Her voice shook. “Alex—please. Don’t do this….”
“Do what?” he questioned. “This?” He stroked her hair aside and kissed her nape. “Or this?” He bent his head and pressed his lips to Louise’s bare shoulder, forcing a shiver of response from her.
“Because I hear what you’re saying, my reluctant wife,” he told her softly. “But all evening I’ve seen your eyes. Felt the way you’ve touched me—how you went into my arms. And you know it’s true…”
Legally wed,
But he’s never said…
“I love you.”
They’re…
The series where marriages are made in haste…and love comes later….
Look out for the next book in the Wedlocked! miniseries
Coming soon:
The Constantin Marriage by Lindsay Armstrong Harlequin Presents #2384
Alex Constantin had agreed to a marriage of convenience with Tatiana Beaufort—but she surprised him on their wedding night by asking for a year’s grace before making theirs a “real” marriage. A year later Tattie is both alarmed and tempted when her enigmatic husband suggests they become lovers at last….
The Token Wife
Sara Craven
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PROLOGUE
WHEN Alex Fabian was displeased, his annoyance invariably radiated from him like static electricity, alerting the wary to keep their distance.
Tonight, entering his grandmother’s Holland Park house, he was crackling like an approaching storm, although he managed a brief smile for the elderly manservant who admitted him, and who’d known him since childhood.
‘Barney—you’re well? And Mrs Barnes?’
‘Both fighting fit, thank you, Mr Alex.’ Barnes paused. ‘Her ladyship hasn’t come downstairs yet, but you’ll find Mr Fabian in the drawing room.’
‘My father?’ Alex’s brows snapped together. ‘I thought they weren’t speaking to each other.’
‘There has been a rapprochement, sir.’ Barnes’ tone was sedate. ‘Last week.’
‘I see.’ Alex shrugged off his overcoat, and cast a fleeting but critical glance at his reflection in the big gilt-framed mirror before crossing the wide hall to the double doors which led into the drawing room.
He supposed he should have fitted in a visit to the barber, he thought, raking an irritable hand through the tawny hair which brushed his collar.
But the charcoal suit he was wearing, set off by a silk waistcoat in a paler shade of grey, the pristine white shirt, and discreetly striped tie acknowledged that this was a formal visit.
That he’d been sent for.
And his tight-lipped expression and smouldering green eyes indicated that he suspected what was behind the summons.
He found George Fabian seated on one of the sofas that flanked the fireplace, glancing through a newspaper.
He said, without looking up, ‘Good evening, Alex. We have been instructed to help ourselves to a drink.’
‘Thank you, sir, but it’s a little early for me.’ Alex glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I was being invited for dinner, or nursery tea.’
‘I suggest you ask your grandmother that,’ his father advised curtly. ‘This little family gathering was her idea, not mine.’
‘And its purpose?’ Alex walked to the hearth and gave the logs that burned there an impatient kick with a well-shod foot.
‘I understand to discuss the arrangements for her birthday party.’ George Fabian paused. ‘Among other things.’
‘Indeed?’ Alex’s brows rose sardonically. ‘And am I permitted to speculate what those “other things” might be?’
His father gave him a dry look. ‘I imagine your position as chairman in waiting at Perrins Bank might come up for discussion.’
There was a silence, then Alex said, with a touch of hauteur, ‘Are you implying that it could be in some doubt? I wasn’t aware that my ability to run the bank was being called into question.’
‘It isn’t, as far as I know.’ George Fabian folded the paper, and tossed it aside. ‘It’s more a matter of image.’ He pursed his lips meditatively. ‘Too many pictures in the wrong sort of paper. Too many pieces in the gossip columns. And too many girls,’ he added flatly.
‘I wasn’t aware that I required a vow of celibacy to work at Perrins.’ Alex kept his tone light, but his fingers beat a restless tattoo on the edge of the mantelpiece. The fact that he’d been expecting this made it no less unwelcome, he thought, his edginess increasing.
‘Then think again,’ his father said brusquely. ‘Perrins is an old-fashioned bank, run by conservative people, and they don’t like the kind of adverse publicity you’ve been attracting.’
He shook his head. ‘The customers want to know that there’s someone solid and reliable at the top, whom they can trust. Not a playboy.’ He paused. ‘You’re a high-flyer, Alex, but you’re getting perilously close to the sun. Take care you don’t come crashing down.’
‘Thank you,’ Alex said with dangerous politeness. ‘Have you been asked to pass on these words of wisdom, or was it all your own work?’
George Fabian sighed wearily. ‘Don’t be so damned prickly, boy. I’m your father, so I think I have the right to be concerned. I don’t want to see you throw away the potential for a brilliant career.’
‘If the worst happens, there are other banks besides Perrins,’ Alex said tautly.
‘Indeed there are,’ his father agreed. He gave the younger man a long, steady look. ‘Unless, of course, you become too hot for any of them to handle.’
There was a silence, then Alex said quietly, ‘Maybe I will have that drink after all.’ He went over to the side-table, where decanters and glasses were set out, pouring himself a single malt whisky. ‘So.’ He turned back, glass in hand, his expression challenging. ‘What’s the rumour on the piazza?’
‘This and that.’ Mr Fabian paused. ‘I gather Peter Crosby is going to be promoted in the next government reshuffle,’ he added almost inconsequentially.
Alex stiffened. ‘And?’
‘And that means he’ll become of increasing interest to the tabloids.’
George Fabian drank some of his own whisky. ‘I gather the Daily Mercury is already on red alert. And that a news team has been detailed to keep a close eye on his wife.’
There