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“But we’re not married.”
“Then maybe we should be.”
“Cristiano.” She looked at him, knowing that something had changed in the past twenty-four hours. She didn’t know what had changed in him, but she saw it, felt it, from the moment they arrived at the airport to boarding his private jet in Manchester this morning.
Cristiano exuded power. Control. Outwardly he didn’t look any different—same direct gaze, straight nose, sensual mouth—but he carried himself as though he were in charge.
And at the airport in Manchester, he took charge, meeting privately with his pilots, speaking to someone in air traffic control, inspecting the jet with his pilots before boarding.
As Sam observed Cristiano during the preflight process, it struck her that he didn’t trust others. And he wasn’t about to leave important details to others, either.
“I’ve done the marriage of convenience before, and it doesn’t work.” Sam said steadily. “In fact, I think it actually made Gabby’s life worse.”
“Impossible. If you weren’t there, God knows where she’d be now. You’ve been her guardian angel from the beginning. If you hadn’t been there during the kidnapping attempt, something tragic could have happened. If you weren’t there to protect her from Johann, she’d be lost.” He hesitated. “Would you prefer me to get down on one knee?”
Get down on one knee? My God, was he seriously propos-ing marriage? Sam’s stomach somersaulted in a wild free form flip. “You’re not asking me—”
“Marry me.”
“You are.” Her voice cracked.
“I will make sure you lack for nothing. I promise to take care of you the way you’ve taken care of Gabby, generously, patiently—”
The room had begun to spin. “I think I need to sit down.”
He steered her to the right, to a comfortable sitting room overlooking the gardens. The room had been decorated in aqua tones, the furniture, silk drapes, and even the handwoven rug all pale blue and pale green, accented with touches of white like the seashells clustered on the mantel and the white long stemmed tulips spilling from vases on round tables.
Numbly, Sam sank onto one of the down-filled sofas. “I can’t do this, Cristiano. I love Gabby, God knows I do, but I can’t marry again, can’t put myself through that again.”
He reached inside his coat and withdrew an envelope. “What was the worst part of marriage?”
She stared, fascinated as he withdrew a sheet of folded paper. “Being trapped. Lacking financial independence.”
Nodding, he unfolded the sheet of paper and held it out to her. “What if I’m willing to work with you on that?”
Puzzled, Sam took the paper. “How?” And then she looked down. Her eyes widened as she read. Her hand began to shake as she continued to the end of the document. “This is a…this is…”
“A prenuptial agreement. Just by marrying me you inherit a million pounds. If the marriage lasts a year, it’s ten million—”
“No!” She dropped the paper on the couch, repulsed. “That’s disgusting, no.”
“Ten years and it’s twenty million. If we had a child at any point, it’s fifteen million—regardless of how long the marriage lasts—and the villa would of course be yours.”
“Stop.” Sam lurched to her feet, walked far from the couch, circling behind it. “Never mention it again.” Her voice vibrated with fury. “I would never marry for money, never. I won’t be bought.”
“But you’d marry Johann and be poor?”
“It was to protect Gabby!”
“Protect her now and be secure.”
“It’s different—”
“What’s different? The fact that I could actually provide for you? That I could afford to give you a good home and life? That I like you? That I’d enjoy your company? That I actually want you? Desire you? Need you in my bed?”
CHAPTER TEN
“STOP.” She covered her ears, closed her eyes because he’d found the right arguments now, had found the very weapons to use against her.
