Malachi turned and slowly, very slowly, smiled at her.
‘You see, that money didn’t come from King Industries. It came from me. From my personal bank account. And my terms are personal too.’
Addie swallowed—or tried to swallow, at least—past the lump in her throat. ‘What do you mean by personal?’ she croaked. Around her the air felt hot and leaden, and the room was growing darker. ‘What do you mean?’ she repeated, and the lump felt sharp and jagged now.
His voice was soft, just as it had been when he’d promised to love and honour and cherish her for ever. But the hard lines of his face were knife-sharp and harder than stone.
‘I’ve been very patient, but you owe me a honeymoon, sweetheart.’
‘I—I don’t understand.’
His gaze swept over her slowly. ‘Then let me explain. I want you to come away with me for a month. To be my mistress.’ His eyes locked on to hers, pinning her against the leather upholstery. ‘Do that and you can keep the money. And who knows? There might even be a little bonus in it for you.’
LOUISE FULLER was a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the prince—not the princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty pushovers but are strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon she studied literature and philosophy at university and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband, Patrick, and their six children.
Claiming His Wedding Night
Louise Fuller
To Jane Arnold.
For Friday coffee and shopping; for making it up to Southwold so many times; and for being my friend. Thank you.
Contents
SHE SHOULD BE PLEASED. Good publicity was what charities like hers survived on. Only it was doing more than surviving, Addie Farrell thought with a small smile of satisfaction as she glanced down at the newspaper. It was just five years since they had opened their doors to offer music to disadvantaged children in the city, but the way things were going, they might be able to open a second centre soon.
Addie frowned. The article was one hundred per cent approving—even the photograph was flattering. So why did she feel so deflated? Her smile faded. Probably because the glossy red curls tumbling over her shoulders and the nervous excitement in her blue eyes hinted at a different Addie—an Addie she had been a long time ago, for a few blissful months. The Addie she might still be now if Malachi King hadn’t taken her heart and tossed it aside like some unwanted corporate gift.
Don’t go there! she warned herself. The article was about her hard work and determination. It had absolutely nothing to do with her rat of an estranged husband. Or their foolhardy and doomed marriage.
That was all in the past now.
Her present—her future—was a world away from that dark place she’d slipped into after Malachi had broken her heart. And she had survived worse than his defection. Her muscles tensed as she remembered the car accident that had shattered her dream of playing the piano professionally. It had been devastating, but she had not given up and now she had the best job in the world: bringing music to children whose lives were a constant battle with poverty and neglect.
She sighed. Only that would keep happening if she got on and knuckled down to her admin.
Opening her laptop, she began clicking through her emails. Twenty minutes later she reached across the desk and picked up a pile of envelopes from her in tray. Glancing at the one on top, she felt her breath catch sharply in her throat, the beat of her heart suddenly swift and urgent. As though mesmerised, she stared blankly at the embossed logo on the front of the envelope.
King Industries. Owned by her very rich, very handsome and very estranged husband Malachi.
The blood was roaring in her ears, and for a moment she imagined tearing up the letter and hurling the pieces into the warm Miami air. And then, with hands that shook slightly, she tore it open and read the letter inside.
It took three attempts before her brain could connect the words to their meaning. Not that the letter was badly written. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was polite and succinct, informing her that, after five years of funding, King Industries would be withdrawing their financial support from the Miami Music Project.
Heart pounding, Addie scanned through the lines, her eyes inexorably drawn to the signature at the bottom of the page. Bracing her shoulders, she felt her chest squeeze tight as she stared at her husband’s name.
Fury snapped through her bones like electric sparks. Was this some kind of cruel joke?
He hadn’t been in touch for five years. Five years! Not a phone call, an email, a text.
Nothing.
This was the first time he’d contacted her since their wedding day and it was some stock letter telling her that he was cutting the funding for her charity! It was despicable! And so cowardly when he hadn’t even had the guts to speak to her, let alone meet her face-to-face.
Somewhere beneath her ribs she felt something twist—a wrench, slight yet irrevocable. If she hadn’t