Queen's Winter Wedding Charade, page 12
‘Hey, grab that bag, Belle,’ Travis shouted at her.
She lifted the small suitcase that contained her cosmetics and toiletries. And joined him at the quad.
‘Sling it in the back and hop in,’ he said.
She felt the surge of affection at the casual way he spoke to her. Then felt foolish for her giddy reaction. Surely, he spoke to everyone in the same way? Exactly how sheltered was she?
She thanked the pilot, who had finished loading the bags—which appeared to be all hers apart from a large rucksack—and climbed into the quad.
‘Thanks, Chad,’ Travis said, slapping the pilot on the back. ‘We’ll see you on the first for the pick-up. I’ll check in with Megan if we need anything, but otherwise have a great Christmas.’
Isabelle tensed. She’d conveniently forgotten about the upcoming festive season—thanks to the pressures of the wedding and the wedding night. She forced herself not to panic.
She had a plan to refocus their working relationship over the next ten days.
All she needed to do was find the right time to suggest it.
The pilot waved goodbye, promising not to lift off until they were at the house.
After jumping into the quad, Travis drove through a grove of aspens laden with snow. The track opened out onto the valley ridge. Isabelle’s breathing clogged again as his mountain home appeared. The striking multi-level structure was much larger than she had expected, and as breathtaking as the stunning panoramic view across the Rockies.
He’d called the place a cabin, so she’d envisioned something cosy and quaint made of wood. She certainly had not expected anything this modern—or this imposing. The steel and glass edifice was several storeys high and built into the ridge-line with terraces on two levels that ran the length of the house. A seventy-five-foot lap pool encased in glass hung over the cliff on the lower level. Steam rose from the water, which was open to the elements.
‘You swim outdoors? At this time of year?’ she asked.
He braked the quad in front of a four-car garage. ‘Yeah, the water’s heated to twenty degrees, so I don’t freeze to death. Swimming is a good way to iron out the kinks after a day’s boarding, or a workout in the gym here if the weather’s not cooperating.’ He slung his arm across the steering wheel, his gaze roaming over her—and sending her pulse into overdrive. ‘I’ve always had a surplus of energy. I need to find ways to work it off during the day, or I’m ready to crawl out of my own skin by nightfall.’
‘I... I see,’ she stuttered.
He smiled, that slow sensual smile that had heat curling in her abdomen and made her feel as if she were about to crawl out of her own skin, too. Even though she had never had a problem with hyperactivity.
‘Yeah, I guess you do now,’ he murmured, the suggestive look making her sure he wasn’t talking about swimming any more.
Apparently, their truce was over.
Before she could come up with a suitably non-confrontational response—and stop the heat from sinking any deeper into her sex—he had jumped out of the quad.
He slung his rucksack over a shoulder, then stacked a couple of her suitcases under his other arm. ‘Grab what you can, and I’ll come back for the rest.’
She lifted the biggest suitcase she could manage, not wanting to seem like a shirker, but wondering again where his staff were. Not that she minded carting her own luggage, but she was starting to become concerned about the silence... And that intense feeling of intimacy that had been so electrifying—and so problematic—the last time they’d been alone together.
‘Open up.’ He barked the command into the frosty air as they headed across the terrace. A glass panel slid open in the house’s façade.
The electric door slid closed behind them as they entered the indoor space. The double-height living area was stunning, the glass walls giving them an unencumbered view of the frozen landscape, while the flames from a granite fireplace in the far wall threw a warm glow over the luxurious furnishings.
Isabelle spotted a strikingly modern kitchen on the other side of the living area—with bespoke wooden cabinetry and state-of-the-art appliances—but then she stopped dead. In the other corner of the living room was a ten-foot freshly cut fir tree, decorated with red silk ribbons, gold baubles and white fairy lights.
Emotion wrapped around her ribs, like a suffocating blanket, threatening to yank her back into the past, as the memories she had suppressed for so long, and so diligently, slammed into her and the scent of pine resin got trapped in her lungs.
‘What’s wrong?’ The husky question from behind her—which was far too perceptive—made her jolt.
She blinked furiously, the twinkle of lights blurring, as she struggled to cut off the melancholy thoughts.
‘Hey, are you crying?’ he asked.
‘No, of course not,’ she said, but the denial sounded weak and unconvincing.
Biting into her cheek, she shoved the memories back into the box marked ‘ancient history’. ‘It’s just... The tree is a surprise. I didn’t think you would be the sort of person to have one,’ she managed, struggling to cover her reaction.
He stared at her, for the longest time, and she had the awful suspicion he could see through the lie. But then he glanced past her at the cause of her distress. ‘I guess Megan, my housekeeper, had it put up,’ he murmured. ‘I can take it down if it bugs you.’
Yes, please.
She swallowed the pathetic reply.
Pull yourself together, Isabelle. It’s just a tree, and a beautiful one.
There were Christmas trees all over Androvia at this time of year—even if she never had one in her private quarters. She was used to seeing them and immune to their charm. She was just stressed and jet-lagged and had not been prepared to see one here, that was all.
‘No, don’t take it down. I like it. It’s very festive. And I wouldn’t want to insult your staff,’ she managed. ‘After all their hard work.’ She pushed the words past the blockage in her throat.
He was still watching her, with that searing intensity, which made her feel transparent. But then his eyebrow quirked. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. They won’t know.’
‘But aren’t they here?’ Isabelle blurted out, the silence pressing down on her.
‘Nope,’ he said, but his gaze remained fixed on her face. ‘I always give my employees paid vacation from December twentieth until after New Year.’ He was looking at her now with that vague sense of judgment. ‘So they can enjoy some quality time with their families, instead of having to wait on me.’
‘Oh...’ Her lungs deflated, while emotion swelled in her throat and the fireball of need sank into her abdomen.
‘What’s the deal, Belle?’ he said, making no attempt to hide his mockery now. ‘Not used to cooking for yourself?’
She wanted to be indignant, insulted even, that he considered her position had made her spoilt and entitled. But all she could do was muster a vague embarrassment—beneath the wave of anxiety now holding her lungs in a death grip.
After all, he was correct—she had never cooked more than the most basic meals for herself, and that had been several years ago in college. But far worse than the realisation he thought so little of her was the news that for the next ten days she was going to be entirely alone with him.
And she would have nothing to do or think about other than her inability to look after herself, and how much his attention still disturbed and excited her.
What if having to celebrate the festive season with him risked exposing the vulnerable little girl again, behind the façade of competence and composure?
Had her fake honeymoon—which was always likely to be a challenge—just morphed into a full-blown Christmas nightmare?
‘Could you show me to my room?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone firm and even.
‘You don’t want anything to eat?’ he asked.
She stared back at him blankly. Was he going to demand she cook a meal now? To test her culinary skills?
‘I’m really not hungry,’ she said, which was true, because her stomach was currently tying itself into tight greasy knots at the thought of what the next ten days had in store for her.
He shrugged. Then pointed past her shoulder. ‘Elevator is over there. Guest rooms are all on the top level. Take your pick.’
She grasped her suitcase handle and began to wheel the bag to the lift.
‘I’ll be out boarding tomorrow. So, help yourself to food,’ he called out, forcing her to turn again. ‘The chef will have left some meals in the freezer, which you can nuke in the microwave,’ he added, with that note of judgment she was already starting to hate. ‘Feel free to check out the house. Pretty much everything is voice activated because I hate reading instructions.’
She nodded. From the rigid look on his face, she suspected he was regretting having to spend his Christmas alone with her now, too. But given he was the one who had insisted on putting them both in this untenable position, she had no sympathy for him—whatsoever.
She stored up the spurt of anger, hoping it would help fortify her for the days ahead.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely, because good manners had always been the shield she used to hide wayward emotions. And inappropriate urges.
A cynical knowing smile edged his lips.
And too late, she remembered her handy shield was about as useful as a thimble of water in an inferno when it came to not getting burned by her counterfeit husband.
‘Relax, Belle. We agreed, this is a marriage without conjugal rights...’ His gaze drifted down her figure, making her panic—and the curl of heat—flare alarmingly. ‘But if you change your mind again, let me know. I’m always looking for an entertaining way to let off steam.’
‘I won’t,’ she said, with a confidence she didn’t feel but was determined to fake.
But as she turned her back on him again, the desire to hide until New Year from that mocking smile—and the hunger that refused to die—made her race towards the lift in another unseemly retreat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Two days later
TRAVIS DUMPED THE heavy snowboard in the mud room. He tugged off his boots, and his outer wear, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg.
Once he got down to his shorts and T-shirt to examine the swollen knee though, he swore under his breath.
No wonder it hurt like a bitch.
He’d pushed himself way too hard over the last two days. Boarding from dawn to dusk, then working out in the pool or the gym like a madman to take the edge off a lot more than just his excess energy.
He chugged two heavy-duty painkillers. Keeping out of his wife’s way—since that crack when they’d arrived had made her blush like a nun—had seemed like a smart move. He didn’t know what had possessed him to bring up their one night together again, even as a joke. Perhaps he wasn’t over the rejection as much as he thought. Because each day, after he’d exercised himself into a coma so he could sleep peacefully, he’d still woken up hard and ready for her.
He walked—or rather limped—through the house, heading for the kitchen and the ice machine. The tree lights glittered on the granite flooring, reminding him of her weird reaction when she’d spotted the fir on that first night.
What had that been about? Because he’d seen devastation in her eyes.
His heartbeat slowed. Now he thought about it, her private apartments in the palace had not been decorated, despite Androvia being the Christmas capital of Europe. Did she have some phobia about the season?
He’d considered taking the tree down the next morning. But in the end had decided against the idea. It would be a major job getting the ten-footer out of the house. And he liked it there, because it reminded him of how far he’d come since those Christmases with him and his mom when they’d had to settle for the last scraggy tree on the lot on Christmas Eve.
He should have asked Isabelle what the issue was, but they’d been avoiding each other since that first night—with him boarding all day and only returning to the house at nightfall, by which time she had escaped to her rooms.
He didn’t even know if she’d used any of the facilities. The only signs she was even still here were the meals that had been disappearing, and the empty containers that appeared washed and stacked neatly on the sideboard each evening.
But from the state of his knee, it looked as if he was going to be housebound until after Christmas now. His heartbeat kicked up a notch at the thought of bumping into his invisible house guest. He probably ought to have a conversation with her about their plans for tomorrow, because it was Christmas Eve already and it looked like they were going to be stuck together tomorrow.
Great.
What did royalty do on Christmas? He hoped she wasn’t expecting him to do the catering.
He huffed out an annoyed breath. It had always been just him and his mom on Christmas Day until that final Christmas before she’d died, when he’d messed up. The guilt and grief still hit him on the day itself, so he wasn’t in the mood to socialise.
Having to spend the day with Belle wasn’t going to make him feel any less raw, especially as he knew his mom would have chewed him out for ever agreeing to get married for a business opportunity in the first place.
Not for the first time, he wondered what his mom would have made of Belle.
He pushed down the prickle of disappointment when he found the living room and kitchen empty. Having to deal with her would only be more awkward while dealing with his bum knee.
But as he limped across the living area in the dusky light, a splash from outside had him scanning the pool terrace.
His heart stopped as Isabelle rose from the pool, her blonde hair tied in a knot, wearing just a couple of swatches of lace. Soaking-wet see-through lace, which reminded him of the panties he’d had his hand inside three days ago.
She tugged on a thick dressing gown and grabbed a towel lying on one of the heated loungers. Starting to shiver, she slid her feet into a pair of oversized slippers and shuffled across the terrace as fast as she could.
‘Open the door, please,’ she requested of the house’s integrated system with her typical politeness.
The glass panel slid across, and then back, as she shot into the indoor space. She hadn’t spotted him standing by the tree, his hands braced on the back of one of the couches to take the weight off his leg.
He stood there like a dummy, or the worst kind of peeping Tom, and watched as she shook out her hair. The curls fell in disarray onto her shoulders. His stomach muscles tightened, the familiar heat plunging south, at the memory of releasing her hair from the tangle of pins. The feel of the silky tresses, the sound of her groan as he massaged her scalp and the phantom scent of flowers and her assailed his senses all over again. And the pain in his knee moved north.
She looked as glorious now as she had on their wedding night. Young and fresh and approachable, without the regal reserve she so often cloaked herself with.
As she began to dry her legs with the towel, her full breasts—the rigid nipples poking through her wet bra—played peek-a-boo with the open robe.
She shivered again, then let out a soft laugh. His heart skipped several beats. And the tension in his gut cinched tighter, because her expression was a captivating combination of excitement, exhilaration and mischief—like a kid let out early from school on the first snow day of the semester.
This wasn’t the controlled, unapproachable monarch, this wasn’t even the forthright woman who had skewered him with her logic on the journey here and made him feel like a hot-tempered jerk... This was the other Isabelle, who hid behind both of those. The bold, impulsive girl who loved to ski too fast, who had the throwing arm of a Major League baseball pitcher, who kissed with a passion that could blow his head off—and who had come apart in his arms three nights ago.
His need—and his fascination—made him forget not just the pain in his knee, but all the reasons why he didn’t want her here.
The gruff chuckle came out before he could stop it. Her head rose, the towel slipping out of her hand as surprise crossed her features. But right there with it was the thrill of desire.
Yeah, she felt it, too. The livewire chemistry they’d been trying to ignore by avoiding each other.
‘Travis,’ she whispered, her expression wary as she gathered the robe, cutting off his view of all that delicious skin. ‘You’re back early.’
The fierce need charged through his veins as he watched her eyes darken with arousal.
He’d messed up. That night. They both had. But there had to be a way back from that. Because they had a week left, and he couldn’t think of a better way to get them through a vacation period that they both seemed to have hang-ups about than feeding this incessant hunger.
‘Yeah,’ he said, the husky word scraping his throat. ‘Great swimwear,’ he added, loving the way her pale skin pinkened all the way to her hairline. ‘But don’t wear it for anyone but me.’
* * *
Isabelle stared at the man less than five feet away as hot yearning rushed over her chilled skin. He’d been gone yesterday morning at dawn and returned after dark—and as she’d roamed the house alone during the last two days, she had convinced herself his absence was for the best.
But as the ache in her breasts and the glorious heat in her sex pulsed, her heart turned over in her chest. Because she was happy to see him. Excited even.
‘I didn’t wear it for you,’ she said, but the hoarse tone and the thrust of her swollen nipples against her damp bra called her a liar.
She had been bored and stressed without him here—overthinking every aspect of their interactions so far. And miserable at the thought of spending another Christmas alone.
Because something about being in his home, with that huge Christmas tree here, had made the bad memories all the more acute.
