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Sinking back into her seat, she gazed around the lounge, the deep leather armchairs seating a variety of well-heeled travellers. Even in her shiny new outfit, Lizzie felt like an outsider. A misfit. She’d never even been on an aeroplane before.
She turned her attention back to Cormac, sneaked a peep at him from beneath her lashes. He was deeply absorbed in his work, his eyes downcast, his own lashes, thick and dark, sweeping and softening the harsh planes of his face.
He was a harsh man, Lizzie thought, and felt, for the first time, a rush of curiosity about what—or who—had made him the way he was.
Ruthless, ambitious, unfeeling. Cold. The tabloids had used every damning word, delighting in Cormac’s reviled reputation. The women—starlets and socialites alike—flocked to him, to the bad boy they mistakenly thought they could tame.
Now Lizzie wondered why. Why are you the way you are?
Everyone had a past, a story. She thought of her own—her parents’ death ten years ago, Dani’s dependence. The life she’d made for herself, caring for Dani, providing her younger sister with every opportunity and affection.
She’d rung Dani to explain about the weekend, only to have her sister blithely assure her that Lizzie could do whatever she wanted, Dani was already busy with her own life.
Lizzie knew it was ridiculous to feel hurt. Rejected. Yet she did. She was glad Dani was so happy at university. She was thrilled.
She knew she was.
It just didn’t feel that way right now.
Cormac looked up. ‘They’re boarding first class.’
He stood up, putting his papers back in his attachе case. Lizzie saw a glimpse of sketches, strong pencil lines that didn’t look like the usual architectural blueprints, but they were slipped out of sight before she could guess what they were.
Clutching her handbag, she followed Cormac into the queue. They’d already been assigned seats and the airline attendants were cloyingly deferential as they led Cormac to two sumptuous reclining seats in soft grey leather.
Lizzie followed behind, feeling out of place and yet helplessly giddy at the blatant luxury. The feelings intensified when they sat down and an attendant offered them champagne and a crystal bowl full of strawberries.
Lizzie took the flute awkwardly, rotated the fragile crystal stem between her slick fingers. ‘Some service.’
‘First class,’ Cormac dismissed, and pushed his glass away, untouched.
Lizzie took a cautious sip. She hadn’t had champagne in years, not since before her parents had died, and then only a sip or two on Hogmanay or birthdays. Now the bubbles tickled her throat and her nose, made her feel a bit dizzy.
Or was it just the total unreality of the situation, sitting in first class, sipping champagne with Cormac Douglas?
Cormac was staring broodingly out of the window, the bare, brown fields and leafless trees stark against a slate-grey sky. Lizzie put her champagne flute down and glanced around at the other first-class passengers settling themselves.
A polished woman in designer denim shot her a look of pure envy and, startled, Lizzie realised the woman must think she and Cormac were a couple.
Lovers.
She glanced back at her boss, still lost in his own thoughts. His face was in profile and she could see the strong, clean line of his jaw. She was close enough even to see the glint of gold stubble on his chin, the way his close-cropped brown hair was streaked by the sun.
She turned away abruptly.
Soon the rest of the passengers were settled and the plane began to taxi towards the runway. Lizzie leaned back in her seat, her nerves beginning a sudden, frantic flutter in her middle.
Cormac saw her fingers curl around the armrest and raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘A bit,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘I’ve never flown before.’
‘But you had a passport.’
‘I went to Paris by train once.’ As an escort for Dani’s fifth form field trip, but she let Cormac think what he liked.
Apparently he didn’t think much for he raised his eyebrows and murmured, ‘I see.’
Soon the plane was lifting into a steely sky and Lizzie felt her stomach dip. Once the craft levelled out, she felt more relaxed and her fingers loosened on the armrest.
Above the clouds, the sky was a deep, clear purple, a cloak of twilight, smooth and soft. Lizzie let out a little sigh.
The attendant came to take drink orders and she asked for an orange juice. Cormac asked for the same.
Once the attendant had moved on, he turned to her, eyes suddenly flinty and cold. His mouth was set and a furrow was in the middle of his forehead. ‘We need to talk.’
Lizzie set her orange juice down. ‘Okay.’
‘Your role in this weekend’s meetings is…important.’
Lizzie raised her eyebrows, bemused. Shorthand and shuffling papers was important? ‘I understand,’ she began carefully, feeling he required some response, ‘that you want to put forth an impeccable—’
‘Do you know anything about the Hassells?’ he demanded, cutting her off, and Lizzie shrugged.
‘Only what you’ve told me. They own an island in the Dutch Antilles, and they finally want to build a resort there.’
His mouth thinned and he reached down to extract a newspaper clipping from his attachе case. ‘Read that.’
Lizzie took the clipping with cautious curiosity. The Hassells: A Family, A Dynasty the headline read. The article described the family, a Dutch dynasty that had lived on Sint Rimbert for over a hundred years. She read about Jan Hassell, his wife, Hilda, and their three sons, all entrepreneurs in various cities across the globe.
The family was focused on developing the local economy, keeping the island eco-friendly and retaining ‘the family values the Hassells have cherished for a century’. The write-up was glowing indeed, and she looked up to see Cormac scowling at her.
‘Now do you understand?’
She didn’t. ‘They seem like a nice family,’ she said as she handed back the clipping. Not the type of people to care about whether a secretary wore designer clothes, either, although she bit her tongue to stop herself from voicing that thought aloud.
‘Family values,’ Cormac said, glancing down at the article. His voice was a sneer.
His face was dark, as if a storm had gathered in his thoughts. Lizzie struggled for something to say to lighten the mood. ‘They’re clearly not in it just for the money,’ she ventured. The article had described the Hassells’ decision to build a resort—‘a way of sharing the beauty of our island with the world.’ A bit saccharine, perhaps, but a pretty sentiment nonetheless.
‘Everyone’s in it for the money,’ Cormac said flatly. He glanced over at her, his expression now alarmingly neutral. ‘The Hassells want an architect with family values, as well,’ he continued. ‘They’ve invited three architects to this weekend—the short-list—including me. As far as I can tell, they want everyone sitting round playing Happy Families and singing campfire songs.’
Lizzie stared at him, wondering what was coming next. Cormac Douglas was about as far from family values as a man could get.
‘They invited you to Sint Rimbert,’ she repeated hesitantly, trying to make sense of what he was telling her. ‘So whatever they think about family values…’
‘They invited me,’ Cormac interjected, ‘because I told them I was newly married and looking forward to having a family.’
Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. ‘But…that’s not true…’
‘It is,’ he replied with a faint feral smile, ‘for the purposes of this weekend.’
Lizzie blinked. Her stomach dipped, dropped. She wanted to make sense of what Cormac was saying, yet she had the odd feeling that if she put two and two together she’d get about twenty. Cormac was gazing at her steadily, coldly, his expression like a vice on her mind. Her soul.
‘So…how…?’ She shook her head, licked her lips. Her mouth was dry and she took a sip of orange juice. It felt like acid coating her throat. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she finally asked, and her voice came out in little more than a scratchy whisper.
‘I’m telling you,’ Cormac replied with icy precision, ‘that this weekend you’re not my secretary. You’re my wife.’
CHAPTER THREE
FOR one tantalising second the word conjured images in Lizzie’s mind she had no business thinking of. Wife. Entwined fingers, tangled limbs. Marriage, love. Sex.
She blinked. ‘Your wife?’ she repeated. ‘But…how?’ She shook her head. ‘You mean, pretend?’
His mouth curved into a smile she didn’t like and his eyes remained cold. ‘Did you think I was asking you for real?’
‘You mean, lie?’ Lizzie clarified. The realisation of what he was asking her to do rolled through her in sickening waves. ‘Deceive the people you want to work for so you can get your blasted commission?’
Cormac looked unruffled. ‘I suppose that’s not putting too fine a point on it,’ he agreed with deceptive mildness.
It was all making sense now—the reason he’d asked her to accompany him so suddenly, the importance of looking the part with cases of designer clothes. Even his request to call him by his first name. All part of a deception. A lie.
Lizzie looked away, closed her eyes.
It was impossible. It was wrong. She couldn’t pretend to be Cormac’s wife—she didn’t like him, didn’t even know him. Pulling off such a charade would be ludicrous; she wouldn’t be able to keep it up for a minute, even if she wanted to…
For a moment Lizzie pictured what such an act would require. Shared looks, jokes, bodies, beds.
A thrill darted through her, tempting, treacherous. She couldn’t…wouldn’t…want to…
She glanced back at him, saw him lounging comfortably in his seat, an expression of arrogant amusement in his eyes as if he’d witnessed her entire thought process.
Perhaps he had.
She licked her lips. ‘Even if I agreed—which I’m not—how would it actually work? You’re famous, Cormac.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Notorious. If Jan Hassell is interested in hiring you, he will have researched your background. All it would take is one search on the Internet to come up with a dozen stories that refute these so-called family values of yours.’ The photos in the tabloids waltzed before her eyes—Cormac with his arm around his latest glamorous conquest, usually replaced within twenty-four hours.
Cormac smiled. ‘I’m a reformed man.’
She laughed shortly. ‘You’d have to be a pretty good actor to pull that off.’
He leaned forward, eyes glittering, his voice a whisper, a promise. ‘I am.’
Lizzie leaned back into her seat. He was too close, too dangerous, too much. In that moment, she had no doubt Cormac could pull such a feat off—and she couldn’t.
Couldn’t risk it.
Could she?
‘I can’t.’ She spoke sharply, too sharply, and saw Cormac smile. He knew too much, saw too much. She shook her head. ‘It’s wrong. It’s immoral.’
‘You think so?’ He stretched his legs out, took a sip of orange juice. ‘Actually, you’ll find that what the Hassells are doing is wrong. If not immoral, then at least some shade of illegal.’
‘What do you mean?’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Discrimination, Chandler. What if I were gay? Or a widower? They’d be discriminating against me by insisting I be married.’
‘But you’re not gay,’ she snapped, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Of course not, but the principle remains the same, don’t you think?’
She shook her head in mute, instinctive denial. She didn’t want things twisted. She didn’t want to think. ‘It’s still a deception.’
‘Yes. But for a good reason.’
‘It doesn’t matter—’
‘You’re right.’ Cormac cut her off smoothly. He was still relaxed, smiling even, while she was clutching her chair as if it would keep her grounded. Safe.
Which it wouldn’t. The whole world was spinning, reeling.
‘What matters,’ he continued, ‘is the resort. The design. And I’ll build a spectacular resort—you know that.’ It wasn’t a question, and Lizzie didn’t bother answering it.
Yes. She knew. Once upon a time, she’d had artistic ambitions of her own. She’d seen Cormac’s designs and, while she was no architect, she recognised good work. Brilliant work. ‘The Hassells must have some reason for wanting a married architect,’ Lizzie insisted. She heard the weakness, the doubt in her own voice. So did Cormac.
‘Probably,’ he agreed. ‘I just don’t care what it is.’
‘How would you expect to pull it off? You don’t even know me…’
‘I know enough.’
‘Do you even know my first name?’ Lizzie asked, cutting him off. A bubble of laughter verging on hysteria rose in her throat; she swallowed it down. ‘How on earth do you see yourself acting as my reformed, loving husband when you don’t even know my name?’ She shook her head, still too stunned to be scared. ‘The whole idea is ludicrous!’
Cormac cocked his head, gazed at her for a moment with hard, thoughtful eyes. Then he smiled.
Normally when Cormac smiled, it was a cold, sardonic curving of his mobile mouth.
Now it was something tender, promising, sensual. His eyes flicked over her slim form with heavy-lidded intent, his mouth curved—curved knowingly, lovingly—and something unfurled in Lizzie’s middle and spiralled upwards, taking over her heart, her mind.
Her will.
‘No…’ she whispered, and she didn’t even know what she was protesting against except that look and what it meant. What it promised.
And she didn’t even understand what that was.
Cormac leaned forward, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. The simple touch sent that spiralling emotion hurtling through her body—every limb, every bone and muscle—until she sagged against her seat.
‘Yes,’ he murmured languorously.
Lizzie shook herself, watched as he moved closer, his lips hovering inches from hers. His lashes swept downward, hiding those cruel eyes, and his lips brushed her ear. ‘Yes,’ he whispered again, and she shivered. Shuddered.
