The Last-Minute Marriage

He was standing in the hallway, holding a girl in his arms—his bride—and she was gazing up at him with eyes that were luminescent, trembling, sweetly innocent.

She was so desirable. And she was his wife! He could kiss her right now….

“Cut it out,” she told him, jerking her face back from his and jiggling in his arms. “Marcus Benson, put me down. Right now.”

“I thought—”

“I know what you thought. I can read it in your eyes.”

“Peta…?”

“I knew you’d want something.” She bounced and wriggled some more and he was forced to set her down.

“I don’t want anything.”

She fixed him with an old-fashioned look. “You’re saying you don’t want to take me to bed?”

There was nothing he’d like better.

A wedding dilemma:

What should a sexy, successful bachelor do

if he’s too busy making millions to find a wife? Or if he finds the perfect woman, and just has to strike a bridal bargain….

The perfect proposal:

The solution? For better, for worse, these grooms

in a hurry have decided to sign, seal and deliver the ultimate marriage contract….

Look out for our next CONTRACT BRIDES story,

coming next month in Harlequin Romance^>®! A Wife on Paper by Liz Fielding #3837

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

MARCUS BENSON shoved open the fire-escape door—and ran straight into Cinderella.

Marcus running into anyone was unusual in itself. The influence of the Benson Corporation reached throughout the international business community, and Marcus, at its head, was a man held in awe. Bumping into people was unheard of. A path usually cleared before him.

It wasn’t just power, wealth and intellect contributing to the aura surrounding him. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and superbly fit, with jet-black hair and striking, hawklike features. His charisma and influence were such that women’s magazines were unanimous in declaring him to be America’s most eligible bachelor.

And Marcus was likely to stay that way.

Well, why not? His experience of family life had been a disaster. His time in the armed forces had taught him loyalty and friendship, but loyalty and friendship had ended in tragedy. So Marcus Benson was a man who walked alone.

But that was before he met Peta O’Shannassy.

And Peta’s kids, dogs, cows and catastrophe.

He didn’t see that now, though. All he saw was a kid who reminded him oddly of Cinderella.

But Cinderella should be in her castle kitchen, tending the fire. Hungry. Wasn’t that how the story went? Surely she shouldn’t be eating her lunch on the landing of a New York fire-escape.

Maybe Marcus was making a few assumptions. He assumed this was Cinderella. He assumed it was lunch. In reality, all Marcus saw was a spilled yellow drink, a flying bagel, and, underneath, a tattered kid with bright chestnut curls and skimpy clothes.

So maybe she wasn’t Cinderella.

Who, then? A street kid? She was wearing shorts, a frayed T-shirt and battered sandals. His first impression was of a waif.

His second sensation was horror as waif—and lunch—fought for balance, lost, and tumbled to the next landing.

What had he done?

He’d been in too much of a hurry. There weren’t enough hours in the day for Marcus Benson. He had people waiting.

They’d have to wait. He’d just knocked a kid down half a flight of stairs. She was crumpled in a heap on the next landing, looking as if she wasn’t going anywhere.

It seemed an eternity while she slid, but in fact it was two or three seconds at most. The next moment, Marcus was brushing the bright curls away from her face. Trying to see the damage.

Again he had to do a rethink. She wasn’t a street kid—or not the type that he recognised.

She was clean. Sure, she was covered in what remained of her bagel and her milkshake, but her mop of curls were soft to touch. Her shorts and her T-shirt were freshly laundered under the mess he’d made, and she was…

Cute?

Definitely cute.

She wasn’t a kid.

Maybe she was about twenty, he thought. Her eyes were closed but he had the impression that it wasn’t unconsciousness that was causing her eyelids to stay shuttered. There was a sense of exhaustion about her, as if she was closing her eyes to shut out more than the pain and shock of the moment. Dark shadows smudged deeply under her eyes. She was thin. Far too thin.

His first impression solidified. Cinderella.

Her eyes fluttered open. They were wide green eyes, deep and questioning. Pain-filled.

‘Don’t move,’ he said urgently and she focused on his face, questioning.

‘Ouch,’ she whispered.

‘Ouch?’

She appeared to consider.

‘Definitely ouch,’ she said at last, and the strain in her voice said she was trying hard to make light of something that was worse than just ouch. She didn’t move; just lay on the steel-plated landing as if she was trying to come to terms with a catastrophe that was just one of a series. ‘I guess I spilled my milkshake, huh.’