Hired by My Rich Highland Husband, Paperback

Rowan whistled low as she entered the study behind him. ‘Damn. Did Hogwarts have a jumble sale?’

Max suppressed a grunt, but her comparison wasn’t wrong. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominated one wall, their volumes bound in leather and gilt. A stone fireplace commanded another wall, topped by the Drummond family crest carved in stone. Heavy curtains framed windows that overlooked the loch, filtering the Highland morning into something gothic. Stag head, dark wood, leather, the works.

Max hated it.

He took his place behind the enormous desk and regretted it immediately. This was his father’s chair. It felt like a pair of too-tight shoes.

Rowan didn’t sit down in either of the chairs facing the desk. Instead, she began to rove the room like a curious cat, letting her fingertips drift across leather-bound volumes. Her black skinny jeans and grey ‘Fuck the Patriarchy’-jumper clashed with the neo-Gothic grandeur as if she had wandered onto the set of the wrong film.
He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

She moved with deliberate slowness and examined each object as if cataloguing evidence.

‘So this is where all the important man-decisions happen, eh?’

‘If you’re quite finished with the social commentary—’

She paused at a display case, studying antique duelling pistols. ‘These fully loaded? In case this goes south?’

He slanted his eyes. ‘Can we focus, please?’

‘On your spectacularly insane marriage proposal? Sure.’

‘One year,’ he repeated. ‘Complete financial security for you and your family.’ 

‘And in return?’

‘You play the role of devoted wife. Attend events, charm the trustees, convince everyone this is real.’

‘So wife isn’t enough, you request devotion? While you play the role of…?’

‘Myself.’

She laughed.

‘Take it or leave it, Rowan.’

‘Take.’ She didn’t flinch.
Clearly, a woman who stuck to her guns once she made up her mind. He admired that.
‘The terms need to be clear,’ he said. ‘No room for misinterpretation.’

‘Mmm. Like the fact that you’re basically buying a wife?’

‘I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement.’

‘A business merger.’ She took a book from a shelf and flipped through it. ‘With wedding rings instead of contracts.’

‘Oh, there will be contracts.’ He pulled out a portfolio. ‘I had my lawyers drew up a draft as soon as I heard of the trust’s requirements.’

She turned. ‘Prenup, I suppose?’

‘Among other things.’ He spread the preliminary documents across the desk. ‘Non-disclosure agreements, terms of separation, financial arrangements. It can be revised within thirty days of marriage, provided both parties are in agreement.’

‘How romantic.’ She replaced the book and moved to inspect antique maps. ‘Do I get a say in these terms, or am I supposed to sign wherever you point?’

‘That’s why we’re having this discussion.’

‘Ah.’ She drifted to another shelf, this one holding family photographs, and picked up a silver frame. ‘Is this you?’
He knew which photo she meant without looking. Him at seventeen, with Martin. Their last summer. Just weeks before… ‘Put that down.’

She set it back, but her eyes lingered on the image.

‘The terms,’ he said, ‘include public appearances. We’ll need to be seen together, behaving like a normal couple.’
‘Define normal. Because if you expect me to simper and hang off your arm like some trophy wife—’

‘I don’t care how you do it, but I expect you to be convincing. The trust overseeing the inheritance will be watching for any sign of fraud.’

‘So what, we share meaningful glances?’ Her fingertips touched a ceremonial Sgian Dubh. ‘Snog in public?’

‘Some physical affection would be expected, yes.’

‘Christ. But to be crystal clear: I’m not saying “to obey” in the vows.’

Her reflection in the windowpane was overlaid with the grey-green of the loch outside. She was a conundrum, an unpredictable element that clashed with the staid world he had built for himself. He had never met anyone like her, so infuriatingly opinionated and oddly authentic. She was a nuisance, yes. But she was also a practical solution to his problem. A means to an end. An opportunity.

‘This isn’t a romance. We’re not getting married in a church. That won’t even come up.’

‘Great.’ She turned to face him, hands on her hips. ‘Because I’m not a dog. I don’t obey anyone.’

‘I’m beginning to notice that.’

Her lips quirked. ‘Smart man. Also, write that down, I want full access to the archives.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Non-negotiable.’ She stopped next to a floor lamp and ran her thumb along the fringes. ‘I’m a writer, and this place is a goldmine of stories. That’s part of my payment. I came here for a story, Maxwell. I’m not giving that up.’

He stood and braced his hands on the desk. ‘These are private family records!’

‘And I’ll be family, won’t I?’

‘You’ll be my wife in name only.’

‘Give me something to work with.’ She advanced on the desk. ‘Stories. History. Things that matter.’

‘These records are sensitive and private.’

‘So supervise me.’ She was at the desk now, mirroring his pose. ‘Watch me like a hawk if you must. But I need something more than playing house. I’m a journalist and writer, not a gossip columnist.’

‘That remains to be seen.’ He was pulled into those eyes. She was tiny compared to him, yet somehow she made him feel like he was the one being cornered. She would have killed it in any boardroom, and she probably didn’t even know it. Or didn’t care.

‘Limited access,’ he conceded. ‘Under supervision.’
‘And I keep the rights to anything I write.’

‘Within reason.’ He straightened, trying to regain the upper hand in the conversation. His back was already wound up tighter than during his last high-stakes deal. ‘Nothing that could damage the family’s reputation.’

‘Reputation? You’re the one who proposed to a random trespasser. Besides, your precious family secrets are safe with me. I’m interested in the distillery’s history, not your great-aunt Gertrude’s scandalous affair with the gardener.’

Max let out an involuntary groan.

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