Chapter 4
“HOLY GUACAMOLE,” she stared at him, her lips parted, her body trembling. “I’m sorry. Did you seriously just propose to me?”
He grinned, so she couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.
“Is this some kind of joke? Because I don’t like being a punch line.”
He lifted his hands in understanding of that. “No, I’m completely serious.” And his expression assumed a look of determination. “I need you to become my fiancé.”
Her eyes met his, and she felt a strange looping sensation in her belly. She shook her head from side to side, nothing making sense.
Perhaps interpreting the confused gesture as a refusal, he took a step closer, and then another, until he was right in front of her, his proximity making her pulse go haywire, his musky fragrance enveloping her so she wanted to close her eyes and absorb every delicious piece of him.
“This would be a business deal, first and foremost,” he said. “I would pay you for your…work.”
“You want me to have sex with you for money?” She blurted, her eyes wide, the very idea making her blood boil – and not with the rage she knew she should feel.
“Sex is neither here nor there,” he brushed aside. “This would not be a typical arrangement.”
It was almost impossible to think straight but Skye knew how important it was to rally her thoughts. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, and be very, very clear about what you want from me.” She reached for her coffee and then withdrew her hand. “And, I’m sorry, but do you have something less caffeinated and perhaps more alcoholic? I think the moment calls for a different drink.”
He nodded, his dark-rimmed eyes impossibly disarming, so she had to look away or risk being put permanently under his spell.
“It’s been a long day,” she explained. “I mean…I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s understandable.”
“So start at the beginning,” she reminded him, crossing her arms over her chest and looked at him with wariness.
“Yes,” he agreed, moving into the kitchen and removing two stemless glasses. “Red or white?”
“Whatever. And please don’t use a good bottle on me. I probably shouldn’t admit this to you but I’ve never been able to tell the different between a five dollar bottle of plonk and the really good stuff from my stepdad’s cellar so anything fancy is wasted on me.”
He smiled at her, but not a smile of teasing, so much as genuine amusement. “I’m sorry to tell you, Skye, but I only have fancy wine. It’s a winery, after all.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
He pulled a red from beneath the bench – Skye was vaguely conscious of having seen a wine fridge there—and poured a restrained measure into the bottom of either glass, then picked both up. “Let’s talk out here.”
He moved towards the glass doors, kicking one open with his toe and stepping onto a sun-drenched terrace. If the weather had been like this all day, the puddle wouldn’t have been such a disaster.
“Here.” He handed the glass to her, a hint of speculation in his handsome features as she took it, careful not to touch his fingers. She pulled away sharply, moving to a cane armchair and sitting down, arranging the robe to be sure no hint of her legs or cleavage was on display. Perhaps it was a foolish modesty, given what they’d come out here to discuss.
“The beginning,” he said, thoughtfully, taking the seat nearest hers and relaxing, kicking out his legs so their feet were dangerously close. “Is not necessary.” He shrugged. “Let’s start with the problem instead. My grandfather is not well. He is weakening by the day, and not expected to live much past Christmas.”
Sympathy flooded her. Christmas was only six weeks away. “I’m so sorry, Matthieu.”
His eyes flashed to hers and something fired in her gut. She liked the way his name sounded in her mouth; was it possible he liked the way it felt in his ears, too? She looked away, self-conscious, sipping the wine. Perhaps she’d been wrong about her palette, because she really, really liked whatever she’d just taken a drink of. She pulled the glass away, studying the wine as if just by looking at it she might be able to understand what made it different.
“This business is more than money to him. It’s a family legacy, inherited by his father, and his father’s father, right to the sixteenth century, when the de Garmeaux began trading carpets with Spain. It was during the twentieth century that the company really became a household name, though.”
“And now the company is synonymous with glamour and wealth.”
He dipped his head in silent agreement. “As he nears the end of his life, he is concerned about his legacy. There is only Fleur—my cousin—and me. He would like to know that there is at least the prospect of children on the horizon, to carry on the business.”
“Ah.” She frowned, panic slicking the back of her neck. “You aren’t seriously suggesting—,”
“No. I’m not asking you to be the mother of my children. Truthfully, I don’t think I want children at all, Skye, which puts me in a predicament.”