Contracted As His Cinderella Bride

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.