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‘But once everyone is convinced the engagement is real,’ he continued, with about as much emotion as if he were discussing the weather, ‘you will be free to carry on your own affairs, as long as they remain discreet.’
Affairs!
Her blush incinerated as she registered what he was saying. Somehow she managed to pluck a coherent question out of the fog of unwanted desire and utter confusion.
‘How long would that be for?’ she asked. ‘That you’d need us to pretend to be in love?’
He stared at her, his jaw tightening at the mention of the L word, as if the reality of what he was asking her to fake hadn’t occurred to him. But then it occurred to her, any man who would consider buying a fiancée probably didn’t know the first thing about real relationships, let alone love.
‘Until it is no longer useful for me to have a fiancée…’ he said with supreme arrogance.
Right, of course, the parameters of this arrangement would be dictated by him, because he would be paying for the privilege.
‘But, why would you be needing one?’ she asked, curious now. If even the mention of love made him flinch, why would a man like him consider such an arrangement? Sure, maybe he wanted to be accepted in the racing world, but the truth was buying the stud would do that, he didn’t need her. Even if she had the connections he thought she did. Money spoke louder than legacy in racing, just like any other sport. And surely he could have any woman he wanted on his arm? Why would he have to pay one to pretend to be in love with him? It was madness.
‘A fake fiancée, that is?’ she clarified, because the muscle in his jaw had only hardened.
‘I’m paying you a million euros to do a job, Ms Calhoun, precisely because I have no desire to explain myself. Do you want it or not?’
She should tell him no. That she didn’t want to be his fake fiancée. That she couldn’t be bought. And that she would be terrible at it anyway. But somehow the words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Even though she now knew she definitely wasn’t dreaming, this was actually real.
‘Could Dervla and I keep the house? If we didn’t take the money?’ she asked. The old pile was the only home they’d ever known. And she didn’t need a million euros, she just needed a chance.
He glanced around the room, probably taking in the ancient carpet, the few remaining pieces of furniture too old and worn to have any resale value, the damp patch in the corner by the dresser and the faded spots on the wallpaper where art had once been hung but had long since been sold—to pay for her father’s gambling debts.
Michael Calhoun had needed an escape from the pain of losing the love of his life, her mother. Unfortunately his escape had eventually drained any semblance of the man she had once known, until all that was left was a shadow. The house reflected that.
‘You can keep the property instead if you wish as I have no need of it. But I will require you to be at my beck and call, and to travel with me for the events I mentioned.’
Her chest tightened, the sinking sensation in her stomach not making a lot of sense. This was a business deal effectively. She couldn’t allow her emotions to get in the way. He didn’t want her, he wanted her name, her heritage and, for reasons unknown, he needed a fiancée.
This was a chance, she told herself, to keep her family home, and to give her sister a place to live while she was at Trinity. Because Dervla could easily commute into Dublin from here. Of course, if Khan found out Orla was socially dyslexic and knew nothing about how to impress racing high society or any other high society, and that she was also a virgin, he might withdraw the offer. How was she supposed to behave like a woman in love when she’d never even taken a lover, and certainly not a man as—she drew in a deep breath—as far out of her league as him?
But even as all the things that could go wrong bombarded her, the hot ache between her thighs refused to go away.
‘When would you need me to start?’ she asked.
A rueful smile tilted his lips and his gaze sharpened. ‘You would return with me to London tonight and we will sign the engagement contract first thing in the morning.’
So soon. Her mind began to race again, along with her pulse rate, the hot spot in her abdomen dropping deeper into her sex.
‘I am attending the Jockeys’ Ball at The Chesterton Hotel tomorrow evening,’ he continued. ‘We can announce our engagement and the sale of the stud at the same time.’
She blinked and swallowed around the wodge of panic working its way up her throat and threatening to gag her.
Of course, The Jockeys’ Ball was tomorrow at the luxury six-star hotel in Soho. Everyone who was anyone in racing would be there, as it was the main social event to mark the middle of the racing calendar in Europe. She’d attended only once, with Patrick and her father, five years ago, and hated every minute of it. Feeling exposed and inadequate and out of her depth. How much more out of her depth would she be if she were there posing as Karim Khan’s trophy fiancée? But even as the panic began to consume her, she forced herself to breathe. Once they had signed the contract, he wouldn’t be able to change his mind. Would he?
She’d just have to wing it. And hope to heck he didn’t find out how inadequate she was for the role he wanted her to play before tomorrow night—when it would become all too apparent.
‘So, do we have a deal, Ms Calhoun?’ he demanded. The tone was arrogant and commanding, those golden-brown eyes still doing diabolical things to her heart rate. She needed to get that reaction under control, asap. ‘What is your first name, by the way?’ he asked.
The question was so incongruous, she almost laughed. He’d just asked her to pretend to be madly in love with him, and he didn’t even know her given name?
‘It’s Orla,’ she said, feeling as if she were mounting a large, unbroken stallion for the first time—both terrified and yet also weirdly exhilarated.
She and Dervla would have their home, and she could continue to work with the horses. Eventually. All she had to do was cling on for the ride in the next few weeks and months—because surely he wouldn’t want her for much longer than that—and hope to heck she didn’t end up breaking her neck, metaphorically speaking.
‘So, Orla, what’s it to be?’ he pushed, making no effort to hide his impatience.
