The Sinner's Marriage Redemption. Annie West
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thank you.’ She drew on years of self-discipline, projecting an assurance she didn’t feel as she accepted the glass and the headache tablets, pretending that sitting in a ruined evening gown that left her half naked was in any way normal. ‘Is your mother home?’
‘No. She sleeps at the house when there’s a big party and she has to be up early for the breakfasts.’
Ava nodded, trying not to think of what was happening up at Frayne Hall right now.
‘Are you ready to talk about last night, Ava?’
Flynn’s voice was low and soft, brushing across her skin like plush velvet. She loved the sound of her name on his lips. But she couldn’t let him distract her.
‘Thank you for helping me.’ She put the glass down on the kitchen table. ‘It’s time I got back.’
‘You’re going to the Hall?’ He frowned. ‘Last night you were adamant wild horses wouldn’t drag you there.’
‘Last night I wasn’t myself.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it? You were very upset.’
She froze. What, exactly, had she said? It would be too excruciating if Flynn discovered why she’d driven away from the Hall so recklessly last night.
‘Ava? Don’t you trust me?’ He hunkered down beside her. He looked so appealing, so strong, that for a moment she wanted to confide everything.
Impulsively she reached out to touch his gleaming dark hair. At the last minute she stopped. He couldn’t solve her problems. Only she could do that.
‘Of course I trust you.’ He was the only man she did trust. ‘The way you helped me last night...I can’t tell you what it meant to me.’ She pasted on a smile. ‘But I really need to go now.’
It was time to face the music. Alone.
Seven years later
FLYNN LEANED BACK in his seat, letting the shadows engulf him as he observed the tourists at the front of the boat. Eagerly they chattered, craning out over the Seine to get the perfect shot of Paris in the late-afternoon glow.
Only one of them was, like him, alone. She shoved her sunglasses up, pushing back wheat-gold hair to reveal a peaches and cream complexion in a heart-shaped face.
Even features, a straight nose and a mouth too wide for true beauty shouldn’t arrest his attention. But Flynn tensed, each sinew and muscle tightening.
Animation had always lent a special appeal to Ava’s face and now, when she smiled as Notre Dame passed by, her features were alive with pleasure.
Last time he’d seen her—the night she’d stayed in his mother’s cottage after crashing her car—she’d still worn her youth in her features, despite her woman’s body. He had felt guilty at the tug of attraction he’d experienced. Now, at twenty-four, high cheekbones had emerged, giving her face a character and elegance only enhanced by that carefree smile...
Yet the intensity of his response surprised him. He hadn’t expected that. It was a resonance deep within him—a quickening in his blood.
He frowned, trying to define the sensation. Attraction—yes. She was a good-looking woman. Not his usual style, though, in jeans and a bright floral shirt. He preferred women who projected glamour and restrained sophistication. But Ava could do that too. She’d been born and bred to it.
Flynn nodded. That was the explanation, of course. It was satisfaction he felt. Satisfaction that she really was the right woman. The perfect woman. He’d known within a moment of seeing her that this would work perfectly.
It was always good when a plan came together.
He watched her notice a couple embracing on the embankment, a wistful smile flickering across her mouth.
Curiously, for a moment doubt assailed him. Then he banished it and rose, making his way to the front of the boat.
When he reached her he paused and looked down. Eyes the blue of a perfect English summer afternoon turned up to him, widening. Heat exploded in his belly, swift and low, making him drag in air.
‘Flynn?’
Her voice was husky with surprise. Delectable.
He smiled. He was a lucky man.
* * *
A week later Flynn again looked down into wistful summer-blue eyes and felt pleasure rise as Ava reached for his hand. Slim fingers meshed with his and he curled his possessively around them. Yes!
She looked so disappointed that he was leaving, but equally determined not to show it. Silently he cursed the work emergency that called him away. He was so close. With a little more time—
‘Of course you must go.’ She nodded as if to make up for her lack of enthusiasm. ‘They need you in London.’
‘I know.’ Though his business had grown vast he was a hands-on CEO. He preferred to keep his finger on the pulse rather than delegate.
Now, though, Flynn regretted that no one else could handle this latest problem. He didn’t want to leave Ava with nothing settled between them.
‘Besides...’ Ava tipped up her chin. ‘I leave Paris tomorrow for Prague.’
Did she know how much she revealed with that brave, tight smile and those yearning eyes? In the way she leaned in as if inviting him to scoop her close?
Satisfaction stirred. Perhaps his forced absence wasn’t such a disaster after all. Perhaps it would work to his advantage.
AVA STUDIED THE GUIDEBOOK, telling herself it was good that she could explore Prague alone. She’d see more—not be distracted by dark eyes or Flynn’s lurking smile.
Her week in Paris had been a blur of excitement and pleasure. Something out of a romantic dream.
But she’d known it couldn’t last. Dreams never did.
When Flynn had been called away to London they’d parted with no plans to meet again. It had happened so fast she hadn’t realised that till she’d been watching his broad shoulders cleave through the crowds on the Champs-Elysées, leaving admiring female stares in his wake.
He’d said nothing about the future. Had she just been convenient vacation company?
Ava’s mouth tightened. It was ridiculous to experience this pang of longing. Yet she couldn’t suppress a sigh. Paris, when he’d stayed on after his work meetings just to be with her, extending his few days into a week’s stay, had been the most magical experience of her life.
Face it, Ava. It was the only magical experience you’ve ever had. Fairytales aren’t for you.
She forced herself to scan the guidebook, reading about the defenestration of Prague, when irate locals had tipped three men out of this very castle window.
Defenestration. Such a pompous word. It reminded her of her father. Not that Michael Cavendish would have been caught committing assault. His speciality had been behind the scenes manipulation.
Ava snapped the book shut.
Life would have been better for a lot of people if someone had defenestrated Michael Cavendish years ago.
‘Ava.’
She froze. Surely she was imagining that low voice, like dark chocolate and aged port.
She’d woken flushed and aroused this morning with that voice in her head. Drowsily she’d reached out, half believing