around, nothing firm beneath her searching feet.
‘You weren’t meant to realise.’ He laid his hands on the mahogany desk. Large, well-formed hands, that had never touched her beyond the brushing of fingers to give or receive a file, or to pass a telephone.
Hands that, if she married him, would travel her body in all the ways she had imagined and more. But in lust, just lust, she reminded herself.
‘Until I made the decision to marry you,’ he said, ‘it would have been a mistake to let you see that.’
‘I understand. I guess that’s—ah—a level-headed outlook to take at this point.’ She barely knew what she was saying, but she would need to be level-headed if she hoped to find a way through this situation that wouldn’t end in disaster.
That meant she had to overcome her panic. To get her heart to stop thundering and her senses to untangle from the swirling uproar they’d got themselves into. ‘You’ve taken me by surprise with all of this.’
Unable to endure looking into that magnetising face a moment longer, she rose from the chair and moved to the bank of floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked the bay. The seas of Sydney Harbour outside appeared calm, virtually unruffled.
In contrast, Claire was a churning cauldron of panic and stress and disillusionment. ‘Do you really never want love? A melding of hearts as well as minds?’ She kept her back turned, addressing the words to his shadowy reflection in the glass. Surely some small part of him longed for those things? ‘Don’t you believe that can happen sometimes? To some people at least?’
‘No. Love—the kind you’re referring to—is nothing more than an illusion.’
His words were clipped and she continued to stare through the glass of the high-rise suite, oblivious now to the harbour activity below.
‘People want to believe in some fairytale ideal, to believe that some transitory feeling can actually keep their marriages together.’ His tone harshened. ‘In truth, marriages survive or not, depending on the level of determination of the partners to make a go of it—and on their suitability in the first place.’
‘How sad.’ She spoke the words beneath her breath, and then turned to face him. To search for the reason he held such an unrelenting, rejecting view on the subject. ‘Your parents are divorced, aren’t they? Is that why—?’
‘Don’t think I had a disastrous childhood, Claire. I didn’t.’ He inclined his head, all sign of emotion carefully locked away once more behind the corporate mask. ‘Yes, my parents are proof that what I say is true, but I would have formed that conclusion anyway. Given the divorce statistics, it’s the only logical thing to believe.’
‘And logic is everything?’ Had he wrapped himself so deeply in reasoning that he could no longer see the emotional side of life? She didn’t want to believe it. There had to be a live, feeling man in there somewhere.
Just waiting to be rescued with the warmth of a woman’s love? With the warmth of her love? She would have to be crazy even to try it. Doubly crazy to try it in her current circumstances.
‘That’s right.’ Unaware of her thoughts, he gave her an approving glance. ‘Compatibility is what counts. If two people can work together for the same goals, that makes them a really strong team. We’ll have that, Claire, and we’ll be happy. I’m certain of it.’
‘Happy.’ But love could happen. He was wrong about that. Not that it made any difference to her now. She searched the aristocratic face, with its winged brows and firm, straight nose, and forced herself to accept the dictates of fate—and her situation.
They would never reach marriage, she would make certain of that, but she would have to agree to the idea for now. She drew a deep breath and willed her voice not to quiver.
‘I accept your proposal.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE grooves beside Nicholas’s mouth deepened, curved into something more than sternness but less than a smile. ‘Thank you, Claire. You’ve made me a happy man.’
A certain stiffness eased out of his posture. He had probably been poised to banish her back to the clerical pool post-haste if she said no to his preposterous marriage proposal!
‘You might end up sorry you ever asked.’
In fact, I’m quite sure of it. Although I doubt you’ll be half as sorry as I am right at this moment.
She glanced at the calendar on the wall. Today was Thursday. On a Thursday three months ahead exactly, Sophie would finally be out of the clutches of her ex-boss. The day and date for that final payment were stamped indelibly on Claire’s consciousness.
She recalled another significant Thursday from a history lesson long since gone. The Wall Street Crash of 1929 had occurred on a Thursday, and it had eventually led to the Great Depression.
At this point the comparison seemed apt.
Well, the words had been spoken now. They couldn’t be taken back. But she could and would take control of what happened next. Of everything that happened from here on. She had to if she didn’t want to go mad.
‘As I said, I accept your proposal, but I do have conditions.’
‘Do you?’ One brow rose in haughty enquiry. ‘Spit them out. I’m all ears.’
All ears and aggressive waiting. She couldn’t let him intimidate her.
‘What I would like to suggest is a six-month engagement period.’ Her glance was direct, determined. Calm, she hoped. ‘We may have worked together for a while, but I couldn’t go ahead with such a major step as marriage without getting to know you a whole lot better than I do now.’
In a written contract she would have referred to this as the escape clause. The six-month period would allow plenty of time for her to make the final payment to Sophie’s blackmailer, break off the engagement, and walk away. Nicholas would have to accept it. Would have to accept that she had left room for doubt right from the start.
I’m sorry, Nicholas, but on reflection I’ve decided I can’t marry you after all. We just wouldn’t suit, you see, because I’m a romantic and you’re—well, you’re not.
There would be no position for her then, even in the clerical pool. Indeed, it would be unbearable to stay on. She would leave Monroe’s, and Nicholas, for ever. It was a price she would have to pay.
‘Unless you had planned to wait longer than that to marry, anyway?’
‘No.’ The uncompromising word suited the man who had uttered it. ‘I see no point in prevaricating once my mind is made up. In fact, I’d prefer to make the period of engagement three months.’
He stood from his chair, the sleek lines of his body hard beneath the tailored grey suit.
In moments he was at her side. His broad shoulders loomed over her lighter frame, crowding her, making her aware of him all over again. Of his strength, his scent, and the aura of power that surged through every square inch of him, calling to every part of her.
‘That’s
