Читать книгу The Wedding Ultimatum - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 6

WHAT did one wear to a date with the devil?

Danielle cast a practised eye over the clothes in her wardrobe, made a considered decision, and began dressing with care.

The penthouse suite she shared with her mother in Melbourne’s exclusive Brighton suburb had been home for as long as she could remember. Luxurious, spacious, it represented the epitome of moneyed class.

But not for much longer. The writing, she reflected grimly, was on the wall. Valued paintings had been sold, secondhand pieces replaced priceless antique furniture. Items of jewellery pawned and auctioned. A standard sedan replaced the stylish Bentley, and creditors circled with shark-like anticipation for the moment bankruptcy was declared and the ultimate mortgaged-to-the-hilt penthouse went on the auction block.

Her mother’s collection of credit cards had long reached their ceiling limit, and the La Femme lingerie boutique she jointly owned with Ariane could at best be described as floundering, Danielle admitted wryly as she fixed a diamond stud in each ear. An heirloom that had once belonged to her maternal grandmother, and the only jewellery Danielle had kept.

In less than a week they’d have to walk out of the penthouse, take what personal belongings the bankruptcy court would allow them, seek mediocre rental accommodation, close La Femme, and find employment.

She was twenty-seven, and destitute. It wasn’t a good feeling, she reflected as she caught up her evening purse and made her way out to the lift.

It was almost a year since they’d entertained at home, and social occasions were limited to gratis invitations from a few remaining friends loyal to the widow of a man linked to a revered Spanish dynasty.

This evening’s meeting was a last-ditch effort to appeal for some form of clemency from the man who owned their apartment building and the shopping complex which housed their boutique. That he also owned a considerable slice of prime city and industrial real estate was immaterial.

In the city’s social echelon, Rafe Valdez represented new money, Danielle reflected as she reached the basement car park.

An almost obscene fortune accumulated from means, it was rumoured, that didn’t bear too close scrutiny.

In his late thirties, he was known to gift large sums to worthy charities, and had, some waspish tongues snidely wagged, used his generous beneficence as an entrée into the élite social circle of the city’s rich and famous.

An élite circle to which Danielle and Ariane no longer held access.

Yet she couldn’t fail to be aware of his existence. His photo graced the business section of the country’s newspapers on occasion, and was reproduced among the social pages at one function or another…inevitably accompanied by the latest beautiful young thing clinging to his arm, a known society matron anxious to receive media coverage, or any one of several attractive young women who fought for his attention.

Danielle had met him once, almost a year ago, at a dinner hosted by a so-called friend who, as Ariane’s financial position became known, no longer chose to extend her hospitality.

Then, she’d taken one look at him and retreated behind a slight smile and polite but distant social conversation. Self-preservation, she’d qualified at the time, for to have anything to do with a man of Rafe Valdez’s calibre would be akin to dancing with the devil.

Now, she had no option. It had taken weeks to arrange an appointment with him, and it was he who insisted they meet over dinner.

The restaurant he’d nominated was situated in the inner city, down a one-way narrow lane housing no fewer than five boutique eating houses. No parking signs were posted on both sides of the lane, and she circled the block in the slim hope of finding a vacant space.

Consequently she was ten minutes late…a forgivable time-lag, but not one Rafe Valdez would view favourably.

She saw him at once, leaning against the small semicircular bar, and, even as she gave her name to the maître d’, he straightened and made his way towards her.

Tall, dark and dangerous, he bore the chiselled bone structure of his Andalusian ancestors. Eyes as black as sin locked with hers…electric, mesmerising.

An involuntary shiver feathered the length of her spine, and her heart quickened to a thudding beat.

There was something about him that brought all her protective defences to the fore. An intrinsic quality that went beyond the physical impact of the man.

‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

One dark eyebrow rose slightly. ‘Is that an apology?’

His voice was a deep drawl, and held a faint American-accented inflexion.

There was a hint of leashed savagery beneath the sophisticated veneer, an elemental ruthlessness that lent credence to the rumour he’d spent his youth on the Chicago back-streets where only the tough survived.

‘Yes.’ She met his gaze without flinching. ‘If you require an explanation as to why…parking was a bitch.’

‘You could have taken a taxi.’

‘No,’ she said evenly. ‘I couldn’t.’ Her budget didn’t stretch to taxi fares, and a woman alone didn’t choose to use the public-transport system at night.

He lifted a hand and signalled the maître d’, whose attentiveness almost bordered on the obsequious as he led them to their table and summoned the drinks steward with an imperious click of his fingers.

Danielle declined wine, ordered a light starter, settled on a main and declined dessert.

‘I imagine you’re aware why I initiated this meeting?’

He studied her carefully, seeing the pride, the courage…as well as the degree of desperation. ‘Why not relax a little, enjoy some food and conversation before we discuss business?’

She held his gaze. ‘My sole reason for conversing with you is business.’

His faint smile was devoid of humour. ‘It’s as well I don’t possess a fragile ego.’

‘I doubt there’s anything fragile about you.’ He was granite, with a heart of stone. What hope did she have of persuading him not to foreclose? Yet she had to try.

‘Honesty,’ Rafe concluded, ‘is an admirable trait.’

The waiter delivered their starter, and she forked a few morsels without appetite, careful not to destroy the chef’s artistry as she ate.

All she had to do was get through the next hour…or two. When she left here he would have given her an answer, and her mother’s fate as well as her own would be sealed.

She was sure the food was delectable, but her taste-buds appeared to have gone on strike, and she toyed with the main course when it was served, and sipped sparkling mineral water.

He ate with evident enjoyment, his hand movements economical as he utilised cutlery. He looked what he had become, Danielle mused idly…a man among men, attired in impeccable clothes, his suit fashioned by a master tailor. Armani? His deep blue shirt was of the finest cotton, his knotted tie pure silk. The watch adorning his wrist was expensive.

But what of the man beneath the fine clothes? He had a reputation for ruthlessness in the business arena, a power that was utterly merciless on occasion.

Would he be equally inflexible when she voiced her request?

Danielle schooled her nervous system and waited only as long as it took for the waiter to remove their plates before launching into well-rehearsed words.

‘Would you be willing to grant us an extension?’

‘To what purpose?’

He was going to refuse. Her stomach clenched with tangible pain. ‘Ariane can manage the boutique on her own,’ she offered. ‘While I go to work for someone else.’

‘For a wage that will barely cover week-to-week living expenses?’ He leaned back in his chair, and indicated the drinks waiter could refill his wine glass. ‘It isn’t a viable proposition.’

Their debt amounted to a fortune, and one she could never hope to recoup. She met his gaze. ‘Does it give you satisfaction to have me beg?’

One eyebrow rose. ‘Is that what you are doing?’

Danielle got to her feet and caught up her evening purse. ‘Tonight was a mistake.’ She turned, only to have her wrist caught in a firm grip.

‘Sit down.’

‘Why? So you can continue to watch me squirm?’ Pink coloured her cheeks, and her brown eyes held a gleam of anger. ‘Thanks, but no, thanks.’

He applied pressure and saw her eyes widen with pain. ‘Sit down,’ he reiterated with deadly softness. ‘We’re far from done.’

She looked at her water glass, and for one wild moment she considered flinging its contents in his face.

‘Don’t.’ A silky warning that held immeasurable threat.

‘Let go of my wrist.’

‘When you resume your seat.’

It was a battle of wills, his—hers, and one she didn’t want to relinquish. Except there was something prevalent in his dark gaze that warned she could never win against him, and after several tense seconds she sank back into her chair, unconsciously soothing her wrist.

A faint shiver slid over the surface of her skin at the knowledge he could easily have snapped her fragile bones.

‘What do you want?’ The words slipped out before she could heed them.

Rafe picked up his glass and took a sip of wine, then replaced it on the table as he studied her. ‘Let us first discuss what it is that you want.’

Wariness curled inside her stomach to mesh with apprehension.

‘A wish-list which features a freehold apartment with antique furniture restored, art works, jewellery, all debts cleared.’ He waited a beat. ‘Ariane’s boutique relocated to Toorak Road with an advantageous lease.’

It was impossible to guess his motives, and she didn’t even try. ‘That amounts to a considerable sum,’ she ventured slowly.

‘A million and a half dollars, give or take a few thousand.’

‘What did you do?’ Her anger simmered beneath the surface, and she held onto it with difficulty. ‘Conduct a running inventory?’

‘Yes.’

Her fingers clenched until the knuckles showed white. ‘Why?’

‘You want me to spell it out?’

He’d sat on the fringes of her life and watched as Ariane’s treasured belongings were sold off, one by one? To what purpose?

‘I instructed an agent to buy every item you and your mother have been forced to sell.’

What manner of man was he?

One who was prepared to do anything to achieve his objective.

Something which chilled her to the bone.

Danielle examined his chiselled features and felt her nerves stretch to breaking point. ‘Why?’

His gaze was unwavering, and his lips curved slightly in a faint smile that was totally lacking in humour. ‘A whim, perhaps?’

A man of Rafe Valdez’s ilk hadn’t built his life by indulging in a whim. Her eyes flashed with barely hidden anger. ‘Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.’

He lifted the goblet and took a measured sip of wine, then held the stemmed glass and slowly swirled the contents, studying the texture and colour for several seemingly long seconds before shifting his gaze to fuse with her own. ‘You intrigue me.’

Something jolted deep inside, and raced through her nervous system with alarming speed. Only a naïve fool would mistake his meaning, and she was neither.

Pride, and sheer courage, enabled her to query with icy calm, ‘With almost the entire city’s female population, eligible and otherwise—’ She paused deliberately, then added with polite sarcasm, ‘I fail to see the fascination.’

The waiter served coffee, his smile fixed as he sensed tension thick enough to slice with a knife, then he retreated with polite speed.

Danielle banked down the desire to do the same.

Only the certainty that Rafe Valdez would ignore any histrionics kept her in her seat.

‘My father and his father before him laboured in the d’Alboa family vineyards, and considered it an honour to serve such a wealthy landowner.’ His gaze never left hers. ‘Ironic, wouldn’t you agree, that the son of an immigrant peasant has the power to rescue the granddaughter of the revered Joaquin d’Alboa?’

A cold fist closed around her heart. ‘This is about revenge?’

He smiled, but there was little warmth evident. ‘I was merely explaining the connection.’

Danielle watched as he spooned sugar into his black coffee, then lifted the cup to take a measured sip.

His gaze speared hers, his expression enigmatic. ‘Everything has a price, don’t you agree?’

Why did she get the feeling this was manipulation at its worst? Yet she had to ask. ‘What is it you want?’

‘A child of my own to whom I can bequeath my fortune. A child born in wedlock. Who better to conceive and gift me that child than a descendent of the d’Alboa aristocracy?’ He watched her features, saw the comprehension, the doubt, then the anger.

‘Are you insane?’ she demanded in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘There are plenty of needy children in the world. Adopt one.’

‘No.’

She cast him a look of total incredulity.

‘It’s a question of needs,’ Rafe offered with damnable imperturbability. ‘Yours and mine.’

‘The hell it is!’

His gaze narrowed, and his expression assumed an implacability that was frightening. ‘That’s the deal. Take it, or leave it.’

Dear heaven. It was unconscionable. Wasn’t it?

‘Let me get this straight,’ she said tightly. ‘You’re advocating I marry you, and act as a surrogate mother to your child…then walk away?’

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Not until the child enters the scholastic system.’

She wanted to hit him, and nearly did. ‘Are we talking kindergarten level, pre-school, or school?’

His eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘School.’

‘Almost seven years, given I should be sufficiently fortunate to fall pregnant immediately?’

‘Yes.’

‘For which I’ll be recompensed to the tune of approximately two hundred thousand dollars for each year?’ She paused to bank down the anger and take a fresh breath. ‘Paid up front in the manner that free-holds the apartment, clears all debts, restores all Ariane’s prized possessions, and resettles the boutique?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what of the years I spend as your wife?’

‘You get to enjoy all the fringe benefits of living in my home, acting as my social hostess, a generous allowance.’ He waited a beat. ‘And sharing my bed.’

She forced herself to conduct a raking appraisal of his features. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t see having sex with you as a bonus.’

His expression didn’t change. ‘That’s a foolish statement,’ Rafe drawled with a tinge of humour. ‘For someone who has no experience of me as her lover.’

She banked down wild images of that powerful body engaged in intimacy, and held his gaze. ‘Really? Is that knowledge gleaned from superb feminine acting and countless “you were wonderful, darling” compliments?’

‘Do you require recommendations as to my sexual prowess?’

Why did she have the feeling she was fast moving out of her depth? ‘And when I’ve fulfilled my side of this diabolical scheme you’ve devised…what then?’

‘Elaborate.’

‘After the divorce,’ she said succinctly.

‘That is something for negotiation.’

‘I want all the facts now. Do I get to have visiting rights to my child? Or am I to be cast aside after my use-by date?’

‘A suitable arrangement will be made.’

‘How suitable?’ she persisted.

‘It is not my intention to banish you from the child’s life.’

‘But you’ll legally limit it to minimum time during the holidays and the occasional weekend.’ He’d employ the best legal brains in the country to ensure his influence over the child was total.

‘And naturally a pre-nuptial agreement will ensure I walk away after the divorce with nothing.’

‘You’ll be settled in a suitable residence and maintained with a generous allowance until the child comes of age.’

‘I imagine you’re prepared to put all this in writing?’

‘I already have.’ He slid a hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded legal document. ‘It’s signed and notarised.’ He placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Take it with you, read it carefully, and give me your answer within twenty-four hours.’

It was unbelievable she was still sitting here. Pride had caused her to attempt to walk out on him once. She knew with certainty the next time he would make no move to stop her.

‘What you ask is impossible.’

‘You’re in no position to bargain with me.’

‘Is that a veiled threat to withdraw your offer?’

‘Your words. Not mine.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘This is business. Nothing more, nothing less. I have spelt out the terms. It is for you to accept or decline.’

He was that heartless? She felt sickened as she rose to her feet and collected her purse. If she remained much longer in his company she’d say or do something regrettable.

‘Thank you for dinner.’ Politely spoken words that lacked sincerity.

Rafe lifted a hand and summoned the waiter. ‘I’ll see you to your car.’

‘That’s totally unnecessary,’ she responded stiffly, and began making her way towards the entrance.

She acknowledged the maitre d’, then stepped out onto the pavement, and she had only managed a few steps when a tall male frame drew level.

‘In such a hurry to escape?’ Rafe drawled, watching the play of street-lighting on her expressive features.

‘You got it in one.’

She reached the corner, turned, and walked as quickly as stiletto heels would allow.

Another block and a half, then she’d be free of him, and she almost counted off the seconds until her car was in sight.

‘Goodnight.’

He ignored the obvious dismissal and accompanied her to the small sedan, then stood waiting as she unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel.

The ignition fired and she attempted to pull the door closed, only to have him hold it open as he leaned towards her.

‘Twenty-four hours, Danielle,’ Rafe reminded silkily. ‘Think carefully. You have much to gain, and everything to lose.’

Then he stood back, and she eased the car out of its parking space and into the flow of traffic.

Damn him. Who did he think he was, for heaven’s sake?

Don’t answer that, an inner voice prompted as she attempted to focus her attention on negotiating her way out of the inner city.

A marriage arranged to the mutual benefit of both partners wasn’t unheard of in this day and age.

The question was whether she could enter into such a business agreement with a man she professed to dislike.

A child. Her stomach muscles twisted into a painful knot at the thought of surrogacy. Rafe Valdez had given his verbal assurance she’d retain an active part in the child’s life after the divorce.

Was it too high a price to pay?

First, Danielle determined, she’d have a lawyer peruse Rafe’s written agreement.

Then she’d make a decision.