Claiming His Bought Bride. Rachel Bailey
and moss-green polo shirt should have looked casual, but with the pants’ crisp crease down the front and the shirt tucked in above a simple belt that had probably cost the equivalent to a month of her wages, he somehow appeared ready to lead a board meeting. Or seduce a woman.
She almost choked on her strawberry as the thought took hold and irresistible desire stole over her. The familiar luscious heat started low in her belly.
Determined not to lose control of her body, she carefully set down the bowl and gripped the edges of the sink. She would not get distracted by something as counterproductive as sexual attraction. To do the best for her baby she needed to be focused—and she would be.
She glanced out the window again and watched as Damon, folded papers in one hand, set his keyless lock and strode to her front door.
Lily took a deep breath and dried her hands to let him in. But instead of pressing the buzzer, he took out the key she’d given him while they’d dated and let himself in. Her heart twisted at the familiarity of the action, for the memories of naive happiness it evoked.
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