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‘Oh,’ she said as a delectable blush rioted across her cheeks. And he almost laughed at the irony.
She was embarrassed about her virginity, but not about being dubbed a prostitute in a British tabloid.
‘Did you have to tell him that?’ she said. ‘It’s so personal.’
‘I know, and I apologise, but I wanted to refute Mira’s claims in the strongest possible terms.’
To secure this damn deal, which I completely forgot about a minute ago. Mon Dieu, LeGrand, get a grip.
‘They’re not going to put that in the papers, are they?’ she asked, sounding horrified.
The rough chuckle burst out without warning. After all the fury and recriminations, the agony of knowing he’d failed her—and jeopardised the deal, which was of course much more important—her reaction seemed hopelessly naïve, but also ridiculously endearing. So endearing it managed to achieve several things at once—defuse his temper, restore his sense of humour and, most importantly of all, restore his sense of perspective.
He’d overreacted, not just to Mira’s attack, but also to the disturbing news about Alison’s circumstances in the last twelve years. That much was obvious.
What had happened on that night twelve years ago had no bearing on their circumstances now. And yes, maybe he was using Alison, but he had been upfront about that and she had made an informed decision to sign the contract. She was on board with all of this. And he was paying her a million pounds for her pains. He hadn’t deceived her or seduced her into this situation. She had come of her own free will.
Alison was also correct. Ignoring Mira’s attack made sense—the story would die a death more quickly that way. He’d already told Etienne about Alison’s unsullied state to refute the claims made in the article with the consortium. And displaying their happy marriage for all to see over the next few days by escorting his new wife to a few high-profile events would hardly be a chore given that he was struggling to keep his hands off her.
The reason he had lost perspective about Mira’s article and its fallout was even easier to explain.
An idiotic part of him had panicked that Alison might back out of their arrangement at the eleventh hour—thanks to the frustrating extra twenty-four hours the officiant had insisted they would have to wait before dotting the last of the i’s on their deal. Plus he’d waited seven whole days to consummate this damn deal already—while enduring the sort of sweaty erotic dreams every night that hadn’t plagued him since he was a boy.
But Alison wasn’t going to back out of this deal. And he didn’t need to wait any longer to seal their deal, in the only way that mattered.
‘No, they won’t put it in the papers,’ he said. But couldn’t resist the urge to run a thumb over her lips. The sooner he fed this hunger, the sooner it would stop messing with his head. ‘But why are you embarrassed about it?’
‘Probably because I’m twenty-five years old and being a virgin at that age makes me seem sad and like a bit of a freak!’
‘Firstly, you’re not a virgin any more,’ he said, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. ‘And secondly, I don’t think it makes you a freak. It simply makes you discerning. You waited, until a man came along who was a good enough lover to give you the spectacular experience you deserved for your first time,’ he added, teasing her now—and going the full smug in the process. ‘Which isn’t sad, it’s smart.’
She huffed out a laugh, but the sparkle of amusement in her eyes was like a drug. When, exactly, had making her smile become so addictive?
‘Spoken like a guy with an ego the size of Manhattan,’ she said, but the embarrassed flush had begun to fade, so he considered her mockery well earned.
‘Touché, again, Alison,’ he said, grinning back at her as the car stopped in front of the loft apartment building he owned in Nolita.
Nolita, short for North of Little Italy, was the thriving neighbourhood that had been up-and-coming in the nineties but had now firmly arrived, with a young, trendy, arthouse crowd moving in to the turn-of-the-century brownstones and rehabbed tenement blocks.
‘What a beautiful building—is this where you live?’ Alison asked, her enthusiasm making his ribs feel suspiciously tight.
He’d bought the condemned brick and cast-iron building on the corner of Lafayette five years ago for a steal, then proceeded to work a miracle—gutting and then refurbishing the structure to preserve its historic integrity in the elegant arched windows and cast-iron balconies, while at the same time giving it a luxury, high-spec interior. The ten-storey block now housed the offices of LN’s US-based operation, and a four-bed, four-bath penthouse loft apartment where he stayed when he was in the city.
‘Yes, I own the building. LN’s offices take up the first nine floors and then my apartment’s on the top,’ he said, then realised he was boasting and didn’t know why. He’d never felt the need to impress a woman before.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said. ‘I love the art deco details.’
He got out of the car, not sure why his chest tightened even more at her praise. ‘I’m glad you approve.’
He offered his hand and she took it.
The lapels of her suit jacket—the jacket that had been driving him wild as soon as she’d stepped onto American soil—spread as she stepped out of the car, giving him another provocative glimpse of pale flesh and purple lace.
The familiar shot of adrenaline pounded back into his crotch.
The chauffeur stepped to the back of the vehicle to help the doorman with their luggage, leaving them cocooned on the sidewalk, the car door shielding them from passers-by. He couldn’t see any photographers, even though Etienne had suggested they might be besieged for the next few days as a result of Mira’s story.
But he found himself tugging her into his arms regardless.
