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She’d asked for that key back; he’d told her he’d get around to it, but she’d known he had no intention. She guessed his reasons had something to do with a bruised sense of entitlement. She’d had every intention of changing the lock. Then she’d suspected she was pregnant, one of her assistants on the Impressionist exhibition was reassigned, and then. Well, then Travis had fallen ill and Damon had asked her to marry him.
“Lily, it’s me,” he called from the hall.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she called back, picking up her bowl again and perching on a kitchen stool, elbows resting on the polished wood counter. He could see himself through the house—she didn’t want to seem too eager and reinforce his view of their relationship.
Damon appeared in the doorway and propped one shoulder against the frame, his casual pose belying the heat in his eyes. Every cell and molecule in her body went on instant alert and every drop of hormone screamed her need for him. For all the heat and pleasure that his gaze promised.
Focus. Her chin kicked up. There were more important priorities than physical want. Like her future. And her baby’s future.
He chuckled, slow and deep. “They’ll feed us on the plane.”
Her grasp on self-control almost wavered as his sensual rumble resonated through her, but she staved off the threat by concentrating on his words alone. “I know, but I’m pregnant and I’m hungry. This will tide me over until we board.”
Broad shoulders straightened as his amusement evaporated. “Lily, you’re not on your own in this. If you’re hungry anytime, anywhere, tell me and I’ll get what you need.”
Her breathing hitched, but she wouldn’t be swept away by his words. She was more than capable of feeding herself. “Thanks, but I’ve got some cookies in my bag. I’ll be fine.”
He took a step closer, his voice deepening. “I don’t just mean now. I’m serious. You’re carrying my baby, so you tell me whatever it is you want and I’ll find it. I don’t care if we’re in the middle of a traffic jam or on a snowbound mountain. I’ll arrange it.”
His gaze was unwavering, resolute. He meant it. Well, for now. His promises only lasted until work called, but her pulse fluttered nevertheless. In this moment, he was here, looking after her, and he’d never been more attractive.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She took a piece of cantaloupe and chewed carefully, desperate to do something to shield her overwhelming yearning for the man before her. She forced her gaze down to her fruit.
A silence followed and the tension escalated despite her resolve not to look up. She could feel his eyes on her—her skin prickled with heat wherever they landed. Still, she would not look.
She knew she’d have to eventually—they were getting married. At some point she’d have to face what he did to her and find a way to handle it. But for the life of her, right this minute, she couldn’t think how.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him open the folded papers and lay them out flat on the counter beside her.
“The bank account for the baby in your name, as requested. I’ve deposited an amount my lawyers tell me should be enough to support a child until he’s eighteen. I didn’t want you to be worried that I’ll stop payments. I’ll still add more at regular intervals.”
Lily stopped chewing as her eyes rested on the very generous value of the account. Her mind stilled, then clicked into gear. She hadn’t expected this move precisely but, knowing Damon, she had been waiting for a counteroffensive ever since she laid out her conditions. And here it was.
He’d arranged the lump sum in the bank account so there would be no need for a contract to ensure his payments. Money in the bank equaled no contract to get money. His first step in a plan to avoid signing anything pertaining to her other condition—separate bedrooms, separate lives.
Her shoulders slumped. She should have guessed he’d fight on that one. Damon always held tight to what was his.
She rubbed little circles on her temples, attempting to relieve the building pressure.
The very fact that he was manipulating her now reinforced her decision that their child couldn’t grow up in the mold of the Blakelys. It would be too cruel to let an innocent baby learn the Blakely cynicism and how to bow down at the altar of the almighty dollar.
Damon played to win. At any cost. Their relationship had already been chalked up as one of those costs and she’d vowed to never give him the chance to treat her heart as expendable again. Or her baby’s precious heart.
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he cut her off. “Are your bags packed? I’ll take them out.”
She folded her hands on the counter and squeezed them until her knuckles turned white. She needed to be strong or he’d walk all over her. She’d told him her conditions; she just had to stick to her guns and not let him manipulate her. “Damon, you haven’t given me a contract yet.”
He didn’t flicker an eyelash. “Contract? I’ve already given you the money. It’s the independence you wanted.”
Attempting to put herself in a less submissive position, she stood. It wasn’t much of an improvement, given his massive presence, but she could only work with what she had. He stood on the other side of the counter, leaning against it with one hip as if there was nothing she could say that would worry him.
She lifted her chin. “I want separate bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. I’m not saying the vows without a contract ensuring that.”
Damon smiled. Her threat appeared to amuse him. He prowled around the counter and came to a stop mere inches from her.
“Sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low and hypnotic, “I’m not signing my marital rights away. If you’re so sure we can’t live together, perhaps you should consider a different contract. Leave me sole custody.”
Her hands instinctively flew to her waist. His eyes held hers. He may have been amused but he wasn’t joking. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach and struggled to make her voice work. “The courts won’t be swayed by your money, Damon. Or by a man who can’t keep his word—you promised you’d sign the contract.”
His gaze roamed to her hair and his hand reached up to run down its length, from crown to where the ends lay on her shoulder. She flinched and yet still felt compelled to lean into him. She hated herself for that weakness.
He didn’t retract his hand, instead lingering over the exposed skin at the curve of her neck. “Actually, I didn’t agree to sign anything.”
His hands began to work their magic, sending ripples of heat and pleasure out from the spot his fingers caressed, along each and every nerve ending, all the way to her toes. As a distraction, it was effective—she paused instead of responding.
Pressing his advantage, Damon closed the last gap between them and used his other hand to press the small of her back so she leaned into him.
“Now we need to be reasonable,” he breathed into her ear. “I’ve given you more money than most people see in their lifetime. You need this marriage as much as I do. I’m assuming you’ve already told your grandmother about the new house?”
Lily swallowed with difficulty and nodded.
Without her noticing, he’d maneuvered her around so her back was against the counter and she was trapped between it and the muscled wall of his chest. She could feel him against her skin, feel him under her skin. He’d invaded her blood and it pumped for him through her body, powerful, dark, spellbinding. As if every strong beat in her chest was his name.
He brushed his lips along her earlobe and she felt the words on his breath as much as heard them. “And yet you’re willing to risk that over an unwinnable point.”
She dropped her chin, only barely stifling a moan. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t make a thought form that didn’t involve his body.
It had always been this way between them, simmering passion that ignited with a simple touch from their first kiss. Before, even—from the first time their gazes had connected at the gallery fund-raiser. Damon had prowled over, offered her a champagne flute he’d acquired on the way and asked, “How high a donation for a private tour of the gallery with—” he checked her name badge “—an assistant curator?” He’d kissed her before they made it halfway through the Australian Colonial Art exhibit.
And now he was doing it again—skipping preliminaries and rushing straight to the passion she could barely resist. If only he’d stop crowding her! She needed to step away, but there was nowhere to go. She placed her hands firmly on his shirt and pushed. He stepped back several inches, that same amused smile on his perfect mouth.
She had to focus. He was trying to take all her bargaining power away, but she wouldn’t let him forget … he needed her. “You won’t get BlakeCorp without me.”
He raised his brows in innocent surprise. “You think I’d choose a business over a child of my own flesh and blood?” He ran a knuckle lightly down her cheek. “Lily, why make this harder than it needs to be? No one gets everything they want at a negotiation table. That’s why it’s called negotiation. You played your hand well and you’re getting a good outcome—the bank account and your gran taken care of for the rest of her life. And me.”
Him? Her whole body flushed, but she needed to stay on her game or he’d outplay her. “Damon, whether you sign a contract or not, I won’t be the kind of wife you want.”
“And what kind is that?” He turned slightly to lean back against the counter, ankles crossed, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. His earlier amusement had returned.
She narrowed her eyes, wanting him to understand how serious she was about this. “I won’t sleep with you.”
Gran always said, start as you mean to go on. This was a marriage on paper for the sake of a will. It was not now, nor would it ever be a real marriage. She couldn’t let the lines blur—not even once. Her heart was having enough trouble resisting falling in love with him again as it was. Sleeping with him would court disaster.
“Let’s just say the negotiations will be ongoing on that point.” He raised one brow and her stomach fell. He still intended seducing her.
Then another thought struck. “You have booked separate bedrooms wherever we’re staying, haven’t you?”
It’d be just like Damon to expect her to share his bed despite the boundaries she’d laid. He probably had some ridiculous excuse ready like, just because they shared a bed didn’t mean they had to make love.
Though separate bedrooms might not be much of a defense when it came down to it….
He nodded, poker-faced. “As a matter of fact, I have.”
“So you won’t mind if I check that?” She knew how he worked and it wasn’t necessarily honorable, not when he wanted something as badly as he wanted this.
A lazy grin spread across his face. “Not at all.” He reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet and found a slip of paper that he handed her. It had a hotel name and phone number. Had he really done what she’d requested or was this another bluff?
She folded the note and stuffed it in her handbag on the bench. She’d ring to make sure when she got a private moment. When he wasn’t breathing down her neck, making her lose her thoughts.
He looked around as if that was settled. “Where are your bags?”
She blinked, tried to get her bearings, and glanced down the hall. “At my bedroom door.”
Lily watched him stride away, an edge of panic creeping up to clutch her chest. She had a strong feeling that she’d jumped out of the frying pan and into a bushfire.
Damon inserted the Auckland hotel room key card into the honeymoon suite’s lock and turned to appraise his new wife. How would she react to being carried over the threshold? Not well, if her mood during their vows was any indication.
Her frame of mind notwithstanding, she’d looked like a vision from heaven in the Peace Chapel. And the sharp constriction of his chest had almost blindsided him. It was right, this union.
He’d bought her a small bouquet of lily of the valley and she’d clutched it tightly, her gaze resting on the blooms during most of the ceremony.
Her downcast eyes only added to her resemblance to the aged paintings of holy women housed in his childhood home. She’d been ethereal.
She still was as she stood motionless, waiting for him to turn the door handle.
Normally he’d be willing to risk her wrath and just sweep her into his arms to enter the room, but he had a lot riding on her mood tonight. Plans they’d both enjoy if she’d only relax.
He presented his arms. “How would you like to enter, Mrs. Blakely?”
Lily’s forest-green eyes flickered with pain before landing on contempt. “I’ve told you, we don’t have that type of marriage, Damon.”
He looked her lush frame up and down. Then why had she worn white? The cotton summer dress may not look much like a traditional wedding gown, but she couldn’t fool him—her sentimental streak had chosen the color as intentionally as he’d chosen her bouquet.
She could deny it all she liked, but her selection proved that deep down she acknowledged the validity of their marriage. Which gave his libido hope that the wedding night would turn out to be as traditional as the color of her dress.
He smiled at his bride as she waited for him to open the door. No doubt about it, the sentimental streak that had chosen her white attire would like to be carried over the threshold. And damn if he didn’t relish the prospect himself.
He reinserted the key card to activate the lock, then leaned down and scooped her up in one smooth motion, carrying her through the door into a room elegantly decorated in whites and creams, and kicked it closed behind him.
He was pleasantly surprised she didn’t object. She’d probably convince herself later it was due to shock. No matter, for now he’d savor the moment.
The scent of wildflowers enveloped him, the pressure of her body against his consumed him and he paused to let his eyes drift closed and fully appreciate the feeling.
She was tall, yet so delicate he’d often thought of her as a snow lily come to life—willowy, as if seeking the sun. He raised his lids to look his fill. Her fairness—creamy skin and silver-blond hair—only enhanced the illusion. Her eyes, the color of untamed foliage, showed where she truly belonged. Her natural habitat wasn’t the art galleries her work kept her in, but where the wild lilies grew.
“Very nice, Damon. Now put me down.” One side of his mouth curved at her hundred-percent controlled tone, but he sensed she was close to breaking point. He released her legs first, then, holding her torso with both hands, let her slide the way down.
His blood heated both at the sensation and at the memories it evoked. Of them making love through the night. The slide of nakedness. Of the sound deep in her throat when he touched her the ways she liked. His groin flexed and reported for duty.
By the time her feet touched the plush cream carpet strewn with rose petals, her pupils had dilated. Her breathing held an edge of raggedness.
He didn’t release her. “You thinking along the same lines as me, sweetheart?”
There was a certain satisfaction in being able to call her that again. It suited her so completely, as if the term had been created for her alone. And he was sure he saw a flash of approval in her features every time it passed his lips.
She arched a brow. “I’m hoping against hope this is still the suite with two bedrooms. How’s that compare to your thoughts?” She pushed against his chest and moved away. “I rang ahead to check from the airport but I’ve learned to never assume anything with you.”
He almost laughed, but caught himself in time. Smart girl. He’d changed the arrangements only as they waited outside the chapel, predicting she’d check the hotel number he gave her before then.
He adopted an innocent air. “In a honeymoon suite?” He looked pointedly from white walls and Austrian blinds, across to a table of palest pink marble with two white lacquered chairs, to the complimentary champagne waiting in an ice bucket. “Can’t imagine how likely that option would be.”
Her jaw dropped and her mouth formed a perfect little O. Then her fists clenched at her sides. “This is not a honeymoon. It’s a contractual agreement.”
He grinned. “Language can be so confining. Let’s just wait and see exactly what we have here.”
She shook her head as if words failed her. Then he watched, enjoying her profile as she bent to unzip her suitcase, left neatly beside his on matching luggage stands by hotel staff. Her sweet upturned nose, lush pink lips, just begging.
“If you think I’m sharing a bed with you, then you haven’t remembered me properly.” She straightened, lemon silky robe and pajamas over one arm, the other planted firmly on her hip.
Oh, he remembered all right. Remembered she liked to think she was in control. And sometimes he let her. Then, when she’d stopped fighting, he’d convince her of his point in other ways. Oh, yes, he remembered some very pleasant convincing.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes and leaned a little unsteadily onto the wall beside her. “I need a long, hot shower. And when I come out I expect you’ll have arranged separate beds.” As she lowered her hand from her face, he was shocked to see her now-lackluster complexion.
His stomach fell and all thoughts of passion evaporated. “Something’s wrong. Is it the baby?” Maybe he’d pushed her too fast in her condition? Despite getting the all clear from three doctors for the flights, had it been too much for her to fly while pregnant?
He moved to her side and encircled her in his arms. The health of the tiny life she carried was the one thing they were in complete agreement on. He needed this baby—his plan B. But it was more than that. Something personal between him and the child that he couldn’t yet define. A connection, a link.
She twisted to move from his embrace. “Nothing’s wrong with the baby. I’m just tired from the rush to pack and the flight.”
This time he didn’t let her go. Instead, he guided her to the cream, overstuffed couch. “Sit down for a few minutes.”
When she opened her mouth to disagree, he laid a finger across her lips. “Just this once, do something I suggest without arguing. Rest before getting in the shower. I don’t want you fainting in there.” He arched an eyebrow.
Her eyes widened as she took his meaning—either sit with him for a moment or risk having him checking on her, naked and wet in the shower stall. A job so appealing his temperature nudged up a couple of degrees just thinking about it.
With innate grace, she sank into the luxurious couch and rested the side of her face on the high headrest. He had to remember she was almost four months pregnant. Easy to forget when she showed so few signs, but he’d thought about the situation a lot since the night she’d sprung the news on him.
And in a surprise to himself, he’d grown more fascinated by the idea she was carrying his child inside her. Moved, even. When he’d devised this plan after his uncle’s offer, he hadn’t stopped to think of the emotional bond he’d feel to the baby. After his disastrous childhood, he’d have been happy going through life never reproducing.
And yet … even now, there was a tiny version of him under Lily’s hands as they rested on her belly. Where did the baby fit? Lily may be tall, but she was slim. In fact, she could use a bit more meat on her bones. He’d start working on that from today, too. This woman was carrying his child and he’d make damn sure both of them had everything they needed.
“Tell me what you know about the baby.” He hadn’t finished forming the thought before it was out of his mouth.
Her eyes opened slowly, lazily, and she smiled. “I don’t know much yet. No gender. But everything is progressing as it should be for this far along.”
Damon grabbed on to the small morsel of information, yet still needing more. “Can you …” He cleared his throat. “Can you feel him move?”
“Not yet. Sometime in the next couple of weeks, the experts say.”
