Billionaire's Mediterranean Proposal

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#uac43c213-eafe-549a-a9c8-9a7503e3c7d6)

TARA SASHAYED INTO the opulent function room at the prestigious West End hotel along with the rest of the models fresh off the catwalk. They were still gowned in their couture evening dresses, and their purpose now was to show them off up close to the private fashion show’s wealthy guests.

As she passed the sumptuous buffet she felt her stomach rumble, but ignored it. Like it or not—and she didn’t—modelling required gruelling calorie restriction to keep her body racehorse-slender. Eating normally again would be one of the first joys of chucking in her career and finally moving to the countryside, as she was longing to do. And that dream of escape was getting closer and closer—escape to the chocolate-box, roses-round-the-door thatched cottage in deepest Dorset that had belonged to her grandparents and now, since their deaths, belonged to her.

In her grandparents’ day it had been the only home she’d ever really had. With her parents in the armed forces, serving abroad, and herself packed off to boarding school at the age of eight, it had been her grandparents who had provided the home comforts and stability that her parents had not been in a position to provide. Now, determined to make it her own ‘for ever’ home, she was spending every penny she earned in undertaking the essential repairs and restoration that were required for such an old house—from a new thatched roof, to new drains…it all had to be done.

And now it nearly was. It only lacked a new kitchen and bathroom to replace the very ancient and decrepit units and sanitary ware and she could move in! All she needed was another ten thousand pounds to cover the cost.

That was why she was taking on all the modelling assignments she could—including this evening one now—squirrelling away every penny she could to get the cottage ready for moving in to.

She could hardly wait for that day. The glamour of being a fashion model had worn off long ago, and now it was only tiring and tedious. Besides, she had increasingly come to resent being constantly on show, all too often attracting the attention of men she had learned were only interested in her because she was a model.

She sheered her mind away from her thoughts. Jules had been a long time ago, and she was long over him. She’d been young and stupid and had believed that it was herself he’d cared for—when all along she’d simply been a trophy female to be wheeled out to impress his mates…

It had taught her a lesson though and had made her wary. She didn’t want to be any man’s trophy.

Her wariness gave her a degree of edginess towards men which she knew could put men off, however striking her looks. Sometimes she welcomed it. She wasn’t one to put up with any hassle. Maybe something of her parents’ emotional distance had rubbed off on her, she sometimes thought. They’d always taught her to stand up for herself, not to be cowed, overawed or over-impressed by anyone.

She certainly wasn’t going to be overawed by the kind of people here tonight, knocking back champagne and snapping up couture clothes as if they were as cheap as chips! Just because they were stinking rich it didn’t make them better than her in any way whatsoever—no way was anyone going to look down on her as some kind of walking clotheshorse!

Head held high, poker-faced, she kept on parading around, as she was being paid to do. The evening would end soon, and then she could clear off and get home.

* * *

Marc Derenz took a mouthful of champagne and shifted his weight restlessly, making some polite reply to whatever Hans Neuberger had just said to him. His mood was grim, and getting worse with every passing minute, but that was something he would never show to Hans.

A close friend of Marc’s late father, Hans had been at his side during that bleak period after Marc’s parents had been killed in a helicopter crash, when their only offspring had still been in his early twenties. It had been Hans who’d guided him through the complexities of mastering his formidable inheritance at so young an age.

Hans’s business experience, as the owner of a major German engineering company, as well as his wisdom and kindness, were not things Marc would ever forget. He felt a bond of loyalty to the older man that was rare in his life, untrammelled by emotional ties as he had been since losing his parents.

It was a loyalty that was causing him problems right now, though. Only eighteen months ago Hans, then recently widowed following his wife’s death from cancer, had been inveigled into a rash second marriage by a woman whom Marc had no hesitation in castigating as a gold-digger. And worse.

Celine Neuberger, here tonight to add to her already plentiful collection of couture gowns, had made no secret to Marc of the fact that she was finding her wealthy but middle-aged husband dull and uninteresting, now that she had him in her noose. And she had made no secret of the fact that she thought the opposite about Marc…

Marc’s mouth tightened. Celine’s eyes were hungry on him now, even though Marc was blanking her, but that did not seem to deter her. Had she been anyone other than Hans’s wife Marc would have had no hesitation in ruthlessly sending her packing. It was a ruthlessness he’d had to learn early—first as heir to the Derenz billions, and then even more so after his parents’ deaths.

Women were very, very keen on getting as close to those billions of his as possible. Ideally, by becoming Madame Marc Derenz.

Oh, at some point in his life, he acknowledged, there would be a Madame Derenz—when the time was right for him to marry and start a family. But she would be someone from the same wealthy background as himself.

It was advice his father had given him: to do what he himself had done. Marc’s mother had been an heiress in her own right. And even for mere affaires, his father had warned him, it was best never to risk any liaison with anyone not from their own world of wealth and privilege. It was safer that way.

Mark knew the truth of it—only once had he made the mistake of ignoring his father’s advice.

Celine Neuberger was addressing him now, her voice eager, and he was glad of the interruption to his thoughts. He had been recalling a time he did not care to remember, for he had been young and trusting then, and he had paid for that misplaced trust with a heartache he never wanted to experience again.

But what Celine had to say only worsened his mood sharply.

‘Marc, have I told you that Hans has promised to buy a villa on the Côte d’Azur! And I’ve had the most wonderful idea!’

Celine’s gushing voice grated on him.

‘We could house-hunt from your gorgeous, gorgeous villa on Cap Pierre! Do say yes!’

Every instinct in Marc rebelled at the prospect, but he was being put on the spot. In his parents’ time Hans and his first wife had often been guests at the Villa Derenz—convivial occasions when the young Marc had had the company of Hans’s son, Bernhardt, and had made enthusiastic use of the pool and gone sea bathing off the rocky shoreline of Cap Pierre. Good memories…

Marc felt a pang of nostalgic loss for those carefree days. Now, all he could say, resignedly, and with a forced smile, was, ‘Bien sûr! That would be delightful.’ He tried to make the lie convincing. ‘Delightful’ was the last word to describe spending more time with Celine making eyes at him. Having to hold her at bay.

A triumphant Celine now pushed even further in a direction Marc had no intention of letting her advance. She turned to her husband. ‘Darling, don’t feel you have to stay any longer—Marc can see me back to our hotel.’

Hans turned to Marc, a grateful expression on his face. ‘That would be so kind of you, Marc. I have to phone Bernhardt—matters to do with the forthcoming board meeting.’

Again, how could Marc object without giving Hans the reason?

The moment Hans had left Celine was, predictably, off the leash. ‘Now, tell me,’ she gushed, smiling warmly up at him, ‘which would suit me best?’ She gestured at the perambulating models.

Marc, knowing his mood was worsening with every passing moment in this impossible situation he’d been dumped in, lanced his gaze around to find the nearest model, whatever she was wearing, determined to give Celine the least opportunity for lingering.

But, as he did so, suddenly all thoughts of Celine went right out of his head.

During the fashion show itself he’d paid no attention to the endless parade of females striding up and down the catwalk, focussing instead on his phone. So now, as his eyes caught the figure of the model closest to where they stood, he felt his gaze riveted.

Tall, ultra-slender—yes. But then all the models were like that. None like this one, though, with rich chestnut hair glinting auburn, loosely pinned into an uplift that exposed a face he simply could not take his eyes from.

The perfect profile—and then, as she turned to change direction, he saw a strikingly beautiful face with sculpted cheekbones, magnificent eyes shot with sea-green, and a wide, lush mouth that was, at this moment, tight-set. The expression on her amazing face was professionally blank, but as his eyes focussed on her he felt his male antennae react instinctively—and on every frequency. She was quite incredible.

Without conscious volition he raised his free hand, summoning her over. For a second he thought she had not seen his gesture, for she was moving as if to keep stalking around as the rest of the models were doing. Then, tensing, she strode towards him. He could not take his eyes from her…

The thoughts in his head were flashing wildly. OK, so she was a model—and that put her out of reach from the off, because models were nearly always not from the kind of privileged background he insisted that any woman he showed interest in be from. But this one…