I realize I’ve come to expect it from her.
And to appreciate it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ANTOINE
Laura and I are having breakfast—on camera, as usual.
Nothing happened during the night, thanks to my iron will. When on her way to the shower, Laura gave me a half-quizzical half-inviting look, it almost broke my resolve. That one look made me want to get into the glass enclosure with her and fuck her senseless against its every wall. But I held firm. No kissing, no touching. The gentlest of touches would’ve undone me, considering that I was already primed by her beach bikini and the salsa class earlier in the day. One kiss, and she would’ve spent the rest of the night in my arms.
When she came out of the bathroom, I was sitting at the desk in the salon, working on my laptop. I didn’t go to bed until one, by which time she’d fallen asleep.
The main reason I’m hell-bent on resisting Laura’s appeal is the prospect of instant annulment when my mission is over. The other reason is Celeste d’Alenq. While I’m not exactly dating her, we had a lot of intellectual affinity and camaraderie during our memorable dinner together.
Celeste is objectively great. Bright, athletic, cultured. Daughter of a count and granddaughter of a royal duke, she plays tennis and loves to hike in the mountains. She’s my fellowcountrywoman. Her brother Jonas, the new Count d’Alenq, was one of the key seekers before me. Last but not least, a match between Celeste and me would make my parents very happy.
I can’t let a moment of weakness with my rigged bride jeopardize the possibility of a potentially perfect union.
“You look preoccupied,” Laura says. “Trouble at work? Is that why you stayed up so late last night?”
“Yes,” I lie.
Isabelle sails by our table, greets us, and drops an envelope onto each of our laps. Laura opens hers at once.
“Our third challenge,” she announces, “is to collaborate on a piece of art.”
A rather vexatious knot forms in my stomach. “That’s vague.”
“Come on, it’ll be great! We could sketch?—”
“Look, I can’t draw,” I say flatly. “So, whatever you’re imagining, lower your expectations now.”
She waves off my protest like it’s a trivial detail.
I glare. “Laura, I mean it.”
She whispers so that the mic won’t catch her words. “You’re a tattoo artist, for Chrissakes. Drawing is part of your job,non?”
“It is,” I whisper back, “if your standard for tattoos is stick figures.”
She sits back and stares at me. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’ll show you.”
She narrows her eyes. “Nah, I’m sure you’re joking.”
“You’ll find out.”
She grins. “This will be fun!”
It won’t. Trust me.
We finish our breakfast and head back to our suite with the TV crew trailing behind us. Laura goes straight to her suitcase. Alain and the new mic guy shadow her. She unzips the case, rummages with purpose, and pulls out a well-worn sketchbook, some pencils and an eraser.
“You travel with that?” I ask, watching her flip through the pages.
“I’m weird like that.”
