Page 12 of Princess of Pride
“So I’ve been told.” Mostly by guys.
His aqua gaze locks on mine, but it’s guarded. “I’m looking forward to calling you wife.” His accent makes the statement sexy, even if there is no sentiment to his words.
“You agree then—to my terms?”
“Yes.”
I nod and swallow the lump of fear that catches in my throat. “I guess we have a deal.”
Something like triumph flashes in his eyes, but it disappears too quickly for me to be sure. “Be ready at nine in the morning to sign your life over to mine.”
A nervous laugh trickles up my throat. “I would have worded it differently.”
Be ready to get married. Be ready to play the part.Any other way would have sounded better.
“I’m sure you would have.” A barely-there grin takes shape at the corner of his mouth. Does this man know how to smile?
He lifts his hands. “Let’s get you something to wear.”
He wants to help me off the counter. Do I want his hands on me? He’s being helpful, and I should get used to him touching me. Public displays of affection and all that.
I rest my palms on his shoulders and lean forward. His big hands grip my waist, and he lifts me off the counter with ease. Once I’m on my feet, he clears his throat and turns away abruptly.
I follow him from the bathroom, trying my hardest not to ogle the muscular curves of his back. He’s not bulky, but he’s not too lean. He’s perfect.
The writing that I don’t understand spreads across the side of his torso. “What is the language of your tattoo?” I ask as we walk down the hallway toward one of the bedrooms.
“Gaelic.”
From his Scottish side. I want to ask if he really has a factory, what they make, if he has a castle, and if it’s medieval. I want to ask a lot of things, but I’ll learn them soon enough.
Like his pristine appearance, the bedroom is immaculate as if no one has been staying in here. He takes his dress shirt from the bed. A red blotch stains the front.
Blood? Is that why he’s shirtless?
My gaze jumps to his chest. Had I somehow missed a deep cut?
“Wine,” he says, reading my expression.
“But you weren’t drinking wine,” I reply, letting slip how closely I’d been watching him.
His lips twitch with that hint of a smile. “No, I wasn’t. A woman got clumsy.”
I bet she did. Too bad for her she’s not his type.
He disappears into the walk-in closet and returns with a black suit jacket. “For you.”
“I don’t need anything this nice. An old dress shirt will do just fine.”
“I insist.” He helps me into it. The jacket swallows me, revealing how slight I am compared to him.
I push up the sleeves, but they keep sliding back over my hands.
“Roll them up.” He folds the material until my slender fingers are free.
“I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“I have more.”
