Claiming His Bought Bride. Rachel Bailey

he breathed into her ear. “I’ve given you more money than most people see in their lifetime. You need this marriage as much as I do. I’m assuming you’ve already told your grandmother about the new house?”

      Lily swallowed with difficulty and nodded.

      Without her noticing, he’d maneuvered her around so her back was against the counter and she was trapped between it and the muscled wall of his chest. She could feel him against her skin, feel him under her skin. He’d invaded her blood and it pumped for him through her body, powerful, dark, spellbinding. As if every strong beat in her chest was his name.

      He brushed his lips along her earlobe and she felt the words on his breath as much as heard them. “And yet you’re willing to risk that over an unwinnable point.”

      She dropped her chin, only barely stifling a moan. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t make a thought form that didn’t involve his body.

      It had always been this way between them, simmering passion that ignited with a simple touch from their first kiss. Before, even—from the first time their gazes had connected at the gallery fund-raiser. Damon had prowled over, offered her a champagne flute he’d acquired on the way and asked, “How high a donation for a private tour of the gallery with—” he checked her name badge “—an assistant curator?” He’d kissed her before they made it halfway through the Australian Colonial Art exhibit.

      And now he was doing it again—skipping preliminaries and rushing straight to the passion she could barely resist. If only he’d stop crowding her! She needed to step away, but there was nowhere to go. She placed her hands firmly on his shirt and pushed. He stepped back several inches, that same amused smile on his perfect mouth.

      She had to focus. He was trying to take all her bargaining power away, but she wouldn’t let him forget … he needed her. “You won’t get BlakeCorp without me.”

      He raised his brows in innocent surprise. “You think I’d choose a business over a child of my own flesh and blood?” He ran a knuckle lightly down her cheek. “Lily, why make this harder than it needs to be? No one gets everything they want at a negotiation table. That’s why it’s called negotiation. You played your hand well and you’re getting a good outcome—the bank account and your gran taken care of for the rest of her life. And me.”

      Him? Her whole body flushed, but she needed to stay on her game or he’d outplay her. “Damon, whether you sign a contract or not, I won’t be the kind of wife you want.”

      “And what kind is that?” He turned slightly to lean back against the counter, ankles crossed, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. His earlier amusement had returned.

      She narrowed her eyes, wanting him to understand how serious she was about this. “I won’t sleep with you.”

      Gran always said, start as you mean to go on. This was a marriage on paper for the sake of a will. It was not now, nor would it ever be a real marriage. She couldn’t let the lines blur—not even once. Her heart was having enough trouble resisting falling in love with him again as it was. Sleeping with him would court disaster.

      “Let’s just say the negotiations will be ongoing on that point.” He raised one brow and her stomach fell. He still intended seducing her.

      Then another thought struck. “You have booked separate bedrooms wherever we’re staying, haven’t you?”

      It’d be just like Damon to expect her to share his bed despite the boundaries she’d laid. He probably had some ridiculous excuse ready like, just because they shared a bed didn’t mean they had to make love.

      Though separate bedrooms might not be much of a defense when it came down to it….

      He nodded, poker-faced. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

      “So you won’t mind if I check that?” She knew how he worked and it wasn’t necessarily honorable, not when he wanted something as badly as he wanted this.

      A lazy grin spread across his face. “Not at all.” He reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet and found a slip of paper that he handed her. It had a hotel name and phone number. Had he really done what she’d requested or was this another bluff?

      She folded the note and stuffed it in her handbag on the bench. She’d ring to make sure when she got a private moment. When he wasn’t breathing down her neck, making her lose her thoughts.

      He looked around as if that was settled. “Where are your bags?”

      She blinked, tried to get her bearings, and glanced down the hall. “At my bedroom door.”

      Lily watched him stride away, an edge of panic creeping up to clutch her chest. She had a strong feeling that she’d jumped out of the frying pan and into a bushfire.

      Damon inserted the Auckland hotel room key card into the honeymoon suite’s lock and turned to appraise his new wife. How would she react to being carried over the threshold? Not well, if her mood during their vows was any indication.

      Her frame of mind notwithstanding, she’d looked like a vision from heaven in the Peace Chapel. And the sharp constriction of his chest had almost blindsided him. It was right, this union.

      He’d bought her a small bouquet of lily of the valley and she’d clutched it tightly, her gaze resting on the blooms during most of the ceremony.

      Her downcast eyes only added to her resemblance to the aged paintings of holy women housed in his childhood home. She’d been ethereal.

      She still was as she stood motionless, waiting for him to turn the door handle.

      Normally he’d be willing to risk her wrath and just sweep her into his arms to enter the room, but he had a lot riding on her mood tonight. Plans they’d both enjoy if she’d only relax.

      He presented his arms. “How would you like to enter, Mrs. Blakely?”

      Lily’s forest-green eyes flickered with pain before landing on contempt. “I’ve told you, we don’t have that type of marriage, Damon.”

      He looked her lush frame up and down. Then why had she worn white? The cotton summer dress may not look much like a traditional wedding gown, but she couldn’t fool him—her sentimental streak had chosen the color as intentionally as he’d chosen her bouquet.

      She could deny it all she liked, but her selection proved that deep down she acknowledged the validity of their marriage. Which gave his libido hope that the wedding night would turn out to be as traditional as the color of her dress.

      He smiled at his bride as she waited for him to open the door. No doubt about it, the sentimental streak that had chosen her white attire would like to be carried over the threshold. And damn if he didn’t relish the prospect himself.

      He reinserted the key card to activate the lock, then leaned down and scooped her up in one smooth motion, carrying her through the door into a room elegantly decorated in whites and creams, and kicked it closed behind him.

      He was pleasantly surprised she didn’t object. She’d probably convince herself later it was due to shock. No matter, for now he’d savor the moment.

      The scent of wildflowers enveloped him, the pressure of her body against his consumed him and he paused to let his eyes drift closed and fully appreciate the feeling.

      She was tall, yet so delicate he’d often thought of her as a snow lily come to life—willowy, as if seeking the sun. He raised his lids to look his fill. Her fairness—creamy skin and silver-blond hair—only enhanced the illusion. Her eyes, the color of untamed foliage, showed where she truly belonged. Her natural habitat wasn’t the art galleries her work kept her in, but where the wild lilies grew.

      “Very nice, Damon. Now put me down.” One side of his mouth curved at her hundred-percent controlled tone, but he sensed she was close to breaking point. He released her legs first, then, holding her torso with both hands, let her slide the way down.

      His