The Bride Fonseca Needs

Darcy had learnt that the way to deal with Max Fonseca Roselli was to treat him like an arrogant thoroughbred stallion. With the utmost respect and caution and a healthy dollop of firm-handedness.

‘There is no need to shout,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m right outside your door.’

She came in and perched on the chair on the other side of his desk and looked at him, awaiting instruction. She had to admit that, while his manners could do with finessing, working for Max was the most exhilarating experience of her life. It was a challenge just to keep up with his quicksilver intellect, and she’d already learnt more from him than she had in all of her previous jobs combined.

Shortly after starting to work for him he’d installed her in a luxurious flat near the office at a ridiculously low rent. He’d waved her protests away, saying, ‘I don’t need to be worrying about you living in a bad area, and I will require you to be available to work out of hours sometimes, so it’s for my convenience as much as yours.’

That had shut Darcy up. He was putting her there so she was more accessible to him—not out of any sense of concern because she was on her own in a city she didn’t know as well as she might, considering her mother’s Italian background. Still, she couldn’t complain, and had enjoyed the chance to have a central base from which to explore Rome.

Max had been true to his word. She’d found herself working late plenty of evenings and on some Saturdays for half the day. His work ethic was intimidating, to say the least.

He rapped out now, ‘What was Montgomery’s response?’

Darcy didn’t have to consult her notes. ‘He wants you to meet him for dinner when he’s here with his wife next week.’

Max’s face hardened. ‘Damn him. I’d bet money that the wily old man is enjoying every moment of drawing this out for as long as possible.’

Watching his hands, splayed on his slim hips, Darcy found it hard to focus for a second, but she forced her gaze back up and had to acknowledge that this was unusual. Most people Max dealt with knew better than to refuse him what he wanted.

His mouth was tight as he spoke almost to himself. ‘Montgomery doesn’t think I’m suitable to take control of his hedge fund. I’m an unknown, I don’t come with a blue-blooded background, but worst of all, in his eyes, I’m not respectably married.’

No, you certainly are not, Darcy observed frigidly to herself, thinking of the recent weekend Max had spent in the Middle East, visiting his exotically beautiful lover, a high-profile supermodel. A little churlishly Darcy imagined them having lots of exotically beautiful babies together, with tawny eyes, dark hair and long legs.

‘Darcy.’

She flushed, caught out. Surely working with someone every day should inure you to his presence? Not make it worse?

‘It’s just dinner, Max, not a test,’ she pointed out calmly.

He paced back and forth, which threatened Darcy’s focus again, but she kept her eyeline resolutely up.

‘Of course it’s a test,’ he said now, irritably. ‘Why do you think he wants me to meet his wife?’

‘Maybe he just wants to get to know you better? After all, he’s potentially asking you to manage one of the oldest and most illustrious fortunes in Europe and his family’s legacy.’

Max snorted. ‘Montgomery will have already deemed me suitable or unsuitable—a man like that has nothing left to do in life except amuse himself and play people off each other like pawns.’

He raked a hand through unruly hair, a familiar gesture by now, and Darcy felt slightly breathless for a moment. And then, angry at her reaction to him, she said with not a little exasperation, ‘So take...’ She stopped for a moment, wondering how best to describe his mistress and settled for the most diplomatic option. ‘Take Noor to dinner and persuade Montgomery that you’re in a settled relationship.’

Max’s expression turned horrified. ‘Take Noor al-Fasari to dinner with Montgomery? Are you mad?’

Darcy frowned, and didn’t like the way something inside her jumped a little at seeing Max’s reaction to her suggestion. ‘Why not? She’s your lover, and she’s beautiful, accomplished—’

Max waved a hand, cutting Darcy off. ‘She’s spoilt, petulant, avaricious—and in any case she’s no longer my lover.’

Darcy had to battle to keep her face expressionless as this little bombshell hit. Evidently the papers hadn’t yet picked up on this nugget of information, and he certainly didn’t confide his innermost secrets to her.

She looked at Max as guilelessly as she could. ‘That’s a pity. She sounds positively delightful.’

He made that dismissive snorting sound again and said, with a distinct edge to his voice, ‘I choose my lovers for myriad reasons, Darcy, not one of which I’ve ever considered is because they’re delightful.’

No, he chose them because they were the most beautiful women in the world, and because he could have whoever he wanted.

For a moment Darcy couldn’t look away from Max’s gaze, caught by something inexplicable, and she felt heat start to climb up her body. And then his phone rang. She broke the intense, unsettling eye contact and stretched across to answer it, then pressed the ‘hold’ button.

‘It’s the Sultan of Al-Omar.’

Max reached for the phone. ‘I’ll take it.’

Darcy stood up with not a little sense of relief and walked out, aware of Max’s deep voice as he greeted his friend and one of his most important clients.

When she closed the door behind her she leaned back against it for a moment. What had that look been about? She’d caught Max staring at her a few times lately, with something unreadable in his expression, and each time it had made her silly pulse speed up.

She gritted her jaw as she sat down behind her desk and cursed herself for a fool if she thought for a second that Max ever looked at her with anything more than professional interest.

It wasn’t as if she even wanted him to look at her with anything more than professional interest. She was not about to jeopardise the best job of her career by mooning about after him like she had at school, when she’d been in the throes of a very embarrassing pubescent crush.

* * *

Max finished his call with his friend and stood up to look out of his office window, feeling restless. The window framed an impressive view of Rome’s ancient ruins—something that usually soothed him with its timelessness. But not right now.

Sultan Sadiq of Al-Omar was just one of Max’s very small inner circle of friends who had given up the heady days of being a bachelor to settle down. He’d broken off their conversation just now when his wife had come into his office with their toddler son, whom Max had heard gabbling happily in the background. Sadiq had confided just before that they were expecting baby number two in a few months, and happiness had been evident in his friend’s voice.

Max might have ribbed him before. But something about that almost tangible contentment and his absorption in his family had made him feel uncharacteristically hollow.

Memories of his brother’s recent wedding in Rio de Janeiro came back to him. He and his brother weren’t close. Not after a lifetime spent living apart—the legacy of warring parents who’d lived on different continents. But Max had gone to the wedding—more because of the shared business concerns he had with his brother than any great need to ‘connect’.

If he had ever had anything in common with his brother apart from blood it had been a very ingrained sense of cynicism. But that cynicism had all but disappeared from his brother’s eyes as he’d looked adoringly at his new wife.

Max sighed volubly, forcibly wiping the memory from his mind. Damn this introspection. Since when did he feel hollow and give his brother and his new wife a moment’s consideration?

He frowned and brooded over the view. He was a loner, and he’d been a loner since he’d taken responsibility for his actions as a young boy and realised that he had no one to turn to but himself.

And yet he had to concede, with some amount of irritation, that watching his peers fall by the wayside into domesticity was beginning to make him stand out by comparison. The prospect of going to dinner with Montgomery and his wife was becoming more and more unappealing, and Max was certain that the old man was determined to use it as an opportunity to demonstrate his unsuitability.

At that moment Max thought of Darcy’s suggestion that he take his ex-lover to dinner. For some reason he found himself thinking not so much of Noor but of Darcy’s huge blue eyes. And the way colour had flared in her cheeks when he’d told her what he thought of that suggestion.

He found himself comparing the two women and surmised with some level of grim humour that they couldn’t be more different.

Noor al-Fasari was without a doubt one of the most beautiful women in the world. And yet when Max tried to visualise her face now he found that it was amorphous—hard to recall.

And Darcy... Max frowned. He’d been about to assert that she wasn’t beautiful, but it surprised him to realise that, while she certainly didn’t share Noor’s show-stopping, almost outlandish looks, Darcy was more than just pretty or attractive.

And, in fairness, her job was not to promote what beauty she did possess. Suddenly Max found himself wondering what she would be like dressed more enticingly, and with subtle make-up to enhance those huge eyes and soft rosebud lips.

Much to his growing sense of horror, he found that her voluptuous figure came to mind as easily as if she was still walking out of his office, as she’d done only minutes before. He might have fooled himself that he’d been engrossed in the conversation with his friend, but in reality his eyes had been glued to the provocative way Darcy’s pencil skirt clung to her full hips, and how the shiny leather belt drew the eye to a waist so small he fancied he might span it with one hand.

His skin prickled. It was almost as if an awareness of her had been growing stealthily in his subconscious for the past few months. And as if to compound this unsettling revelation he found the blood in his body growing heated and flowing south, to a part of his anatomy that was behaving in a manner that was way out of his usual sense of control.