Page 45 of Outcast’s Vow

“Dinner?”

“Yes, and I’d love for you to join me.”

“Is this some kind of sick revenge for what I did on our wedding night?” I ask.

Baptiste shrugs.

“I just want to take my wife out for dinner.”

I raise a hand.

“Be careful, Mr. Tremblay. You’re verging dangerously close to flirting.”

“So what if I am? Am I not allowed to flirt with my wife?”

My mind betrays me. Last night. The bed. The heat between us we dared not name. How desperately I wanted him, in that moment, to reach out and make me his.

All the symptoms are there. I’m losing my grip.

“I thought you didn’t believe in love?” I snap back.

“Are you going to join me, then?” my husband asks. “Or are you going to continue berating me all night?”

I nod again, pretending as hard as I can not to seem too enthusiastic. Meanwhile, my heart threatens to pound out of my chest.

“Sure.”

I hightail it out of there to the bedroom. I close the door. I let out a long exhale.

He wants to spoil me. Endlessly.

I should fight back. I know I should refuse it all, for my dignity, but he’s actually been thoughtful. It’s surprised me. And the way he’s conducted himself today? It makes me feel coveted.

My husband swears he doesn’t believe in love. He insists I’m only here for his physical satisfaction. And yet he’s gone and done all of this. For me.

My hands shake. This was supposed to be my captivity, so then why does it feel like seduction?

I gulp, trying to suppress the rising tide of conflicting emotions within me. I lean my back against the door, steadying myself before I lose control.

Who the hell is this man?

And why do I want him so fucking much?

18

BAPTISTE

“You look beautiful, Your Highness. Beautiful enough to make me forget myself.”

Sylvie can’t help but blush at my comment. It’s a chink in her armor that she tries, and fails, to hastily cover up with a stern gaze back at me.

She is pure feminine authority tonight, and I am savoring it. Tailored trousers. Sharp heels. A plunging silk blouse that expertly tempts my male scrutiny. Her lips – boldly and intentionally painted red – contrast with her platinum blonde hair. She’s untouchable, and she knows it.

The stars above us shine brightly. We’re on the balcony of our chalet, and even though we’re in the cold, I don’t feel it with the heaters around us keeping a perfect temperature. Candles flicker on the table between us. As with breakfast, I’ve arranged for the private chef to cook up a storm for us, and he hasn’t disappointed.

“Don’t be modest,” I say at Sylvie’s blushing. “Admit it.”

She scoffs.