From penniless delivery girl...

To billionaire’s bride?

The perfect summer Ally Jones spent with gorgeous French billionaire Dominic LeGrand was unforgettable, despite her unrequited feelings. Now Ally’s a struggling courier and is stunned when her latest delivery brings her to Dominic’s door. Yet what’s even more shocking is his proposal! Dominic needs a temporary wife, but with the enticing promise of his expert seduction teasing Ally to her limits, can she really just play the role?

Lose yourself in this tantalizing marriage of convenience...

USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotion, sensual excitement, funny and feisty women, sexy and tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!

Also by Heidi Rice

Vows They Can’t Escape

The Virgin’s Shock Baby

Captive at Her Enemy’s Command

Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

Claiming My Untouched Mistress

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Contracted as His Cinderella Bride

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08805-3

CONTRACTED AS HIS CINDERELLA BRIDE

© 2019 Heidi Rice

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

To my editor Bryony—I couldn’t do this without you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘CALLING RIDERS IN the vicinity of the Strand. Got a pick-up at the jeweller’s Mallow and Sons. Drop-off in Bloomsbury.’

Alison Jones skidded to a stop at the amber light on Waterloo Bridge to decipher the crackle of the dispatcher’s voice on her radio through the driving rain.

Cold water had seeped through her waterproof hours ago as the rush hour had slowed to a crawl in London’s West End. She’d been ready to crash head-first into a bubble bath since six o’clock and lick her wounds from another evening pedalling the mean streets of Soho. But once she’d registered the instruction, she clicked on the call button and shouted into her receiver. ‘Rider 524. Got it!’

She still had several instalments to pay on the debt she’d racked up four years ago for her mum’s funeral—and next month’s rent on her room in the house she shared with a group of other fashion students in Whitechapel wasn’t going to pay itself. Plus she’d already reached peak misery for the evening. She certainly couldn’t get any wetter.

The dispatcher confirmed her pick-up as she tried to focus through her exhaustion.

‘Delivery’s a wedding ring,’ he shouted. ‘Client’s name for drop-off is Dominic LeGrand, address is...’

A shiver wracked Ally’s body, the address barely registering as the name scraped across her consciousness, triggering a wealth of disturbing memories from the summer she had turned thirteen.

The heady scent of wild grass and roses. The baking heat of the Provence sun warming her skin. Pierre LeGrand’s face—so handsome, so charming—his voice deep and paternalistic.

‘Call me Papa, Alison.’

Her mother’s smile, so untroubled and full of hope.

‘Pierre is definitely the one, Ally. He loves me. He’ll take care of us now.’

And then the pulse of heat settled low in her abdomen as she pictured Dominic. The memory of Pierre’s sixteen-year-old son was as vivid and disturbing as if she’d seen him yesterday, not twelve years ago.

Those sensual lips always quirked in an insolent, don’t-give-a-damn smile; those chocolate eyes full of resentment and secrets; the mysterious crescent-shaped scar that hooked his left eyebrow; the brutally short dark blond hair that had lightened in the sun and given his brooding beauty a golden glow.

Dominic, who had been beautiful and bad and fascinating, and landed like a fallen angel into that perfect summer bringing with him danger and excitement.

‘I can’t take the job,’ Ally croaked into the receiver, as the memory of her final night in Provence returned, too.

Her mother’s face—so sad, so fragile—a purpling bruise marring her cheekbone. The cloying scent of lavender and gin. Her mother’s voice—frantic and fearful and slightly slurred.

‘Something terrible’s happened, baby. Pierre’s very angry with me and Dominic. We have to leave.’

A bus horn blared beside her, jerking Ally out of her trance. She shoved the distressing, confusing memories back where they belonged. When she’d buried her mother four years ago, she’d finally stopped reliving the horror of that night as she stood over the grave and felt nothing but relief that Monica Jones was finally at peace.

She couldn’t take this job. She didn’t want to see Dominic LeGrand again. Especially as Dominic wasn’t the reckless, delinquent boy who had starred in all those innocent adolescent fantasies a lifetime ago, but a billionaire property developer now. Hadn’t the tabloids dubbed him ‘Love-Rat LeGrand’ a year ago after one of his supermodel girlfriends had sold her story of their affair for a six-figure sum? The wedding ring had to be for the fairy-tale romance with Mira Somebody Ally had read about a month ago.

‘What do you mean you’re not taking the job? I just put it through the system.’ The dispatcher’s voice sliced into Ally’s misery. ‘Either you do it or I’m pulling you from the roster. Make up your mind.’

Ally breathed in and breathed out, trying to control the panic making the air clog in her lungs.

She had to take this job. She didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t afford to lose the work. Pressing her freezing finger on the radio, she spoke into the receiver. ‘Okay, I’ll take it. Give me that address again.’

* * *

‘The wedding’s off, Mira. Your hook-up with Andre the ski instructor has seen to that.’ Dominic LeGrand kept his voice even; he wasn’t sad or upset, he was furious. They’d had a deal. And his so-called fiancée had broken it.

‘But I... I told you it was nothing, Dominic.’ Tears sheened Mira’s eyes, her voice breaking with emotion. Dominic’s impatience sharpened his fury. The woman had the emotional maturity of a two-year-old.

‘I thought I made it plain before we entered into this arrangement I expected exclusivity. I’m not marrying a woman I can’t trust.’

‘But I didn’t sleep with Andre... I swear,’ Mira said. ‘I was a little drunk and flirtatious, that was all.’ She leaned across his desk, her breasts pressing provocatively against her low-cut gown, her lips pursed into the pout he’d found hot two months ago, when they’d first met. ‘I’m not going to lie—I quite like that you’re a little jealous,’ she added.

The coy flirtatious look on her face was probably supposed to be enticing. It wasn’t.

‘I’m not jealous, Mira. I’m angry. It’s a breach of our agreement. It could jeopardise the Waterfront deal.’ Which was the only reason he’d asked her to marry him in the first place.

The Jedah Consortium, who owned the tract of real estate in Brooklyn he wanted to develop, was made up of conservative businessmen from a string of oil-rich Middle Eastern countries. They’d been wary of doing business with him after Catherine Zalinski’s kiss-and-tell article last year had made him look like a man who couldn’t control his own libido, let alone the women in his life.

This marriage was supposed to fix that, until pictures of his fiancée kissing her ski instructor had hit the tabloids this afternoon.

‘The whole purpose of this marriage was to stop any more unsavoury gossip about my private life,’ he added, in case she didn’t get it.

‘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.

CHAPTER TWO

‘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 better come inside before you drown,’ he murmured, standing aside to hold the door open.

The manoeuvre lit the harsh planes and angles of his face. Ally stood locked in place absorbing the face she had once spent hours fantasising about.

Dominic had always been striking, but maturity had turned his boyish masculine beauty into something so intense it was devastating.

The blond buzz cut had darkened into a tawny brown streaked with gold, and was long enough now to curl around the collar of his shirt. Those dark chocolate eyes had no laughter lines yet, but then that would have been a contradiction in terms—because the Dominic she remembered had never laughed. A new bump on the bridge of his nose joined the old scar on his brow, while the shadow of stubble marked him out as a man now instead of a boy.

As Ally’s gaze devoured the changes, she registered how much more jaded the too-old look in his eyes had become, and how much more ruthless the cynical curve of those sensual lips.

The inappropriate shivers turned into seismic waves.

‘Vite, garçon, before we both drown.’ The snapped command made her realise she’d been staring.

She forced herself to walk past him into the hallway.

Just give him the ring, then this nightmare will be over.

She bent to fumble with her bike bag, wishing she hadn’t removed her helmet, but luckily he didn’t seem to be looking at her. He had called her a boy, after all.

The drip, drip, drip of the rain coming off her waterproof seemed deafening in the silent hallway as he closed the door.

‘You’re a girl,’ he murmured.

She made the mistake of looking round.

His scarred brow lifted as the chocolate gaze glided over her figure, making the growled acknowledgement disturbingly intimate.

‘I’m a woman,’ she said. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Non.’ His lips lifted on one side. The cynical half-smile reminded her so forcefully of the boy, she had to stifle a gasp. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked. ‘You look familiar.’

‘No,’ she said, but the denial came out on a rasp of panic as her hand closed over the jeweller’s bag.

Please don’t let him recognise me—it will only make this worse.

She yanked the bag out and thrust it towards him. ‘Your delivery, Mr LeGrand.’

She kept her head bent as he took the package, snatching her hand away as warm fingertips brushed her palm and the buzz of reaction zipped up her arm.

‘You’re shivering. Stay and dry off.’ It sounded more like a demand than a suggestion, but she shook her head.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, drawing out her data console. ‘Sign in the box,’ she added, trying for efficient and impersonal, and getting breathless instead.

He tucked the jeweller’s bag under his arm and took the data-recording device, brushing her hand again.

‘You’re freezing,’ he said, sounding annoyed now and impatient. ‘You should stay until the storm passes.’ He signed his name and handed the device back. ‘It’s the least I can do after dragging you out in this weather on a fool’s errand.’

‘A fool’s errand? How?’ she asked, then wanted to bite off her tongue.

Shut up, Ally, why did you ask him that?

Starting a conversation was the last thing she needed to do. Her heart thumped her chest wall so hard she was amazed she didn’t pass out. To her surprise, though, he answered her.

‘A fool’s errand because I broke off the engagement approximately ten minutes ago...’ The cynical tone reminded her again of the boy.

No wonder Mira Something had been furious. She’d just been dumped.

He ripped open the package and drew out the velvet jeweller’s box, then flipped it open.

Ally’s heart stuttered. The ring was exquisite—a platinum and gold band.

The irony washed through her, as she thought of another ring.

The ring her mother had said his father had offered her all through the summer. A dream that had died that terrible night when Pierre LeGrand had kicked them out, but the loss of which had tortured her mother for the rest of her life.

‘Pierre was the only man who ever really loved me and I ruined it all, baby.’

Her mother had blamed herself, but what had she done to make Pierre so angry?

Dominic snapped the ring box closed, dragging Ally back to the present. ‘Which makes this a rather expensive waste of money.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, trying to swallow down the volatile emotions starting to choke her. Emotions she didn’t want to examine too closely.

‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘The engagement was a mistake. The eighty grand I spent on this ring is collateral damage.’

The offhand remark had the shame and guilt twisting in her gut.

She shoved her data device back into the pocket on her bike bag, her fingers trembling with the effort it was taking to hold back the raw emotions.

What was happening to her? Why was she making this into a big thing, when it really wasn’t? Not any more. Her mother was dead, and so was Pierre. It was all ancient history now.

‘I should go. I’ve got other jobs to get to,’ she said. She just wanted to leave. To forget again. It was too painful to go over all those memories. To remember how bright and vivacious her mother had been that summer, and the hollow shell she had become after it.

‘Come in and have a drink, warm up,’ he said, or rather demanded.

Was he coming on to her? The thought wasn’t as horrific as it should have been, which had the knot of shame in her stomach tightening. But then the clammy feel of the soaked and grubby fabric sticking to her skin made her aware of how much like a drowned rat she must look.

This man dated supermodels and heiresses—women with style and grace and effortless sex appeal. Something she had never possessed, even when she hadn’t spent the last six hours cycling around London’s West End in a monsoon.

‘And we can deal with your leg,’ he added.

‘What?’ she mumbled.

‘Your leg.’ The chocolate gaze dipped. ‘It’s bleeding.’

She glanced down to see blood seeping out of a gash on her calf, exposed by a rip in her leggings. It must have been caused by her altercation with his fiancée—or rather his ex-fiancée—and she’d been too cold to feel it.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I have to go.’

But as she turned to leave, he spoke again.

‘Arrêtes. It’s not nothing. It’s bleeding. It could get infected. You’re not going out there until it has been cleaned.’

The emotion started to choke her. She couldn’t stay, couldn’t accept his kindness—however brusque and domineering.

‘I’ve got work, another job,’ she added, frantically. ‘I can’t stay.’

‘I’ll pay for your time, damn it, if the problem is money. I don’t want an injured cycle messenger on my conscience as well as an eighty-grand ring.’

He was too close, surrounding her in a cloud of spicy cologne and the sweet subtle whiff of whisky. Her pulse points buzzed and throbbed in an erratic rhythm.

But then he hooked a knuckle under her chin, and nudged her chin up.

‘Wait a minute. I do know you.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. For the first time, he was actually seeing her. The intensity of his gaze set off bonfires of sensation all over her chilled skin. She fumbled with the helmet she had hooked over her other arm, desperate to put it on, to stop him recognising her.

But it was too late as the swift spike of memory crossed his face.

‘Monique?’ he murmured.

Tears stung her eyes. ‘I’m not Monica. Monica’s dead. I’m her daughter.’

‘Allycat?’ he said, looking as stunned as she felt.

Allycat.

The nickname reverberated in her head, the one he’d given her all those years ago. The name she had been so proud of. Once.

As if he’d flipped a switch, the adrenaline she’d been running on ever since she’d got the commission drained away, until all that was left was the shame, and anxiety. And the inappropriate heat.

She dragged in tortured breaths, struggling to contain the choking sob rising up her torso. She didn’t have the strength to resist him any more. And what would be the point, anyway?

‘Breathe, Allycat,’ he murmured.

She gulped in air, trying to steady herself, and got a lungful of his scent—spiced with pine and soap.

‘Bad night?’

‘The worst.’ She bit back the harsh laugh at his sanguine tone. And shuddered, the pain in her ribs excruciating as she struggled to hold the sobs at bay.

What exactly are you so upset about? Having Dominic LeGrand pity you isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.

‘I know the feeling,’ he said, the wry smile only making him look more handsome—and more utterly unattainable.

She forced a smile to her lips as she shifted away from him, and scooped up the helmet that had clattered to the floor.

‘It was nice seeing you again, Dominic,’ she said, although nothing could have been further from the truth. Nice had never been a word to describe Dominic LeGrand. ‘I really do have to go now, though.’

But as she headed for the door, he stepped in front of her. ‘Don’t go, Allycat. Come in and dry off and clean up your leg. My offer still stands.’

She lifted her head, forced herself to meet his gaze. But where she’d expected pity, or impatience, all she saw was a pragmatic intensity—as if he were trying to see into her soul. And something else, something she didn’t recognise or understand—because it almost looked like desire. But that couldn’t be true.

‘I can’t stay,’ she said, hating the tremble in her voice.

She didn’t want to feel this weak, this fragile. She hated showing him even an ounce of her vulnerability, because it made her feel even more pathetic.

‘Yes, you can.’ He didn’t budge. ‘As I said, I will pay for your time,’ he added, the tone rigid with purpose.

‘I don’t need you to do that. I’m shattered anyway. I’m just going to cycle home.’ She needed to leave, before the foolish yearning to stay, and have him care for her, got the better of her.

* * *

Mon Dieu, who would have thought that Monique’s shy and sheltered daughter would grow into a woman as striking and valiant as Jeanne D’Arc?

‘So there are no more jobs tonight?’ Dominic asked.

The girl frowned, but, even caught in the lie, her gaze remained direct. ‘No, there aren’t,’ she said, the unapologetic tone equally captivating. ‘I lied.’

He let out a rough chuckle. ‘Touché, Allycat.’

He let his gaze wander over the slim coltish figure, vibrating with tension. Her high firm breasts, outlined by her damp cycle gear, rose and fell with her staggered breaths. With her wet hair tied back in a short ponytail, damp chestnut curls clinging to the pale, almost translucent skin of her cheeks, blue-tinged shadows under her eyes, and an oil mark on her chin, she should have looked a mess. But instead she looked like the Maid of Orleans—passionate and determined.

And all the more beautiful for it.

Not unlike her mother. Or what he could remember of her mother.

Monica Jones had been his father’s mistress, during that brief summer when his father had acknowledged him. But the truth was it was her daughter, the girl who stood before him now, her wide guileless eyes direct and unbowed despite her obvious misery, whom he remembered with a great deal more clarity.

She’d been a child that summer, ten or eleven maybe, but he still remembered how she had followed him around like a doting puppy. And defended him against his father’s abuse. She had stood up to that bastard on his behalf, and because of that he’d felt a strange connection with her. And it seemed that connection hadn’t died. Not completely.

Although it had morphed into something a great deal more potent—if the sensation that had zapped up his arm when he had touched her was anything to go by.

She was quite stunning, pure and unsullied—despite her bedraggled appearance. The compulsion to capture her cold cheeks in his palms and warm her unpainted lips with a kiss surprised him, though.

Why should he want her, when she was so unsophisticated? Un garçon manqué. A tomboy without an ounce of glamour or allure. Why should he care if she was cold, or wet, or injured? She wasn’t his responsibility.

Perhaps it was simply the shock of seeing her again, and the memories she evoked? Maybe it was the compelling contrast she made with the woman he’d just kicked out of his life? Not spoilt, entitled and indulged but fierce and fearless and proud. The most likely explanation, though, for his attraction was that erotic spark that had arched between them the minute she’d stepped into the house.

After all, it had been over a month since he’d made love to a woman, and considerably longer since he’d felt that visceral tug of desire this woman seemed to evoke simply by breathing.

‘Then I will order a car to take you and the bike home in due course,’ he answered, because he was damned if he’d let her leave before he had at least had a chance to explore why she intrigued him so much. And no way was he letting her cycle home tonight. It was practically a hurricane out there.

A shiver ran through her and he noticed the small puddle forming at her feet.

‘There’s a bathroom on the first floor. Dry off and help yourself to the clothes in the dresser,’ he said. ‘I will meet you up there once I have found some medical supplies for that leg.’

The flush on her face brightened. She looked wary and tense, like a feral kitten scared to trust a helping hand.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘Now go. Vite.’ He shooed her upstairs. ‘Before you flood my hallway.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I DISCOVERED WHERE my housekeeper hides the medical supplies,’ Ally’s host announced as he strolled into the large study on the first floor and placed a red box on the mahogany desk.

Ally swallowed down the lump of anxiety in her throat. She wrapped her arms around her midriff, but remained rooted to her spot by the room’s large mullioned windows.

How did Dominic have the ability to suck all the oxygen out of the room simply by walking into it?

At least she was warm and clean and dry now. Unfortunately, the oversized sweatpants and top that smelled of him, which she’d found in the guest bedroom next door—after taking the world’s fastest shower in the en-suite wet room—still put her at a huge disadvantage.

In her bare feet, he towered over her, his suit trousers and white shirt perfectly tailored to accentuate his lean, well-muscled body.

‘I see you found some dry clothes.’ He studied her makeshift outfit in a way that made her feel like a street urchin playing dress-up before a king.

The intense look had her heart thundering harder against her ribs.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.

‘Is the leg still bleeding?’ The gruff question had goosebumps springing up all over her skin, despite the cosy cotton sweats.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I took a shower to clean it. I’m sure it’s fine.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said, sounding doubtful. He beckoned her with one finger and indicated a large armchair in the corner of the room. ‘Sit down so I can inspect it.’

She debated arguing with him again, because goosebumps were rising on the goosebumps now at the thought of getting any closer to him. But she could see by the muscle twitching in his jaw he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

She crossed the room, trying not to limp, and sat in the chair. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could start breathing freely again.

To her astonishment he knelt down in front of her. She braced her hands on the arms of the chair as he opened the box, and began to rummage through the array of medical supplies.

How had this happened? How had she ended up playing doctor with Dominic LeGrand? In his billion-pound house? In the intimacy of his study? While wearing his sweats with virtually nothing under them?

The traitorous heat—which had been lodged in her belly ever since the dispatcher had said his name—throbbed and glowed at her core.

But this time, she replayed the pep talk she’d given herself in the shower.

Why should she feel ashamed of her reaction to him? They were both consenting adults. Dominic had always captivated her, even as a delinquent boy, and he was a world-renowned womaniser now. So she was bound to find him a little overwhelming—especially as she was so pathetically inexperienced with men.

Looking after her mother and keeping food on the table and a roof over both their heads hadn’t left her any time to date while she was at school. And after her mother died, trying to realise her dream of becoming a fashion designer and stop her finances from slipping into a black hole hadn’t increased her opportunities much. In fact, despite a few fumbling encounters, she was still a virgin. Which explained why she had such a violent reaction to someone as overwhelming as Dominic LeGrand.

Having rationalised her attraction, she watched him unobserved as he arranged a bandage and a packet of antiseptic wipes on the side table.

Even when he was on his knees, his head was almost level with hers. The light from the lamp behind her caught the streaks of gold in his tawny hair. She could make out the scar on his brow, the one she’d wondered about often when they were children. How had he got it?

His shoulders flexed, stretching the seams of his shirt, as he reached down to cradle her heel in his palm.

She jumped, sensation sprinting up her leg and sinking deep into her sex as callused fingers gripped her ankle.

‘Does that hurt?’ he asked, his chocolate gaze locking on her face.

‘No, it’s just...’ No man has ever touched me there before. ‘I was just surprised.’ Who knew my ankle was an erogenous zone?

‘Okay.’ He frowned, but seemed to take the explanation at face value. ‘Let me know if it does hurt.’

She nodded, her whole foot humming as he gripped her heel and used his other hand to lift the leg of her sweatpants past her knee.

He hissed as the gash was revealed. It wasn’t too deep, more like a bad scrape where the pedal had dug into the skin, but it was still bleeding a little and there was some bruising visible around the wound.

‘Nasty,’ he murmured as he grabbed one of the antiseptic wipes with his free hand.

He ripped the small packet open with his teeth.

‘Do you know how you did it?’ he asked, dabbing at the wound.

‘I got in the way of your fiancée while she was leaving,’ she said.

His fingers tensed on her heel. ‘Mira did this?’ he said and she could hear the fury in his voice.

She nodded, wishing she could take the words back.

Why did you bring up his broken engagement?

He’d seemed pragmatic about it downstairs, but how did she know that wasn’t all an act? Like the act he had put on as a boy, when his father had referred to him as ‘my bastard son’ at the supper table, or the don’t-give-a-damn smile he’d sent her when she had witnessed Pierre backhand him across the face—and she’d tried to defend him.

‘Some people deserve to be hurt, ma petite.’

His father’s answer still haunted her.

No one deserved to be hurt, least of all Dominic, who had seemed to her back then—despite that don’t-give-a-damn bravado—like a lost boy, jealously guarding secrets he refused to share.

What if he was just as hurt about his broken engagement? And his anger now was only there to disguise that hurt?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘Upset me?’ The flash of anger was replaced by an incredulous look. ‘What could you have done to upset me?’

‘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.

‘C’est vrai. I am French. I take my wine seriously,’ he said, laying on his accent extra thick and making her grin.

‘The Merlot sounds good,’ she said.

He poured the red wine into a crystal tumbler, his fingers brushing hers as he passed her the glass. The prickle of reaction sprinted up her arm, but it didn’t scare her or shame her this time. It excited her.

She took a sip of the wine, and the rich fruity flavours burst on her tongue.

‘Bon?’ he asked.

‘Very.’

He leaned his hips against the cabinet and crossed his arms over his chest, making his pectoral muscles flex distractingly against the white linen.

‘You’re not drinking?’ she asked.

‘I have already had one whisky tonight. And I want to keep a clear head.’

‘Oh?’ she said. She wanted to ask why he needed to keep a clear head, but it seemed like a loaded question—especially when he smiled that sensual smile again, as if they were sharing an intimate secret.

She got a little distracted by the astonishing beauty of his face—rugged and masculine—dappled by firelight and the ridged contours of his chest visible through the tailored shirt.

She took another sip of the wine, let the warmth of it spread through her torso. This was definitely better than having to cycle back to Whitechapel in the pouring rain.

Mira Whatsherface’s loss was Ally Jones’s gain.

‘Are you enjoying the view?’ The deep mocking voice had her gaze jerking back to his face.

She blinked, blinded by the heat of his smile. Momentarily.

Her cheeks heated.

For goodness’ sake, Ally, stop staring at his exceptional chest and make some small talk.

‘What’s the deal?’ she asked.

His scarred eyebrow arched. ‘Deal?’

‘The deal you were prepared to enter into a loveless short-term marriage for,’ she elaborated.

‘An extremely important one for my business,’ he said, without an ounce of embarrassment or remorse. ‘There is a large tract of undeveloped land on the Brooklyn waterfront. It is the only undeveloped parcel of that size in the five boroughs. I intend to reclaim it, and build on it. Homes mostly. Unfortunately it is owned by a group of men who refuse to invest with someone they regard as—how did they put it? “Morally suspect.”’ He used finger quotes while sending her a wry smile. ‘My private life needs to be stable and settled without a whiff of scandal while the project is in its early stages. As soon as I was in a position to engineer a board takeover and buy them out, I planned to end the marriage.’

‘So it’s all about money?’ she said.

His smile quirked as if she had said something particularly amusing. ‘Money is important. You of all people should understand that,’ he said, and she felt her blush heat. ‘But no, it’s not all about money. This is about taking my business to the next level. This project will put LeGrand Nationale in a position to dominate the regeneration market in the United States.’

So it wasn’t just about money, it was also about legacy and prestige. Was it any surprise that would be so important to him? When he had been forced to prove himself from a young age, the illegitimate son who had been called a ‘bastard’ by his own father. She couldn’t blame him for his drive and ambition, even though his cynicism made her feel sad.

‘But let’s not talk about business,’ he murmured as he released his arms and walked towards her. His thumb glided down her cheek and her breath caught in her throat, the sizzle of heat darting into her sex. ‘Tell me about you. How did you come to be a bike messenger? Has your life been hard, since that summer, Allycat?’

His voice caressed the childhood nickname in a way that inflamed her senses—but his attention was even more potent. She needed to be careful; this was a casual conversation, nothing more.

‘Not that hard,’ she lied. ‘I became a bike courier because it’s good money. And I can fit it around my classes. I’m... I’m in college at the moment,’ she added, as she found herself staring into his eyes, spotting the strands of gold in the chocolate brown.

‘So you are smart as well as beautiful.’ His thumb glided across her lips and her mouth opened instinctively on a sigh, the blood rushing in her ears.

‘If I asked to kiss you, Alison,’ he said, the rasp of need in his voice both raw and sublime, ‘what would you say?’

She nodded without thinking.

Kissing Dominic probably wasn’t a good idea, but she was incapable of controlling the euphoria rioting in her blood. The knowledge he wanted her was even more intoxicating than his fresh woodsy scent and the feel of his thumb tracing over the pulse in her neck.

‘You must say the word,’ he coaxed as he stroked the well of her collarbone.

‘Yes.’ Please.

‘Merci.’

The hoarse thank-you was as tortured as the need twisting her belly into tight knots.

Her bottom bumped the wall as he pressed her against it, found the hem of her sweatshirt and slid his hands under it to hold her steady.

Then his lips were on hers, hot and firm and seeking. A groan escaped from her constricted throat and his tongue plunged deep into her mouth.

He explored in masterful, demanding strokes as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her sweatpants and cupped her naked bottom.

He ripped his mouth away. ‘No panties?’ he said, the pupils so dilated his chocolate brown eyes had become black.

‘They... They were wet,’ she choked out.

‘I may have to punish you for that, Alison,’ he murmured, the mocking tone so fierce it was only half joking.

Raw need careered through her.

‘I want to see more of you,’ he said. ‘D’accord?’

She nodded again, having lost the power of speech.

Lifting the hem of her sweatshirt, he tugged it over her head. She shuddered as his gaze glided over the damp sports bra she had donned after her shower.

Could she have been wearing anything less alluring?

But his gaze when it met hers still blazed with arousal. ‘Très belle.’

Capturing both her wrists in one hand, he lifted her arms above her head, until she was pinned against the wall, her breasts thrust out, begging for attention, her breathing so ragged it sounded deafening.

He covered one straining breast with his free hand and scooped it free of her bra. Exposing her to his gaze.

‘Magnifique...’ he murmured, then lowered his head and licked across the swollen tip.

She bucked against his hold, shocked by the sensations firing down to her core as he teased and tortured the oversensitive peak with his tongue, his teeth.

She couldn’t stop shaking, sobbing. Until he covered the erect nipple with his mouth and suckled.

It was too much and yet not nearly enough. The jut of his erection, so hard and large confined in the suit trousers, pressed against her belly. She wanted to feel it inside her, to take the ache away.

Her breathing guttered out when at last he released her engorged nipple. But the relief was short-lived, as he unhooked the bra and freed her other breast to begin again. Torturing, teasing, tormenting.

She was begging, bucking against his hold when he finally returned his mouth to hers. He held her captive, both wrists shackled above her head. The huge erection notched between her thighs, her bare breasts crushed against his chest. The hard shaft found that sweet spot through their clothing, rubbing, rocking, the waves of sensation building from her core.

The orgasm built so swiftly, she couldn’t control it, the shattering wave crashing over her with staggering intensity. Her body arched as the bright light fired from her core and shattered into a million glittering shards.

She was struggling to breathe, her body slumped against his, when his voice rasped against her ear.

‘Dieu, did you just climax, Alison?’

Her eyelids fluttered open, to find him staring at her with a need so fierce it was terrifying and liberating all at once.

Her thundering heart began to slow. He did not look happy. In fact, he looked stunned. Had she done something wrong?

‘Yes...’ she said. ‘I’m... I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop it. Was I supposed to?’

His lips quirked and then, to her astonishment, he dropped his head back and laughed.

She tugged on her arms, tried to wrestle herself free of his hold, humiliation engulfing her.

He was still fully dressed. With her bra hanging from one arm and her nipples raw and swollen where he’d played with them she’d never felt more exposed.

‘I should go,’ she murmured.

But he didn’t release her, as the rough chuckles died. His thumbs pressed into the rampaging pulse at her wrists.

‘No way. We’re not finished yet. Even if you jumped the gun.’

‘I said I was sorry about...’ She tried to protest, but he silenced her, the swift kiss both demanding and possessive.

‘There was no need to apologise,’ he said, his gaze compelling—the humour replaced with something much more potent. ‘Do you have any idea how adorable you are?’

The gruff words were quietly spoken, but so achingly sincere her heart punched her ribs.

Cupping her cheek, he swept his gaze over her, the approval she saw making her heartbeat thunder in her ears.

What was happening? Because this felt too intimate, too emotional. More than sex.

‘Please, I...’ she began.

‘Shh...’ He stroked his hand down to her collarbone, the ripple of sensation making her shiver. ‘I wish to take you to bed, Alison. How do you feel about that?’

‘I... I want you too.’ Very much.

‘Bien.’

He sent her a devilish grin, full of wickedness and intent. Letting her arms drop, he dragged the bra away, leaving her standing before him in only the baggy sweatpants.

‘Très, très belle,’ he murmured again, his voice thick with arousal. ‘My gym pants have never looked so good.’

She crossed her arms over her breasts, brutally aware of how naked she was, compared to him.

But then he scooped her into his arms.

She grasped his neck as he marched her into the spare bedroom. The room was luxuriously furnished with a large tester bed complemented by an array of antique pieces. He closed the door to the study, so the only light in the room came from the bathroom and the bay window that looked out onto the house’s grounds. The low lighting had a little of her anxiety retreating as he laid her on the bed.

Her pulse sped up again though as he unbuttoned his shirt, then stripped it off.

Moonlight flickered over the tanned skin, putting the bunched muscles of his torso into stark relief. He was magnificent. Tall, muscular, lean and powerful. The dark hair that defined flat brown nipples and arrowed down into his trousers through his abs had her lungs seizing. Her throat dried as he released the hook on his suit trousers and kicked off his shoes.

The rigid erection sprang up as he lowered his boxers.

Her gaze met his, her breathing so shallow now it was a miracle she didn’t faint as he climbed onto the bed.

‘Lose the pants, ma belle,’ he said.

She wriggled out of the sweatpants and flung them away. He climbed on top of her. His skin felt hot and firm as he pressed her into the mattress and a rough palm coasted up her bare thigh. A hoarse cry escaped her throat.

Their skin touched everywhere. His fingertips electrified her nerve endings as they found the sensitive seam of skin at the top of her thigh, then located the slick heat at her core.

‘So wet for me, ma belle.’ She could hear the hunger in his voice. ‘Tell me what you like.’

I don’t know.

She trapped the answer in her throat. And flattened her palms against the ridged muscles, stalling for time. She didn’t know how to answer that question; no man had ever seen her naked before, let alone touched her, stroked her.

His thumb found the bundle of nerves again and she moaned, jerking her hips towards the intimate torture.

‘You like that?’ he asked as his thumb circled, not quite touching her again where she needed.

‘Yes, yes, please do it again.’ She didn’t care any more about the naked need in her voice, the raw desperation. She wanted to feel that glorious release once more.

‘Can I touch you, too?’ she asked.

The deep groan against her neck felt like a benediction. ‘Oui.’

She slid her hand down his chest, feeling the muscles quiver. His whole body shook as she wrapped her fingers around the stiff column of flesh. She had a moment of panic as she gauged his size, his girth and the steely strength beneath the velvet-soft skin. How would anything that large and hard ever fit inside her?

But then his thumb found that devastating spot between her thighs and every thought flew out of her head.

She stroked him as he stroked her. But where his caresses were firm and assured, her movements were jerky and uncertain. Still she took pleasure in his shudder when her thumb found the bead of moisture at the head of his erection. She could feel his passion building as the coil at her core twisted and tightened. Her knees fell open, her hips angling forward, in a wanton display of need she couldn’t control. Her fingers gripped his rigid flesh as one blunt finger entered her, sinking into the tight flesh, his thumb still working her into a frenzy.

‘You are very tight. It has been a while, yes?’ he asked.

She nodded. Because what else could she say? It was a lifetime since she’d felt this good.

He swore softly in French, his hips driving into her hand, the hard flesh getting longer, thicker.

‘Come for me again, ma chérie,’ he demanded, and just like that the wave slammed into her, flinging her over that final peak.

She let out a hoarse moan as she fell to earth, sinking into the glorious oblivion. But as the afterglow settled over her like a glittering cloud, her fingers flexed on the erection. He was still rigid, still huge.

Leaning over her, he fumbled in the bedside drawer, the rip of foil was loud enough to be heard over her staggered breathing.

Lifting her hand from his erection, he kissed the knuckles. ‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he murmured, the urgency sending new ripples of longing through her exhausted flesh.

He rolled on the condom, then grasped her hips.

She felt the head of his erection probe, before he thrust deep.

Rending pain seared through her and she choked off a sob.

‘Merde!’ He reared back.

She bit into her lip to stop the cry of pain. Intense pleasure had turned to shock and discomfort, but far worse than the soreness where his erection was lodged deep inside her was the look of pure horror that shadowed Dominic’s face.

He knew.

The thought doused the heat, until all that was left was the chill of his disapproval.

Of course, he knew. Why had she thought he wouldn’t notice? A man with his experience, who had probably slept with dozens of women.

She shifted, trying to adjust to the thick length inside her, hoping to regain the desire that had disappeared in a rush. But his fingers flexed on her hips, and he flinched.

‘Don’t move,’ he groaned. ‘I don’t want to hurt you more.’

‘It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt.’

‘Don’t lie,’ he said, his gaze shadowed now, the horror replaced with surprise and something that looked like guilt. ‘I am your first. Is this not the case?’

She wanted to lie, to take the guilt out of his expression. But how could she, when it was clearly obvious?

‘Yes, but it’s not a big deal,’ she murmured, because it really wasn’t. Or at least it shouldn’t have been. Up until the moment he had entered her, she’d been delirious with pleasure. He’d brought her to orgasm. Twice. And more than anything she wanted to do the same for him. To see him shatter the way he had made her shatter.

‘I must withdraw,’ he said.

‘No, don’t.’ She clasped his shoulders. ‘Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.’ The tearing pain had already lessened, the tendrils of heat building again at her core, the pulsing ache becoming sharp and insistent.

‘Damn it, Alison, you don’t know what you ask of me. I am not sure I can be gentle.’

The growled admission, grudging and yet gruff with desperation, had her heart contracting.

‘I don’t need you to be gentle, Dominic. I just need you to treat me like a woman.’

To treat me like your woman.

The foolishly romantic thought echoed in her head.

She buried it deep. She hadn’t lied when she’d told him her virginity was not a big deal to her. She was twenty-five years old. It was ridiculous she’d waited this long. And yes, it had hurt. But already the full stretched feeling had changed into something closer to pleasure than pain. He filled her up in a way that made her breath hitch, and her clitoris throb with renewed yearning.

‘I’m not fragile,’ she added, because he was still braced above her, not moving, his face strained with the effort it was taking him to hold still. ‘Really I’m not. I know what I want.’ And what I want is you.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, coaxing him to do what they both needed. He swore softly, but then placed a hand at her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lips.

‘D’accord, ma belle,’ he murmured, his gaze becoming dark and intense as he glided out of her, then thrust back in, slowly, carefully, sinking in to the hilt.

The head of his penis massaged a spot deep inside her and she gasped, the delicious shudder adding to the heat at her core.

‘C’est bien?’ he asked, his perfect English having deserted him.

‘Yes,’ she moaned. ‘It’s good.’

He established a rhythm—slow at first, and then building—digging at that spot ruthlessly, relentlessly as heat fired over her skin.

The waves of pleasure gathered again with each new thrust of his hips, each new jolt of desire. She clung to him, the only solid object in the storm engulfing her. Every pulse and heartbeat became attuned to the ravages of pleasure he was waging on her body. The steady rhythm became harder, faster, overwhelming, unstoppable.

She couldn’t think any more, couldn’t make sense of the sounds and sights around her, all she could do was feel...

Her moans became pants, her sex contracting, massaging the hard length. The brutal pleasure coiled tighter at her core. The edge of desire so sharp she felt buffeted, burned, undone.

Then his thumb found the swollen folds where their bodies joined, triggering a conflagration so fierce and all-consuming she cried out.

Her body arched into his, the shattering orgasm exploding along her nerve-endings, like a shimmering light, splintering and then retreating to splinter again.

She could hear her own sobs, her fingers fisting in his hair, as he finally let her tumble to earth—his shout of fulfilment following her over that high wide edge.

His big body collapsed on top of her, his raw pants matched hers, the musty scent of sex and sweat mingling with the shiver of surrender.

She hugged him, exhausted, spent. Her sex sore, her body limp. She caressed the silky strands at his nape now damp with sweat, and tried not to acknowledge the debilitating wave of emotion threatening to engulf her.

It’s just sex. Just for one night. It doesn’t mean anything.

But still she couldn’t quite ignore the faltering beat of her heart at the realisation that, after twelve years, all her foolish teenage fantasises had finally come true. And it had definitely been worth the wait.

CHAPTER FOUR

BREATHE, DAMN IT. Breathe.

Dominic’s hands slipped from Alison’s hips as he withdrew. She flinched and the dart of shame stabbed at his chest.

His fingers shook as he imagined the bruising imprint of his thumbs on the soft skin where he’d gripped her as he’d pumped into her.

What the hell had just happened? Because what should have been a smooth, subtle seduction had become something frenzied and frantic.

He’d planned to make love to her tonight as soon as they had been alone together in the study—and he’d seen the arousal in her eyes.

She was beautiful, captivating, she wanted him. And she could solve all his problems.

Figuring out where his housekeeper had hidden the first-aid box downstairs had given him more than enough time to consider the tempting possibilities Alison Jones’s reappearance in his life tonight might mean.

He needed a wife and she could be perfect for the role.

Not only did she turn him on to the point of madness, something Mira had never done, but he could offer her a home, and financial security. The fact she was completely unknown to the press with no scandal attached to her was another huge point in her favour. It would be a relatively simple job to set up a new PR narrative to explain their whirlwind romance and wedding. Mira had been out of the country for over a month, he and Alison had known each other as children, they’d met again when she’d delivered something to his home and one thing had led to another.

The only question had been whether she desired him, too. Had he imagined that spark? Because it suited his own ends so perfectly?

But as soon as he’d walked into the study and seen her face flush and her breathing accelerate, he’d known he hadn’t imagined anything. And when he had touched her bare foot, and she’d nearly jumped out of the chair, he’d had to swallow a harsh laugh.

Game on.

But why hadn’t he questioned her artless responses, the beguiling blush that had spread across her collarbone as soon as he’d started flirting with her?

She’d been as eager as him, that was why. He’d assumed the blush, the innocence were all an accomplished act, an act to disguise the fact she was more than ready to take Mira’s place—especially when she had questioned him about the business deal.

He’d been in her situation himself, years ago when he’d been destitute after arriving in Paris with three broken ribs and not a penny to his name, so why would he judge her for taking the easy option? Of snagging a rich man? Hadn’t his own mother—and hers—tried to do the same?

But once he’d tasted her, the sophisticated seduction he’d planned had changed into something elemental.

She had tasted like she smelled. Strawberries and chocolate. Sweet and decadent. But more than that, she had tasted of summer, and sunshine, and joy and surrender.

The fanciful thoughts had scattered, becoming dark and earthy and driven as she’d squirmed against his hardening erection, like a cat desperate to be stroked.

Bon Dieu, but he hadn’t been able to get enough of her, exploring the recesses of her mouth like a man possessed.

And once he’d freed her breasts, felt her nipples harden and swell against his tongue, he’d been lost in a passion so intense it had been a major battle not to take her right there against the wall of his study.

When his hands had cupped her naked bottom, sensation had hurtled beneath his belt with the speed and accuracy of a heat-seeking missile.

Suddenly, he’d become the desperate boy again, instead of the experienced lover.

He’d had to force himself to slow down, to carry her to the bedroom and strip off his clothes, to draw forth another orgasm—simply to prove he could wait to have her, that he was still the one in control—before he’d plunged into her.

But when she had gasped and stiffened in pain, he’d known instantly—this was no act.

She had been a virgin, for God’s sake.

He should have stopped then, but, even while he was frantically trying to assess the repercussions of her innocence, his body had refused to obey him once she’d given him permission to continue—so he’d taken what she’d offered, because he’d been unable to do otherwise.

And now here he was, lying in bed beside her, not knowing what the hell to say to her.

Should he apologise? Explain? She’d said it wasn’t a big deal, but somehow it was to him. He’d never been a woman’s first lover. Had deliberately avoided that sort of intimacy. And what did he do now about his plan to suggest they marry? Because this could complicate things in ways he did not want, and had not anticipated.

His gut twisted as he felt her shift on the bed beside him. She hadn’t spoken, probably because she was as shocked by the intensity of their lovemaking as he was. And appalled by his lack of sophistication.

Or was she? How would she know the power of their connection—or how catastrophically he had lost control—if she had never slept with another man?

She sat up with her back to him, but as she went to stand he flung his arm out and caught her hip. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, pleased when the words came out reasonably smoothly despite the rawness in his throat.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your sweats? I’ll return them tomorrow.’

What?

It took a moment for him to register what she was asking him and why as she bent down to scoop the sweatpants off the floor. But when she tried to stand, he at least had the presence of mind to keep his hand anchored on her hip.

‘You’re not going anywhere tonight, Allycat,’ he said, moving across the bed to band an arm around her waist.

She twisted round again, her face so close he could see the confusion in her eyes. ‘Why...why not?’ she asked.

Mon Dieu, she was even more innocent than he had assumed.

He kissed her shoulder blade. ‘Because I have exhausted you. And it is still raining.’ They weren’t the main reasons, not even close, but he didn’t want to talk about anything else until he had calmed down enough to figure out all the angles.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.