Excerpt

“But our wedding night should be commemorated, should it not?” he asked.

“I don’t—”

But he wasn’t really asking.

His mouth came down on hers as uncompromising and hard as she remembered, as he had been since she’d met him so few hours before. This time he tasted her lips only briefly, before moving across her jaw, her temple, learning the shape of her. His mouth was hot. Gabrielle felt her own fall open in shock—in response. She felt feverish. Outside herself.

Something in her thrilled to it—to him—even as the rest of her balked at such a naked display of ownership. Her hands flew to his shoulders, though it was like pushing against stone.

Then, as suddenly, he set her away from him, a very masculine triumph written across his face.

“You are mine,” he said. Claiming her.

Caitlin Crews discovered her first romance novel at the age of twelve. It involved swashbuckling pirates, grand adventures, a heroine with rustling skirts and a mind of her own, and a seriously mouthwatering and masterful hero. The book (the title of which remains lost in the mists of time) made a serious impression. Caitlin was immediately smitten with romances and romance heroes, to the detriment of her middle school social life. And so began her life-long love affair with romance novels, many of which she insists on keeping near her at all times.

Caitlin has made her home in places as far-flung as York, England, and Atlanta, Georgia. She was raised near New York City, and fell in love with London on her first visit when she was a teenager. She has backpacked in Zimbabwe, been on safari in Botswana, and visited tiny villages in Namibia. She has, while

visiting the place in question, declared her intention to live in Prague, Dublin, Paris, Athens, Nice, the Greek Islands, Rome, Venice, and/or any of the Hawaiian islands. Writing about exotic places seems like the next best thing to moving there.

She currently lives in California, with her animator/ comic book artist husband and their menagerie of ridiculous animals.

Pure Princess, Bartered Bride

By

Caitlin Crews

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jane Porter: inspiration, mentor, and the big sister I always wanted.

Thank you, for everything.

Prologue

LUC GARNIER did not believe in love.

Love was madness. Agony, despair and crockery hurled against walls. Luc believed in facts. In proof. In ironclad contracts and the implacable truth of money. He had been relentless and focused all his life and as a result, wildly successful. He did not believe this was a matter of luck or chance. Emotion played no part in it.

Just as emotion played no part in picking out his future bride.

The Côte d’Azur preened itself in the warm afternoon sun as Luc strode down a side street in Nice, headed for the Promenade des Anglais, where the famously luxurious Hotel Negresco sat in gracious Victorian splendor, looking out onto the sparkling blue waters of the Baie des Anges and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. The Hotel Negresco was one of Luc’s favorite hotels in France, and thus the world, overflowing as it was with museum-quality art and a famously accommodating staff—but he had a far more pressing reason for visiting Nice’s landmark hotel today.

Luc had flown in that morning from his Paris headquarters, determined to see for himself if the latest potential bride—who looked so good on paper—looked even half as good in person. But then, they all looked good on paper, as they had to be of a noble family to so much as make his list. The last woman he had considered for the position had seemed like a perfect match on paper—but a few days spent tailing Lady Emma around her London society life had quickly revealed that the young noblewoman had a secret penchant for late nights with rough gentlemen.

It wasn’t that Luc necessarily minded that his wife might have a past—he simply preferred that, whatever the past was, it had involved the sort of people who would not make interesting headlines should the tabloids catch wind of them. Lady Emma Prefers Goths to Garnier. He could imagine it all too well.

“That’s the way modern women are these days,” his number two man had told him, after Luc had discovered Lady Emma’s late-night bar-crawling. Alessandro was the closest thing Luc had to a friend, but even so, he’d thrown his hands up in the air when Luc had glared at him across his opulent Paris office.

“Modern women may be as loose as they like,” he’d snapped. “But my wife will not be. Is this so much to ask?”

“This is not all you ask!” Alessandro had replied with a laugh. He’d begun to tick off the necessary items on his fingers. “She must be noble, if not royal, to honor your bloodline. She must be pure in word and deed. She must never have been young or stupid, as no scandal can ever have touched her.” He’d shaken his head sadly. “I do not think this woman exists.”

“She may not,” Luc had agreed, closing the dossier he had compiled on Lady Emma and setting it aside with distaste. “My mother taught me long ago that beauty is too often a mask for dishonor and betrayal. One cannot depend on it—only on an irreproachable reputation.” He had smiled at Alessandro. “If she does exist, I will find her.”

“And what if this paragon does not wish to marry you when you have hunted her down?” Alessandro had asked dryly. “What then?”

Luc had laughed. “Please.” He’d sat back in his chair and gazed at his friend, crooking his brow in amusement. “That is not very likely, is it? What woman would not benefit from becoming my wife? What can any woman possibly want that I cannot give her? I will place all of my wealth and power at the disposal of whatever woman can fill the position.”

Alessandro had sighed heavily, his romantic Italian soul no doubt mortally wounded at the prospect of filling the position of wife. “Women like romance and fairy tales,” he’d said. Luc rather thought Alessandro was the one who preferred such fripperies, but had not said so. “They do not want marriage to be conducted as a business proposition.”

“But that is what it is,” Luc had said, shrugging again. “The correct woman must understand this as well.”

“I fear you will be looking for a very long time, my friend,” Alessandro had said, shaking his head.

But Luc had never been afraid of hard, seemingly fruitless work, he reflected as he turned the corner and saw the famous façade of the Hotel Negresco before him. In fact, he thrived on it. His famous parents had died when he was barely twenty-three, and he had had to make his own way in the world in their considerable shadows. Even before their deaths in a boating accident he had been more or less on his own—his parents having been far more interested in each other and their endless romantic complications than in their son.

Luc could not bring himself to regret his unorthodox upbringing, no matter how many people seemed to think it pointed to some lack in him—something no one had dared say to his face in some time. Growing up in such a way, surrounded by so much heightened emotion mixed with jealousy and betrayal and avid outside interest, had stripped him of many of the needs that ruled other men. It had also made him that much more successful, which was all he cared about—for what else was there? He did not need the emotions that other men did. He was not interested in love, and all the upheaval and agony it brought. He wanted a wife in the most traditional sense, for the most traditional reasons. He was nearing forty now, and it was time he created a family to carry on his legacy and his mother’s royal Italian bloodline. The wife he chose would have to be from an equally august bloodline—noble for centuries, at the very least, as his family was. It was tradition. It was his duty.

He needed a wife who knew her duty.

He strode into the elegant old hotel, past the white-gloved doormen, and did not bother to gape like a tourist at the sparkling lobby that emanated old French charm and elegance all around him. He had seen it many times before. The Hotel Negresco prided itself on its luxuriousness. Luc made his way toward the Salon Royal, with its Gustave Eiffel-designed dome and Baccarat chandeliers sparkling over a crowd of some of the world’s foremost philanthropists. He ignored the well-dressed and genteel throng, as well as the priceless art that graced the walls. He searched the room until his eyes fell on the woman he’d been looking for—Princess Gabrielle of Miravakia.

She stood out from the crowd in a good way, he was pleased to note. She did not call attention to herself. She did not display her chest in an inappropriate manner or hang all over the men who competed for her attention. She seemed cool and elegant, refined and royal, as she stood in the center of a knot of extremely well-dressed patrons.

She was lovely—but then, she should be. She was a royal princess, after all—the heir to her country’s throne. He ignored her looks and concentrated on the way she presented herself: her public persona, which was by all accounts completely without blemish.

Her hair was swept back into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore a simple cocktail dress with restrained hints of jewelry at her ears and one wrist. Nothing flashy or gauche. She was all sophistication and class, presiding over this great reception for one of her pet charities with all the grace for which she was known. She was every inch the perfect princess.

He liked what he saw. But he couldn’t trust what she showed the world at a reception for six hundred. Could a woman really be as above reproach as this one appeared to be?

Luc signaled a passing waiter and requested a drink, then moved to the outskirts of the crowd, from where he could watch her without being observed in return. She was in Nice for the week, he knew, and was expected to make a number of appearances—which interested him less than what she got up to in her free time.

He was sure that, like Lady Emma before her, Princess Gabrielle would eventually show herself to him. He had only to wait, and watch.

But as Luc watched the perfect-looking princess make her rounds, he allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism as he sampled his drink.

If she proved to be as perfect as she looked, he had done it. He had finally found his bride.

Chapter One

“DO YOUR duty,” her father ordered her only moments before the organ burst into life—his version of an encouraging speech. He frowned at her. “Make me proud.”

That was the entirety of his fatherly pre-wedding advice.

The words swam in Princess Gabrielle’s head even as the heavy weight of her silk taffeta wedding gown tugged at her and slowed her down. The long train swept back from her dress, extending almost ten feet behind her as befitted a royal princess on her wedding day. Gabrielle only knew that it was hard to walk with ten feet of fabric to pull along with her, though she kept her spine erect and her head high—as always.

Thank God for the veil that covered her face, hiding the expression she was afraid she couldn’t control for the first time in her twenty-five years—to say nothing of the prickly heat flooding her eyes.

She could not cry. Not here. Not now.

Not as she walked down the aisle of her kingdom’s holiest of cathedrals, holding fast to her father’s arm. Her father—King Josef of Miravakia. The man she had spent her life trying—and failing—to please.

Even at university she had been too determined to win her father’s elusive approval to do anything but study hard. While her peers had partied and explored all that London had to offer, Gabrielle had lost herself in her books and her research. After university, despite the degree she’d obtained in Economics, she had dedicated herself to charity work, according to her father’s expectations of the Crown Princess of Miravakia.

Anything and everything to curry her father’s favor. It was the mantra of Gabrielle’s life.

Even this. Marriage to a perfect stranger of his choosing.

Why was she going through with this? Hers was not some ancient feudal kingdom—and she was no chattel. But if there was a way to go against her father’s wishes without incurring his wrath she did not know what it was. She knew that she could have said no. Couldn’t she? Or was she simply too desperate to prove to her father that she was worthy of his approval—even when the stakes were so high?

“I have accepted a marriage proposal,” King Josef had told her one morning, barely three months ago, jolting Gabrielle from her contemplation of the day’s schedule. He had not glanced up from his breakfast as he spoke. It had surprised Gabrielle that he’d spoken at all—he generally preferred to breakfast in silence, with only his newspapers spread around him, though he insisted that she join him every morning.

“A marriage proposal?” Gabrielle had been amazed—her father had shown no interest in remarrying, not in all the long years since Gabrielle’s mother had died of cancer when Gabrielle was barely five.

“I found the combination of a royal bloodline and near-limitless wealth sufficiently attractive,” the King had said, almost thoughtfully. “And it will certainly bolster the standing of the Miravakian throne.”

It had been as if he was discussing the purchase of a vehicle. But Gabrielle’s thoughts had raced ahead anyway. Was she really to have a stepmother? She rather thought it might be fun to have someone else around the palazzo. Much as she loved her father and tried to please him, he was not an easy man.

“There will be no tedious long engagement,” he had continued, touching his thin, disapproving lips with his linen napkin and signaling one of the hovering footmen for more coffee. Finally, he’d looked at her. “I’ve no patience for such things.”

“No, of course not,” Gabrielle had agreed. Her mind had been racing wildly. Who on earth could possibly meet her father’s high standards? He had a universally low opinion of almost every woman he’d ever encountered, as far as she knew—and then again, as King of Miravakia, he would only consider a bride from a select class of royals. And how like him to keep his intentions a secret, she’d thought, almost amused.

“I expect you to conduct yourself well,” he’d said, sipping at his coffee. “None of the hysterics that seem to afflict your sex when they come into contact with a wedding ceremony, thank you.”

Gabrielle had known better than to respond to that.

He’d sniffed. “I have confidence that you can put everything together quickly and efficiently, with as little disruption as possible.”

“Of course, Father,” Gabrielle had said at once. She had never planned a wedding before, but how different could it be from the state events she’d put together in the past? She had a marvelous staff whom she already knew could perform miracles. And who knew? Perhaps a new wife would bring out the softer side of her stern father. She’d give quite a bit to see that.

Lost in her reverie, she had been startled when her father had pushed back his chair and stood. He’d moved toward the door without another word—the subject closed. Gabrielle had almost laughed. How typical of him. She’d felt a surge of affection for his brusque ways—because clearly something romantic lurked beneath the cold exterior.

“Father,” she had called, stopping him before he quit the room. He’d turned back to face her, a slight frown between his eyebrows.

“What is it?” he had asked impatiently.

“Am I to know the bride’s name?” she had asked, biting back an indulgent smile.

He’d stared at her. “You need to pay closer attention, Gabrielle, if you are to succeed me without running this country into the ground,” he’d snapped, his arctic tone making her wince. His frown had deepened as he’d glared at her. “You, obviously, are the bride.”

And then he’d turned on his heel and strode from the room, without a backward glance.

In the cathedral, Gabrielle felt her breath catch in her throat as the memory of that morning washed over her, while her pulse fluttered wildly. Panic was setting in, as heavy around her as the veil she wore and the train she trailed behind her. She fought to pull air into her lungs—ordered herself to stay calm.

Her father would never forgive her if she made a scene. If she showed anything but docile acceptance—even gratitude—for the way he’d chosen to manage her affairs. Her life.

Her marriage.

Gabrielle felt the crisp, heavy sleeve of her father’s ornamental coat beneath her trembling fingers as he led her down the long aisle, his measured steps bringing her closer and closer to her fate.

She couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think of him—her groom. Soon to be her husband. A man she had never even met, and yet he would be her spouse. Her mate. King of her people when she became their queen. Gabrielle’s lips parted on a sound that was far too close to a sob—though it was thankfully hidden in the swirl of music that surrounded her.

She could not. Not here. Not now. It was too late.

The cathedral was packed to capacity on all sides, filled with Europe’s royals and assorted nobles. Political allies and strategic partners of her father’s. The music soared toward the stained glass heights, filling the space and caressing the carved marble statues. Outside, she knew, the people of Miravakia were celebrating their princess’s wedding day as a national holiday. There would be rejoicing in the streets, the papers claimed, now that their Gabrielle had found her husband. Their future king.

A man she did not know and had never seen—not in person. Not face-to-face.

Her husband-to-be was a man who had won his wife through contracts—meetings with her father, bargains struck and approved without her knowledge or consent. Her father had not asked Gabrielle for her input—he had not considered her feelings at all. He had decided that it was time she married, and he had produced the bridegroom of his choice.

And Gabrielle never argued with her father. Never rebelled, never contradicted. Gabrielle was good. Obedient. Respectful to a fault. In the hope that her father would one day respect her back. Love her, maybe—just a little.

Instead, he’d sold her off to the highest bidder.

Luc felt triumph surge through him as he watched the woman—soon to be his wife—walk toward him down the long ceremonial aisle. He barely noticed the arching stained glass above him as he stood at the altar, or the hunched statues of gargoyles peering down at him—his attention was focused entirely on her.

Finally.

Luc’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he thought of his reckless, thoughtless mother and the destruction she had wrought with her rebellions. Her “passions.” But Luc was not his temperamental, easily manipulated father. He would not stand for such behavior—not from his wife.

She must be above reproach. She must be practical—as this was to be a marriage on paper first and flesh afterward. But most of all she must be trustworthy. Because Luc, unlike many of his station, would not tolerate disloyalty. There would be no discreet affairs in this marriage. He would accept nothing less than one hundred percent obedience. There would be no tabloid speculation, no scandals for the voyeurs to pick over. Never again.

He’d searched for years. He’d rejected untold numbers of women before arriving at near misses like Lady Emma. As with everything in his life, from his business to the personal life he guarded ferociously, Luc’s refusal to compromise had first isolated, then rewarded him.

Because he had not compromised, because he did not know the meaning of the word, he had exactly what he wanted. The perfect princess. At last.

Princess Gabrielle was biddable. Docile—as evidenced by her presence in the cathedral today, calmly walking down the aisle into an arranged marriage because her father had ordered her to do so. So far, so good, he thought with deep satisfaction as he watched her slow, sure approach.

He remembered the sun-drenched days when he’d followed her in Nice, her seemingly effortless poise, no matter how many clamored for her attention. She had never caused a single scandal in her life. She was known for her serenity and her complete lack of tabloid presence. When she made the papers it was in recognition of her charity work. Never for her exploits. Compared to the other royals who debauched themselves all over Europe, she might be a saint. Which suited Luc just fine.

Luc Garnier had built an empire based on his perfectionist streak. If it was not perfect, it would not carry his name.

His wife would be no different.

He had left nothing to chance. He had had others collect the initial information, but then he had made the final decision—as he always did, no matter the acquisition in question. He had followed her personally, because he knew that he could not trust anyone’s opinion but his own. Not when it came to a matter of such importance. Others might make mistakes, or overlook seemingly small details that would later prove to be of importance—but not Luc. He would never have approached her father if he had not been absolutely satisfied that Princess Gabrielle was not just the best choice, but the only choice for his bride.

Luc had met with King Josef to settle the final contracts in the King’s sumptuous suite at the Hotel le Bristol in Paris, with its stunning view of the great Sacré-Coeur basilica that rose, gleaming white, and towered above the city from Montmartre.

“You do not wish to meet her?” the older man had asked when the business was done, settling back in his chair to enjoy his port.

“It is not necessary,” Luc had replied. He had inclined his head. “Unless you wish it?”

“What is it to me?” the King had asked, letting out a puff of air through his nose. “She will marry you whether you meet her or not.”

“You are certain?” Luc had asked lightly, though he had not in truth been concerned. Arrangements would never have reached this stage if the King had not been sure of his daughter’s obedience. “Ours is an unusual settlement in this day and age. A princess and a kingdom in exchange for wealth and business interests—I am told this sounds like something out of a history book.”

The King had made a dismissive noise. “My daughter was raised to do the right thing regarding her country. I have always insisted that Gabrielle understands her position necessitates a certain dignity.” The King had swirled his port in its tumbler. He had frowned. “And great responsibility.”

“She appears to have taken it to heart,” Luc had said, looking at his own drink. “I have never heard her mentioned without reference to her grace and composure.”

“Of course.” The King had seemed almost taken aback. “She has known all her life that her role as princess would come before any more personal considerations. She will be a good queen one day—though she requires a firm hand to guide her.” He’d sniffed. “You will have no trouble with her.”

No trouble, Luc had thought with deep satisfaction, would suit him perfectly.

The King had waved his hand, seeming perturbed that they had spoken so long about something he found far beneath his notice. “But enough of that. Let us drink to the future of Miravakia.” He had raised his glass.

“To the future of Miravakia,” Luc had murmured in response. She would be his wife, and finally, finally, he would prove to himself and to the world that he was not cut from the same histrionic cloth as his late parents. Finally he would prove that he, Luc Garnier, was above reproach as well.

“Yes, yes,” King Josef had said, and then raised a brow at Luc, as if sharing a confidence. “And to women who know their place.”

As she moved closer now, down the cathedral’s long aisle, Luc let himself smile, though he did not relax.

She was perfect. He had made sure of it. And now she was his.

Gabrielle could see him now, from beneath her veil, as she finally approached the altar. He stood straight and tall at the front of the cathedral, his gaze seeming to command her even as she walked toward him. Toward their future.

Luc Garnier. Her groom. Gabrielle had never met him—but she had researched him in the months since her father had announced his name. He was descended from centuries of Italian royalty on his mother’s side, with a French billionaire father whose fortunes he had doubled before he turned twenty-five. His parents’ tumultuous love affair had made headlines while Luc was still young. They had perished in a boating accident when Luc was still in his early twenties, which many claimed was the reason he was so driven, so determined. She fancied she could see his ruthlessness in the line of his jaw, the gleam of his dark eyes.

I can’t do this—

But she was doing it.

She had no choice—she had given herself no choice—but she didn’t have to watch it happen. She kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t want to look at this man—this stranger who would soon be her husband—but she could feel him next to her, above her, as her father handed her off. Luc’s large hands took her trembling fingers between his, and guided her the final few steps toward the bishop.

Gabrielle’s senses went into overload. Her heart pounded against her ribs while tears of anger and something else, something darker, pooled behind her eyes and threatened to blind her.

He was so masculine, so unyielding. Next to her, his big body seemed to dwarf hers. His body radiated power and menace like heat, surging from their clasped hands through Gabrielle’s veins—making her limbs feel dangerously weak.

This is just another panic attack. She ordered herself to breathe. To get a hold of herself and the riot of confusion that made her tremble against the man at her side.

The stranger her father had sold her to.

If Gabrielle closed her eyes she could imagine herself out in the sunshine, basking in the cool winds that swept down from the Alps on the mainland and scrubbed the island clean and cool even at the height of summer. Black pines and red roofs spread across the hilly island, cascading to the rocky beaches that lined the shore. Gabrielle’s tiny country was a fiercely independent island in the Adriatic Sea, closer to the rugged Croatian coastline to the east than Italy to the west, and she loved it.

For her country, her father, she would do anything.

Even this.

But she kept her eyes closed and imagined herself anywhere but here.

Anywhere at all…

“Open your eyes,” Luc ordered her under his breath, as the wizened bishop performed the ceremony before them. The silly creature had gone stiff next to him, and he could see her eyes squeezed shut beneath her veil—so tight that her mouth puckered slightly.

He felt her start, her delicate hands trembling against his. Her fingers were cold and pale. Her features were indistinct behind the ornate veil, but he could see the fabric move with each breath she took.

“How…?” Her voice was the slightest whisper of sound, but still it tickled his senses. Luc’s gaze traveled over the elegant line of her neck, exposed beneath the translucent shimmer of her veil. She was made of fine lines and gentle curves, and he wanted to put his mouth on every one of them.

The rush of desire surprised him. He’d known that she was beautiful, and had anticipated that he would enjoy marital relations with her. But this was something more than enjoyment. He was aware of the tension in her shoulders, the ragged edge to her breathing. He was aware of her, and he could hardly see her face through the veil. He felt lust pool in his groin and radiate outward, so that even the touch of her fingers at an altar three feet from the bishop sent heat washing through him.

Then he realized that she was shaking. Perhaps she was not quite as sanguine about this wedding as he’d supposed.

Luc almost laughed. There he was, imagining their wedding night in vivid, languorous detail, while his bride was awash in nerves. He couldn’t blame her—he knew that many found him intimidating. Why shouldn’t she?

“We will suit each other well,” he whispered, trying to sound reassuring. An impulse entirely foreign to him—as alien as the urge to protect her that followed it.

He felt the shiver that snaked through her then, and he squeezed his fingers tighter around hers.

She was his, and he took care of what was his.

Even if he was what had made her nervous in the first place.

Gabrielle forced herself to open her eyes and to take part in her own wedding, even though the stranger’s—her husband’s—voice sent spasms of uneasiness throughout her body. His hand was too hot against hers. He was too close.

Thank God she still had her veil to hide behind.

The bishop intoned the old, sacred words, and Gabrielle had the sensation that everything was moving too fast. It was as if she was both present and far-distant, and out of control either way. She felt Luc’s strong hands on hers as he slid the platinum ring onto her finger. She marveled at the size and power of his hand, in contrast to the cool metal she held as she did the same. She heard his voice again when he repeated his vows, this time confident and loud, connecting hard with something deep in her belly.

But nothing could prepare her for the moment when he pulled back her veil, exposing her face to his uncompromising gaze. Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. Fear, she told herself, though another part of her scoffed at that idea. She could feel him in her pores, surrounding her, claiming her. Something in her wanted it—wanted him—even though he seemed so overwhelming. Even though he was a stranger.

The cathedral fell away. It was as if the two of them stood alone, Gabrielle naked and vulnerable before him. She had known that he was darkly, disturbingly handsome—that women on several continents vied for his attentions. So close, Gabrielle could see why.

His thick dark hair brushed the top of his stiff white collar. The traditional dove-gray morning suit he wore emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His features were hewn from stone. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, though she could not imagine this man laughing. He looked harsh, beautiful in the way that the mountains were, and equally remote. His dark gray eyes looked almost black in the light from above, beneath his dark brows. His mouth was set in a firm, flat, resolute line.

He was her husband.

He was a stranger.

More than this, he was a man. And so intensely masculine that Gabrielle could not breathe as he regarded her for a searing moment. As if she was prey and he the dangerous predator. That odd part of her that she’d never felt before thrilled to the idea.

Luc stepped closer, filling Gabrielle’s vision. She could smell the hint of his expensive cologne, could see the faint challenge in his gaze. Her lips parted as an unfamiliar sensation coursed through her—something having to do with the accelerated kick of her heart, the disturbing heaviness creeping through her limbs.

One big hand molded to the curve of her cheek. Anchoring her. Holding her. Gabrielle dared not move. She barely breathed. She locked her knees beneath her, suddenly afraid she would topple over.

The heat from his open palm was shocking. It ignited a fire that streaked through her body, confusing her even as something sweet and hot pooled deep inside. Her stomach clenched, and then began to ache. Her breath came in shallow bursts.

Luc did not look away. He tilted her face toward her as he moved even closer, and then he settled his firm mouth against hers.

It was no kiss. It was an act of possession. A hard, hot brand of his ownership.

Luc pulled back, his gaze penetrating, then returned his attention to the bishop—as if Gabrielle had ceased to be of interest to him the moment he’d claimed her.

Gabrielle wanted to scream. She felt the need for it churning inside her, clamoring against the back of her throat.

He was just like her father. He could—and would, she felt certain, in a rush of intuition and fear—dictate her every move. She would be expected to produce heirs. To be naked in front of a man who made her feel naked already—even dressed in all her layers of white taffeta, embroidery, pearls.

She could not do this. Why had she agreed to do this? Why had she not said no to her father, as any sane woman would have?

Luc took her hand again, turning Gabrielle to face the congregation. Her attendants moved behind her, moving the great train as the couple began the long walk down the length of the cathedral.

They were man and wife. She was married. Gabrielle’s head spun. Luc placed her small hand on his arm and led her down the aisle.

She could feel the power he held tightly leashed in his body as he walked next to her.

Everything inside Gabrielle rose up in protest, making her knees wobble beneath her and her eyes glaze with tears.

This was a terrible mistake.

How could she have let this happen?

Chapter Two

HIS bride was afraid of him.

“I make you anxious,” Luc said in an undertone, his attention trained on her as they stood together in the receiving line after the ceremony.

She smiled, she greeted, she introduced—she was the perfect hostess. And the look she sent him was guarded.

“Of course not,” she murmured, smiling, and then turned her attention to one of her cousins, the Baron something-or-other.

Luc expected nothing less from a princess so renowned for her perfect manners, her propriety. Much unlike her royal contemporaries—including the cousin whose hand she clasped now. Luc’s mouth twisted as he thought of them, his supposed peers. Paparazzi fodder, like his parents had been—living out their private dramas in full, headline-shrieking view of the voyeuristic world, no matter that it humiliated their only son.

“Congratulations,” the cousin said effusively, shaking Luc’s hand—his own far too soft and fleshy. Luc eyed him with a distaste he did not bother to hide, and the man’s smile toppled from his mouth.

Luc had vowed years ago that he would never live such a useless, empty life. He had vowed that he would never marry until he found a woman as private as he was—as dedicated to not just the appearance of propriety, but of serenity. At nearly forty, he had been waiting a long time.

“Thank you,” he said to the Baron with the barest civility. The other man hurried away. Next to him, Luc felt his new wife tense. Perhaps she was not afraid of him, as she’d said. Perhaps it was only a certain wariness. While Luc could not blame her, when grown men quaked before him, it would not do. A healthy respect was one thing, but he did not want her skittish.

He gazed at her. Princess Gabrielle was the real deal. More than simply lovely—as he’d thought before—she was beautiful as a princess should be. Her glorious blue-green eyes were said to be the very color of the Adriatic. Standing next to her in her father’s palazzo, high on the hill overlooking the sea, Luc believed it.

Her masses of honey-blond hair were swept up today, the better to anchor the tiara she wore. Jewels glinted at her ears and throat, emphasizing the long, graceful line of her neck. Her mouth, curved now in the polite smile he suspected she could produce by rote, was soft and full. She was delicate and elegant. And, more than all these things, he knew that she was virtuous as well. She was like a confection in her wedding finery—and she was his.

But he had seen the sheen of tears in her eyes back in the cathedral. He had seen the panic, the confusion. Once again, that odd protective urge flared to life within him. He normally did not care whether people respected or feared him, so long as they either did his bidding or got out of his way—but somehow he did not want that reaction from her. She was his wife. And, even though he thought her reaction was more to do with nerves and their new reality as a wedded couple than with any real fear, he felt compelled to reassure her.

“Come,” he said, when the last of their guests had moved through the line. Without waiting for her reply, he took her arm and steered her across the marble floor and out to the sweeping veranda that circled the palazzo, offering stunning views from the heights of Miravakia’s hills to the craggy coastline far below.

“But the meal—” she began. Her voice was musical. Lovely like the rest of her. She did not look at him as she spoke. Instead, she stared at her arm, at the place where his palm wrapped around her elbow, skin to skin.

Luc could see her reaction to his touch in the slight tremor that shook her. He smiled.

“They’ll wait for us, I think.”

Outside, the ocean breezes swelled around them. Bells rang out in the villages, celebrating them. Their wedding. Their future—the future Luc had worked so hard to make sure he obtained, exactly as he’d pictured it.

But his bride—his wife—was still not looking at him. She tilted her chin up and gazed at the sea, as if she could see the Italian coast far off in the distance.

“You must look at me,” Luc said. His tone was gentle, but serious.

It took her a long moment, but she complied, biting down on her bottom lip as she did so. Luc felt a stab of desire in his gut. He wanted to lean over and lick that full lip of hers—soothe the bite. But he would take this slowly. Allow her to get used to him.

“See?” His lips curved. “It is not so bad, is it?”

“I am married to a perfect stranger,” she said, her gaze wary though her tone was polite.

“I am a stranger today,” Luc agreed. “But I won’t be tomorrow. Don’t worry. I know the transition may be…difficult.”

“‘Difficult,’” she repeated, and looked away. She let out a small sound that Luc thought was almost a laugh. She smoothed her palms down the front of her gown—a nervous gesture. “I suppose that’s one word for it.”

“You are afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

When she did not respond, he reached over and took her chin his hand, gently swinging her face toward his. She was several inches shorter than his six feet, and had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

Desire pooled within him, heavy and hot. She was his. From the sparkling tiara on her head, to those wary blue eyes, to the tips of her royal toes. His. At last.

“I don’t know you well enough to be afraid of you,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper.

His touch obviously distressed her, but Luc couldn’t bring himself to let her go. As in the cathedral, every touch sent fire raging through his blood. It had surprised him, but now he found he welcomed it. He stroked the side of her face and ran his thumb across her full lips.

Gabrielle gasped and jerked away from him, her color rising. “I don’t know you at all,” she managed to say, her voice shaking.

“You are well-known, Your Royal Highness, for always doing your duty, are you not?” he asked.

“I…I try to respect my father’s wishes, yes,” she said.

Her eyes widened as he gazed down at her.

“I am a man who keeps my promises. That’s all you need to know about me today. The rest will come.”

She stepped back, and he let her go. He watched, fascinated, as her gaze fell away from his. Yet he could see the flutter of her pulse at her throat, and he knew that she felt the same fire, the same desire he did.

Though he suspected it scared the hell out of her. And that kind of fear Luc could handle.

In fact, he thought, with purely male satisfaction as she turned and headed back toward the reception with only a single, scared look over her shoulder, he looked forward to handling it.

He couldn’t wait.

The wedding meal was torture.

Gabrielle felt as if her skin was alive—she wanted to scratch wildly, to squirm, to tear it off in strips and throw it away. She couldn’t sit still in her seat at the high table in the great ballroom. She shifted, desperate to put more space between her body and Luc’s right next to her, all the while conscious that they were being watched, observed, commented upon. It wouldn’t do to be seen fidgeting in her chair like a child. But she couldn’t seem to escape Luc’s knowing, confounding gaze, no matter how far away from him she tried to get, and the longer it went on the more agitated she became. He merely watched her, amused.

“What made you decide to get married?” she asked him finally, frantic to divert her attention from the restless agitation that was eating her alive. If the silence continued to stretch between them, she might be what snapped.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

She was sure that he had heard her. How could he not? Every time she shifted away from him he filled the space she created. His arm, his hard thigh, his shoulder brushed against her. A light pressure here, the faintest brush of his sleeve there. He was crowding her, making it hard for her to take a full breath. She was light-headed.

“Why now?” she asked, determined to break this strange, breathless spell that had her in such a panic. She had never been prone to flights of fancy before—she prided herself on being rational, in fact—but this situation was bringing it out in her. Which is perfectly normal, she soothed herself. Completely rational. This situation—being married to a perfect stranger like a medieval spoil of war—was what was not normal. Anyone would be beside herself. Though she couldn’t help thinking anyone else would have refused to be in this situation in the first place—refused to be married off so cold-bloodedly.

Married. The word echoed in her head, sounding more and more like doom each time. Married. Married. Married—

“I was looking for you,” he said, in that deep, sure voice of his that sent spirals of reaction arrowing deep into her bones. “The perfect, proper princess. No one else would do.”

Gabrielle glanced quickly at him, then away. “Of course,” she said politely, to restrain the rising hysteria she was afraid might choke her. “And yet you never met me until today.”

“There was no need.”

She felt more than saw the arrogant shrug. Temper twined with her distress and she felt her blood pump, hot and angry. No need?

“Naturally,” she agreed, in the most polite and iciest tone she could manage. “Why meet your bride? How modern of me.”

She felt the force of that dark gray gaze and dared herself to meet it. The contact burned. She felt a deep shuddering inside, and had to remind herself to inhale. To blink. To get a hold of herself.

“I am a traditional man,” he said. One dark brow rose, challenging her. “Once my mind is made up, that is sufficient.” On another man she might have thought there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his hard mouth. But his expression was so forbidding, his eyes so gray. She swallowed.

“I see. You decided it was time to get married, and I fit the bill,” she said carefully.

She was like a horse, or a dog—only her bloodline was considered relevant to the proceedings. Had he considered a selection of princesses before deciding she would do? She could feel hysteria rising again, and tried to stave it off by grabbing for her champagne glass. She gulped some of the fizzy liquid before continuing.

“Were there certain requirements to fulfill? A checklist of some kind?” she asked, her voice rising. But was she really surprised? Men like her husband—like her father—thought the feelings of those around them, her feelings, were beneath their notice. Irrelevant.

She thought she might be going mad.

“Gabrielle.”

She stilled at the unexpected sound of her name on his lips. Her fingers clenched tight around the delicate stem of her glass, but the way he said her name was like a bell ringing somewhere deep inside her—even though his tone was firm.

She didn’t understand it. He hadn’t even bothered to meet her before their wedding. And yet he spoke her name and she did his bidding at once, like the purebred dog he thought she was.

“Forgive me,” she said crisply, setting her glass down very precisely next to her plate, piled high with food she had yet to touch. “I think the emotion of the day is going to my head.”

“Perhaps you should eat,” he suggested smoothly, indicating her plate with a nod. Again, the ghost of a smile flirted with his hard mouth. “You must keep up your strength.”

Gabrielle’s eyes flew to his, then dropped to her plate. He could not mean what she thought he did, could he? Surely he couldn’t expect…?

“You look as if you might cry at any moment,” he said from beside her, his voice hard as he leaned closer. She could feel the heat of him pressed against the gossamer-thin sleeve of her dress, burning her, and ordered herself not to jerk away. “The guests will imagine you are having second thoughts.”

There was no missing the sardonic inflection that time. Gabrielle forced herself to smile prettily for the benefit of whoever might be watching.

“Heaven forbid,” she murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud until she saw he was watching her, those dark brows raised.

“Eat,” he suggested again.

She did not mistake the undercurrent of steel in his voice, and found herself reaching for her fork. Her body obeyed him without thought even as her mind reeled at his arrogance. What if she was not hungry? Would he force-feed her?

She shied away from that thought immediately, afraid to follow it through. He was…too much. Gabrielle took a bite of the fresh-grilled fish on her plate and tried to imagine what life with this man would be like. She tried to imagine an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. A forgettable Saturday morning. But she could not. She could only imagine his dark eyes flashing and his hands strong and demanding on her. She could only picture tangled limbs and his hot skin sliding against hers.

He was too much.

“Please excuse me,” she murmured, setting her fork down abruptly and presenting him with her most demure smile—as if her body was not undergoing a full-scale riot even as she spoke. She had to stop it. “I’ll be right back.”

“Of course,” Luc said, in the same polite tone. He rose as she rose, pulling back her chair and summoning one of the hovering servants to aid her with her voluminous skirts, courteous in word and deed. He looked like the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband.

And if she had not seen the knowing gleam in his dark gaze she might have been tempted to believe it herself.

Chapter Three

LUC paid only slight attention to the speech King Josef was making.

“Today Miravakia welcomes its future king,” his father-in-law intoned, standing in his full regalia at the head of the long table covered in gleaming silver and white linen, his voice pitched to carry throughout the great room. “But may that day be far off in the future.”

Luc was far more interested in his bride at the moment than stale jokes about royal succession, though the guests laughed heartily—as they were expected to do. It was only polite.

Gabrielle, however, did not laugh with the rest. The color was high on her soft cheeks, and she had been sitting far too still beside him since she’d returned from the powder room, her long skirts rustling as she attempted to angle her body away from him. He preferred her attempts at sparring with him, he thought, amused.

“And what about you?” he asked, picking up their conversation from before as if she had not run away in the middle of it. He wondered idly if she believed she’d fooled him—if she believed he was unaware she had made an excuse to escape him. He dismissed the thought. Let her believe it if it made her feel better about her situation.

She threw a cautious look his way, her eyes more blue than green in the dim glow of the ballroom. She vibrated with tension—and, he thought, awareness. Though Luc considered the possibility that she was too innocent to realize it. It seemed impossible in this day and age, but then Luc was used to achieving the impossible. It was one of his chief defining characteristics.

“Me?” she repeated.

“Why did you choose to marry now?” he asked. Once again, he found himself trying to put her at ease, and was amazed at himself. He had stopped trying to charm women when he was little more than a boy. He didn’t need it. No matter how he behaved, they adored him and begged for more. But none of them had mattered until this one. For her, he would be charming. Her perfection deserved nothing less.

“Choose?” She echoed him again—and then smiled, though this was not her usual gracious smile, the one that she had been wearing all day, beaming around the room. This one was tighter and aimed at her lap, where she clasped her hands in the folds of her wedding dress. “My father expected me to do my duty. And so I have.”

“You are twenty-five.” He watched her closely as he spoke, attuned to the way she worried her full lower lip with her teeth. “Other girls your age live in flats with friends from university. They prefer nightlife and the party circuit to marriage or talk of duty.”

“I am not other girls,” Gabrielle said.

Luc watched, fascinated, as the pulse in the hollow of her neck fluttered wildly. In her lap, her fingers dug into each other. She betrayed no other sign of her agitation.

“My mother died when I was quite young and I was raised to be my father’s hostess.” She expelled a breath. “I will be Queen. I have responsibilities.”

As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on her father, who had said something very similar, if Luc recalled correctly. Luc followed her gaze, not at all surprised to see that the King had retaken his seat, without any words specifically directed to his daughter. Evidently this bothered Gabrielle, though she fought to conceal it. Luc could see the sheen of emotion in her eyes, could read her agitation as clearly as if it was in schoolboy Italian.

Luc detested emotion. He loathed the way people blamed their emotions for all manner of sins—as if emotions were separate, ungovernable entities. As if one did not possess a will, a mind.

But Gabrielle, for all the emotion he had sensed in her today, was not letting it rule her. She did not inflict her emotions, her passions, on everyone around her. She did not cause any scenes. She simply sat in her seat, smiling, and handled herself like the queen she would be someday. His queen.

Luc approved. He reminded himself that her finer sensibilities were one of the reasons he had chosen her. Her charity and her empathy could not exist in a vacuum. Perhaps emotion was the price.

He decided it was a small one. He decided that he, Luc Garnier, who prided himself on a life lived free of the cloying perfume of emotions, could tolerate hers. Even indulge them on occasion.

“You have made him proud,” he told her, nodding at her father, feeling benevolent. “You are the jewel of his kingdom.”

Finally she turned her head and met his gaze. The shine of tears was gone, and her sea-colored eyes were clear and grave as she regarded him.

“Some jewels are prized for their sentimental value,” she said, her musical voice pitched low, but not low enough to hide the faint tremor in it. “And others for their monetary value.”

“You are invaluable,” he told her, assuming that would be the end of it. Didn’t women love such compliments? He’d never bothered to give them before. But Gabrielle shrugged, her mouth tightening.

“Who is to say what my father values?” she asked, her light tone unconvincing. “I would be the last to know.”

“But I know,” he said.

“Yes.” Again that grave sea-green gaze. “I am invaluable—a jewel without price.” She looked away. “And yet somehow contracts were drawn up, a price agreed upon, and here we are.”

There was the taint of bitterness to her words. Luc frowned. He should not have indulged her—he regretted the impulse. This was what happened when emotions were given rein. Was she so foolish? How had she imagined the courtship of a royal princess, next in line to her country’s throne, would proceed?

“Tell me, Your Royal Highness,” he said, leaning close, enjoying the way her eyes widened. Though she did not back away from him. He liked her show of courage, but he wanted to make his point perfectly clear. “What was your expectation? You are not, as you say, other girls. Did you expect to find your king in the online personals? How did you think it would work?”

Her head reared back, and she straightened her already near-perfect posture.

“I…Of course I didn’t—”

“Perhaps you thought you should have a gap year from your duties,” he continued in the same tone. Low and lethal. “A vacation from the real you, as so many of your royal peers have had—to the delight of the press. Perhaps you could have traveled around the world with a selection of low-born reckless friends? Taken drugs in some dirty club in Berlin? Had anonymous sex on an Argentine beach? Is that how you thought you would best serve your country?”

If he’d thought she was in the grip of emotion before, that had been nothing. Her face was pale now, with hectic color high on her cheeks and in her eyes. Yet again she did not crack or crumble. Someone sitting further away would not have seen the difference in her expression at all.

“I have never done any of those things,” she said in a tight, controlled voice. “I have always thought of Miravakia first!”

“Do not speak to me of contracts and prices in this way, as if you are the victim of some subterfuge,” he ordered her harshly. “You insult us both.”

Her gaze flew to his, and he read the crackling temper there. It intrigued him as much as it annoyed him—but either way he could not allow it. There could be no rebellion, no bitterness, no intrigue in this marriage. There could only be his will and her surrender.

He remembered where they were only because the band chose that moment to begin playing. He sat back in his chair, away from her. She is not merely a business acquisition, he told himself, once more grappling with the urge to protect her—safeguard her. She is not a hotel or a company.

She was his wife. He could allow her more leeway than he would allow the other things he controlled. At least today.

“No more of this,” he said, rising to his feet. She looked at him warily. He extended his hand to her and smiled. He could be charming if he chose. “I believe it is time for me to dance with my wife.”

His smile was devastating.

Gabrielle gulped back her reaction to it, suddenly worried that she might scream, or weep, or some appalling combination of the two. Anything to release the pressure building inside her, restless and intense all at once. But that smile—

It changed him. It took stone and forbidding mountain and softened it, illuminating his features—making him magic. He was, she realized with a delicate shiver of foreboding, a dangerously attractive man.

Dangerous to her, specifically.

For she was helpless before him. He held out his hand and she placed hers within it. Without comment, without thought. Meekly. Obediently. Despite the fact she’d been trying to keep from touching him for hours now. Was she losing her mind?

But she did not dare disobey him. Had anyone ever disobeyed him? And lived to tell the tale?

His smile might have made him momentarily beautiful. His hand was firm around hers, brooking no argument, allowing her no concession as he led her from the high table. The faces of the wedding guests blurred, becoming as indistinct as the flickering candles. She wondered briefly—in a kind of panic—what he would do if she pulled back, tried to move away as she wished. Would he simply tow her along beside him? Or would her body refuse the order and follow his lead without consulting her? She did not think that now—in public, on a dance floor in front of so many onlookers—was the time to test the theory.

He was no playboy, like the few other suitors her father had considered since Gabrielle had reached her majority. This man did not flirt or cajole. There were no pretty words. Only that brief, glorious smile that had jolted through her like an electric shock. Everything else he would demand. Or he would simply take.

He led her to the center of the dance floor. Gabrielle’s heavy dress clung to her hips, her legs—made her feel as if she waded through honey. Luc pulled her close, one lean and muscled arm banding around her back, holding her. Caging her.

It had been hard enough to sit next to him throughout the meal. But this—this was agony.

In his arms, there was nowhere to hide. Face-to-face with him, she felt exposed, vulnerable. Trapped. Her breasts felt heavy and tight against the brocaded bodice of her gown. It took her long, panicked moments to register the fact that she was not having a dizzy spell, that he was moving them around the ballroom with an easy grace and consummate skill, never releasing her from that commanding gray gaze that seemed to see into her very core.

She felt as if she were made of glass and might shatter into pieces at any moment.

“I always wondered what couples talk about,” she blurted out, desperate to lessen the tension between them, to divert her attention from that hard mouth now so breathlessly, intimidatingly close to hers, “when they dance at their weddings.” She laughed nervously. “But then we are not like most couples, I suppose.”

“Again, you forget yourself,” he said dismissively, though his gray eyes seemed to darken as she stared up at him. “You are surrounded by a collection of aristocrats, some with ancient family names and kingdoms at their disposal. Do you imagine they are all passionately in love with their politically expedient spouses?”

Infuriating, pompous, rude man. How could he speak to her so condescendingly? How could he be her husband?

“I’ve never thought about it,” she flared back at him. “I’ve hardly had time to adjust to my own ‘politically expedient’ marriage, much less critique anyone else’s!”

His expression did not change, though the arm around her back tightened just a fraction—just enough to make Gabrielle gasp, but not enough to make her miss her step as their dance continued. She was suddenly certain that she did not want to hear whatever he might say next.

“Have you been married before?” she asked hurriedly, hoping to fend him off.

“Never.” His brows arched, making him seem both regal and inaccessible at once. Gabrielle swallowed nervously.

“You must have had long-term relationships,” she continued. She had no idea what she was saying. “You are forty, are you not?”

“Is this a blind date, Gabrielle?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Do you plan to sort out my character through a series of inane questions?”

“I’m trying to get to know you,” she replied evenly, raising her chin in defiance. “It seems a reasonable thing to do, under the circumstances. What else should we talk about? The weather?”

“You have the rest of your life to get to know me,” he said, with a Gallic sort of shrug. The ultimate dismissal. “Or do you think knowing the way I take my coffee will give you insight? Will it make you more comfortable? The end result is the same. I am your husband.”

He was hateful. And his derisive tone ignited the temper she’d worked her whole life to keep under wraps.

“I think you must be the one who is afraid,” she declared, anger making her brave. “Why else react so strongly to simple questions?”

She expected him to lash back at her—to try to cow her with his dark gaze or that sharp edge in his voice.

But instead he threw back his head and laughed. It was not long, or loud, but it was real. His gray eyes gleamed almost silver for a moment, and she saw an indentation in his lean jaw—far too masculine to be called a dimple. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and he was once again magical and irresistible.

Suddenly Gabrielle had the sensation that she was standing on a ledge at the edge of some vast cavern, and the ground beneath her feet was shaky. Again that restless tension swelled inside her, terrifying her. Her skin was too small, too sensitive. He filled her senses. And when he looked down at her again, his expression sobering, she felt something shift inside her. It felt irrevocable. Or possibly insane.

Nerves, she thought, desperately trying to maintain her calm. Nothing but nerves—and too much champagne on an empty stomach.

Chapter Four

ALONE at last in the sumptuous chamber that served as her dressing room, with the reception carrying on below her, Gabrielle stared at herself in the mirror and told herself she was being ridiculous. First, no man could possibly be as intense or overwhelming as Luc Garnier seemed to be. She was letting her imagination run away with her, her emotions heightened by the events of the day. Second, she was forgetting that the tight corset of her dress was probably responsible for her breathless, dizzy reaction to him. He was no magician—able to command her body like some kind of snake charmer. Her gown was simply too uncomfortable—she’d been in it all day.

She had convinced herself, more or less, and started to remove her heavy diamond and pearl earrings when the door opened behind her and he stepped into the room.

Gabrielle froze.

The cathedral and the ballroom had not prepared her—both were so large, so vast. The dressing room was tiny in comparison and Luc seemed to fill it, pushing all the air out the room as he closed the door behind him.

Gabrielle was still unable to move. She stared at him through the mirror as his dark eyes flicked along her spine, then met hers. She felt his gaze like fire, licking into her bones, searing her skin.

“I…” She didn’t know what she meant to say, only that she was pleading with him. She put her earrings down on the vanity table in front of her, and twisted around to face him. He had not moved—he still filled the doorway with his rangy, muscled frame—and yet she felt his closeness as if he held her. “I cannot…”

She couldn’t say it.

Sex seemed to crowd into the room then, like a thick fog. It was that hot, hard light in his eyes. It was the way he looked at her—as if he owned her, body and soul. It was the parade of images in her head. All of them decadent and disturbing. All of them involving that unyielding mouth of his and those cool, assessing, knowing eyes.

She couldn’t bear it.

“Surely you don’t…?”

She thought she might burst into tears, but he moved then, and once again she could do nothing but gape at him. He stalked toward her like something wild, untamed. Something fierce and uncompromising came and went across his face, and she knew in a flash that he wanted her—and that she could not survive it.

She could not survive him.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, her voice barely a thread of sound, weak to her own ears. He continued toward her, towering above her, forcing her to tilt her head back so she could stare up at him across the great expanse of his rock-hard torso, showed to perfection in his crisp white dress shirt.

Her mind raced. He had said he was traditional—how traditional? Surely he couldn’t expect that she would fall into bed with a man she had only met hours before? So what if it was the marital bed?

Could he?

He did not speak. His eyes were shuttered as he gazed down at her, and then he moved, his big hands catching her around the waist and lifting her to her feet.

He was incredibly, panic-inducingly strong. Gabrielle’s world tilted and whirled, and then she was in his arms again—but this time they were not on a dance floor, surrounded by witnesses. This time they were all alone, and he pulled her much too close, until she sprawled against him, her breasts flattened against the wall of his chest. They ached. Gabrielle moaned—whether in protest or terror, she did not know.

“I will not attempt to claim any marital rights tonight, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” he said then, his breath fanning over her face.

“I…Thank you…” Gabrielle said formally, and was then furious with herself. As if it was his decision to make! As if she did not exist!

“We will grow into each other, you and I,” he told her. His mouth was so close, and it both tempted and terrified her in equal measure. She remembered the feel of his mouth against hers in the cathedral. Brutal. Territorial. She didn’t know why it made her knees tremble and her core melt.

“But our wedding night should be commemorated, should it not?” he asked.

“I don’t—”

But he wasn’t really asking.

His mouth came down on hers, as uncompromising and hard as she remembered—as he had been since she’d met him so few hours before. This time he tasted her lips only briefly, before moving across her jaw, her temple, learning the shape of her. His mouth was hot. Gabrielle felt her own fall open in shock—in response. She felt feverish. Outside herself.

Something in her thrilled to it—to him—even as the rest of her balked at such a naked display of ownership. Her hands flew to his shoulders, though it was like pushing against stone.

Then, as suddenly, he set her away from him, a very masculine triumph written across his face.

“You are mine,” he said. Claiming her. He reached over and smoothed an errant strand of her hair back into place, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the harshness of his words, his expression. “Change into your traveling clothes and meet me outside the ballroom, Gabrielle. We will stay on the other side of the island tonight.” He paused. “Wife.”

She stood frozen in place for a long time after he left. The air rushed back into the room with his departure. Her heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Her hands eventually stopped shaking.

But inside her a new resolve hardened, and turned into steel.

She could not survive him, she had thought in a moment of panic. But she was not panicked now, and she knew that it was true. It was not simply that Luc Garnier was another man like her single-minded father—though she knew that he was. It was not even that he clearly wanted things entirely his own way—what man in his position, having bartered for a royal wife and his own eventual kingdom, would not? It was that she was so detestably weak.

Weakness had led her here, to this sham of a wedding night. She was married to a man who terrified her on a fundamental level and she had walked calmly to her own slaughter. Her father had not had to coerce her—he had only announced his intentions and Gabrielle had acquiesced, as she always did, because she’d thought that somehow her doing so would impress him. Instead, it had only made him less inclined to consider her feelings at all.

What a thing to realize now—far too late.

Gabrielle blew out a shaky breath and knew, on some level, that acquiescing to Luc Garnier would be far more damaging and permanent. She would not survive it intact—not as the Gabrielle she was now. She could not handle his heat or his darkness—and she would not be recognizable to herself if she tried. She would go mad—lose her mind.

She thought of his fierce gaze, his resolute expression, and felt as if she already had.

She had never stood up for herself. She had let her father order her around her entire life. Now her husband would do the same. Worse. He would demand even more from her. Suddenly Gabrielle could see her life stretch out before her—one decision made by her husband after another until she ceased to exist. Until she was completely absorbed into him, lost in him. A man like Luc Garnier would accept nothing less than her complete surrender.

She took a deep breath, then released it. She looked around the chamber as if she’d never seen it before. Perhaps she had simply never realized until now that it was a prison cell.

And it was past time to escape.

Luc’s body shouted at him to turn around, return to the dressing room and finish what he’d started.

He was hard, ready. His blood was pumping and it had nearly killed him to take his hands off of her soft skin.

Her taste was addictive. Sweet, with an underlying kick.

He paused in the long corridor outside her door. He wanted to bury himself in her—in his wife—and make them both delirious with need and release. Again and again until they were exhausted from it. It was a complication he hadn’t foreseen—and he had been so sure he’d covered all the angles.

Tonight he could allow himself some amusement on that score. It was not very often that Luc Garnier was taken by surprise. He had expected to desire her—she was a beautiful woman and he had long had a taste for classic beauty. Who did not? But the need raking through him and tempting him to charge back through the door and claim what was his—that was unexpected.

Perhaps it was not a complication. Perhaps it was merely a side benefit—confirmation that he’d made the correct choice. The fact that he knew very few men in his position who lusted after their wives meant nothing. When had Luc been at all like other men?

He forced himself to walk away from her door, to leave her in peace. For tonight, at least.

They had their whole lives to explore this combustible chemistry. He could allow her one night to come to terms with it.

His mouth curved at the idea of behaving benevolently—for any reason. It was a new sensation, and not entirely pleasant. He was not a man who denied his appetites.

But it was only for tonight.

In the morning he would continue her education. He would touch her until she welcomed it, until she begged him for more.

And then all bets were off.

It had been so easy, Gabrielle marveled almost a week later, looking out over the endless sea of lights below her. Los Angeles gleamed and beckoned, sprawled out before her, seeming seductive and immense from Gabrielle’s spot high in the Hollywood Hills.

Gabrielle couldn’t believe how easy it had been—it made her wonder why she had waited so long to do something simply because she wanted to do it, without worrying about the feelings or opinions or wishes of anyone else.

Gabrielle had left the palazzo after a quick change of clothes, driven down to the docks, boarded a ferry—and been in Italy by morning. Once she’d made her way to Rome she had booked herself into a hotel for the night and called an old friend from university. Cassandra had not missed a beat, despite the fact she and Gabrielle had not seen each other in ages. She had apologized for the fact that she could not be in California to greet Gabrielle because she was filming in Vancouver, but she had offered Gabrielle the use of her house. Gabrielle had boarded a flight the next morning, had a brief stopover in London, and had been in Los Angeles by early afternoon.

Not bad for an obedient princess who had never lifted a finger in protest her whole adult life.

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