Contracted As His Cinderella Bride. Heidi Rice
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not forget the massive crush you had on him once upon a time, her subconscious added, helpfully.
‘How about that drink?’ he asked as he let her hand go, to walk to the liquor cabinet in the bookshelves.
She ought to say no. But she was feeling languid and a little giddy. Maybe it was the fire crackling in the hearth, or the sound of the rain still beating down outside, or the cosy feel of the sweats she’d borrowed, or the glimmer of appreciation in his hot chocolate eyes—which was probably all in her imagination. Or maybe it was the fact he had tended her leg.
When was the last time anyone had taken care of her?
Whatever the reason, she couldn’t seem to conjure the ability to be careful or cautious for once. She’d denied herself so many things in the last twelve years—why should she deny herself a chance to have a drink with a man who had always fascinated her?
‘Were you serious about ordering me a cab home?’ she asked. Because she couldn’t drink if she was going to have to cycle all the way to East London.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Then thank you, I’d love a drink.’
‘What would you like? I have whisky. Gin. Brandy.’ He opened the drinks cabinet and bent to look inside, giving her a far too tempting view of tight male buns confined in designer trousers. ‘A spicy Merlot? A refreshing Chablis?’
‘Spoken like a true Frenchman,’ she teased.
‘C’est vrai. I am French. I take my wine seriously,’ he said, laying on his accent extra thick and making her grin.
‘The Merlot sounds good,’ she said.
He poured the red wine into a crystal tumbler, his fingers brushing hers as he passed her the glass. The prickle of reaction sprinted up her arm, but it didn’t scare her or shame her this time. It excited her.
She took a sip of the wine, and the rich fruity flavours burst on her tongue.
‘Bon?’ he asked.
‘Very.’
He leaned his hips against the cabinet and crossed his arms over his chest, making his pectoral muscles flex distractingly against the white linen.
‘You’re not drinking?’ she asked.
‘I have already had one whisky tonight. And I want to keep a clear head.’
‘Oh?’ she said. She wanted to ask why he needed to keep a clear head, but it seemed like a loaded question—especially when he smiled that sensual smile again, as if they were sharing an intimate secret.
She got a little distracted by the astonishing beauty of his face—rugged and masculine—dappled by firelight and the ridged contours of his chest visible through the tailored shirt.
She took another sip of the wine, let the warmth of it spread through her torso. This was definitely better than having to cycle back to Whitechapel in the pouring rain.
Mira Whatsherface’s loss was Ally Jones’s gain.
‘Are you enjoying the view?’ The deep mocking voice had her gaze jerking back to his face.
She blinked, blinded by the heat of his smile. Momentarily.
Her cheeks heated.
For goodness’ sake, Ally, stop staring at his exceptional chest and make some small talk.
‘What’s the deal?’ she asked.
His scarred eyebrow arched. ‘Deal?’
‘The deal you were prepared to enter into a loveless short-term marriage for,’ she elaborated.
‘An extremely important one for my business,’ he said, without an ounce of embarrassment or remorse. ‘There is a large tract of undeveloped land on the Brooklyn waterfront. It is the only undeveloped parcel of that size in the five boroughs. I intend to reclaim it, and build on it. Homes mostly. Unfortunately it is owned by a group of men who refuse to invest with someone they regard as—how did they put it? “Morally suspect.”’ He used finger quotes while sending her a wry smile. ‘My private life needs to be stable and settled without a whiff of scandal while the project is in its early stages. As soon as I was in a position to engineer a board takeover and buy them out, I planned to end the marriage.’
‘So it’s all about money?’ she said.
His smile quirked as if she had said something particularly amusing. ‘Money is important. You of all people should understand that,’ he said, and she felt her blush heat. ‘But no, it’s not all about money. This is about taking my business to the next level. This project will put LeGrand Nationale in a position to dominate the regeneration market in the United States.’
So it wasn’t just about money, it was also about legacy and prestige. Was it any surprise that would be so important to him? When he had been forced to prove himself from a young age, the illegitimate son who had been called a ‘bastard’ by his own father. She couldn’t blame him for his drive and ambition, even though his cynicism made her feel sad.
‘But let’s not talk about business,’ he murmured as he released his arms and walked towards her. His thumb glided down her cheek and her breath caught in her throat, the sizzle of heat darting into her sex. ‘Tell me about you. How did you come to be a bike messenger? Has your life been hard, since that summer, Allycat?’
His voice caressed the childhood nickname in a way that inflamed her senses—but his attention was even more potent. She needed to be careful; this was a casual conversation, nothing more.
‘Not that hard,’ she lied. ‘I became a bike courier because it’s good money. And I can fit it around my classes. I’m... I’m in college at the moment,’ she added, as she found herself staring into his eyes, spotting the strands of gold in the chocolate brown.
‘So you are smart as well as beautiful.’ His thumb glided across her lips and her mouth opened instinctively on a sigh, the blood rushing in her ears.
‘If I asked to kiss you, Alison,’ he said, the rasp of need in his voice both raw and sublime, ‘what would you say?’
She nodded without thinking.
Kissing Dominic probably wasn’t a good idea, but she was incapable of controlling the euphoria rioting in her blood. The knowledge he wanted her was even more intoxicating than his fresh woodsy scent and the feel of his thumb tracing over the pulse in her neck.
‘You must say the word,’ he coaxed as he stroked the well of her collarbone.
‘Yes.’ Please.
‘Merci.’
The hoarse thank-you was as tortured as the need twisting her belly into tight knots.
Her bottom bumped the wall as he pressed her against it, found the hem of her sweatshirt and slid his hands under it to hold her steady.
Then his lips were on hers, hot and firm and seeking. A groan escaped from her constricted throat and his tongue plunged deep into her mouth.
He explored in masterful, demanding strokes as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her sweatpants and cupped her naked bottom.
He ripped his mouth away. ‘No panties?’ he said, the pupils so dilated his chocolate brown eyes had become black.
‘They... They were wet,’ she choked out.
‘I may have to punish you for that, Alison,’ he murmured, the mocking tone so fierce it was only half joking.
Raw need careered through her.
‘I want to see more of you,’ he said. ‘D’accord?’
She nodded again, having lost the power of speech.
Lifting the hem of her sweatshirt, he tugged