Contracted As His Cinderella Bride. Heidi Rice
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Название: Contracted As His Cinderella Bride
Автор: Heidi Rice
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9781474088053
isbn:
‘But you left me alone for a whole month.’ The pout became more pronounced. ‘I waited for you to come to Klosters but you didn’t. We haven’t slept together in even longer. What did you expect me to do?’
He hadn’t had time to go all the way to Klosters to visit her. The fact he hadn’t been particularly desperate to ease the sexual drought confirmed something else—this agreement had been ill-advised from the start. He’d grown bored of Mira even sooner than he’d expected, in bed as well as out of it.
‘I expected you to keep your mouth off other men. And your legs closed.’
‘Dominic, don’t say things like that.’ The shocked hurt in her eyes looked genuine. Almost. ‘It makes me feel cheap.’
He let his gaze coast down the designer dress he’d paid for.
‘Mira, the one thing you’re not is cheap,’ he said wryly.
She stiffened at the insult.
‘Find your own way out,’ he said. ‘We’re done here.’
‘You... You heartless bastard.’
Mira’s hand whipped out so fast, he heard the crack before the pain blazed across his cheekbone.
He leapt out of his chair, holding her wrist before she could strike him again. But the smarting pain where she’d struck him had a bitter memory spinning back of another slap, from the summer he’d finally been invited into his father’s world—only to be kicked out again a month later—and the voice of the girl who had defended him.
‘You mustn’t hit Dominic, you’ll hurt him, Papa.’
‘Some people deserve to be hurt, ma petite.’
‘You’re right, Mira, I am heartless. I’m also a bastard.’ He ground out the words, the hollow ache in his chest at the memory of that slap an emotion he’d thought he’d cauterised long ago. How infuriating to find he hadn’t...quite. ‘I consider that a strength,’ he added, releasing Mira’s wrist. ‘Now get out. Before I have you arrested for assault.’
Mira’s face collapsed, her lips trembling. ‘I hate you.’
So what? he thought dispassionately, as she swung round and rushed out of his study.
Hearing the front door slam, he walked to the drinks cabinet, swiped the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, then poured himself a glass of single malt Scotch.
He only had a week to find himself another wife to secure the deal he needed to take his business to the next level. The business he’d built from nothing after crawling off his father’s estate that summer, his ribs feeling as if they were being crushed in a vice, the welts on his back burning.
He’d flagged down a truck, and the driver had taken pity on him, giving him a ride all the way to Paris. As he’d sunk in and out of consciousness on that endless, agonising journey, he had promised himself he would never see or speak to his father again. And that he would build something to prove to his father, and everyone else who had rejected him, had belittled or dismissed him, that they were wrong.
He welcomed the sting as the liquor hit his split lip.
He would find another wife. Preferably one who did exactly what he told her and knew how to keep her legs closed. But tonight he planned to celebrate a lucky escape.
‘GET OUT OF my way, you filthy...’ The woman’s voice trailed off into a sneer as she shoved Ally and her bike out of the way.
Ally stumbled, rammed into the gatepost, the bike’s pedal scrapping against her calf as the woman marched past her and got into a sleek red sports car.
Ally hauled the bike up. She would have shouted after the woman, but she was too tired and too anxious to bother—and anyway the woman wouldn’t have heard her in the rain.
The car peeled away from the kerb in a squeal of rubber.
Ally watched the red tail lights disappear round the corner of the Georgian garden square.
Hadn’t that been Mira Whatshername? The woman the wedding ring she had in her pack was for?
The woman had looked furious. Maybe there was trouble in paradise? Ally pushed the thought to one side.
So not your business.
She wheeled the bike to the back of the mansion house, which stood at the end of the square in its own grounds. Taking a fortifying breath, she propped the bike against the back wall and pressed her freezing finger into the brass bell at the trade entrance.
He won’t answer the door. He’ll have staff to do it. Stop freaking out.
The rain had reached monsoon levels as she’d left Mallow and Sons. It beat down on her now, drenching her. The tiny package she’d collected weighed several tons in the bike bag hooked over her back.
Unfortunately the freezing March rain, and the numbness in all her extremities, not to mention the now throbbing ache in her calf muscle, felt like the least of her worries as the harsh memories continued to mess with her head.
Stepping back from the door, she peered up at the house. Every window was dark, bar one on the floor above. Swallowing heavily, she pressed the bell again, with a bit more conviction. A figure appeared at the window. Tall and broad and indistinct through the deluge. Her heartbeat clattered into her throat.
It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him.
The pep talk became a frantic prayer as she detected the sound of footsteps inside the house.
She jerked her bag to her front. She should get the wedding ring out so she could hand it over as soon as the door opened.
She fumbled with the wet fastenings, her heartbeat getting so loud it drowned out the sound of the storm.
A light in the hallway snapped on, casting a yellow glow over the rain-slicked panels, then a large silhouette filled the bevelled glass.
Ally barely had a chance to brace herself before the door swung wide. A tall man filled the space, his face thrown into shadow by the light from the hallway. But Ally’s numbed fingers seized on the bike bag when he spoke—his deep, even voice thrusting a knife into the memories lurking in her belly like malevolent beasts.
‘Bonsoir.’
The French accent rippled over her skin, sending sickening shivers of heat through her chilled body—and making the ball of shame wedged in her solar plexus swell.
How could he still have the power to do that? When she was a grown woman now, not an impressionable teenager in the throes of puberty?
‘You’d СКАЧАТЬ