Conveniently Wed To The Prince. Nina Milne

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      ‘You don’t even want to think about it?’ Disbelief tinged each syllable.

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Why not?’ The question was genuine, but lined with an edge—this was a man used to getting his own way.

      ‘Because the Romanos have toiled on that land for generations—now we have a chance to own the land in our own right. Nothing is worth more than that. Nothing. Surely you see that?’

      ‘No, I don’t. It is just soil and fruit and land—the same as any other on Lycander. Take the money and buy another lemon grove—a new one that can belong to the Romanos from the start.’

      His tone implied that he genuinely believed this to be a viable solution. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We have a history with Il Boschetto di Sole—a connection, a bond. You don’t.’

      His frown deepened but he remained silent; it was impossible to tell his thoughts.

      ‘So why don’t you take your own advice? You have more than enough money to buy a score of lemon groves. Why do you want this one?’

      ‘That’s my business,’ he said. ‘The point is I am willing to pay you well over the market price. I suggest you think carefully about my offer. Because I am also willing to fight it out, and if I win then you will have nothing. No money and no guarantee that your father will keep his job.’

      For a second her blood chilled and anger soared. ‘So if you win you would take his job from him?’

      ‘Perhaps. If I win the grove it will be mine to do with as I wish.’

      For a second a small doubt trickled through her—what if she lost and was left with nothing? But this wasn’t about money; this was about the land of her father’s heart. This was her opportunity to give her father something infinitely precious, and she had no intention of rolling over and conceding.

      ‘No deal. If you want a fight, bring it on. This meeting is over.’

      Before she could head around the immense table he moved to intercept her. ‘Where are you going? To marry the first man you find?’

      ‘Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I already have a boyfriend ready and eager to walk me to the altar.’

      As if. Post-Graham she had decided to eschew boyfriends and to run away screaming from any altar in sight.

      ‘Equally, I’m sure there will be women queuing round the block to marry you.’

      He gusted out a sigh, looking less than enamoured at the thought. ‘For a start, I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy to just get married—there will be plenty of red tape and bureaucracy to get through. Secondly, I have a better idea than instant matrimony, even if it were possible. Let’s call a truce on the race to the altar whilst my lawyers look at the will and see if this whole marriage stipulation can be overturned. There has to be a better way to settle this.’

      ‘No argument here—that makes sense.’ Caution kicked in. ‘In theory...’ Because it could be a trick—why should she believe anything Stefan Petrelli said? ‘But what’s to stop you from marrying someone during our ‘truce’ as a back-up plan?’

      Call her cynical, but she had little doubt that a millionaire prince could find a way to obliterate all red tape and bureaucracy.

      ‘The fact that even the thought of marriage makes me come out in hives.’

      ‘Hives may be a worthwhile price to pay for Il Boschetto di Sole.’

      ‘Point taken. In truth there is nothing to stop either of us reneging on a truce—and it would be foolish for either of us to trust the other.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at her. ‘The lawyers will work fast—that’s what I pay them for. We’re probably only talking twenty-four hours—two days, tops. We’ll need to stick together until they get back to us.’

      Stick together. The words resonated in the echoey confines of the meeting room, pinged into the sudden silence, bounced off the chrome and glass and writhed into images that brought heat to her cheeks.

      Something sparked in his grey eyes, calling to her to close the gap between them and plaster herself to his chest.

      ‘No way.’ The words fell from her lips with vehemence, though whether it was directed at herself or him she wasn’t sure.

      In truth, he looked a little poleaxed himself, and in that instant Holly wondered if this attraction could be mutual.

      Then, as if with an effort, he shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? Seems to me it’s a good idea to spend one weekend together in the hope that we can avoid a year of marriage.’

      Deep breath, Holly. His words held reason, and no way would she actually succumb to this insane attraction—she’d steered clear of the opposite sex for eighteen months now, without regret. Yet the whole idea of sticking to Stefan Petrelli caused her lungs to constrict. Go figure.

      ‘How would it work?’

      ‘I suggest a hotel. Neutral ground. We can get a suite. Two bedrooms and a living area.’

      Had there been undue emphasis on the word ‘two’? A glance at his expression showed tension in his jaw—clearly he wasn’t overly keen on the logistics of them sticking together either. But she couldn’t come up with an alternative—couldn’t risk him heading to the altar, and definitely couldn’t trust him. And this was doable. A suite. Separate bedrooms.

      So... ‘That could work.’

      ‘What are your plans for the weekend? We can do our best to incorporate them.’

      ‘Nothing I can’t reschedule.’

      In fact her plans had been to work, chill out and continue her exploration of London—maybe meet up with a colleague for a quick drink or to catch a film. But such a programme made her sound like a complete Billy-no-mates. In truth she had kept herself to herself in London, because she’d figured there was no point getting too settled in a life she knew to be strictly temporary.

      ‘I do have some work to do, but I can do that anywhere with internet. What about you?’

      ‘I’ve got some meetings, but like you I should be able to reschedule. Though I do have one site visit I can’t postpone. I suggest we go there first, then find a hotel and swing by our respective houses for some clothes.’

      ‘Works for me.’

      It would all be fine.

      One weekend—how hard could it be?

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