‘You’re right, Mira, I am heartless. I’m also a bastard.’ He ground out the words, the hollow ache in his chest at the memory of that slap an emotion he’d thought he’d cauterised long ago. How infuriating to find he hadn’t...quite. ‘I consider that a strength,’ he added, releasing Mira’s wrist. ‘Now get out. Before I have you arrested for assault.’
Mira’s face collapsed, her lips trembling. ‘I hate you.’
So what? he thought dispassionately, as she swung round and rushed out of his study.
Hearing the front door slam, he walked to the drinks cabinet, swiped the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, then poured himself a glass of single malt Scotch.
He only had a week to find himself another wife to secure the deal he needed to take his business to the next level. The business he’d built from nothing after crawling off his father’s estate that summer, his ribs feeling as if they were being crushed in a vice, the welts on his back burning.
He’d flagged down a truck, and the driver had taken pity on him, giving him a ride all the way to Paris. As he’d sunk in and out of consciousness on that endless, agonising journey, he had promised himself he would never see or speak to his father again. And that he would build something to prove to his father, and everyone else who had rejected him, had belittled or dismissed him, that they were wrong.
He welcomed the sting as the liquor hit his split lip.
He would find another wife. Preferably one who did exactly what he told her and knew how to keep her legs closed. But tonight he planned to celebrate a lucky escape.
‘GET OUT OF my way, you filthy...’ The woman’s voice trailed off into a sneer as she shoved Ally and her bike out of the way.
Ally stumbled, rammed into the gatepost, the bike’s pedal scrapping against her calf as the woman marched past her and got into a sleek red sports car.
Ally hauled the bike up. She would have shouted after the woman, but she was too tired and too anxious to bother—and anyway the woman wouldn’t have heard her in the rain.
The car peeled away from the kerb in a squeal of rubber.
Ally watched the red tail lights disappear round the corner of the Georgian garden square.
Hadn’t that been Mira Whatshername? The woman the wedding ring she had in her pack was for?
The woman had looked furious. Maybe there was trouble in paradise? Ally pushed the thought to one side.
So not your business.
She wheeled the bike to the back of the mansion house, which stood at the end of the square in its own grounds. Taking a fortifying breath, she propped the bike against the back wall and pressed her freezing finger into the brass bell at the trade entrance.
He won’t answer the door. He’ll have staff to do it. Stop freaking out.
The rain had reached monsoon levels as she’d left Mallow and Sons. It beat down on her now, drenching her. The tiny package she’d collected weighed several tons in the bike bag hooked over her back.
Unfortunately the freezing March rain, and the numbness in all her extremities, not to mention the now throbbing ache in her calf muscle, felt like the least of her worries as the harsh memories continued to mess with her head.
Stepping back from the door, she peered up at the house. Every window was dark, bar one on the floor above. Swallowing heavily, she pressed the bell again, with a bit more conviction. A figure appeared at the window. Tall and broad and indistinct through the deluge. Her heartbeat clattered into her throat.
It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him.
The pep talk became a frantic prayer as she detected the sound of footsteps inside the house.
She jerked her bag to her front. She should get the wedding ring out so she could hand it over as soon as the door opened.
She fumbled with the wet fastenings, her heartbeat getting so loud it drowned out the sound of the storm.
A light in the hallway snapped on, casting a yellow glow over the rain-slicked panels, then a large silhouette filled the bevelled glass.
Ally barely had a chance to brace herself before the door swung wide. A tall man filled the space, his face thrown into shadow by the light from the hallway. But Ally’s numbed fingers seized on the bike bag when he spoke—his deep, even voice thrusting a knife into the memories lurking in her belly like malevolent beasts.
‘Bonsoir.’
The French accent rippled over her skin, sending sickening shivers of heat through her chilled body—and making the ball of shame wedged in her solar plexus swell.
How could he still have the power to do that? When she was a grown woman now, not an impressionable teenager in the throes of puberty?
‘You’d 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