Total pages in book: 230
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 217798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1089(@200wpm)___ 871(@250wpm)___ 726(@300wpm)
Her eyes widen when she reads it.
Then she puts her head in her hands. “This is a disaster.”
I could give her some false platitude about how being married to me won’t be that bad. But the truth is it’ll be worse than she thinks. “A hundred thousand people will keep their jobs. Your family legacy remains intact. Your mother can remain on the board of the natural science museum. She can continue her generous endowment of the arboretum.”
“Why would you even want to marry me?”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. Every man on the planet wants to marry you. I’m the one who actually has the balls to propose to you.”
Her expression turns sardonic. “This? A proposal? I don’t see a ring. And you’re certainly not down on one knee.”
“My methods are unconventional. You’ll find that’s true in many areas of my life. But make no mistake—I’m not pulling a prank. I’m dead serious.”
There’s still disbelief in her eyes. It will take her some time to accept this. Like the stages of grief. She’ll go through denial, anger, and bargaining. She’s mourning her life as a single woman. “So if I say no to your proposal, there’s no hotel deal?”
“You won’t say no to my proposal.”
“See? This is why we won’t suit. I don’t like some alpha macho man coming in and telling me what to do. I think for myself, thank you very much.”
“I’ll keep you so sexed up, so blissed out on orgasms that you won’t care that much about how commanding I get. In fact, I think you’ll learn to love it.”
“I’m not some housewife who cooks and cleans.”
“If I wanted a cook or a maid, I’d hire one. I want a wife.”
“It sounds like you want a sex slave.”
“Work all you want during the day. Manage Bradley Hotels. Manage my restaurants and clubs and hotels. I won’t stop you. At night you submit to me.”
Her face blazes with heat. Vanilla. At least her past experiences have been vanilla. I guessed it right at the club, but she’ll experience the full range of kink with me. And she’ll like it. I’ll condition her to like it. Praise her when she comes, praise her when she cries.
Pleasure and pain.
“Why are we even talking about this?” She probably means for her tone to be demanding. Instead she sounds breathless.
“This is a negotiation.”
“It doesn’t feel like one. It feels like you’re telling me everything you want.”
“That’s right. There should be something in it for you. Besides the orgasms. Besides the limitless wealth. Besides the title of duchess. There are women who would like to marry me, you know. I’m considered a good catch in high society.”
“Then why don’t you marry one of them?”
“Because I want you.”
Emotions streak across her clear blue eyes. Confusion. Longing. And finally, resignation. She thinks I’m fucking with her. That she won’t be able to save her family’s company.
She stands abruptly. The chair rolls away from her, pushed by the force of her movement. “This meeting is over. Our secretary will show you out.”
Part of me wants to insist that she understand the truth. Another part of me wants to strip her naked, to reduce her to a quivering woman who begs to come. Patience. I don’t have very much, but I’ll grant her a little. Very little. “I’ll wait for your phone call.”
She glares at me. “I’m not calling you. We’re never talking again, most likely. Our short acquaintance is now over. And we are never, and I mean never, ever getting married.”
CHAPTER 3
Isabella, three months later
Lace itches along my arms. A corset restricts my breathing. Garters dig into my thighs. I’m held together by yards of lace and ribbon and satin.
My father appears at my side. He smiles in that real way that crinkles his eyes. “You look beautiful, Isa. I’m so proud of you.”
He means it. This is what makes him proud. Not streamlining Bradley Hotel operations. Not overhauling our financial systems. It’s this. Marrying well.
That’s what makes him proud.
After Francisco left the building, I ran the numbers again. I called the banks again. I rattled the cage of every investor we know, but no one had that kind of liquid money to invest. And so I made the phone call to Francisco, the one he knew I would have to make.
“Thank you, Daddy.” He’ll never know what it costs me to say that. To swallow my fear and my pride. I studied comportment alongside my multiplication tables. Not one of the five hundred people in the cathedral will see the abject terror vibrating inside me.
His cufflinks are gold. I gave them to him on his birthday three years ago. I wonder if that’s why he wore them today. Or if he wore them because they have the Bradley Hotels logo on them. That’s his life. His baby. It’s also the reason I’m walking down the aisle in Paris, France, in the country that will be my new home. Francisco owns his own private plane. He travels extensively, but his home is a chateau in the countryside.