Billionaire’S Bride For Revenge: Billionaire’s Bride for Revenge. Susan Stephens

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       CHAPTER SEVEN

      BENJAMIN RAPPED LOUDLY on the door to Freya’s quarters, his heart making as much noise in his chest as his knuckles made on the door.

      It was incredible to think these would be her permanent quarters.

      When he had bought the chateau seven years ago there had been a vague image of a future Madame Guillem to share the vast home and land with but it had been a secondary image. He’d bought it for his mother and, at the time, nursing her through her final months had been his only concern. Not long after her funeral, he’d found himself unable to repay the mortgage and forced to face the reality of his financial situation. Nursing his mother had taken him away from his business. The bills had mounted. Suppliers had threatened court action. He’d been days away from losing everything.

      All thoughts of a future Madame Guillem had been buried. He’d dated. He’d had fun. But nothing permanent and definitely nothing serious. He’d had neither the physical time nor the mental space to make a relationship work.

      It was only when he’d reached a position in his life where he could take his foot off the accelerator and slow things down enough for a real life of his own that he’d reached the inescapable conclusion that he would never trust anyone enough to pledge his life to them. As much as he’d regretted it would likely mean he would never have children, another of those vague in-the-future notions, he would not put himself through it. If he couldn’t trust the people he’d loved all his life how could he trust a stranger?

      He didn’t have that worry with Freya. Knowing there was no trust to fake made taking this step more palatable.

      Reading through the contract she and Javier had signed had made it even more so.

      He had read it, shaking his head with incredulity at what it contained.

      He could easily see his old friend signing this cold, emotionless contract but for the hot-blooded woman whose kisses had turned him to fire to sign such a thing stretched the realms of credulity.

      But then, she was already proving to be far more fiery a woman than he’d thought Javier would commit himself to.

      He hadn’t seen her since their explosive kiss that morning. He’d been busy in his office organising things. She’d kept herself busy doing her own thing, his staff keeping discreet tabs on her.

      He knocked again. After waiting another thirty seconds, he pushed the door open and let himself in.

      Her quarters were large and comfortable, a small reception area leading to a bedroom, bathroom and dressing room to the left, and a spacious living area to the right, where the faint trace of music played out through the closed door. He opened it and paused before stepping over the threshold.

      All the furniture had been pushed against the far wall to create a large empty space. The music came from her freshly working phone.

      Freya had contorted herself into the strangest shape he’d ever seen the human body take right in the centre of the room. Her calves and knees were on the carpet as if she’d knelt to pray but instead of clasping her hands before her and leaning forward, she’d gone backwards into a bridge, her flat stomach arched in the air, her elbows on the floor where her toes rested, her face in the soles of her bare feet with her hands clasping both her heels and her temples.

      It looked the most uncomfortable pose a person could manipulate themselves into but she didn’t appear to be in any discomfort. If anything, she seemed at peace, her chest expanding and her stomach softening in long, steady breaths.

      He found his own breath stuck in his lungs. He didn’t dare make a sound, afraid that to disturb her would cause her to injure herself.

      After what felt like hours but in reality was probably less than a minute she uncoiled herself, walking her hands away from her feet then using them to push herself upright.

      Kneeling, she finally looked at him. She showed no concern or surprise at his appearance in her quarters.

      He’d been so entranced with what he’d seen that it was only when her eyes met his that he noticed all she had on were a black vest and a pair of black knickers.

      If she was perturbed that he had walked into her quarters while she had hardly any clothes on she didn’t show it.

      But then, recalling all the years spent touring with Clara Casillas, he had never met a body-shy ballerina before. He’d seen more naked women in the first ten years of his life than if he’d been raised in a brothel. It was a fact of their life. Freya was a woman who spent her life with her body under a microscope, different hands touching it for different reasons, whether to lift, to shape or to dress.