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Billionaire's Wife On Paper
MELANIE MILBURNE
‘I need a temporary wife’ Logan McLaughlin can’t lose his Scottish family estate. But to rescue it, his grandfather’s will demands he weds! Logan avoids real relationships, having failed so significantly at love before. So when housemaid Layla suggests he take a convenient wife, he’s intrigued… Untouched Layla never imagined Logan would choose her! With her scars she feels far from the perfect bride. Yet to protect the only home she’s ever known, she’ll wear Logan’s ring… But can she ignore the burning connection threatening to destroy their paper-only arrangement?
“I need a temporary wife.”
Logan McLaughlin can’t lose his Scottish family estate. But to rescue it, his grandfather’s will demands he wed! Logan avoids real relationships, having failed so significantly at love before. So when housemaid Layla suggests he take a convenient wife, he’s intrigued…
Untouched Layla never imagined Logan would choose her! With her scars, she feels far from the perfect bride. Yet to protect the only home she’s ever known, she’ll wear Logan’s ring… But can she ignore the burning connection threatening to destroy their paper-only arrangement?
MELANIE MILBURNE read her first Mills & Boon novel at the age of seventeen, in between studying for her final exams. After completing a master’s degree in education, she decided to write a novel, and thus her career as a romance author was born. Melanie is an ambassador for the Australian Childhood Foundation and a keen dog-lover and trainer. She enjoys long walks in the Tasmanian bush. In 2015 Melanie won the HOLT Medallion, a prestigious award honouring outstanding literary talent.
Also by Melanie Milburne (#u43d8a9b4-0649-5781-bb75-da19b63afd52)
The Temporary Mrs Marchetti
Wedding Night with Her Enemy
A Ring for the Greek’s Baby
The Tycoon’s Marriage Deal
A Virgin for a Vow
Blackmailed into the Marriage Bed
Tycoon’s Forbidden Cinderella
Bound by a One-Night Vow
Penniless Virgin to Sicilian’s Bride
Cinderella’s Scandalous Secret
The Scandal Before the Wedding miniseries
Claimed for the Billionaire’s Convenience
The Venetian One-Night Baby
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE ON PAPER
Melanie Milburne
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-09786-4
BILLIONAIRE’S WIFE ON PAPER
© 2019 Melanie Milburne
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Note to Readers (#u43d8a9b4-0649-5781-bb75-da19b63afd52)
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Text to speech
To my darling little black poodle Gonzo,
who sadly passed away during the writing of this
novel. I miss you sleeping on the sofa behind me in
my office while I write. I miss your ebullient nature
and zest for life—as if you always knew, like us, that
it wasn’t going to be a long one. Your life may have
been short but you have left love footprints all over
our hearts. Rest in peace. No more seizures now.
Contents
Cover (#u0d26f8f3-4636-5dcf-9e67-ccc69556c4b8)
Back Cover Text (#u9525d565-d15a-5e4e-a6d5-6b5a30ca039c)
About the Author (#u054ca94a-f7ab-58ff-9c0d-97686e2bea09)
Booklist (#u7b0bb960-f310-5a02-852a-1cc9e66c06b6)
Title Page (#u9945d68b-6ff9-58e5-a3f5-0c5ff51909dc)
Copyright (#u8bdfaab6-a8ef-509e-a31d-0c2fc7deb790)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u34f92383-6df4-573a-b15e-55a3d1fa7ac9)
CHAPTER ONE (#u7df82be1-c75d-5e2e-aea2-ae585bee4901)
CHAPTER TWO (#u21aada16-60ec-5bc9-8d87-047541bc0ffa)
CHAPTER THREE (#u02941195-2c11-5429-b76e-e864bb2a0d4a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u43d8a9b4-0649-5781-bb75-da19b63afd52)
LAYLA CAMPBELL WAS placing dust sheets on the furniture in the now deserted northern wing of Bellbrae Castle when she heard the sound of a firm footfall on the stairs. Goosebumps peppered her skin like Braille and a cold draught of air circled her ankles like the ghost of a long-dead cat.
No such thingsas ghosts. No such things as ghosts.
Her old childhood chant wasn’t working any better than when she had first come to live in the Scottish Highlands castle as a frightened and lonely twelve-year-old orphan. Taken in by her great-aunt, who had worked as housekeeper for the super-wealthy aristocratic McLaughlin family, Layla had been raised in the kitchen and corridors of the castle. In the early days, downstairs had been her only domain, upstairs out of bounds. And not just because of her limp. Upstairs had been another world—a world in which she did not and could not ever belong.
‘Is anyone th-there?’ Her voice echoed in the silence, her heart thumping so loudly she could hear it booming in her ears. Who would be coming up to the north tower at this time of day? Logan, the new heir to the estate, was working abroad in Italy, and last time Layla had heard, Logan’s younger brother Robbie was doing a casino crawl in the US. Fear crept up her spine with ice-cube-clad feet, her breathing coming to a halt when a tall figure materialised out of the shadows.
‘Layla?’ Logan McLaughlin said, with a heavy frown. ‘What are you doing up here?’
Layla clasped her hand against her pounding chest, sure her heart was going to punch its way out of her body and land at his Italian-leather-covered feet. ‘You didn’t half give me a fright. Aunt Elsie told me you wouldn’t be back until November. Aren’t you supposed to be working in Tuscany this month?’
She hadn’t seen him since his grandfather’s funeral in September. And she figured he hadn’t seen her even then. Layla had tried to offer her condolences a couple of times before and after his grandfather’s service and at the wake, but she’d been busy helping her great-aunt with the catering and Logan had left before she could get a chance to speak to him in private.
But the upstairs-downstairs thing had always coloured her relationship with the McLaughlins. Logan and his brother and grandfather were landed gentry, privileged from birth, coming from a long line of aristocratic ancestors. Layla’s great-aunt and her, by default, were downstairs. The staff who were meant to stay in the background and go about their work with quiet dedication, not share intimate chit-chats with their employers.
Layla could never quite forget she was the interloper, the charity case—only living there out of Logan’s grandfather’s pity for a homeless orphan. It made her keep a prickly and prideful rather than polite distance.
Logan scraped a hand through his hair as if his scalp was feeling too tight for his head. ‘I postponed my trip. I have some business to see to here first.’ His dark blue gaze swept over the dust-sheeted furniture, the crease in his forehead deepening. ‘Why are you doing this? I thought Robbie was going to hire someone to see to it?’
Layla turned to pick up one of the folded dust sheets, flapping it open and then laying it over a mahogany table with cabriole legs. Hundreds of disturbed dust motes rose in the air in a galaxy of activity. ‘He did see to it—by hiring me. Not that I want to be paid or anything.’ She leaned down to tuck the edge of the dust sheet closer around the legs of the table and flicked him a glance. ‘You do realise this is my job now? Cleaning, sorting, organising. I have a small team of people working for me and all. Didn’t your grandfather tell you? He gave me a loan to get my business started.’
One brow came up in a perfect arc. ‘A loan?’ There was a note of surprise—or was it cynicism?—in his tone.
Layla pursed her lips and planted her hands on her hips like she was channelling a starchy nineteenth-century governess. ‘A loan I paid back, with interest.’ What did he think she was? An elder abuser? Exploiting an old man dying of cancer with requests for money she had no intention of paying back? She might share the genes of people like that but she didn’t share their morals. ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to the loan otherwise.’
His navy-blue eyes narrowed. ‘Seriously? He offered you a loan?’
Layla moved past him to pack up her cleaning basket. ‘For your information, I have never taken your grandfather’s largesse for granted.’
Feather duster. Tick. Soft polishing cloths. Tick.
‘He allowed me to live here with my great-aunt rent-free and for that I will be grateful for ever.’
She shoved the furniture polish bottle in amongst the other cleaning products in her basket. She had become closer to the old man in his last months of life, coming to understand the gruff exterior of a proud man who had done his best to keep his family together after repeated tragedy.
Logan let out a long breath, still frowning like he didn’t know any other way to look at her. Story of her life. One look at her scarred leg and her limp and that’s what most people did—frowned. Or asked intrusive questions she refused on principle to answer. Layla never talked about what had happened to her leg, not in any detail that is. ‘A car crash’ was her stripped-down answer. She never said who was driving or why they were driving the way they were, or who else had been injured or killed.
Who wanted to be reminded of the day that had changed her life for ever?
‘Why didn’t he just give you the money?’ Logan asked.
Layla’s old friend pride steeled her gaze and tightened her mouth. ‘Oh, you mean because he felt sorry for me?’
Logan’s covert glance at her left leg told her all she needed to know. Just like everyone else, he saw her damaged leg first and her later—if at all. Layla was fiercely proud of how she had made something of herself in spite of impossible odds. She didn’t want to be seen as the orphaned girl with the limp, but the gutsy woman with gumption, drive, ambition and resourcefulness.
‘No.’ His tone was weighted. ‘Because he was a wealthy man and you’re practically family.’ He moved away to look at some of the boxes she’d packed earlier. He peeled back the cardboard flaps of one box and took out a leather-bound book, fanning through the pages, his features set in lines of deep thought.
Practically family? Was that how he saw her? As a surrogate sister or distant cousin? At six feet four with a lean and rangy build, dark brown loosely styled wavy hair, a chiselled Lord Byron jaw and deep blue eyes the colour of a Highland tarn, it would be a crying waste if Logan McLaughlin were her brother or cousin.
It was a crying waste to women the world over that he hadn’t dated since the tragic death of his fiancée Susannah.
