Lord at First Sight (The Montevor Royals Saga #8)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LAURA

T he terrace is perfect tonight. A soft breeze carries the salt from the sea. The sound of distant waves fills the pauses between our awkward silences, and the rosé is cool enough to forgive the TV crew lingering a few feet away. Antoine is back in the suite after his urgent family call. It wasn’t anything serious, he assured me. His brother simply needed some business-related advice, and he needed it now.

I take another sip of wine from my glass. If I drink fast enough, maybe I’ll forget the camera lens that’s trained on me. The glamorous evening dress I’m still wearing is tight, but not so tight as to give me heartburn. My feet, on the other hand, are done . My stiletto sandals feel like medieval torture devices.

“Do you mind?” I ask Antoine.

Even if he does, I don’t care. I’m already reaching for my heels.

“Do what you need to,” he says.

I yank the sandals off with a groan. “Sweet relief!” I drop them to the floor and stretch my toes.

Antoine gives me a sidelong look—amused, I’d say?—before turning his gaze back to the horizon.

I relax back into my wicker chair and try to focus on the cool breeze brushing against my bare arms. But the hum of the camera equipment is impossible to ignore. Alain’s lens is practically begging for a “romantic moment,” an exchange he can feed to the show’s hungry fans. It makes my skin itch.

I tip my head back in frustration. Are we seriously expected to do this until bedtime?

Antoine sets his glass down and moves closer to me. Despite his ridiculous shirt, he looks much too handsome for comfort.

“Follow my lead,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m going to flirt with you. Flirt back.”

I stare at him, confused.

He gives me a reassuring nod. “Trust me.” He drapes his arm over the back of my chair, letting his long fingers brush my bare skin. I hate how much I like his touch.

“Did you enjoy the dinner?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

I play along. “Yes. Especially the dessert.”

“I noticed you like sweets.” His gaze locks with mine.

For a moment, I forget we’re pretending. “You did?”

“You eat dessert like you’re making love to it.”

I snort.

He isn’t entirely wrong, though. I’ve never had sex as satisfactory as a slice of good moelleux au chocolat.

Antoine begins to stroke my shoulder with a featherlight touch. The cameraman loves it. He’s literally eating up Antoine’s unhoped-for display of seduction. I go along with his little game, even though I can’t help but wonder.

He’s too good at this.

How does he make it feel so natural? I could almost believe that he really wants me. If it weren’t for his heads-up, I’d think he was into me, even though he’s spent the last two days trying to convince me otherwise.

Antoine’s lips are whispering in my ear again. “I’m going to suggest we move to the bedroom now, where they can’t follow.”

He stands up, trailing his fingers across my back. “How about we finish this wine and our conversation, somewhere quieter?”

I grab the bottle and my shoes. He picks up our glasses. We head back into the suite, the camera crew shadowing us. Alain literally vibrates with anticipation of what we’re going to do next to soothe the viewers’ bangxiety.

You’re in for disappointment, buddy.

Antoine reaches the bedroom door first. He opens it and gestures for me to go in. I step inside.

He turns toward the crew. “No cameras, sorry!”

And then he shuts the door—right in Alain’s face. There’s a soft thud as a piece of equipment bumps into the wood on the other side, followed by frustrated grunts, and retreating steps. I smother a giggle.

Antoine inclines his head theatrically. “Mission accomplished.”

“Thank you!” I set the bottle and my sandals down.

“Hey, they wanted a show and we gave them one.”

“An anti-show, rather.”

“Would you like me to run you a bath?” Antoine asks out of the blue.

I blink at him, caught off guard.

He shrugs. “You’ve been followed by cameras all day. You deserve to relax.”

How considerate of you! Or… is this an opening? Is he hoping to join me in the tub?

“OK,” I say slowly. “Sure.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and seconds later, I hear the sound of water running.

I’m still wondering what he’s up to when he peeks out. “All set.”

“That’s very sweet of you.” I pad across the soft carpet into the prettily tiled room.

He wipes his hands on a towel. “Enjoy!”

And then he steps out and closes the door behind him.

Oh. So, not an opening after all.

The tub calls to me, steam curling up invitingly. I peel my dress off, tie my hair into a high bun and slide in. There’s nothing like a hot, rose-scented bath to wash away the tension from the day.

What’s that sound on the other side of the door?

I strain my ears. Footsteps. A chair scraping against the floor. Drawers opening and closing.

What is he doing out there? Rearranging the furniture? Looking for something? A condom? The idea makes me smile, and then wonder.

Am I prepared for intimacy if that’s what’s on his mind? I don’t think so. We haven’t even kissed yet.

Would I like us to kiss?

Yes. That was my revenge plan all along—me and my hot new husband kissing on camera, Mike watching our passionate kiss at home and hitting himself.

Except, if Antoine kisses me now, Mike won’t see it.

Do I care?

I feel like I should.

But I don’t.

Fifteen minutes later, I dry off, comb my hair and wrap myself in a fluffy white bathrobe. When I reenter the bedroom, Antoine is standing by the window, looking out. He’s unbuttoned the cuffs of his cheap shirt and rolled the sleeves up.

He turns to face me. “Wow, you look reborn!”

“It was a great idea,” I say, plonking myself onto the bed.

“Water is a miracle worker when you’re tense.”

I scoot to the headboard, lean on the pillows and stretch my legs. “You must be tense, too, unless you’re used to cameras filming your every word and move.”

“Not at all. I’ll take a shower later.” He pours us some more wine. “Tension and fatigue aside, do you like being filmed? Do the cameras make you feel like a celebrity?”

I grimace. “I dislike the cameras more than the hiking—and I dislike hiking a lot .”

He smiles that boyish smile of his. I try not to gawk.

“We should finish this rosé, shouldn’t we?” he says, handing me my glass.

His fingers brush mine before he pulls his hand back and sits down next to me on the bed, his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out. He’s close enough for a quiet conversation, but too far for more.

I raise my glass. “To our escape!”

We clink and drink up. Soon, the bottle is nearly empty, and I’m feeling a pleasant fuzziness in my head. Antoine is cradling his glass like he’s deep in thought.

“You’re quiet.” I swirl the last of my wine. “Plotting the next march up the cliffs?”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Not this time.”

“Then what? What’s on your mind, dear husband ?”

I deliver the last word in a dramatic, exaggerated way, to show that I’m being tongue in cheek. Even though he is my husband. Legally, anyway.

Is he going to play along and call me his wife?

“The music box,” he says, completely ignoring my probe. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

For a second I am stumped. Why would he think of an old-fashioned toy right now? Then I remember.

“Ah,” I say with a smile. “Pedro’s secret scavenger hunt to nurture our bond.”

We could nurture it right now. He could move closer and pick up where we left off on the terrace. No toys will be necessary—just his bare hands.

Oops, that came out dirtier than I meant.

Antoine almost touches my warmed cheeks with the back of his hand but stops. “Are you OK? Too much wine?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He nods. “I figured we might as well brainstorm. Have you thought about where that box might be?”

“Honestly?” I sit up more fully against the pillows. “I have no idea. You?”

He stares at me. “How do you mean, me?”

“Well, didn’t Pedro say the box could be connected to either of us?”

He slaps his forehead. “But of course! He did say that.”

“So?”

“No, I have no idea. Never owned a music box. Never seen one at my parents’ or grandparents’ place.”

“Me, neither.”

After a moment of silence, he speaks again, “What about your aunt’s place? Or her shop?”

I shake my head. “My family’s not exactly into antiques or heirlooms or stuff like that. Everything we own is modern.”

“Not even something that might’ve been tucked away, forgotten?”

“The only music box I remember seeing in real life was in a gadget shop last year,” I say. “It had a rocket and little astronauts spinning around.”

“A rocket?”

“Yep. It played the song from Space Odyssey . I considered buying it, but it was ridiculously overpriced.”

Antoine seems unsatisfied. “Not antique, then.”

“Why are you so hung up on that stupid challenge?” I shrug. “It’s not like it’s a matter of national security.”

His eyes tighten. “No,” he says. “There’s nothing national security-ish about it. Absolutely nothing at all.”