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Truthfully, he’d been a mess—only then Dove had walked into his marquee. Dazzling, flawless, untouchable. With her gleaming pearl-blonde hair streaming down her back and those soft kissable lips parted in an extraordinarily sweet smile that had spread like nitrous oxide through his limbs.
And she had been so much more than the sum of her parts. She’d been smart—book-smart—but also curious about the world beyond hers. And her voice... She’d had a beautiful voice...soft and precise and hypnotic.
Just like the touch of her fingers, he thought, his pulse quickening.
His own fingers bit into the leather upholstery. He had been so certain she was the one. And, fresh from Fenella Ogilvy’s brutal rejection, he had been hungry to be seen, recognised. To be wanted, heard, needed...
Instead, for the second time in his life, he had been paid to disappear. He’d become yet another dirty little secret to be buried. And he had felt not just rejected but buried alive.
His gaze drifted to the window, to where a woman with a blonde ponytail was jogging along the pavement. His pulse accelerated, as if to keep pace with her stride. He hadn’t felt as if he was buried alive back in that war room. On the contrary, his need for her had been like a roar of flame and lava beneath his skin.
Remembering Dove’s face, the restless heat in her eyes and the flushed cheeks, he felt his groin tighten. He swore softly, yanked his tie loose from his neck and tossed it across the back seat, wishing he could tear off the rest of his clothes.
Or go back and tear off hers.
His whole body tensed, and before he could stop himself, he was picturing a naked Dove, splayed out on the oversized table in the war room, blonde hair spilling over her pale shoulders, mouth parted—
Groaning, he smacked his head back against the padded upholstery—and then he caught sight of his driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and checked himself.
That wasn’t going to happen.
It was true he had lost control earlier, but that was understandable. Seeing her again had been a shock, and that shock had momentarily swept aside everything. Erasing their history as if it had never happened. Changing his priorities so that in those few febrile seconds he had effectively been a blank slate.
Put like that, was it any surprise that some kind of muscle memory had kicked in?
He tapped on the glass behind his driver’s head. ‘Take me back to the hotel.’
Kissing her had been inevitable—necessary. Cathartic, in a way. But it would be different next time.
Feeling calmer, he sank back in his seat. Everything was still on track. And now he was just one very long, very cold shower away from purging Dove Cavendish from his body for ever.
As the sleek white helicopter rose up into the sky, hovering momentarily like a seagull riding a thermal air current, Dove felt her stomach flip. This was it. After nearly a week of pretending this might never happen, she was now just minutes away from seeing Gabriel again.
Living with him.
Working for him.
It was five days since he had waltzed back into her life and effectively shaken it like a snow globe. Now, to all appearances, everything was settled and calm again. The letter of engagement had been signed and Alistair was humming to himself as he walked the corridors.
She leaned her head back against the seat.
But beneath her pale skin chaos reigned.
Twisting slightly, she gazed down. Beneath her, the legendary Château Saint-Honoré was shrinking, turning into a dolls’-house-sized palace beside the glittering Mediterranean. A syncopated beat of panic and anger drummed across her skin as she watched the coastline disappear. If it had been anyone else footing the bill she would have enjoyed staying at the Saint-Honoré. The hotel was eye-poppingly opulent, sun-soaked,soignée—a one-of-a-kind testament to Riviera grandeur, harking back to a time when European aristocrats and Hollywood film stars had wintered by the famous pool with its dramatic black and white tiles.
But she suspected that the lavishness of her accommodation had simply been Gabriel’s way of reminding her yet again that he was calling the shots.
Her hand tightened around the leather armrest.
First, she had been invited to his offices at the ‘Wedding Cake’, to meet with his team—including his intimidatingly polished and articulate chief operating officer, Carrie Naylor. Then there had been a chauffeur-driven limousine that had appeared like Cinderella’s carriage to ferry her to the airport, where a sleek, snub-nosed private jet had sat waiting for her on the Tarmac to take her to the most exclusive hotel in the French Riviera.
And now she was in a helicopter, flying toThe Argentum.
All thanks to the ‘generosity’ of Gabriel Silva.
The only consolation was that the man himself had been conspicuously absent. Apparently‘unwinding in Paris’.
She sucked in a breath. Carrie had let that slip. And it shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have hurt. Only it did.
