twisted her mouth. “A marriage of convenience?” The open vulnerability, the innocence of her face, worked to find a way under his ribs and he nodded once. She seemed to digest the sincerity of his offer before fresh wariness dawned in her eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “This child will have two parents.”
She waited. “And?”
“You need another reason?”
Tamara Kendle came from a broken home, one far less privileged than his own had been. An absent father and uneducated mother. Tamara’s childhood made his gripes look like too little cake at a Sunday picnic. Surely the security in providing this child a decent family life should be persuasion enough.
A clutch of grounded seagulls scattered as she left him to wander toward the beach fence. The breeze, stronger here, combed her hair, turning it to dark ribbons that danced down her back.
She rotated to face him, her expression perceptive now. “You said I was bright, Mr. De Luca. Please don’t dodge my question.”
After a moment, he exhaled and joined her. Resting both palms on the chest-high railing, he perused the rolling sea. “Yes, there is another reason.” She’d need to know anyway.
She propped one elbow on the railing and cupped her cheek. “I’m listening.”
He clenched the wood. “I need to obtain the controlling interest in my late father’s company. His will left the balance in trust.”
“And I fit in how…?”
“A stipulation must be met before the interest can revert to me. I must produce offspring—a child—by my thirty-third birthday. In other words, I need a legitimate heir seven months from now.”
“My baby?” A disbelieving laugh escaped. “Can people actually do that in their wills? It sounds medieval.”
“Dante, my father, was very much old guard. I’d known for years he wanted to ensure that his legacy continued through me into the next generation.” His jaw shifted as he rationalized. “It’s understandable.”
“And if you don’t produce an heir by the deadline?”
“The controlling interest will remain with my father’s closest friend, the company’s legal advisor.”
A man with no children of his own. Someone Armand had admired and called uncle growing up. A person he trusted and whom he believed would pass on the balance anyway. But he’d rather comply with his father’s wishes, and, in doing so, avoid placing Matthew, an ethical man, in a not-so-ethical position. Convincing Tamara to marry him would eliminate those glitches and lead to a win-win situation for everyone, including the child.
She looked skeptical. “This doesn’t add up. A man like you would have zero problems finding a more than willing bride. Why leave it ’til now?”
He refused to feel. Refused to remember. Instead he twirled the heavy ruby ring on his right hand. “Let’s just say, true love has eluded me.”
“You want to find true love?”
The visible tension in her jaw eased before she slowly straightened and gave in to her first real smile. The expression was like a candle flickering to life on the inside, making her glow like an angel. He almost smiled back.
“Then you’d understand why this can’t possibly work,” she said. “Why you’ll have to find another way. I want to find that right one, too, just like you.”
He studied her. She was far more attractive than he’d first thought, with creamy skin, long regal neck and a small gold cross shining from the hollow of her throat. And for a cock-eyed moment, he wanted to steal some of her starry-eyed enthusiasm. But he’d tossed believing a long time ago.
Prying his gaze from the curve of her cheek, he focused again on the sea. “You misunderstand. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
She fell back against the fence, emitting a soft gasp. “You mean you don’t believe in love?”
He bit down, suddenly irritated, but nevertheless well-versed for the argument. Not that this discussion need include an analysis of his personal regrets; he took as his right the discretion of one mistake. He would stick to broader statistics.
“I have a friend who’s a divorce lawyer, but it’s no secret. Half the people who marry for love separate. That’s compared to four percent of arranged marriages. In some parts of the world, such betrothals are considered a privilege.”
She blinked twice. “Good Lord, you’re serious.”
“What I propose is a partnership built on honesty and respect.”
“What you propose is out of the question!”
He held up a hand. “I understand it’s not the best time.”
“Darn right it’s not. Your brother was buried today.” She backed up, disgust dragging on her mouth. “And, whatever you might believe, I’m not a piece of property you can buy to better your business standing, and neither is my baby. Yes, I want honesty and respect from the man I marry. But I also want a history and commitment and passion.”
Her green eyes were all sparks and fire now, all conviction and courage. No interest in material gain…only ideals. “Passion?” he asked, all the more curious.
Her eyes widened as if she’d read his thoughts and wasn’t sure how to take them. “Every woman wants that.”
His gaze roamed her face. “Most men, too.”
He didn’t make choices lightly. He’d lain awake last night and had sat in that chapel today analyzing the pros and cons of marrying a woman he’d yet to meet in order to fulfill the terms of the will and give her child—his blood—the De Luca name. Yet, not once had Armand anticipated this pull, the impulse to frame her face and test her warmth.
The tug in his chest, the heat down below…
Hell. He wanted to kiss her.
She broke their gaze. Combing back hair that waved like a pennant across her face, she looked down at her feet, then over to the busy road. She still avoided his eyes when she said, “You have a plane waiting and I need to go home and get over this day.”
He snatched a glance at his watch. Damn. Where had that hour gone? But he still had time. He’d make time. “I’ll give you a lift.”
He reached for her elbow, but she weaved away. “I’ll take the bus. I mean it,” she insisted when he began to protest. While he reluctantly stepped back, she seemed to gather her thoughts. “I also meant what I said about not excluding you from our lives.” After a hesitant moment, she fished around in her purse. “I suppose you already have my phone number.”
The tension, which had locked his shoulder blades these past few days, eased slightly. He did have her number, but he wouldn’t object if she gave it to him. She was giving him an inch. For now, that was all he needed.
After she’d retrieved a notepad and pen, his gaze settled on the motion of her writing…left-handed,
