“Two sums of money, but one is the carrot and the other, the stick. The question is, which method do you prefer?”
“Let go of me. Please.” I can’t think when I can smell him. Feel him. See the tiny scar under his left eye.
He gives me breathing space but he doesn’t step away.
Do I want to owe him three hundred thousand and have him trash my reputation and business, or do I want to be a million better off? What kind of question is that? A crazy question. From a crazy person, surely.
“Think of what you could do with a million pounds.”
It would mean independence, whispers a tiny voice inside my head.No more feeling second best. No more Whit breathing down my neck.
“As my wife—”
“Ha!” My arms flap, and my eyes roll, and my chest feels tight. But with panic, not anticipation, right? “You’re a mental case. You must be.”
“As my wife, you’d be in the position to make so much more money.”
I turn quickly from him, though force myself to slow as I take a sedate step in the opposite direction.Any direction.
“How, exactly?” I aim the words over my shoulder as I take a turn about the room. That’s what they call it in a historical romance—that or a perambulation. “You’d better be very careful how you answer.”
I’m not a prostitute, not that I have an issue with sex workers. We’ve all got to pay our bills, and each of us can, to some extent, decide how we do that. But if he thinks I’m going down (ha!) that rocky path, I hope his tonsils will make space for his nuts when I volley them there.
“Through the gallery. I’ll introduce you to another side of London. A place where money is limitless but taste questionable.”
Despite my best instincts, I laugh. “That sounds like a very backhanded compliment.”
“It wasn’t. But the circles I mix in aren’t those of your brother.”
Pfft.Like I’d hang around with him. The stick he has up his arse is monumental. Besides, he’s too busy mooning over Mimi and their kids to bother me socially. The only time I see him is when we’re discussing the gallery or when he turns up to Sunday lunch when summoned by our mother.
“It would be an act of mercy, really. Educating those poor souls as you lighten their burgeoning bank balances.”
“Criminal bank balances?”
He doesn’t answer. “In twelve months’ time, your prenup settlement wouldn’t look like small change compared to the gallery’s potential profit margins.”
“You’re selling me a line.” And I hate how hopeful I sound.
“It’s a pretty line, right?”
“So you’re lying?” My heart sinks.
“Why would I?”
“For the same reason you got me in here.” I throw up my hands. “Because it suits your purposes, whatever they are.”
“I just happen to know a lot of people who have more money than either sense or taste.”
Not him,I think, glancing at the Hockney-esque piece hanging in the alcove to the right of the antique fireplace. I slide my shoe over the rug underfoot, then turn to run my fingers over the antique bureau. The room is filled with so many expensive and tasteful touches. He might rely on the excellent taste of an interior designer, but he clearly has pockets deep enough to carry it off.
“Just twelve months,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets as he watches my slow path around the room.
My thinking pace and space.
“Then we’ll part amicably. I’ll have what I need, and you’ll have a powerhouse gallery.”
“What’s wrong with it the way it is?” I ask from the other side of the room.The Hockney is real—and worth a bloody fortune!
