by Teri Wilson
Dalton deepened the kiss, groaned into her mouth and Aurélie’s head spun with the knowledge that he wanted her. She wrapped her fingertips around the smooth blue silk of Dalton’s tie, anchoring herself in the moment before it slipped away.
What would he say if he knew? What would he think when he picked up the newspaper after she went back to Delamotte and saw her photograph alongside an older man who was her fiancé? How would he feel watching her on television stepping out of a glass coach on her wedding day? He would be furious. It would confirm every notion he’d ever had that she was spoiled, reckless and irresponsible.
At least, she hoped that was how he would feel. Fury she could handle. What she couldn’t bear from Dalton was pity. She’d grown quite fond of the way he looked at her as if she were some rare exotic bird instead of a grown woman living under her father’s thumb. Of course, those moments were heavily punctuated with looks of complete and utter exasperation. But every so often, when he turned his gray gaze on her, she felt herself blooming from the inside out. Like a peony unfolding before the dazzling heat of the summer sun in a tremulous display of flowering fragility.
He saw her. That was the difference. She didn’t have to hide who she was when she was with Dalton Drake. For all the secrets she was keeping from him, he saw her for who she really was. Which was more than she could say for the entire kingdom of Delamotte.
She really should have seen the engagement coming. Women in her position had been subjected to arranged marriages since the beginning of time. But she’d been so blissfully naïve about her circumstances, she’d had no idea that something so archaic and demeaning could actually touch her perfect life.
If Aurélie hadn’t found her mother’s diary the day after her funeral, she would have never known the truth. Sometimes she wished she’d never opened that book and flipped through its gilt-edged pages. Then she might still believe the fairy tale, when in reality, her parents had never loved each other. Her father had one mistress after another, while her mother had no one. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, a carefully arranged bargain of politics and power.
Now Aurélie’s would be, as well.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and with each breath, each touch of her lips, she begged Dalton to make it stop. To somehow change the course of her future so she could always be this girl, this bold woman who could write her own destiny.
Please. Please. Please.
“Please...”
Oh God, had she really just said that out loud?
“Not here, darling. Not here.” Dalton’s voice was little more than a sigh, but it carried just enough of a reprimand to bring her back to her senses.
She opened her eyes and found him staring at her with an intensity that left her painfully vulnerable. Exposed. Ashamed. Not here. She looked down at herself and couldn’t believe what she saw—her thighs straddling his lap, her hands on the solid wall of his chest, her lipstick smeared all over his mouth. What was she doing?
She’d all but begged him to make love to her when he’d shown no interest in her whatsoever. Actually, she may have even begged.
“Oh my God.” She pulled away, horrified.
Then she heard a snap, like the sound of something breaking in two. For an odd moment, she was sure it was her heart. Until she realized her pearls were still twirled around Dalton’s fingertips. Not the whole strand...only half of them. The remaining pearls were falling from her neck, one by one, dripping into Dalton’s lap.
Aurélie gasped and her hand flew to her throat.
Dalton cursed, slid out from beneath her and started chasing the gold pearls around the moving car, gathering them in his hands. But they rolled everywhere, as if refusing to be captured.
Aurélie remembered reading somewhere that pearls were a symbol of sadness and that each bead of a string of pearls represented a teardrop. She’d never given much thought to the legend before, but now she couldn’t quite shake the idea of her mother’s tears spilling all over the car. Lost.
What a mess she’d made of things.
* * *
By Dalton’s best guess, he had $50,000 worth of South Sea pearls rolling around his feet...give or take a few thousand. The fact that Aurélie’s priceless broken necklace was the least of his problems at the moment spoke volumes about the magnitude of the mistake he’d just made.
What the hell was going on? Had he seriously just had a make-out session with a princess in the backseat of a hired car while a total stranger drove them across the Brooklyn Bridge? Yes. Apparently, he had. And judging by the magnitude of the erection straining his fly, he’d quite enjoyed it.
But now...
Now Aurélie was looking around with a dazed expression on her face, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. Shell-shocked. Horrified.
Meanwhile, the driver kept shooting glances in the rearview mirror while Dalton crawled all over the car trying to save the pearls. Who knew it was possible for a simple kiss to cause this much mayhem?
Who are you kidding, you idiot? There was nothing simple about that kiss.
He sat up and poured a handful of pearls into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Aurélie.”
God, was he ever sorry.
Dalton had done the one thing he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do. Granted, he hadn’t slept with her. But what he’d done might have been worse. They were in a public place. Anyone could see them through car windows. Not to mention the chauffeur!
What if the driver recognized him? What if the driver recognized her? There were more things wrong with this scenario than there were pearls bouncing around the car.
“No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have...” Aurélie bit her pillowy bottom lip, and Dalton had to look away to stop himself from pillaging her rosy mouth all over again.
“I’m the one who’s sorry.” Dalton let out a strained exhale and focused on the pearls. If he met Aurélie’s gaze for even a second, surely she’d see the truth written all over his face—it had taken every last shred of self-control to stop things when he did. Part of him wondered how he’d managed it.
Please. There’d been a world of promise in that sweet whisper. Promise that taunted him now, like the perfume of hyacinths left hanging in the air after a lucid fever dream. And now every heartbeat was a knife to his ribs. His hands shook so hard he couldn’t manage to piece together the necklace. Pearls kept slipping through his fingers.
Please. That word would haunt him for a thousand sleepless nights to come, which in a way would be a painful relief. He’d grown altogether weary of the regret that had been his only bedtime companion since the night Clarissa died.
He hadn’t been in love with Clarissa. He’d realized that in the years since her passing. Perhaps he’d known as much all along. He’d cared about her, of course. He never would have asked her to marry him if he hadn’t, despite the expectations of both their families. But his feelings for Clarissa had been closer to the brotherly affection he felt for Diana than romantic love.
If he’d felt differently, he would have picked up the phone that night. He would have been home instead of sitting behind his desk. Clarissa would still be alive, and he wouldn’t be situated in the back of a car with his thigh pressed against Aurélie’s, wanting, needing, to touch her. Kiss her. Taste her.
He blamed himself. Not just for Clarissa—that was a given. But the responsibility for what had just happened with Aurélie also rested squarely on his shoulders. He wanted her. He’d wanted her since the moment he’d seen the hope that shone in her eyes. Hope like emerald fire.
That first day in his office, she’d turned her aching eyes on him as the glittering egg sat between them. And the force of her yearning had nearly knocked him out of his chair.
Desire. It had shimmered in the air like diamond dust. He hadn’t known what it was she wanted so badly. He still didn’t. But that ache, tha
t need, had kindled something inside him. He’d been numb for so long that he couldn’t remember what it was like to feel, to want, to need.
One look at Aurélie had been enough to conjure a memory. His life hadn’t always been this way. He’d felt things once. What might it be like to feel again?
Dalton had no idea. All he knew was that he wanted to consume Aurélie, to devour her, until he figured it out. He wanted to want the things she wanted, to feel the things she felt—life, longing.
Love.
No. Not love. Anything but love.
He wasn’t wired that way. He wasn’t capable of love. Hadn’t history proved as much? He had even less to offer now, after the way he’d failed Clarissa. She’d deserved better. So did Aurélie. And Dalton refused to be like his father. He wouldn’t be the kind of man who did nothing but take.
Take, take, take.
He stared ahead. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Aurélie quite yet. He couldn’t bear to see the heat in her gaze, the light that radiated from her as if she were a brilliant-cut ruby. Not now. Not while the taste of her scarlet lips still lingered on his tongue.
If he did, there’d be no stopping this time. Not until he’d plunged himself fully inside her and felt her exquisite body shuddering beneath him.
The city whirred past them in a blur of snow, steel and melancholy gray. Dalton breathed in and out, clenching his hands into fists in his lap. He’d let himself slip. He wouldn’t do so again. Aurélie was off-limits, and besides, he was comfortable with his life now. His orderly, predictable life.
But despite every effort to regain control, to slide back into a state of numbness, he couldn’t seem to still the incessant pounding of his pulse. Please. Please. Please.
Chapter Six
Dalton was behind his desk at Drake Diamonds the next morning before the sun came up. He’d left instructions with the doorman to arrange for a driver to bring Aurélie to the store whenever she liked. Granted, leaving her alone for any length of time was a risk, given her penchant for running away. But nothing seemed as dangerous as it would have been for Dalton to play house with her all morning.
Aurélie had come home with piles of eclectic clothing from their trip to Williamsburg, but not a single pair of pajamas. After the disastrous car ride, Dalton couldn’t take watching her move about his apartment in his tuxedo shirt again. He just couldn’t. Another glimpse of her willowy porcelain legs stretching from beneath the bottom of his own shirt while she peered up at him with those luminous emerald eyes of hers would have been more than his suddenly overactive libido could take. He was only human.
He and Aurélie had danced carefully around each other for the remainder of the day. At the vintage shop, she’d disappeared behind dressing room curtains with one colorful outfit after another, but never came out to model anything.
Dalton told himself that was fine. For the best, really. But he hadn’t realized how much he would have liked seeing her twirl in front of the shop’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors until he’d found himself relegated to a purple velvet chair in the corner. Alone. And more sexually frustrated than he’d ever been in his life.
How had his life gotten so absurdly complicated in the span of just a few days?
Enough was enough. He couldn’t live like this. He wouldn’t. He had work to do. Loads of it. He should be busy confirming the arrangements for the upcoming gala or working on the spring advertising campaign. Instead he was flipping through a stack of tabloids, praying he wouldn’t stumble on a photo of himself ravishing Aurélie in the back of a car.
There was a knock on his office door, and before Dalton could stash his pile of newspapers, Artem poked his head inside.
“Good morning, brother.” His gaze dropped to the copy of Page Six spread open on Dalton’s desk. “Interesting reading material.”
God help Dalton if he and Aurélie had been caught on film. He’d never hear the end of it. “Good morning.” He flipped the paper closed and waved Artem inside.
His brother clicked the door shut behind him. “I was wondering if you were going to show up today. When you didn’t turn up yesterday, I assumed you were on your deathbed or something. I can’t recall when you’ve ever missed a day of work before. You know we have Diana’s horse show in the Hamptons tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” Dalton sighed.
He’d actually forgotten about his sister’s event. That would mean more time away from the store, and he’d just missed nearly two full days of work because he’d been tied up with Aurélie.
He’d never been away from the office for two consecutive days before. Ever. He’d even managed to put in a solid eight hours the day of Clarissa’s funeral. It had made perfect sense at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Nothing made much sense at the moment.
“Have a seat. I need to discuss something with you.” He shoved the tabloids in a drawer so Artem wouldn’t be prompted to mention them again. Dalton would have been quite happy to forget them himself.
“Sure. I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to ask you...” Artem’s voice trailed off.
Dalton looked up to find him staring at Jacques who was curled in a ball on the sofa in the corner of the office. “Am I seeing things, or is that a puppy?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask.”
“Oh, I’m asking.” Artem shook his head and let out a wry laugh. “I’ve known you since I was five years old, and somehow I missed the part about you being an animal lover. When did you get a dog?”
Dalton aimed an exasperated glance at Jacques, who responded by panting and wagging his entire backside. The dog was obsessed with him. The pup had responded to the pet sitter Dalton had hired the day before with overwhelming nonchalance. But he worshipped Dalton. Just his luck. “I didn’t.”
Artem sank onto the sofa beside Jacques and rested a hand on the little dog’s back. Jacques went into an ecstatic fit of snuffling sounds as he shuffled toward his lap. “Then where did this sweetheart come from?”
Dalton cleared his throat. “He belongs to Aurélie.”
Jacques flopped onto his back. The minute Artem started rubbing his belly, the puppy’s tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth. A long string of drool dripped onto the sofa cushions. Naturally. “And he’s at work with you because...”
“He likes me. God knows why. The feeling is definitely not mutual.” The puppy was a walking train wreck. And constantly underfoot. Dalton could barely walk across the room without tripping over him, but his presence at Drake Diamonds pretty much guaranteed Aurélie would eventually show up. She’d never run off without her petit chou. “The homely little thing has hijacked my bed and destroyed half the pillows in my apartment.”
“Your apartment?” Artem lifted a brow. “Does this mean Aurélie’s staying with you?”
“It does.” Dalton shrugged to indicate his nonchalance, but the gesture felt disingenuous. Forced.
Artem’s gaze narrowed. “Let me see if I’ve got the facts straight here. You haven’t been at work for a day and a half, Aurélie is living with you and you’re letting her puppy—whom you clearly dislike—eat your furniture and slobber all over your office.”
Sounds about right. “I realize how this looks.”
“Do you really? Because it sort of looks like you’re sleeping with a runaway princess while you plan on exhibiting stolen royal jewels for your personal gain.”
Dalton blinked. He’d never been on the receiving end of a lecture from his younger brother before. This was quite a role reversal, and it didn’t sit well. Not at all.
“That’s a gross representation of what’s actually happening. For starters, she didn’t steal the egg. She inherited it.”
Artem stood and walked toward the desk, while Jacques grunted his displeasure at being left behind. “And do yo
u think the palace will see it that way?”
Maybe. Maybe not.
He’d considered this complication, of course. But if things went as planned, the officials in Delamotte wouldn’t know the egg was missing until its unveiling at the gala. By then, Drake Diamonds would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Mission accomplished. Aurélie would have a lot to answer for, but that wasn’t his problem. Was it?
In retrospect, that attitude seemed rather harsh. When had he become his father?
Dalton swallowed. “Also, not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sleeping with her.”
Artem looked down at him for a long, loaded moment.
Dalton hadn’t slept with Aurélie. That much was true. It was also true that all he seemed to think about was how very much he wanted to take her to bed. Not wanted. Needed. He needed to feel the soft perfection of her curves beneath his palms once again, to feel the pulse at the base of her throat thundering at the touch of his lips, to hear that breathy whimper. Please.
Was it so obvious?
Judging by the look on Artem’s face, yes. Apparently, it was. “Look, do what you like with Aurélie. You’re right. Whether or not you sleep with her isn’t my business. Although, I can’t help but mention that if I were sharing my home with the princess of a foreign principality whose most precious jewels are currently in the Drake Diamond vault, you’d have a few things to say about it.”
Artem lifted a sardonic brow.
Dalton couldn’t argue. He was right. And even though he had no intention of admitting as much to his younger brother, a line had most definitely been crossed.
He hadn’t just crossed the line. He’d leaped right over it.
The way things stood, the two brothers had practically traded places, like they were in some third-rate comedy film.
Except Artem was married now, and he had a baby on the way. He was no longer the black sheep of the family. Apparently Dalton now held that title.
What kind of alternate reality was he living in? He was appalled at himself.