Page 1 of On His Bride's Terms

PROLOGUE

SHEWASN’TTHEmost striking woman in the room, but that was largely because she was dressed with understated elegance and not to draw attention, unlike most of the women here. But, nevertheless, there was something very compelling about her. He saw how she drew second glances. Third.

She was undoubtedly a beauty, but Primo Holt had to concede hewasjudging her from a distance. He’d never met Faye MacKenzie, or seen her up close, in spite of the fact that their worlds intersected on a regular basis.

But very soon they would interact on a much more personal level because he had every intention of asking her to marry him.

He’d known he would have to marry sooner or later—as the scion of one of North America’s most notable families, it was a duty he couldn’t escape—but he’d managed to put it off for a long time. However, lately he’d had to acknowledge that sooner or later was now.

Notmarrying was generating headlines and speculation about his personal life that he did not need. It was detracting from the business. And once his personal life began to affect the bottom line, it was time to face reality.

Faye MacKenzie was the perfect candidate, whittled down from a list carefully curated by his closest advisors. She came from an impeccable family line, dating back into American history almost as far as Primo’s. People said his kin had come in on theMayflower. He knew that was just a myth, but they weren’t far off the mark.

Her Scottish/English ancestry was evident not only in her name but also her colouring. Pale skin—a rarity in these circles of golden skin that spoke of regular holidays in various exotic climes. Black hair, flowing in silken waves over her bare shoulders. She wore a classic strapless black dress, moulding to her slim curves with a deceptive simplicity that could only have come from one of the world’s top designers. Discreet jewellery, but impressive nonetheless and no doubt from the family vault.

She was a divorcée, but Primo didn’t care about that. She’d married young and divorced young. No children. Apart from that there was no hint of impropriety. She was thirty, to his thirty-five. She was experienced. Mature. Also, appealingly, she was independent. She had a job. She was a highly respected private art broker. She had a degree in art history and a Master’s specialising in art business.

He had no time for taking on a wife who would be intimidated by him, or unused to his world. He needed to hit the ground running with this marriage—and, crucially, he knew just how to appeal to Faye MacKenzie to entice her to agree.

CHAPTER ONE

‘HOWISYOURdear father? It’s been a while since we’ve seen him, and one hears things...’

Faye MacKenzie forced a bright smile in the face of this man and his cronies who had surrounded her before she could escape. She knew well that the solicitous question and their veneer of concern was just that—a very thin veneer—and that underneath it was a desire for any kind of hint that all was not well, and that her father was on the way out—of life and off the board of MacKenzie Enterprises, upon which he’d sat since his own father had died some forty years before.

‘Gentlemen, I will pass on your regards. My father is just fine—never better, in fact. And as for what you’ve heard... You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, because I am not privy to such things. And now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I need to catch before they leave.’

Faye slipped through a gap in the circle of vultures around her and her smile faded, to be replaced by pursed lips and a set jaw. She snagged a full glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and ducked behind an exuberant plant on the edge of the ballroom, so she could take a break and absorb the fact that all wasnotwell, and coming to this function in the centre of Manhattan this evening had proved her and her father’s suspicions right. People were talking.

She took a gulp of sparkling wine, hoping it might soothe her frayed nerves. A breeze skated over her skin and she looked behind her to see open doors leading out onto a terrace. Air... Air would be good.

She went outside and stood at the wall and tipped her head back for a moment, closing her eyes. The sounds behind her from the packed ballroom—people chatting, laughing, gossiping against the backdrop of classical music—fell away, to be replaced with the sounds of the city far below. A siren, a car horn.

Whenever she was home now, and not travelling for work, she spent most of her time with her father in their upstate family home in Westchester, so she usually enjoyed coming into the city as a diversion. But this evening the sounds of the city weren’t soothing. They were jarring. Because she knew she would have to go home and confirm her father’s worst fears.

She dropped her head back again, opened her eyes and looked out over the view of Manhattan’s glittering skyline unseeingly. Frustration mixed with anxiety churned in her gut again. Why had he been so foolish as to—?

‘Not enjoying the party? I can’t say I blame you.’

Faye went very still. A bizarre thought struck her—the fact that she knew exactly who had just spoken, even though she’d never met him face to face, close up. She’d seen him across the room earlier—it would have been hard to miss him, head and shoulders above everyone else, making her pulse trip with dismaying ease. Dismaying because it was such a cliché to be affected by one of the richest and most gorgeous men in the world as easily as if she was an innocent debutante.

She was no innocent debutante.

She took a breath and turned to the man who was standing beside her, looking at her. She had to tip her head back because he was well over a foot taller than her. And she wasn’t that small. He was far taller and broader up close, and it made her skin feel hot. He was solid. All muscle and bone.

He held out a hand. ‘Primo Holt. I don’t believe we’ve actually ever met?’

Faye might have laughed out loud. Anyone who didn’t know who this man was most likely didn’t have a pulse. But shock kept her from breaking into laughter. She almost wanted to look around them, to see if there was a camera crew capturing her reaction for some kind of a prank show. She might inhabit the same world as Primo Holt, but she was a lot further down the food chain.

She put out her own hand, but just before they made physical contact she had a strange sense that her life was going to be changed for ever the moment they touched. She didn’t have time to pooh-pooh the audacious thought before he was clasping her hand in his, and a powerful surge of electricity ignited her blood and made her skin prickle into goosebumps.

Faye couldn’t help the intake of shocked breath. She saw how his eyes widened a little, as if he too had felt it. They were beautiful eyes. Blue. Piercing and direct. They stood out against the tan of his skin and the stunning architecture of his face. Thick dark golden hair swept back from a broad brow. He really was ridiculously gorgeous—as if the gods had decided to bestow upon this man even more than his birthright of incredible wealth and fortune.

And yet any sense ofbeautywas diluted by a hard jaw and the sheer power field around him that was almost tangible. He was ridiculously masculine, in a world where most men were soft from privilege.

She struggled to make her brain function and somehow managed to say, ‘I’m Faye MacKenzie.’

His hand squeezed hers minutely before letting her go. ‘Yes, I know who you are.’

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