Taken by the Millionaire: Hotly Bedded, Conveniently Wedded

She leaned across the table. Opened her mouth. Let him brush the cold, cold spoon against her lower lip before she ate the morsel of ice cream.

‘Good?’ he asked.

She had a feeling he didn’t mean just the ice cream.

‘Good,’ she whispered.

He smiled—a warm, sensual smile that made her catch her breath.

‘My turn,’ he said.

They’d done this so many times before—shared a pudding, tasted each other’s meals, filched buttered toast from each other’s plates or a swig from each other’s mug of coffee with an ease born of long familiarity.

But tonight it was different.

Tonight they were feeding each other like lovers.

And when he ate the proffered piece of her bagrir, she could see that he looked as distracted as she felt.

She had no idea how they got through the rest of their dessert, or the mint tea afterwards. Or when Alex had ordered a taxi, because one was waiting for them outside practically as soon as he’d paid the bill.

He didn’t say anything on the way back to her flat; he simply curled his fingers round her own—reassuring and yet incredibly exciting at the same time.

Holding hands with Alex was something she’d never really done. She was used to him giving her a friendly hug—almost a brotherly hug. But there was nothing remotely fraternal in the way he was holding her hand right at that moment. His touch was gentle—and yet firm enough so that she could feel the blood beating through his veins, in perfect time with her own.

When the taxi pulled up outside her building, Alex paid the driver and opened the car door for her. Isobel’s hands were shaking slightly and she fumbled the entry code for the security system; it took her three goes to press the right buttons in the right order. By the time she unlocked her front door, she was a nervous wreck.

Alex paused, leaning against the doorway. ‘Bel, let me reassure you that I’m planning to sleep on your sofa tonight. I’m not going to push you into anything you don’t want to do.’

That was what worried her most: what she wanted to do. The more she thought about sex with Alex, the more she was tempted to do it.

Except she didn’t want to risk ruining their friendship.

And she definitely didn’t want to tell him her deepest, darkest secret—the thing she’d only told Saskia after extracting a promise from her best friend that Saskia wouldn’t tell anyone else and wouldn’t ever talk about it again.

She couldn’t possibly marry Alex. Even though she was pretty sure he didn’t want children, what if he changed his mind? If anyone had asked her before today, she would’ve said straight out that Alex would never get married. And yet today he’d asked her to marry him. Tomorrow he might want to start a family. Something she wasn’t sure she could do.

Her worries must have shown on her face, because he said softly, ‘Have I ever let you down before?’

‘No.’

‘That’s not going to change.’

Maybe. But if she married him, she’d be letting him down. Taking a choice away without telling him. Which was morally wrong.

Even though she knew she was being a coward, she muttered, ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache. I need an early night.’

‘I’ll make sure I don’t disturb you. Do you want me to bring you a glass of water and some paracetamol?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll manage. I’d better sort the sofa bed out for you.’

‘I’ll do it.’ He reached out to stroke her cheek. ‘See you in the morning, Bel. Hope you get some sleep.’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_626b0d81-96af-5ef5-81c3-6b64a20b21b3)

TRUE to his word, Alex didn’t disturb her. And when Isobel got up the next morning he’d already put the sofa bed back to rights, tidied up and made coffee.

‘Morning. How’s your head?’

‘Better, thanks.’ The fib had blossomed into the truth, and she’d ended up taking paracetamol.

‘Here.’ He passed her a mug of coffee—hot, strong and milky, exactly the way she liked it. ‘Toast?’

‘Yes, please.’ She sat down at the little bistro table in the kitchen. This was the Alex she knew best. Her friend who knew her so well that he could practically read her mind. Though usually she was the one making toast and he was the one filching it from her plate.

‘So what are you doing today?’ he asked.

‘Roman kitchens,’ she said. ‘How about you?’

He joined her at the table after he’d switched on the toaster. ‘A bit of research.’

But nothing that really excited him, from the flatness of his tone. And he still seemed faintly subdued when she left for work.

Alex really needed a new challenge, she thought. Like the job he’d told her about yesterday; his eyes had been almost pure silver with excitement when he’d described it. But she still didn’t see how getting married would make any difference to whether he got the job. There was no reason for her to feel even slightly guilty about turning down his proposal. She’d done the right thing for both of them.

Though she couldn’t stop thinking about him all day. And when she walked in her front door that evening and smelled something gorgeous cooking, guilt bloomed. ‘Alex, I didn’t expect you to cook for me.’

‘No worries.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s as easy to cook for two as it is for one.’

She scoffed. ‘You mean, you were that bored.’

He handed her a glass of red wine. ‘Go away and let me have my mid-life crisis in peace.’

‘It’s my flat. I’m not going anywhere.’ But she sat down at the table. ‘What mid-life crisis? Alex, you’re thirty-five. That’s hardly middle-aged. And you don’t have a conventional desk job, so you can’t exactly take a six-month sabbatical and grow your hair and ride a motorbike round the world in search of adventure. That’s what you do for a day job, for goodness’ sake!’

‘I don’t have a motorbike.’

‘Don’t nit-pick. What I mean is, for you to do the opposite of what you normally do, you’d have to cut your hair short and get an office job and wear a suit and date the same person for more than three consecutive evenings. For most people, your life would be an adventure.’ She looked at him. ‘What mid-life crisis, anyway?’

He wrinkled his nose and turned away to pour himself a glass of wine. ‘Just forget I said anything.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve been quiet for you, today. Something’s obviously bothering you. Come and sit down and talk to me.’

‘I’m busy cooking dinner.’

She sniffed. ‘Chicken casseroled in red wine, baked potatoes and salad?’

He smiled wryly. ‘All right. So most of the cooking’s already done. How did you know what I was cooking, anyway?’