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‘And we wouldn’t be expected to stay married for ever, would we?’ she asked before he could consider the other implications of marriage to this truculently sexy, wholly unsuitable creature.
But his body was already considering it, a tightening in his loins...
‘I mean, would we be allowed to divorce?’ she continued. ‘It wouldn’t bother me if we didn’t but I assume you want to settle down in a real marriage at some point? By the way, are you okay? You’ve gone all face-sucking lemons again.’
Realising his fists were clenched, Marcelo loosened them and tried to loosen his jaw too. Clara didn’t miss a trick and, unlike him, didn’t need time to consider things, her supersonic brain taking everything in and digesting it and moving straight to the tangents and implications of each one.
‘Divorce is allowed here after two years of marriage,’ he said. ‘We would have to put on a show of being together for, say, a year, and then quietly go our separate ways—’
‘We can let people believe I’m homesick for England!’ she interrupted enthusiastically, his answer clearly having put her mind at ease.
‘That would work, I’m sure, and then after a year of quiet separation, file for divorce.’
‘Cool.’
‘Cool?’ he echoed in disbelief.
‘It all sounds very reasonable. But I do have demands...well, requests. I’ll marry you whether you agree to them or not.’
‘Name them.’
She held her hand up and, as she listed her requests, ticked them off with her fingers. ‘I want Samson and Delilah brought over to live here, preferably by car. And clothes. Lots of beautiful clothes. And cosmetics. The good stuff.’ The good stuff like her mum used to have. Clara’s memories of her mum had faded over time but the scent of expensive make-up could evoke her face as clearly as if she was standing right in front of her. It would evoke too the beautiful clothes her mother had worn with such panache. Much better to remember her looking and smelling wonderful than to remember how she’d been at the end. ‘And I would like a donation made to the animal sanctuary I work at to cover all their costs for the next five years and a decent lump sum paid to my colleague Liza—she’s the one I called earlier who’s been looking after Samson and Delilah for me.’
‘What else?’
‘If it’s not too selfish a request, when we separate, can you buy me a house in the English countryside? Nothing too big, two bedrooms will be ample, a big one for me and my dogs, and one for my clothes. And I would like a bit of land so I can open my own animal sanctuary. So maybe a house with an outbuilding?’
‘Anything else?’
She thought hard before giving a decisive shake of her head. ‘No. That’s everything.’
If Marcelo’s incredulity pulled any tighter it would snap. ‘Do you know how much my family is worth?’
Her shoulders rose in a don’t-care shrug.
‘Billions.’ Along with the castle that was their main home, the Berruti royal family had a portfolio of assets spread across their own island, neighbouring Sicily and mainland Italy that had been owned by them for centuries. Acutely aware that, though loved by their public, Ceresian society had evolved and that they could no longer justify any of their lifestyle being funded from the public purse, beginning with his grandfather, the family had actively monetised those assets and cannily added to them, and paid a crack team of people to run it all for them under the family’s supervision. All that and the royal art collection too.
Not a flicker of being impressed crossed Clara’s face. If anything, there was a flicker of distaste there.
‘Money doesn’t interest you?’
‘I only care that I have enough of it to live on. Money turns people into monsters,’ she replied in as flat a tone as he’d heard from those lips before.
‘My family are not monsters.’ If they’d been monsters he wouldn’t feel so rotten for imperilling them with his rash actions.
The grin returned. ‘I know that. Maybe your family are the exceptions? I take it you’ve warned them what a nightmare I am and how utterly unsuited I am for the role of a princess?’
His mouth dropped open. Not only did she have a supersonic brain but she was a mind reader as well.
She sniggered and drank more of her Scotch. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Doesn’t that just prove how desperate King Pig was for a wife? You might need to gag me when we’re out in public though. So, when are we getting married?’
Marcelo rubbed his aching head. ‘You are sure you agree to this? It is a big thing I’m asking of you.’
He shouldn’t be trying to talk her out of the sacrifice she was prepared to make when the alternative could mean the destruction of the Berruti royal family.
‘You’re not asking, I’m volunteering.’ Her shoulders rose again. This time he wasn’t quick enough to avert his eyes from seeing her unbound breasts move under the polo shirt with the motion, and he had to clench his teeth to counter the stab of lust that lanced him from it.
Dio, he needed sleep. A full eight hours would do the trick of restoring the connection between the brain in his head and the brain between his legs.
