Contracted As His Cinderella Bride. Heidi Rice

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      ‘By bringing up the end of your engagement. I didn’t mean to remind you of it. I’m sure it must be awful for you. The break-up?’

      She was babbling, but she couldn’t help it, because he had settled back onto his heels and was staring at her as if she’d lost her mind.

      ‘Alison,’ he said and she could hear the hint of condescension. ‘In the first place, you haven’t upset me. She has, by her spoilt, unpleasant behaviour. She made you bleed...’

      ‘I’m sure it was an accident,’ she said, despite the warm glow at his concern.

      ‘Knowing Mira and her selfish, capricious temperament, I doubt that,’ he said. ‘And in the second place, the break-up has not upset me. The engagement was a mistake and the marriage would have been an even bigger one.’

      ‘But you must have loved her once?’ she said, then felt like a fool, when the rueful smile widened.

      ‘Must I?’ he said. ‘Why must I?’

      ‘Because... Because you were going to marry her?’ Wasn’t it obvious?

      He tilted his head, and studied her. ‘I see you’re still as much of a romantic as you were at ten,’ he said, with much more than just a hint of condescension.

      ‘I wasn’t ten that summer, I was thirteen,’ she countered.

      ‘Really?’ he said, mocking her now. ‘So grown up.’

      She shifted in her seat, supremely uncomfortable. It was as if he could see right past the bravado, the pretence of maturity, to the girl she’d been all those years ago when she’d idolised him. But she wasn’t that teenager any more, she was twenty-five years old. And maybe she didn’t have much relationship experience, but she had enough life experience to make up for it.

      ‘If I was a romantic then,’ she said, because maybe she had been, ‘I’m certainly not one now.’

      ‘Then why would you believe I was in love with Mira?’ he said, as if it were the most ridiculous thing in the world.

      ‘Maybe because you were planning to spend the rest of your life with her.’ She wanted to add a ‘Duh’ but managed to control it. The room was already full to bursting with sarcasm.

      ‘It wasn’t a love match,’ he said, the pragmatic tone disconcerting as he bent his head and continued tending her leg as he spoke. ‘I needed a wife to secure an important business deal and Mira fit the bill. Or so I thought. But even if I hadn’t discovered my mistake in time, the marriage was only supposed to last for a few months.’

      ‘Your marriage had a sell-by date?’ she asked, shocked by the depth of his cynicism.

      ‘I might have been misguided enough to propose to Mira,’ he said, smiling at her as he grabbed the bandage on the side table. ‘But I would never be foolish enough to shackle myself to her, or any woman, for life.’

      ‘I see,’ she said, although she really didn’t.

      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.

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