Taken by the Millionaire: Hotly Bedded, Conveniently Wedded

‘In bed,’ she muttered. ‘What if I’m rubbish at sex?’

‘If that’s what Gary said, he clearly wasn’t doing it right—and his ego made him blame you.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Look at me, Bel,’ he said softly. She had huge brown eyes that had topaz glints when she laughed, and a perfect rosebud mouth. Why had he never really noticed that before? ‘I think we’d be …’ he paused as his heart gave an unexpected kick ‘… compatible.’

‘I can’t believe we’re even discussing this!’ She pulled back from him. ‘So why didn’t you ever get married, Alex?’

He let her go. ‘Because my job meant a lot of travelling—and that meant either living apart from my wife most of the time, or dragging her around the world with me. Neither option’s a fair one.’

‘And you never met anyone who made you want to stay in one place?’

Once, but that had been a long time ago. In the days when he’d still worn rose-coloured glasses. Before he’d discovered that Dorinda was a liar and a cheat and had played everyone for a fool, including him. Since then, he’d never quite been able to trust anyone. He’d held back in his relationships, unwilling to risk his heart again and have it ground beneath a stiletto heel. Keeping things light and fun had worked for him, until now. ‘I told you, I don’t believe in love. But I do believe in friendship. In honesty. And if you marry me, Bel, I’ll be a good husband to you.’ A much better one than Gary had been.

‘I can’t get married. Ask someone else.’

There wasn’t anyone else he’d trust enough to marry. He shrugged. ‘Look, forget I asked. Come on, I’m taking you out to dinner.’

‘Why?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not an ulterior motive. You’ve said no and I’m not going to bully you into saying yes. Bel, you’re putting me up for a few days, so taking you out for dinner to say thank you is the least I can do.’

‘Alex, you don’t need to do that. You know I never mind you staying here.’

He smiled. ‘I know. But I like having dinner out with you. I like talking history and arguing over interpretations and laughing too much and eating half your pudding—because I’m greedy and you’re always nice to me.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’

‘Uh-huh.’ But to his relief she was smiling and relaxed with him again. ‘Is that Moroccan place we went to last time still open?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

It always surprised Isobel slightly that Alex liked taking the tube rather than a taxi. Then again, on the tube people were careful not to catch anyone’s eye, so although he’d probably be recognised it was unlikely that someone would ask for an autograph or a photograph with him taken with the camera on their mobile phone. Besides, without the hat, people were more likely to think he was a guy who just happened to look like the archaeologist from the show, rather than being the man himself.

It was practically impossible to talk on the tube; there were just too many people squashed onto the train. During late spring and summer, rush hour seemed to last a lot longer; the office workers crushing onto the train were quickly replaced by tourists.

Isobel wasn’t sure whether it made her more relieved or uptight—or both at the same time. Relieved, because she didn’t have to make eye contact or conversation with Alex. And uptight, because it gave her time to think about what he’d said.

Getting married—to Alex.

Having sex—with Alex.

Oh, Lord.

She’d enjoyed her friendship with Alex. She always had.

And she’d married Gary because she’d loved him.

But a little bit of her had always wondered: what if Alex hadn’t had his string of glamorous girlfriends? What if he’d repeated that kiss when she was twenty-one? What if she’d ended up with Alex instead of Gary?

Panic skittered through her. She had to be insane even to be considering this. Marriage wouldn’t work. She’d had one serious relationship before Gary, so she was hardly experienced—whereas Alex had practically had a girlfriend at every dig, not to mention the ones in between. She’d never be able to live up to his expectations.

His words echoed in her head. I enjoy your company and I trust you. And that’s a much, much stronger basis for a marriage than being ‘in love’ with someone.

Was he right? Were friendship and trust a better basis for a marriage than love and desire? Should she have said yes?

A note appeared in front of her eyes. In Alex’s spiky, confident handwriting.

‘Stop brooding. “Dinner” means dinner.’

The last word was in capitals and underlined three times.

She faced him. Sorry, she mouthed.

He smiled, and it gave her a weird sensation—as if her heart had just done a somersault. Which was anatomically impossible and completely ridiculous. Especially as, at the age of thirty, she was way, way past the teenage heartthrob stage.

And then it was their stop.

The crowds of people swirling round them meant it was still impossible to talk. But she was aware that Alex was behind her on the escalator. So close she could have leaned back against him.

What would it be like to feel Alex’s arms round her?

What would it be like to feel his hands against her bare skin?

What would it be like to feel his mouth touching her body intimately?

‘OK?’ he asked when they were through the ticket barrier and standing outside on the street.

‘Fine.’

‘Liar.’ He caught her hand and squeezed it briefly.

The lightest contact … and it sent a shiver all the way through her. Woke nerve-endings she’d forgotten she had.

No.

It wasn’t possible for her to feel like this about Alex. And even thinking about it meant she was storing up trouble for herself. She’d loved Gary. Deeply. But it hadn’t stopped everything going wrong. So she had to keep some kind of distance between herself and Alex, not let her heart get involved.

Or her libido.

‘I’m not lying,’ she mumbled, but she didn’t look him in the eye until they got to the Moroccan restaurant.

Alex insisted on holding the door open for her. ‘I don’t care if it offends your feminist nature. It’s good manners and it’s how I was brought up,’ he informed her.

It was how she’d been brought up, too. ‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it.

Stepping inside the restaurant was like stepping out of London and into a souk. The air smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, and the décor was as beautiful as she remembered it; the walls were painted shades of saffron and terracotta and deep red, there were rich silks everywhere, the wrought iron chairs were covered with bright silk cushions toning with the walls, and the silk hanging from the ceiling gave the place the effect of being in some rich prince’s tent. Tea-light candles flickered on the glass tabletops, and rose petals were scattered everywhere.

The waiter ushered them to the table and handed them each a menu.

‘Red wine OK with you?’ Alex asked, glancing down the menu.

‘Fine.’

‘Good. Meze to start, I think. Anything in particular you fancy?’

‘I’ll let you choose.’ Not that she wasn’t capable of choosing her own meal, but she knew how much Alex enjoyed it. And, as he’d said, his tastes were very similar to her own, so she knew she’d like whatever he chose.

‘What do you want for your main course?’

‘Chicken tagine. The one with preserved lemons.’

‘I think I’ll have the same. We’ll choose pudding later,’ Alex decided.

And after pudding … he’d go home with her.

And if she’d said yes to his proposal, he would have taken her to bed. Proved how compatible they were.

Her concentration went completely, and she was reduced to saying, ‘Mmm,’ and nodding in the right places as Alex talked to her about the dig he’d been on in Turkey before his return to London. And it was even worse when the meze arrived—a selection of dishes to share. Traditionally, Moroccan food was eaten with fingers and pitta bread was used to scoop up the dips, and every time she reached for one of the stuffed vine leaves or the aubergine and cumin dip or the felafel, her fingers brushed against Alex’s. In the past, it wouldn’t have bothered her, but tonight the lightest contact made her tingle. A sensual awareness that spread through every part of her body and made her wish that she’d been wearing a thick concealing sweater rather than a thin T-shirt that revealed her body’s reaction to his touch.

If Alex said one word about being able to see her nipples, she’d kill him.

She ate her chicken tagine in silence.

And then Alex sighed.

‘Would it really be so bad?’

‘What?’

‘Going to bed with me.’

She felt the colour shoot into her face. ‘Alex!’

‘You’ve been quiet ever since I suggested getting married.’

And having sex. ‘It’s just … I never thought about you in that way before.’ It wasn’t the strict truth, but she didn’t want him thinking that she’d been secretly lusting after him. Their friendship had been genuine.

‘Not ever? Not even when you were … I dunno … eighteen?’

When she was eighteen? The only time she remembered him kissing her on the mouth. ‘No.’ She looked curiously at him. Did he remember that, too? And was he saying that, all those years ago, he had seen her as more than just the girl next door? ‘Did you?’

‘Not when I was eighteen—of course not.’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Bel, you were still a child when I was eighteen. And when you were eighteen and I was twenty-three, there was still a huge gap between us.’ He paused. ‘But now you’re thirty and I’m thirty-five. The gap’s not there any more.’

She knew she was going to regret asking, but she couldn’t help the question. ‘And?’

‘And …’ he paused ‘… I’m thinking about you in that way right now.’

There was a gleam in his eyes she’d never seen before. A purely masculine gleam that told her he was interested in her. As a woman, not as a friend.

Her breath hitched. ‘Oh.’

‘You’re thinking about it, too, aren’t you?’ he asked, his voice sounding husky.

‘Yes,’ she admitted, before she could stop herself.

‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘Hold on to that thought.’

It still seemed like some weird parallel universe. The idea of becoming Alex’s lover. Yesterday it would’ve been unthinkable. Today … the possibilities sent heat all the way down her spine.

She found it hard to concentrate when the waiter offered them the dessert menu, and eventually went for the safe option: bagrir, a light pancake served with honey and ice cream and nuts. Alex, just as she could have predicted, went for the selection of chocolate and cardamom ice cream.

‘Oh, yes. Best ever,’ Alex said when he tasted it. ‘Open your mouth.’

Oh, Lord. The pictures that put in her mind.

It must have shown in her expression, because she saw colour bloom along his cheekbones. ‘I meant, you have to try this. And it’s the cardamom one—I know you loathe chocolate ice cream.’

So he wanted her to lean forward and accept a morsel from his spoon? But her T-shirt was V-necked. Leaning across the table would give Alex a full-on view of her cleavage.

The thought made her nipples tighten even more.

‘Bel, it’s melting. Hurry up.’ He held the spoon out towards her.

She leaned across the table. Opened her mouth. Let him brush the cold, cold spoon against her lower lip before she ate the morsel of ice cream.

‘Good?’ he asked.

She had a feeling he didn’t mean just the ice cream.

‘Good,’ she whispered.

He smiled—a warm, sensual smile that made her catch her breath.

‘My turn,’ he said.

They’d done this so many times before—shared a pudding, tasted each other’s meals, filched buttered toast from each other’s plates or a swig from each other’s mug of coffee with an ease born of long familiarity.

But tonight it was different.

Tonight they were feeding each other like lovers.

And when he ate the proffered piece of her bagrir, she could see that he looked as distracted as she felt.

She had no idea how they got through the rest of their dessert, or the mint tea afterwards. Or when Alex had ordered a taxi, because one was waiting for them outside practically as soon as he’d paid the bill.

He didn’t say anything on the way back to her flat; he simply curled his fingers round her own—reassuring and yet incredibly exciting at the same time.

Holding hands with Alex was something she’d never really done. She was used to him giving her a friendly hug—almost a brotherly hug. But there was nothing remotely fraternal in the way he was holding her hand right at that moment. His touch was gentle—and yet firm enough so that she could feel the blood beating through his veins, in perfect time with her own.

When the taxi pulled up outside her building, Alex paid the driver and opened the car door for her. Isobel’s hands were shaking slightly and she fumbled the entry code for the security system; it took her three goes to press the right buttons in the right order. By the time she unlocked her front door, she was a nervous wreck.

Alex paused, leaning against the doorway. ‘Bel, let me reassure you that I’m planning to sleep on your sofa tonight. I’m not going to push you into anything you don’t want to do.’

That was what worried her most: what she wanted to do. The more she thought about sex with Alex, the more she was tempted to do it.

Except she didn’t want to risk ruining their friendship.

And she definitely didn’t want to tell him her deepest, darkest secret—the thing she’d only told Saskia after extracting a promise from her best friend that Saskia wouldn’t tell anyone else and wouldn’t ever talk about it again.

She couldn’t possibly marry Alex. Even though she was pretty sure he didn’t want children, what if he changed his mind? If anyone had asked her before today, she would’ve said straight out that Alex would never get married. And yet today he’d asked her to marry him. Tomorrow he might want to start a family. Something she wasn’t sure she could do.

Her worries must have shown on her face, because he said softly, ‘Have I ever let you down before?’

‘No.’

‘That’s not going to change.’

Maybe. But if she married him, she’d be letting him down. Taking a choice away without telling him. Which was morally wrong.

Even though she knew she was being a coward, she muttered, ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache. I need an early night.’

‘I’ll make sure I don’t disturb you. Do you want me to bring you a glass of water and some paracetamol?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’d better sort the sofa bed out for you.’

‘I’ll do it.’ He reached out to stroke her cheek. ‘See you in the morning, Bel. Hope you get some sleep.’

CHAPTER THREE

TRUE to his word, Alex didn’t disturb her. And when Isobel got up the next morning he’d already put the sofa bed back to rights, tidied up and made coffee.

‘Morning. How’s your head?’

‘Better, thanks.’ The fib had blossomed into the truth, and she’d ended up taking paracetamol.

‘Here.’ He passed her a mug of coffee—hot, strong and milky, exactly the way she liked it. ‘Toast?’

‘Yes, please.’ She sat down at the little bistro table in the kitchen. This was the Alex she knew best. Her friend who knew her so well that he could practically read her mind. Though usually she was the one making toast and he was the one filching it from her plate.

‘So what are you doing today?’ he asked.

‘Roman kitchens,’ she said. ‘How about you?’

He joined her at the table after he’d switched on the toaster. ‘A bit of research.’

But nothing that really excited him, from the flatness of his tone. And he still seemed faintly subdued when she left for work.

Alex really needed a new challenge, she thought. Like the job he’d told her about yesterday; his eyes had been almost pure silver with excitement when he’d described it. But she still didn’t see how getting married would make any difference to whether he got the job. There was no reason for her to feel even slightly guilty about turning down his proposal. She’d done the right thing for both of them.

Though she couldn’t stop thinking about him all day. And when she walked in her front door that evening and smelled something gorgeous cooking, guilt bloomed. ‘Alex, I didn’t expect you to cook for me.’

‘No worries.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s as easy to cook for two as it is for one.’

She scoffed. ‘You mean, you were that bored.’

He handed her a glass of red wine. ‘Go away and let me have my mid-life crisis in peace.’

‘It’s my flat. I’m not going anywhere.’ But she sat down at the table. ‘What mid-life crisis? Alex, you’re thirty-five. That’s hardly middle-aged. And you don’t have a conventional desk job, so you can’t exactly take a six-month sabbatical and grow your hair and ride a motorbike round the world in search of adventure. That’s what you do for a day job, for goodness’ sake!’

‘I don’t have a motorbike.’

‘Don’t nit-pick. What I mean is, for you to do the opposite of what you normally do, you’d have to cut your hair short and get an office job and wear a suit and date the same person for more than three consecutive evenings. For most people, your life would be an adventure.’ She looked at him. ‘What mid-life crisis, anyway?’

He wrinkled his nose and turned away to pour himself a glass of wine. ‘Just forget I said anything.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve been quiet for you, today. Something’s obviously bothering you. Come and sit down and talk to me.’

‘I’m busy cooking dinner.’

She sniffed. ‘Chicken casseroled in red wine, baked potatoes and salad?’

He smiled wryly. ‘All right. So most of the cooking’s already done. How did you know what I was cooking, anyway?’

‘Apart from the fact it’s your signature dish? Educated guess,’ she said dryly. ‘You just emptied that bottle into a clean glass.’

‘I could’ve been swigging straight from the bottle,’ he pointed out.

They both laughed, then he shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’ve been quiet because this is what happens when I have too much time on my hands. I start thinking—and that’s dangerous.’

‘Talk to me, Alex,’ she said softly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘This is going to sound mad.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

He sighed and joined her at the table. ‘I’m thirty-five, Bel. My little sisters are all settled, married with a family. All the people I was at university with have settled down—some of them are on their second marriage, admittedly, but they’re settled. And although I love my life, I’m starting to wonder if what I’ve got is really enough for me any more. If it’s what I really want.’

‘So you’re saying you want to settle down and have children?’ Isobel asked carefully.

‘Yes. No. Maybe.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘I suppose what I’m saying is that I’m starting to think about what I do now. I’m doing something about my job, but what about the rest of my life? Do I want be one of these eternal bachelors who still behave as if they’re in their twenties when they’re pushing sixty?’

She smiled. ‘I can’t quite see you doing that, Alex.’ He’d still be immensely charming when he was almost sixty. He’d still turn heads. But he’d also have dignity and wouldn’t try to pretend he was still young.

‘But time goes by so fast, Bel. It seems like yesterday that Helen had the boys, and now they’re seven. Next thing I know, I’m going to be forty-five and I’ll be the spare man invited to dinner parties to make up the numbers, sitting next to the woman who’s just got divorced and either hates all men or is desperate for company.’

She frowned. ‘Alex, this isn’t like you. And this whole thing about looking to the future … oh, my God.’ A seriously nasty thought clicked into place. The reason why he suddenly wanted to settle down. ‘Is there something you’re not telling anybody?’

‘Such as?’

Well, if he wasn’t going to say it, she would. This needed to be out in the open. Right now. She swallowed hard. ‘You’re seriously ill?’

For a moment, there was an unreadable expression on his face, and Isobel felt panic ice its way down her spine. Please, no. Not this.

‘I’m fine. In perfect health,’ he told her. ‘But I did hear some bad news about a close friend while I was on my last dig.’

Someone else. Not Alex. Relief flooded through her, followed by a throb of guilt. Bad news was still bad news. ‘I hope your friend’s OK now.’

He shook his head. ‘He didn’t make it. It didn’t seem right, standing at Andy’s graveside only a couple of years after I’d been in that same church for his wedding. He’s the first one of my friends to die, and it’s made me realise how short life can be. How I shouldn’t take things for granted. And I got to thinking, maybe it’s time I did something about settling down.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘That’s one of the things I really liked about the specifications for this job. There’s enough travelling to stop me getting itchy feet, but not so much that I can’t have a family life as well. It’s the best of both worlds.’

A family life.

So he did want children.

Which meant, Isobel thought, that he needed to marry someone who could definitely have children—not someone who had a huge question mark hanging over her. After her miscarriages, the doctor had reassured her that the statistics were all on her side, that plenty of women went on to have healthy babies afterwards. Miscarriages were so common that the hospital wouldn’t even begin to look into the causes until a woman had had at least three.

But Gary hadn’t wanted to take the risk. He hadn’t wanted to stick around and wait.

And although Alex wasn’t like Gary—she knew he had the integrity to stand by her—he wanted a family. Something she might not be able to give him.

Telling him the truth was out of the question. If she did, she’d see pity in his face and she’d feel that she was no longer his equal. No way did she want that to happen.

But not telling him… If he was serious about settling down, if he’d meant that proposal and intended to ask her again, she’d have to refuse. It wouldn’t be fair to accept. If it did turn out that she couldn’t carry a baby to term, that she couldn’t have children … she didn’t want their relationship to go the same way as her marriage had. Down the tubes.

She pushed the thoughts away. This wasn’t about her. It was about him. ‘Hey, you’ll be a shoo-in for the job. And once you actually stay in one place for more than three seconds, you’ll find Ms Right,’ she said brightly.

She suppressed the wish that it could’ve been her.

They spent the rest of the evening talking shop, the way they always did. And Alex behaved the next morning as if everything was just fine, so she followed his lead and pretended he hadn’t opened his heart to her, the previous night.

She’d been at her desk for an hour when a courier arrived.

Odd. She wasn’t expecting a delivery. But when she opened the parcel, she discovered a box of seriously good chocolates. And there was a note in familiar spiky script: ‘Thanks for listening’

Alex might be a whirlwind, but he never took anything for granted.

She flicked into her email program.

Thanks for the chocs. Unnecessary but very, very nice. Bel x

A few moments later, her monitor beeped. Mail from Alex.

Least I could do. Don’t eat them all at once.

Ha. As if she would. She smiled, and carried on with the report she was writing.

A few moments later, her monitor beeped again.

Doing anything tonight?

Nothing special. Why?

It was a while before he responded. And then:

Consider your evening annexed. Meet you from work. What time do you finish today?