Accidental Bride

‘And don’t call me Mark. Hell, I don’t even know you.’

She could tell it was killing him. If he knew her name then he’d find out everything he needed to know in about two minutes flat, and that wasn’t what she had in mind. She had something more memorable planned.

Something that King wouldn’t ever forget.

CHAPTER THREE

HOW her little sister had ended up in King’s bed concerned Clare. It wasn’t as though they frequented the same circles. King’s realm was a world unto itself. Even with her own lucrative transport company’s success, she couldn’t hope to come anywhere close to it.

The sort of wealth and position he’d built for himself were what dreams were made of. Clare let her gaze wander over his dark hair, his strong jawline, and the quirk of his lips. Surprisingly, he looked quite normal for a millionaire, apart from being aggravatingly handsome.

Meeting King made her goal of owning her entire company seem not so far-fetched. If this guy could do it she was certain she could, too. One day.

‘You may not know me. But I do know you.’ Clare laid her spoon in her empty bowl and met King’s stormy eyes. ‘I know your parents split up when you were ten and you spent the next eight years moving from one to the other while your mother searched for love. Your father was declared bankrupt in seventy-nine and eighty-six—when you were ten and seventeen respectively.’

Mark’s eyes flickered, and a shadow flashed across his features.

She suppressed a smile of satisfaction—the investigator had been worth the money. ‘You studied business economics overseas, then returned to invest your inheritance from your grandparents. Do I need to go on?’

‘So you’ve done your homework.’ His voice hardened. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re after?’

‘No. But I’ll tell you this—’ She leant close to him, breathing in his spicy cologne. ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’

His eyes widened at her admission. ‘Ha, it was one of the guys, wasn’t it?’ He laughed, darting looks around the table. ‘Which one of you jokers is responsible?’

Two of the men cleared their throats, three others shrugged, and they all cast curious looks at King.

King snapped his attention back to her, his eyes smouldering.

Clare tried to smother a laugh at his confusion. She had him going. This was even better than she’d planned.

The waiters removed the empty bowls and King dodged around them to see her. ‘How long are you going to play this game?’

Clare waited until the table had been cleared, then she leant close to him again. ‘Are you bored with me already?’

‘Yes.’

But the fire in his eyes told her otherwise. ‘Oh, my.’ She patted his hand lightly. ‘You have it worse than I thought.’

‘What?’ King’s eyes were glued to where her hand covered his.

‘Boredom,’ she said knowingly, lifting her hand and placing it on her lap, still tingling from the contact. ‘You know you age prematurely if you’re bored? It can lead to depression and all sorts of mental conditions.’

‘Is that true?’

She allowed herself a smile. ‘No idea, but it sounded good.’ It was like dangling candy in front of a child. Too easy.

A waiter presented Clare with her entrée: a miniature risotto. It was shaped in an oval and topped with caramelised onions. She cast a casual glance around the table—the others had each received a mushroom and ham torte, garnished with snow pea shoots and long curls of carrot.

The touch of King’s hand on her thigh almost made her jump. Almost. She hadn’t expected it. For some silly reason she’d assumed she wouldn’t have to endure physical contact with him until later—much later. There was no doubt now that he was a fast mover.

His fingers stroked her skin, arousing every nerve in her leg, in her stomach, in her entire body. His hand was so warm, so firm and so maddening! He had probably swept her little sister away with his charms before she’d had a chance to think.

‘I hope you’re not bluffing, Miss…?’ His thumb massaged her muscle, working higher up her leg. ‘What the hell am I meant to call you?’

‘What do you want to call me?’ she said calmly. Clare steeled herself against the disturbing sensations his hand on her thigh caused through her body. She took a small bite of the rich rice dish, another of Paul’s, focusing on the meal rather than her body’s traitorous response to King.

‘How about Scarlet?’ Sasha offered. ‘From that old classic movie.’

‘But you’re in red, not me.’ Clare couldn’t help but notice the way Sasha touched King, lightly but possessively. Poor Sasha was laying herself open to King, as good as screaming Ready, willing and waiting. If she had any idea where his other hand was…

‘You’re right.’ Sasha chewed her bottom lip, running a hand absently up King’s arm, over his nicely built muscles and resting it on his shoulder.

‘How about the Black Widow?’ King’s hand reached the top of her split and traced the edge of the fabric with his fingertip.

Tingles of awareness shot to her toes. ‘I’m in black, but I’m no widow.’ Clare took another portion of the risotto and put it in her mouth as casually as she could manage, willing herself to chew and swallow without choking, without balking.

The need to slap his hand away was swamping her. How dared he treat her like this? With no respect for Sasha, no consideration for all the hearts he’d left behind him, cracked and bleeding.

Clare swallowed the lump of risotto, helping it down with several gulps of her wine. She looked dubiously at the small serving on her plate. She’d hoped to avoid as much conversation as manners allowed, but she figured having her mouth full wouldn’t last long as an excuse.

‘Never been married?’ King nodded and scooped his entrée into his mouth, looking as if he wanted to get the distraction out of the way as quickly as possible.

Clare took more of the deep red wine. How was she going to last an entire evening with King and his tenacity? She put more risotto in her mouth, then shook her head, cursing herself for not pacing her risotto to the questions she didn’t want to answer.

The smile on King’s face suggested he was pleased.

‘What about something from Shakespeare?’ Sasha glared at Clare as though she was loath to continue a conversation that didn’t revolve around herself, but beamed at King like a puppy wanting a reward.

‘Hmm, Lady Macbeth comes to mind.’ King’s voice was deep and husky, his hand caressing her bare skin with slow, sensual movements designed to muddle minds. ‘We’ll call you m’lady, then.’

Clare smiled, covering her disgust. It was all she could do to let him keep touching her leg without breaking his nose. After what he’d pulled on her sister…She gritted her teeth, swallowing the tirade of abuse that threatened to erupt.

After her dad had left Clare had looked after her little sister, Fiona, while their mother had worked three jobs. Even living with her mother’s widowed sister and her son hadn’t eased her mother’s burden. The debt her father had left behind had been painfully large.

Clare had pulled strings to get Fiona a job in her office when she’d left school early, unable to cope with the pressure. And she’d retired her mum as soon as her business had made enough to buy a home for her in the Dandenong Ranges. She should have sent Fiona up there too—protected her from the harsh realities of life and men like King.

‘Your meal, miss, with compliments from the chef.’ A waiter winked at her, then laid a plate in front of her. The rich aroma of the dish drifted upward. It was another of Paul’s—a vegetable lasagne with chilli, vegetables and tomato, topped with exotic cheeses.

She concentrated on eating, even though her stomach felt leaden with King’s eyes continually on her.

Clare was thankful he needed both hands to tackle his steak. His hand on her leg had been sending a steady stream of interference to her brain. And she needed all her wits about her if she was going to take this guy down.

King ate almost silently, only occasionally joining in the table’s conversation and twice responding to Sasha’s questions. On the whole, Clare supposed, he was mulling over the facts and trying to figure her out.

‘I know you’re around twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ King stated coolly, pausing as dessert was served. ‘You’re in a high position in business, or you own your own. You’re well-off, you don’t live far away, and you haven’t had any serious relationships.’

Clare’s spoon stopped halfway to her pastry. She turned to him, her blood pounding in her ears. ‘How?’