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

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ANTOINE

L aura 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 fellow countrywoman. 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.”

She settles onto the couch with the sketchbook balanced on her knees and opens it to a blank page.

“What’s the sketchbook for?” I ask, moving closer.

I already know it from her file, but she’s obviously unaware of that.

“I make costume jewelry,” she says.

“For a living?”

There’s a glint of something almost giddy in her eyes as she runs a hand over the page. “My aunt sells it, but it’s not a living. I have a day job.”

“Can I see your designs?” I motion toward the sketchbook.

Her hand freezes for a second. “It’s just a silly hobby.” She shuts the book. “Nothing worth looking at.”

I don’t push. If she doesn’t think her designs are good enough to be seen, then they probably aren’t.

Her posture relaxes. She sets the sketchbook on the coffee table in front of her.

“Come,” she says, waving me over.

I sit down beside her.

Alain adjusts his lens.

“OK, let’s get started.” Laura opens a blank page and picks up a pencil. “We’re going to create something cool.”

I run a hand through my hair. “Cool might be a stretch.”

“Have some faith!” She shoves a pencil into my hand. “We need to collaborate, remember?”

Alain edges closer, probably hoping for an argument, but I just give a resigned sigh.

“Let’s start simple.” Laura pushes the sketchbook closer to me. “How about a wrist tattoo that pairs with a bracelet?”

I look at my pencil like it’s a ticking bomb. “I really don’t think?—”

“Don’t you try to weasel out of this, Antoine!”

I stare at the page, praying for a stroke of inspiration. Nothing happens.

“What exactly do you want me to draw?” I ask.

“Something elegant. Maybe floral. It has to complement a bracelet design.”

“Floral. Got it.”

I press the pencil to the page and start sketching what I hope resembles a rose. With the book on my lap, I angle my body so that my back is blocking Laura’s view. Long minutes later, I pause and survey what looks like a lopsided, decrepit streetlamp.

I grimace.

Laura tries to peek over my shoulder. “Let me see.”

“No. It’s a work in progress.”

She lunges sideways and gasps at the sight of my masterpiece. “Is this supposed to be a… rose?”

“It’s conceptual.”

“Are those thorns or boils?” A strangled laugh escapes her.

I flip to a new page. “Let’s draw something simpler.”

This time, I try a geometric design composed of straight lines and circles. It’s a safe approach. Or so I think. By the time I finish, the lines are more like squiggles, and the circles resemble ink stains.

Laura leans over my shoulder. “You’re really embracing abstract art, aren’t you? Very avant-garde.”

“I hate this challenge.” I drop the pencil.

She grins and snatches the book. “Let me try.”

I’m all too happy to surrender the spotlight. Laura takes the pencil and starts sketching. Her strokes are quick, confident, and precise. Within seconds, a delicate bracelet design begins to emerge, complete with intricate loops and tiny motifs. The bracelet is sitting on the wrist of a nicely drawn arm.

If this design is representative of her skill, then she has no reason to be self-conscious about her hobby.

“It’s sublime,” I say. “If you were going for the kill, then congrats, I’m dead.”

“Hey, I’m helping you!” She moves the book toward me. “Try to draw the tattoo around this. Keep it as simple and abstract as you want.”

Hmm. Is this sincere? “You’re setting me up to fail.”

“I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, dummy.”

I shoot her another doubtful look.

She pats my hand. “Come on, Antoine, you can do it. I believe in you!”

I don’t enjoy failure and public humiliation any more than the next overachiever. That being said, I’m no quitter. With a reluctant sigh, I take the pencil and attempt a vine-like design to complement her bracelet. It still looks amateurish, but much better than my first two disasters. When I’m done, I hand the sketchbook back to Laura, bracing for critique.

She studies my drawing. “Not bad at all! This part’s a little weird”—she points to a section of the vine—“but I can work with it.”

I feel a flicker of pride.

Laura picks up the pencil and starts retouching our joint design. The tip of her tongue sticks out in the cutest way possible. Alain’s camera moves closer, much too close. This would normally bother her, but she’s too busy beautifying our collaborative art to even notice.

I watch her work.

What if the viewers decide the result is still shit?

It’s possible.

But I don’t care.

For someone as competitive as I am, this is a first.