“I can pay more.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
She furrowed her brow. “No. I need more information. You said we’d live together. Where?”
“Paris would be best. I travel a bit, so you wouldn’t need to worry about seeing too much of me.”
She nodded slowly, lost in thought.
“There is ample space. You would have your own room, and living room, the freedom to go wherever you want. The only caveat would be discretion. You could not be photographed, for example, making out with some guy in a nightclub.”
Heat flushed her face.
“Matthieu,” she scolded, scandalized by the very idea, then feeling incredibly embarrassed by her unsophisticated reaction. “Believe me, that’s not going to happen.”
He shrugged. “Good.”
“As for your family, I’d suggest laying the groundwork early on. Tell them you’ve agreed to marry me, that it was a whirlwind affair. They’ll probably say it’s happening too fast, and when we inevitably break up, you can just tell them they were right.”
“Yes,” she agreed slowly. That was true. It was easier with her family as they’d never get to meet him. The relationship would be somewhat ‘arm’s length’.
“If it would help seal the deal, how about this? I will finance you into your farm venture.”
Her spine stiffened. She angled herself to face him better, her frame very, very still.
“You’d what?”
“It would be a proper mortgage,” he assured her. “The paperwork would be drawn up by lawyers, the interest rate you’d repay in line with comparable banks. But you would not need your parents to act as guarantors and you can stop worrying about whether or not you’ll receive financial backing. I could assure you now that you will.”
Skye groaned, the lure of what he was offering too good to refuse. As he damned well knew!
“Matthieu,” she shook her head, even when she knew that she was going to agree to this. After all, how could she resist such a carrot? “Can I think about it?”
He shrugged with casual nonchalance. “No problems. You have until your clothes are dry, belle.”
* * *
He’d been planningto tell her about his mother as well. He’d wanted to tell her the truth—all of it—about his snobbish family and the way they’d treated Elodie, the way they’d made her feel like dirt, the way he wanted to teach them a lesson about interfering, to show them that if they tried to meddle, he’d ensure history repeated itself.
But he’d held back, and he couldn’t decide why.
Because it might have led her to refuse? Or because it would have shown a side of his personality that he wasn’t proud of: wanting to teach his grandparents, who’d loved him so much, all his life, a lesson about their snobbery and interference, was hardly something he wanted to advertise. There’d also been the risk she’d take offence, making it sound as though he’d chosen her only because she was far less sophisticated than his grandmother’s social circle, never mind that Skye’s genuine nature was a huge part her woman’s appeal. He was drawn to her authenticity; he found her natural beauty utterly compelling.
And so he’d kept quiet, not telling her that a huge part of why he’d chosen her specifically was because she said things like ‘holy guacamole’ and glowed like a beetroot whenever she felt a hint of embarrassment. She was, in every way, the opposite of his ex-fiancé Clare – a supermodel heiress, effortlessly chic and glamorous, a woman his grandparents had resoundingly approved of.
If he was going to go through with this charade, he wanted it to be with a woman like Skye. Not someone like Clare. Never again. Just the thought of her ilk made him shudder.
He eased back in the chair, watching her mull over his proposition. Her eyes were creased at the corners as she studied the rolling hills, the sunlight casting the vines in different shades of green. It was beautiful here; he’d always felt at home in Champagne. More so than in the south, where he’d grown up, and he couldn’t explain why.
As he watched, she shifted in her chair, turning to face him, and he didn’t move his glance. His inspection now was clinical, as if cataloguing her physical attributes. It wasn’t that she was plain looking—she wasn’t—it was that she made no effort to play up her physical features, at all. Her brown hair was its natural colour, with no hint of salon colouring to add gloss or shine, and it was long, as though she hadn’t cut it in years. Every time he’d seen her, she’d been wearing it in a single low braid. No nonsense and sensible, given the physical nature of her job, but not exactly designed to draw attention to the delicate features of her face. Her eyes were brown, and her brows thick and unmaintained. Her lips were wide and curved, and though her skin had a golden tan, there were freckles across her nose and under her eyes. Some women might have covered them with foundation but on Skye they were left unadulterated and he was fascinated by them.
He’d noticed the elegance of her walk the moment she’d first approached him, the gentle curves of her physique, her lithe athleticism, her ready smile, dimpled cheeks, intelligent eyes, expressive hands that told stories as she spoke, and he knew that for all his family might judge her as ‘plain’, Skye was anything but.
“You’re staring at me,” she murmured, with her direct way of speaking.
“Yes.”