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It was probably just the lighting in her flat.
Or her pyjamas. He had never seen a grown woman wear something so determinedly asexual. His gaze hovered momentarily on where the small, fine bones disappeared beneath her grey top, and he felt his body tighten.
Blanking his mind to what was surely just the consequence of six months of virtual celibacy, he gritted his teeth.
What Effie Price wore in bed was irrelevant to this negotiation.
Effie was an adult, and this was a business deal. And it was a good deal for her. Money aside, she would have access to his world. She would learn how to talk and dress and live like the woman she was pretending to be—and most important of all, after it was all over, she would have her own perfumery business.
He leaned forward slightly, breathing in. Her scent was in no way overpowering. On the contrary, it was elusive. And yet he could feel it tugging at his senses.
‘I suppose I’d like to know why me?’
Her voice made his pulse jump and, looking up, he found her brown eyes watching him.
‘Why not some other woman? Like the woman you were with at the Stanmore? She’s very beautiful.’
‘Tamara?’He shook his head, his body tensing automatically at the idea. Tensing in a way that it didn’t when he thought of Effie. ‘She’s beautiful enough, but she’s too highly strung.’ Exhaustingly so. ‘That’s why I broke up with her. Not today,’ he added, although he wasn’t quite sure why. ‘It was six months ago.’
‘But surely there must be other women?’
There were.
A long unbroken stream of glossy-haired socialites like Tamara, or leggy models with bee-stung lips. None had lasted more than three months. Most had lasted a lot less, averaging about a week.
‘You have certain qualities they lack,’ he said, choosing his words carefully.
Effie was emphatically not his type. Too thin. Too plain. Too quiet. But that was a good thing. He didn’t need any distractions. As for sex—This was essentially a business arrangement. He couldn’t imagine her offering anything that would make it worthwhile adding that extra layer of complication.
‘You mean because I’m poor?’
The directness of her words surprised him. But it was true. Her current account balance was pitiful, and her savings amounted to loose change. He glanced around the small living room, seeing the cheapness of everything. And yet that hadn’t been his first consideration.
‘Partly... But earlier, in the car, you kept your head. I don’t know many women—or many men—who would have done that.’
Her clear brown eyes rested on his face. ‘And that’s what you need. Someone who can keep her head.’
It was a statement, not a question, but he answered it anyway. ‘Yes, I do. This has to look real.’
‘And what about you?’
She was looking at him, her gaze straight and unblinking.
‘What about me?’
‘Can you do this? Can you lie to your father and keep your head?’
He felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse.
Lie to his father? Yes, he could easily do that, he thought bitterly. Given that officially Andreas had no son, he was a walking, talking, living lie. His jaw clenched. That was one of the things his father’s money had paid for: the Alexios name to be kept off his birth certificate.
But Effie didn’t need to know that he was a bastard, and that his future legitimacy was dependent on him marrying. Or that lying to his father was payback for the lie about his birth.
‘It won’t be a problem,’ he said coolly, his blue eyes finding hers. ‘All that matters to me is that my father believes I’m happily married.’ He tipped back his head. ‘So, do we have an agreement?’
The air was suddenly electric, quivering expectantly like a held breath.
Effie looked across to where the man sat, waiting for her to answer. She had chosen that particular sofa because it had been the smallest she could find, the only one that fitted into her flat, and his muscular body made it look like a piece of dolls’ house furniture.
