stride he was at her side.

Holly, mercifully, came to the rescue, piping up before he could speak, ‘I’m hungry.’ She tugged at Claire’s hand. ‘I want an ice cream.’

‘All right, love, we’ll find you an ice cream.’ Claire quickened her pace, expecting the Englishman to take the hint and fade away.

He didn’t. ‘Let me buy you an ice cream at Florian’s,’ he offered, and waved a hand toward the famous café as they passed by, the romantic strains of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ swirling around them.

She didn’t falter, pretending that she hadn’t even heard the offer. There was no way in the world she was going to let this pushy Englishman buy anything for her—let alone try to buy her favours, if that was what he was doing. And Florian’s was way out of her own modest pocket.

‘There’s an ice-cream place at the back of the piazza,’ she said brusquely. Dismissively. ‘Come on, Holly.’ She almost swept the little girl off her feet as she hurried on, dragging the child along with her.

Maddeningly, the Englishman kept pace with them. ‘I’m here on business, unfortunately, not pleasure,’ he said in answer to her question—despite her having made it obvious that she didn’t care if he answered or not. ‘I’m here for a business seminar at the Cipriani...though I chose not to stay there. I prefer a hotel with a quieter, more personal touch—away from all the hype.’

That surprised her. She’d have thought he’d lap up that kind of place. The glitz, the glamour. Maybe, she mused cynically, he just wanted to be free of his fellow delegates so that he could more easily chat up solitary females.

‘You’re playing hookey this morning?’ she asked sweetly, slowing her pace as Holly whined, ‘You’re going too fast!’

‘Not at all.’ He fell into step beside her. ‘Morning off.’

‘Where are all your fellow delegates?’ she asked pointedly, glancing around. Hadn’t he made any friends amongst them? ‘More interested in the Cipriani’s glamorous social whirl, are they, than the cultural delights of Venice?’

‘I doubt that. They’re all at business sessions this morning. I’m not involved in those. I’m here to give a series of lectures on the effect of the Internet on worldwide communications. I’ll be giving my final one this afternoon.’

‘Oh.’ She deliberately looked at him the way he’d looked at her a few moments ago. ‘Well,’ she murmured, unable to resist the temptation, ‘Living proof that good looks and brains can co-exist...on occasion.’

His lips—sensuous, well-shaped lips, she noted reluctantly—stretched again, the outer edges curving upward and deepening the appealing creases in his cheeks.

‘Touché,’ he applauded softly, a gleam of amusement in the dark depths of his eyes.

Much as she wanted to dislike everything about him, Claire had to give him credit for appreciating the way she’d turned his chauvinistic remark back on him. Nigel probably would have taken umbrage and demanded huffily whether she was mocking him, his pale blue eyes wavering with hurt and uncertainty. Nigel had liked to feel in control at all times—on top of every situation.

‘Do your employers give you any time off...by yourself?’ the stranger pursued as they entered the narrow lane behind the piazza and began to weave their way through the throngs of other tourists, past windows with tempting displays of designer fashions, expensive knitwear, fine shoes and eye-catching jewellery. ‘In the evenings, I mean,’ he added smoothly, ‘when the children are asleep and their parents have no commitments themselves?’

In the evenings... I knew it, she thought as she seared a glance round. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said crushingly. Even if they did, her eyes told him, I wouldn’t be spending my precious spare time with you.

‘You’re here in romantic Venice with no time at all to yourself? That’s criminal!’ Obviously he’d failed to read what her eyes were telling him. This man, she thought, has an ego to match his audacity!

‘I’m here to work. To mind children. It’s not a holiday,’ she snapped. ‘It’s not a holiday for my employers either. They’re here for a medical conference.’ She tossed her head, her short bob of silky brown hair swirling round her cheeks. ‘Even so, I’ve managed to see quite a bit of Venice already...’

‘Oh, yes?’ The roguish brown eyes mocked her. ‘What have you seen?’

‘More than you, most likely!’ she retorted. ‘This morning we took a look inside St Mark’s Basilica... we were among the first ones in the queue. We’ve been into the Doge’s Palace. We’ve been up the Grand Canal—more than once. We’ve shopped for souvenirs. We’ve watched the passing cruise ships from our hotel rooftop—where you get a breathtaking view of the Venice skyline at dusk. Last night we saw a magnificent sunset...’ That, she realised immediately, was a mistake.

‘How romantic,’ was his ironic comment. ‘Watching a Venetian sunset with a three-year-old. You should be watching romantic sunsets with a man, not with a child.’

‘Maybe I find young children better company than men,’ she bit back, thinking of Nigel. There had been a stunning sunset the night she’d caught him on the balcony of his flat with another woman.

‘You don’t like men? Or... just one man in particular?’ He seemed to find the idea diverting. ‘Bad experience?’ he probed delicately.

The droll note in his voice infuriated her for some reason. He sounded so smug. As if he’d never been on the receiving end of a woman’s scorn in his entire life! Well, here’s one woman who does hold you in contempt! And all good-looking Englishmen.

She was thinking not just of Nigel now, but of her handsome, silver-tongued brother-in-law back in Australia... Ralph Bannister, another Englishman, who’d burst into her sister’s life like a blazing comet and swept poor dazzled Sally off her feet... and who was now making her younger sister’s life pure hell.

She and Sally could sure pick their men!

‘Oh, I like men,’ she said levelly, looking him straight in the eye as she paused outside the ice-cream parlour. ‘It’s just smooth, good-looking Englishmen I don’t much care for. I’ve found them to be insufferably conceited and untrustworthy.’

Just as she was about to swing on her heel and stomp into the gelateria, she found her gaze caught for a fatal second, locked with his.

‘You have the most bewitching eyes,’ he murmured, the wicked glint in his own threatening to bewitch her in that paralysing second. ‘Smoky grey, fringed with black...’ The compelling eyes turned lethal. ‘Bedroom eyes.’

She jerked back to earth. Bedroom eyes! ‘That’s one place you’ll never see,’ she spat back. ‘My bedroom!’

‘How about...mine?’ He gave a wolfish smile.

She caught her breath in a hiss, her eyes shooting silver daggers at him. ‘In your dreams!’

The well-shaped lips twitched appreciatively. ‘Mmm...a woman who can stand up for herself... I like that.’

‘I want an ice cream!’ squawked Holly.

‘Yes, pet...it’s right here.’ With a final glare at the laughing-eyed Englishman, Claire turned her back on him and marched into the gelateria, bundling Holly in ahead of her. The baby, amazingly, was still fast asleep on her back.

Breathing heavily, her heart thudding against her ribs, she fought to compose herself. Oh, boy. She felt her cheeks glowing in swift shame. Outrageous as he’d been, she’d been appallingly rude to him first, calling him conceited and untrustworthy. It was completely unlike her.

The man had touched a raw spot. He was so like Nigel. A charming, good-looking, self-satisfied womaniser. But that didn’t excuse her rudeness. She ought to run after him and apologise.

He can take it, a more realistic voice asserted. It would take more than a few sharp remarks to prick that man’s armour of arrogance and conceit. No, he deserved it. She hadn’t invited him to approach her. He’d chatted her up.

Bedroom eyes, indeed! Men like him needed deflating.

She was stunned when she stepped out of the shop a few moments later and found him still there, lounging outside an exclusive menswear shop. Before she could swing away in the opposite direction he was at her side.

‘You must let me try to redeem the poor reputation we Englishmen seem to have in your eyes,’ he said with a smile that went a good way towards doing just that. Until she hardened her heart.

‘All Englishmen are not the dishonourable, womanising bounders you seem to think us,’ he assured her, ‘despite the way we sometimes carry on.’

His expression was penitent, though she noticed there was still an impish glimmer in his eye. The man was incorrigible!

‘Let me prove it to you.’ His tone was cajoling. ‘Let me buy you a drink tonight after the children are asleep. At the hotel, if you feel you can’t leave the premises...or don’t wish to. In the public bar,’ he added hastily, as if to show that he wasn’t still thinking of bedrooms.

As her lips parted, ready with an excuse—or, if that failed, a tart refusal—he touched her arm. ‘Please... Tonight is my last night here in Venice.’

She jumped in instinctive reaction at his touch, light as it was, the fine hairs on her bare skin bristling like a cat in fright. She’d never been so aware of a man’s touch in her life.

Repulsion, she was quick to label it. Indignation. Distaste. Anything but pleasure.

‘I don’t think so,’ she breathed. Remember Nigel, she thought wildly. Remember how charming and persuasive he was...in the beginning. She heard the baby on her back give a whimper. ‘I have to get back!’ she gasped out. ‘I have to feed the baby. G-goodbye!’

‘I’m heading back to the hotel myself,’ he said easily, obviously not getting the message—or not believing she meant it. He steered her through the crowd with his hand at her elbow, making her acutely—in—furiatingly—aware all over again of the effect of his hand on her bare skin.

‘I have to change and pick up my briefcase,’ he told her. ‘I’m meeting some of the other delegates at the Cipriani for lunch before I give my afternoon lecture.’

Which would be the last she would ever see of him, she thought with what should have been immense satisfaction. And relief. And could have kicked herself in disgust when a tiny quiver ran through her instead.

‘Please don’t let me hold you up,’ she said fractiously. ‘Holly can’t walk very fast.’

‘I’m in no great hurry.’ He altered his stride to match hers. ‘So...’ he quirked a dark eyebrow at her ‘...you fly out to Australia at the end of the week, you said. Direct from here? Or will you be going back to London first?’

‘I have to go back to London to pick up the rest of my things but I’ll be on the first available flight from Heathrow after we get back,’ she said curtly, stifling an exasperated sigh. Was there no shaking him off? Why was he being so persistent? She’d made it clear that she had no intention of seeing him tonight. Why bother chasing a girl who’d made it plain that she wasn’t interested? He was good-looking enough, sexy enough and probably rich enough to have just about any woman he chose.

It must be an ego thing, she decided with a disparaging twist of her lips. He wasn’t used to being brushed off, and was determined to foist his macho charm on her until he won her over. And once he’d succeeded he’d promptly lose interest himself, more likely than not, and back off with his precious ego intact.

Well, try your hardest, mate. Her eyes gleamed in fiery challenge. This girl’s immune to brash, charismatic Englishmen.

‘Won’t you at least tell me your name?’

Glancing up at him with cool disdain, she found herself wavering under the electrifying impact of his dark, sun-sharpened eyes. She swallowed. Well, it could hardly hurt to tell him her name. It would be petulant—impolite—not to. After all, they were guests at the same hotel. And he’d be gone tomorrow.

‘Claire.’ She was annoyed to hear a betraying huskiness in her voice. She cleared her throat, her brow puckering in irritation. ‘Claire Malone.’ She didn’t go as far as to ask him his.

He gave it anyway. ‘Adam Tate.’ He paused, then added, ‘I’ll be flying out to Australia myself in a few days. From London.’

‘You will?’ Her heart missed a beat. ‘Holiday?’ The question slipped out. She hadn’t meant to show an interest, to encourage him in any way.

‘Partly work, partly pleasure. I have business interests in Melbourne. And a wedding to attend. I also own a sheep station in the Western District of Victoria, about three hours from Melbourne. I’ll be looking after the property while my manager’s on his honeymoon.’

She had the strangest sinking feeling. A sense of fate, inevitability... almost impending doom. As she gulped, fretfully trying to dismiss it, he asked her, ‘Whereabouts in Australia do you live?’

Heat prickled along her cheeks. ‘Melbourne.’ She grimaced inwardly as she heard the husky tightness in her voice. She’d meant to toss off the answer with a careless air of unconcern, showing him that it was neither here nor there to her that they were both heading in the same direction.

‘Well, what do you know?’ She could feel his eyes boring into her averted profile, feel the wheels turning over in his mind, sense the glow of self-satisfied speculation in his eyes.

She felt an overwhelming urge to cut him off at the knees. If he imagined she was going to give him her address...agree to see him back in Australia...

‘I’m needed back home urgently.’ Her eyes were cool, her tone brusque. ‘I’m going to have my time cut out for me when I get back.’