Page 3 of Signed, Sealed, Married

All she’d done was appear as a figurehead from time to time. They both had reason to hate the public spotlight so she could understand her brother’s desire to battle his illness privately.

The need for solitude in which to face life’s ordeals was ingrained in them both, partly from their grandfather’s example and partly as a result of too much press attention early in their lives. She’d done what she could to stand in for Julien publicly, for what was the glamorous House of Fontaine without a Fontaine on show?

‘Look, Julien, I should go.’ She needed to gather herself. ‘He’ll be here any moment.’

‘Okay. I’ll wait for your call. Good luck.’

She could do this, of course she could. It was one more instance of playing a public role. The work for this meeting had been done behind the scenes by people who understood the intricacies of commercial finance, contracts and company law.

Yet her stomach roiled. She straightened, resisting the urge to lift a hand to her hair.

‘Don’t fiddle, Gisèle.’Her mother’s voice was clear in her head.‘Never leave your room until you look perfect. After that a lady doesn’t primp.’

That had been easy for her mother, one of the most beautiful women of her day.

But she’d been right. Poise counted. After Gisèle’s early, bruising encounters with the press, she’d learned not to betray uncertainty with nervous gestures.

Not only the press. There was always someone ready to be vocal about the differences between Gisèle and the stunning, petite beauty who’d been her mother.

‘Ms Fontaine.’

It wasn’t a question, nor quite a greeting, and the deep resonance of that voice made something flutter across her skin.

Gisèle looked up and felt the world fade for a second.

A flash of deep-seated emotion gripped her throat and stole her breath.

She recognised the Australian from her research. She’d even broken her rule and read the gossip rags, seeking as much information as possible about the man poised to rip the House of Fontaine from the last of the Fontaines.

Could they trust him when he said he’d save the company rather than dismantle it? He was a corporate shark, renowned for asset stripping or, occasionally, dragging failing companies into profit with his take-no-prisoners demands.

He looked different to his photos. Those images barely hinted at the energy this man radiated. Energy she felt rippling across her skin and electrifying the air.

Gisèle spoke in English. ‘Mr Wilde. How do you do?’ She rose, holding out her hand, and discovered that, tall as she was, he topped her by a head.

Stupid to wish she’d worn higher heels.

Moss green eyes surveyed her from under straight black eyebrows. His hair was black too, long enough to reveal it would curl if he let it grow. His nose had been broken and set askew, giving him a tough edge enhanced by his uncompromising, stubbled jaw.

Helookedlike a raider. As if he didn’t play by the rules.

His leather jacket and black shirt, open to reveal a V of tanned flesh, emphasised that impression. He couldn’t be more different to the suited businessmen she knew.

She guessed he’d be as much at home astride a growling motorbike as in a boardroom.

A shiver skipped down her backbone as his eyes narrowed on her. She kept her smile easy, even when he folded his large hand around hers and that shiver turned into a blast of sensation. Heat and something that made her pulse quicken and thoughts whirl.

‘It’s good to meet you at last,’ he said, as if he meant it.

Because he wants your company. You’re simply the means to an end.

Gisèle kept her expression bland as she slid her hand free. Was his ‘at last’ reference to the fact she hadn’t met him in Paris a few days earlier? But there’d been no point until Julien and his team had pored over the proposal.

‘Please, won’t you sit?’

She was sinking into her seat when she realised that, instead of sitting opposite, he took the chair at right angles to her. His leg touched hers beneath the table.

As if reading her surprise, he leaned in. ‘Our discussion is confidential. I prefer not to broadcast it to the room.’

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