“Such airs you put on,” Chantelle said, her gaze as hard as her voice. “You might as well be a flipping countess already. Don’t forget, I know the truth about you, Angel.” She nodded toward the newspaper on the table. “We’re no different, you and me. I’m just a little bit more honest about it.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word honest,” Angel snapped. “You’ve never even brushed up against honesty in passing.”
Chantelle sniffed. “I can see you’re determined to make this hard,” she said loftily, as if she was rising above Angel’s childish behavior through sheer goodness, great martyr that she was. “I want you to remember this, Angel. You take such pleasure in making me the villain, but I’m the one who came round this time to sort things out, aren’t I? And you won’t even give me the time of day.”
“I gave you fifty thousand quid, Mum,” Angel retorted. “Without even knowing it. Without you even asking. I’m all out of things to give you, and I mean that literally. I have nothing left.”
She wasn’t surprised when Chantelle slammed out of the flat, but she was surprised that she didn’t find herself nearly as destroyed by one of her mother’s always upsetting and depressing little visits as she usually was. She pulled the newspaper toward her again, and stared down at that lie of a photo.
What wasn’t a lie was that Rafe was so solid, so surprisingly tough, and it was visible even in newsprint. That soldier’s way of holding himself, strong and unbendable, perhaps. She had the feeling that he was the kind of man—notably unlike her stepfather, Bobby, and most of the population of London, including some of her own early boyfriends back when she’d been foolish enough to bring them into Chantelle’s lascivious orbit—who would see a woman like Chantelle coming from miles off and be singularly unimpressed. It made her feel warm again, imagining his complete imperviousness to a woman like Chantelle.
It would be like Chantelle didn’t even exist.
He wasn’t promising her happiness. He was promising her financial security. And it dawned on Angel as she sat there, the smell of Chantelle’s cigarette smoke still heavy in the air, that the only kind of happiness she was likely to get in this life would involve protecting herself from Chantelle and her games. And the only thing that could guarantee her that kind of protection was money. Pots of it, as her mother had said. If she was really, truly rich, it wouldn’t matter what Chantelle did. She could protect herself, and pay it off without blinking if somehow that protection failed. Chantelle would never again be in a position to ruin her life—she wouldn’t even have access to it.
The very idea made her feel freer than she had in years.
Maybe it was better to be alone as she’d always been, but nevertheless financially safe with someone who accepted her on the level they would arrange together, than plain old alone and prey to her mother’s endless schemes. That was why she hadn’t let herself ask Ben—himself no slouch in the money department—for help, because he would have helped her, but Chantelle would only have done it again. And again. And how many times did she think her stepbrother could step in? He could only have been a temporary fix. Marrying Rafe was a long-term solution. He was signing up in advance to pay her bills. And, unlike Ben, at least he was getting something in return.
She wanted to be free of Chantelle, no matter how terrible a daughter that made her. For once in her life, she wanted Chantelle to have no reach, no influence. For once. For good.
She thought of Rafe’s ruined face, and the wild flare of passion that had made her shake. That demanding kiss, the one that still haunted her. That had kept her awake and panicked throughout the long week. That threatened her in ways she was afraid to contemplate too closely. She already knew it would not be easy with him. It might even be bad—there was every reason to think so. They were strangers. They had nothing in common as far as she could see. The potential for disaster was huge. Almost guaranteed, in fact.
But it would be different than this, and she would have some protection, at long last—and who cared what she had to barter to get it? She wasn’t unaware of the irony inherent in this choice she was making. It seemed to lick into her like some kind of terrible poison, making it hard to breathe: in order to escape her mother, she would have to become her. She would have to do the very thing she’d always sworn she’d never, ever do.
She knew she should come up with some other solution—any other solution—but the truth was, she was out of solutions. She felt flattened by this latest stunt of Chantelle’s, and some part of her was terrified to find out what lay on the other side of this feeling. If anything.
The truth was, Angel was so very tired of just surviving.
Of always having some new tragedy to get over. She was tired of living by her wits, of making do.
She was tired of digging herself out of messes she hadn’t even made.
She was tired.
And what did it matter what people thought of her? They already thought it. They had for years. Let them.
It had to be better with Rafe. She told herself it just had to be.
Because the truth was, she thought as she moved over to the sink to find her mother’s ashes and swollen cigarette end lying there in a wet, smelly mess across the bottom of the basin, like everything else Chantelle had ever touched, anything was better than this.
ONCE Rafe’s mandated week of reflection and research was over, and Angel’s decision made, everything seemed to pick up speed. Angel imagined that she would meet with Rafe himself to go over the details of their marriage that Monday morning, as arranged. She also imagined that there would be a few papers to sign and even fewer actual details to discuss. After all, they’d agreed to the marriage of convenience itself. The marriage made of money and future heirs, no romantic notions need apply. Surely that was the hard part?
She was wrong on all counts.
“No second thoughts then?” he asked her, his dark voice low and stirring even over the phone. Angel held her mobile too close to her ear and pretended that she felt as serene as the lushly appointed leather expanse of the backseat of this luxurious car should have made her feel, but, strangely, did not. “If you do not come to your senses now, Angel, you will soon be trapped with little hope of escape.”
“You should really consider going into some kind of marketing should the earl thing not work out for you,” she replied, summoning that light tone out of the ether. She even chuckled slightly. Warmly. “You do paint such a lovely picture.”
“I want you to remember that I warned you off,” he said, his voice a low growl.
But all she could think of was his cold gray gaze, and the shocking heat of his mouth against hers, the ache of it winding through her even now, in a different country and without him anywhere near her. What was the matter with her?
“I feel sufficiently warned,” she assured him. “If you turn out to be the Earl of Bluebeard, killer of wives who should have known better than to appease their curiosity, then I have only myself to blame.”
“Just so long as we’re clear on that point,” he said silkily, and disconnected the call.
Angel held the phone in her