Contracted As His Cinderella Bride. Heidi Rice
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‘I’m fine,’ she said, drawing out her data console. ‘Sign in the box,’ she added, trying for efficient and impersonal, and getting breathless instead.
He tucked the jeweller’s bag under his arm and took the data-recording device, brushing her hand again.
‘You’re freezing,’ he said, sounding annoyed now and impatient. ‘You should stay until the storm passes.’ He signed his name and handed the device back. ‘It’s the least I can do after dragging you out in this weather on a fool’s errand.’
‘A fool’s errand? How?’ she asked, then wanted to bite off her tongue.
Shut up, Ally, why did you ask him that?
Starting a conversation was the last thing she needed to do. Her heart thumped her chest wall so hard she was amazed she didn’t pass out. To her surprise, though, he answered her.
‘A fool’s errand because I broke off the engagement approximately ten minutes ago...’ The cynical tone reminded her again of the boy.
No wonder Mira Something had been furious. She’d just been dumped.
He ripped open the package and drew out the velvet jeweller’s box, then flipped it open.
Ally’s heart stuttered. The ring was exquisite—a platinum and gold band.
The irony washed through her, as she thought of another ring.
The ring her mother had said his father had offered her all through the summer. A dream that had died that terrible night when Pierre LeGrand had kicked them out, but the loss of which had tortured her mother for the rest of her life.
‘Pierre was the only man who ever really loved me and I ruined it all, baby.’
Her mother had blamed herself, but what had she done to make Pierre so angry?
Dominic snapped the ring box closed, dragging Ally back to the present. ‘Which makes this a rather expensive waste of money.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, trying to swallow down the volatile emotions starting to choke her. Emotions she didn’t want to examine too closely.
‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘The engagement was a mistake. The eighty grand I spent on this ring is collateral damage.’
The offhand remark had the shame and guilt twisting in her gut.
She shoved her data device back into the pocket on her bike bag, her fingers trembling with the effort it was taking to hold back the raw emotions.
What was happening to her? Why was she making this into a big thing, when it really wasn’t? Not any more. Her mother was dead, and so was Pierre. It was all ancient history now.
‘I should go. I’ve got other jobs to get to,’ she said. She just wanted to leave. To forget again. It was too painful to go over all those memories. To remember how bright and vivacious her mother had been that summer, and the hollow shell she had become after it.
‘Come in and have a drink, warm up,’ he said, or rather demanded.
Was he coming on to her? The thought wasn’t as horrific as it should have been, which had the knot of shame in her stomach tightening. But then the clammy feel of the soaked and grubby fabric sticking to her skin made her aware of how much like a drowned rat she must look.
This man dated supermodels and heiresses—women with style and grace and effortless sex appeal. Something she had never possessed, even when she hadn’t spent the last six hours cycling around London’s West End in a monsoon.
‘And we can deal with your leg,’ he added.
‘What?’ she mumbled.
‘Your leg.’ The chocolate gaze dipped. ‘It’s bleeding.’
She glanced down to see blood seeping out of a gash on her calf, exposed by a rip in her leggings. It must have been caused by her altercation with his fiancée—or rather his ex-fiancée—and she’d been too cold to feel it.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I have to go.’
But as she turned to leave, he spoke again.
‘Arrêtes. It’s not nothing. It’s bleeding. It could get infected. You’re not going out there until it has been cleaned.’
The emotion started to choke her. She couldn’t stay, couldn’t accept his kindness—however brusque and domineering.
‘I’ve got work, another job,’ she added, frantically. ‘I can’t stay.’
‘I’ll pay for your time, damn it, if the problem is money. I don’t want an injured cycle messenger on my conscience as well as an eighty-grand ring.’
He was too close, surrounding her in a cloud of spicy cologne and the sweet subtle whiff of whisky. Her pulse points buzzed and throbbed in an erratic rhythm.
But then he hooked a knuckle under her chin, and nudged her chin up.
‘Wait a minute. I do know you.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. For the first time, he was actually seeing her. The intensity of his gaze set off bonfires of sensation all over her chilled skin. She fumbled with the helmet she had hooked over her other arm, desperate to put it on, to stop him recognising her.
But it was too late as the swift spike of memory crossed his face.
‘Monique?’ he murmured.
Tears stung her eyes. ‘I’m not Monica. Monica’s dead. I’m her daughter.’
‘Allycat?’ he said, looking as stunned as she felt.
Allycat.
The nickname reverberated in her head, the one he’d given her all those years ago. The name she had been so proud of. Once.
As if he’d flipped a switch, the adrenaline she’d been running on ever since she’d got the commission drained away, until all that was left was the shame, and anxiety. And the inappropriate heat.
She dragged in tortured breaths, struggling to contain the choking sob rising up her torso. She didn’t have the strength to resist him any more. And what would be the point, anyway?
‘Breathe, Allycat,’ he murmured.
She gulped in air, trying to steady herself, and got a lungful of his scent—spiced with pine and soap.
‘Bad night?’
‘The worst.’ She bit back the harsh laugh at his sanguine tone. And shuddered, the pain in her ribs excruciating as she struggled to hold the sobs at bay.
What exactly are you so upset about? Having Dominic LeGrand pity you isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
‘I know the feeling,’ he said, the wry smile only making him look more handsome—and more utterly unattainable.
She forced a smile to her lips as she shifted away from him, and scooped up the helmet that had clattered to the floor.
‘It was nice seeing you again, Dominic,’ she said, although nothing could have been further from the truth. Nice had never been a word to describe Dominic LeGrand. ‘I really do have to go now, though.’
But as she headed for the door, he stepped in front of her. ‘Don’t go, Allycat. Come in and dry off and clean up your leg. My offer still stands.’
She lifted her head, forced herself to meet his gaze. But where she’d expected pity, or impatience, all she saw was a pragmatic intensity—as if he were trying to see into her soul. And something else, something she didn’t recognise or understand—because it almost looked like desire. But that couldn’t be true.
‘I can’t stay,’ she said, hating the tremble in her voice.