Contracted As His Cinderella Bride

He’d always been guarded, and wary, even at sixteen. But had he always been this jaded?

One encounter blasted into her brain, when she’d caught him sitting in one of the chateau’s walled gardens, inhaling deeply on a cigarette after his father had goaded him at the lunch table, calling him a name in French she hadn’t really understood but had known was bad.

‘You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you. Papa will be angry.’

‘Go ahead and tell him if you want, Allycat. He won’t care.’

He’d had the same mocking smile on his face then as he had now, but she’d seen the sadness in his eyes—and had known his father’s insult had hurt him much more than he’d been letting on. There was no sadness in his eyes now, though, just a sort of rueful amusement at her naiveté.

He finished bandaging her leg.

‘All done.’ He ran his thumbs along her calf, and she shivered as a trail of fire was left by the light caress. ‘How does it feel?’

‘Good,’ she said and then flushed at his husky chuckle.

Had he sensed it wasn’t only her leg she was talking about?

A sensual smile curved his lips and her breath clogged in her lungs.

Yes, he did know.

‘Bien,’ he murmured, then grabbed the arms of the chair, caging her in for a moment as he levered himself to his feet.

Her heartbeat thundered into her throat and some other key parts of her anatomy as he offered her his hand.

‘Let’s try walking on it,’ he said.

She placed her fingers in his palm, but as she got to her feet the warm grip had the sweet spot between her thighs becoming heavy and hot.

She tested her leg as he led her across the room.

‘Still good?’ he asked, still smiling that knowing smile.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Still good.’ And couldn’t resist smiling back at him.

Maybe it was dangerous to flirt with him—if that was what they were doing. But she’d never had much of a chance to flirt with anyone before. And certainly not someone as gorgeous as he was.

And let’s 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.’