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“You are both going to do your damnedest to make them believe this marriage is the real deal.” There was an ominous tone in James’ voice.
“Or try to clean up the spectacular mess. One whiff of a scandal will have ramifications that I am not going to even begin to outline. Just one whiff and it will all go to hell.” He glared at them. “You both made your damn bed; you are going to have to literally sleep in it. You are dismissed.”
She fled, slowing her steps when she saw the maid approaching. She could not go downstairs and the suite that had been assigned to her was no longer hers.
“Excuse me? Scusi? Do you speak English?”
“Yes, Signora Monteith.” She bobbed respectfully and Anika opened her mouth to tell her that was not her name, but wisely kept it shut.
“Is there a room, a private room I can use?”
“Of course.” The woman led the way to the left and opened a room with a pearl pink decor.
“Thank you.”
With a nod, she stepped back and closed the doors behind her. Walking across the thick carpet, she sank down on one of the plump sofas and leaned back wearily. Fishing the phone out of her pocket, she touched the number.
“About damn time! Are you really married?”
“Yes.” She swallowed the painful lump in her throat. “It was an accident. We were drunk and we went into this chapel—”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was not!” She could feel the headache brewing. “I was upset about Tyrone and I went to a pub and—”
“You just decided to get married to the most sought-after and incredibly rich man in your path. Nice going.”
“There must be a way to get out of this.”
“There is no way.” His tone was resolute. “James Monteith is a multi-billionaire and his son is one of the most famous models in the world. He is worth millions. You did not sign a prenup and someone saw you coming out of his room at dawn. The marriage was consummated—”
“They don’t know that.”
“Perception is everything. You are well and truly married, Anika and that’s that.”
Chapter 4
“What are you doing here?”
“In case you have forgotten, this happens to be my suite.” He strolled over to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
“I have chosen this bedroom," she told him frostily. “Get the hell out.”
“Is that any way to talk to your new husband?” he tutted mockingly.
“You are not my husband.”
“We have the certificate to prove it. Dear old Dad sent for a copy of it to check the authenticity. And it appears we are well and truly tied.”
“This is your fault," she hissed.
His thick blonde brows lifted. “How do you figure?”
“If you had not followed me into that pub—”
“Followed you?” he burst out laughing. “Lady, you got it all wrong. And besides, if it was not me, you would have probably roped in some poor bastard and dragged him to the altar.”
“I did not drag you.”
