CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

‘ Y OUR M AJESTY , LOOK this way! Can we see your smile? Are you looking forward to your first Christmas as a married woman?’

‘Travis, what’s it like to be a member of European royalty?’

‘How is your first day of married life going, Your Majesty?’

Travis wrapped his arm around Isabelle’s waist, tugging her closer, as the reporters and photographers fired questions, and the barrage of camera flashes blinded them both. They were supposed to be putting on a show here, for the world’s media. A show he hadn’t wanted any part of and wanted even less part of after the way last night had ended. Because touching her now—after watching her lose herself in his arms, then close herself off—was torture.

His frustration built, though, when she stiffened against him.

He tightened his hold on her. ‘Relax,’ he whispered in her ear as they stood together on the tarmac at the palace’s private airfield, his company jet fuelled and ready to take them away from this circus.

Last night had knocked him sideways. He’d never experienced foreplay like it before. She’d been so vibrant and responsive to his touch, despite the weird innocence that clung to her.

For a moment, as she’d writhed and groaned, her body flushed with pleasure, her inhibitions gone, he’d felt as if he’d achieved something rare and special—which was sentimental crap, of course, but, even so, his ego had taken a hit when he’d heard the door lock click.

He’d had to turn the shower temperature down to frigid—and take himself in hand like a teenager, which had been humiliating. But it wasn’t sexual frustration that had made it impossible for him to sleep afterwards.

He hadn’t lied to her. As far as he was concerned, sex was never a transaction. It was always a woman’s prerogative to say no. And he guessed the birth control thing was an issue—he certainly didn’t want to add any more complications to this relationship when it was already complicated enough. But he’d seen the lie in her eyes when she’d offered up that excuse. And the panic and regret as soon as the afterglow had faded. Which had forced him to ask the question, why had she freaked out?

Because the hollow ache when she’d run out on him had reminded him of when he was a twelve-year-old kid, at his first junior snowboarding championship, and his old man had showed up with his ‘real sons’ and stood in the crowd to cheer for them, instead of Travis.

That would be the needy kid he’d buried a long time ago.

He didn’t need anyone’s praise or approval any more, especially not from the woman standing next to him—who wasn’t even his real wife. So how had she made him feel like that dumb kid again?

‘Travis, can you tell us why you two left the festivities so early? And missed the fireworks? Was that planned? Or was it a spontaneous decision?’

Travis zeroed in on the young female reporter at the front of the pack who had shouted out the intrusive question. And was grinning at him now with deliberate innuendo.

Isabelle stiffened, but of course she didn’t respond. Her dignified silence, though, and the memory of exactly what they had been doing when those fireworks had gone off had the last of his patience with this crap snapping like a dry twig.

He’d been advised by the press secretary not to respond to the reporters—that they wouldn’t expect answers to their questions as it was all part of the protocol that the Queen didn’t react.

But no way was he letting that pass.

‘Why do you think we left early?’ he said. ‘We’re newly-weds. How about you take a wild guess...?’

He heard Isabelle gasp, just before the media horde exploded into a cacophony of sound—each shouted question cruder and more provocative than the last.

The palace press secretary looked as if he were going to have an aneurysm. The expressions on the faces of the members of Isabelle’s court and the representatives of the privy council—who had been assembled to see them off—had gone varying shades of shocked and appalled. While the palace guards had to use their decorative rifles to restrain the surging tide of tabloid hacks sensing an exclusive.

Isabelle went deathly still beside him—her cheeks stained a vivid scarlet, her emerald eyes glassy with shock.

To hell with this.

He grasped her hand. ‘We’re out of here.’

She didn’t object, didn’t utter a sound, probably because she couldn’t without making even more of a scene. But somehow her refusal to react only infuriated him more.

He didn’t break stride as he marched across the tarmac with her hand gripped firmly in his, then led her up the steps into the waiting plane.

The steward closed the plane door behind them, shutting out the media circus. But as he led Belle into the jet’s lounge, he could sense her disapproval, even as the regal mask—which had slipped spectacularly last night—remained firmly in place.

The volatile emotions hit critical mass and the hollow ache in his gut widened, just as it had on that day so long ago, when he’d aced every race, broken a ton of records taking stupid risks to impress a man who had looked right through him as if he didn’t exist.

‘Mr Lord, we’re cleared for take-off whenever you’re ready,’ the pilot said, greeting them in the gangway.

‘Great. We’re ready now,’ Travis replied. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

The pilot nodded and headed to the cockpit.

‘We’ll strap ourselves in, Bill,’ he said to the steward. ‘Give us some privacy.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ If the guy was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘Just let me know if you want any refreshments once we reach our cruising altitude,’ he finished before disappearing into the service pantry.

Travis walked through to the lounge, so on edge now he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears. Isabelle had taken one of the leather armchairs and fastened her belt. Her face was still hot with embarrassment, but her expression remained impassive as she stared out of the window.

The tension tightened like a vice around his ribs.

He took the seat opposite her. The plane’s engines rumbled to life, drowning out the furore outside.

He held his tongue as the jet taxied down the runway, waiting for her to give him hell for the crude comment, which was probably slapped all over the Internet already.

But Isabelle remained calm and unmoved, her hands folded in her lap, the only sign she even had a pulse the staggered rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tailored silk blouse—those would be the breasts he’d had in his hands the night before and discovered were supremely sensitive.

When the jet reached its cruising altitude—and the pilot informed them over the public address system of their eleven-hour flight time to Denver International—she still hadn’t said a damn word. She hadn’t even made eye contact.

Was she giving him the silent treatment?

To hell with that.

Leaning forward, he grasped her chin and directed her gaze to his.

‘If you’ve got something to say to me, Belle, you best spit it out.’

She blinked, the mask of indifference collapsing to be replaced by something he liked even less... And recognised from the previous evening... Panic, and regret.

‘I apologise. For last night. I should not have let things become so...intimate...’ Isabelle murmured, both mortally embarrassed and out of her depth in the face of his anger—while also feeling like the worst kind of fraud. ‘It was wrong to leave you unsatisfied.’

She’d sensed Travis’s frustration, the impatience bristling under his skin, ever since she had met him in the chauffeur-driven car taking them both to the airstrip half an hour ago for the photo call before their flight. She had wanted to say something, anything , to defuse the tension and make amends for her selfishness, as she suspected it was not the done thing to enjoy a man’s touch with the fervour she had enjoyed his, and then leave him visibly erect without offering him some relief.

But what could she say? When she knew not one thing about the etiquette of sexual relationships. So, she had remained silent.

She had paid for her cowardice though. Because having to stand so close to him during the photoshoot, while trying not to react to the heavy weight of his palm resting possessively on her waist, and the brush of his breath against her ear when he told her to relax—exactly as he had done the night before—had been excruciating.

He let go of her chin and cursed.

She flinched. Had she said the wrong thing? He didn’t look pleased by her apology. If anything he looked even more frustrated. And appalled.

‘Don’t do that polite reserved crap with me, it drives me nuts. And don’t apologise for last night. What the hell does that even mean?’ He lifted his fingers to do sarcastic air quotes. ‘“It was wrong to leave you unsatisfied.”’

She looked away from him again, her face on fire. ‘It means I had an orgasm and you didn’t,’ she said, as calmly as she could while her hands were shaking. ‘And I suspect that sexual frustration—and more specifically anger with my selfishness last night—is the reason you were unable to control your temper with that reporter,’ she added, determined to acknowledge her part in this fiasco. ‘Which is why I felt an apology was appropriate.’

He swore again, the word low with fury now. ‘Exactly how much of a jackass do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know,’ she snapped, her own patience starting to evaporate.

She was trying to do the right thing here. But she’d had a virtually sleepless night. And while she had no doubt at all she was partially responsible for this morning’s outburst, there was a limit to how much blame she was prepared to take.

‘Although so far you haven’t surprised me,’ she added, her voice clipped.

How was last night’s fiasco and his difficult behaviour this morning all her fault? He was a grown man. And he was the one who had pushed to reset the terms of their agreement as soon as they had been alone together. Yes, she had been a willing participant in what had transpired—far too willing—but shouldn’t he take some of the responsibility for this disaster, too?

He collapsed back into his chair and yelled another profanity at the ceiling—the anger making his chest flex under his shirt. The sight sent an inconvenient shot of awareness through her tired body—because the memory of exactly what all those muscles looked like, flexing in unison as he worked her into a frenzy, was now apparently tattooed on her frontal lobe.

Fabulous!

‘Wow, you’re really a piece of work, aren’t you?’ he said, his gaze fixed on her again, his dark eyes flinty with temper. ‘How do you do it?’

‘How do I do what?’

‘Pull off the “ice queen” act like that.’ He leant forward, resting tanned forearms on his knees. ‘When we both know there’s enough passion inside you to set fire to Alaska.’

‘It’s not an act,’ she said. Disturbed by the way he was staring at her now, with the same intensity that had terrified her the night before, as if he could see past all her defences, all the emotions she had learned to control, to find the insecure, needy girl beneath.

He laughed, the sound raw and brittle. ‘Yeah, it is. Don’t forget I’ve seen you when you’re aching for my touch. Smelt your need when you’re clambering for release. And there’s nothing cold about you then, is there?’ He leant back, his gaze searing in its contempt. ‘You know, it would be pretty funny that you think I’m good enough to pretend to marry, but not good enough to touch you—if it weren’t so damn insulting.’

Shock reverberated through her at the accusations she didn’t understand.

Superior? Not good enough?

Her own temper died, consumed by confusion and regret.

Clearly, she had insulted him, without intending to. The thought seemed incongruous—given the man’s ego up to now had appeared stronger and more resilient than the White Ridge itself. But when he turned away, she noticed the muscle clenching in his jaw and the dark flags of colour on his cheeks—and it occurred to her she might not be the only one who had allowed themselves to get carried away last night.

Strangely, the thought calmed her rampaging pulse and her own feelings of inadequacy.

She hadn’t meant to insult him, certainly did not believe herself to be superior to him. But the fact he had not been completely unmoved by their intimacy made her feel a little less insecure, a little less powerless.

She swallowed, struggling to contain the inexplicable spurt of exhilaration at the thought she was not the only one who had been overwhelmed.

But how could she convince him her decision to leave so abruptly had nothing to do with her opinion of him and everything to do with her own inexperience? Without creating an even bigger minefield for them to tiptoe through in the days ahead?

‘You said it was just sex,’ she said at last.

His head whipped round, skewering her with a look that could immolate lead. ‘So what?’

But this time, she wasn’t fooled by that furious glare.

‘I assumed that to mean you were not emotionally engaged in the physical intimacy we shared last night. But how can that be so if I hurt your feelings by leaving you unsatisfied?’

Okay? What now?

Travis stared at the woman in front of him, totally speechless for the first time in his life. And not sure now whether to be insulted, or angry... Or simply stunned.

He wanted to hang onto his temper, but it was impossible in the face of that curious expression that seemed as confused as it was forthright.

Hell, not only did he not know what to feel, he didn’t even know what to think. Her careful analysis of last night both vaguely insulting and yet brutally honest at one and the same time.

One minute she’d been accusing him of being a class-A jerk who figured she owed him sex just because he’d given her an orgasm. And the next... Had she just accused him of being a drama queen as well as a jerk?

‘I wasn’t hurt,’ he managed at last. ‘That’s just dumb. Believe me, I know how to handle rejection.’ Even if he hadn’t had to handle it in a long time, and certainly not in the bedroom before now... He had always respected boundaries when it came to sex—simply by never getting too invested in the outcome. Sex was fun, sex was recreational, it wasn’t about emotional engagement for him and it never had been. Because that would make him a chump as well as a jerk.

But even as the denial echoed in his head, he was forced to admit no other woman had ever made him feel like he had as a kid again.

Surely that was just because she was a queen though, and their whole situation was more complicated than any relationship he’d ever had... And he hadn’t even slept with her, yet.

‘I see,’ she said, in that infuriating way she had that made it sound as if she doubted he was being honest with her, or with himself.

‘Listen, I don’t get emotionally engaged when it comes to sex. Or relationships for that matter. And I never look for validation and approval from other people, because my old man taught me that was a mug’s game when I was twelve years old,’ he blurted out, determined to convince himself now, as well as her.

This relationship was no different from all the others he’d had over the years. Maybe their circumstances were a lot weirder. And her status had bothered him more than he’d thought—exposing an inferiority complex he hadn’t even known he had until last night—plus the no-sex rule had added a challenge that he had found impossible to resist once their chemistry had become obvious... But that was it.

The sharp light in her eyes softened though, the curiosity turning to compassion.

‘I thought you didn’t know your father’s identity,’ she said, and he realised he’d said too much. Way too much. Because he’d just let slip a piece of information he’d worked hard to keep hidden. Not because he gave a damn what people thought of his origins, but because he’d never wanted to answer any questions about someone who meant nothing to him and had chosen not to be a part of his life. Plus, he hadn’t wanted anyone looking at him the way she was looking at him right now—as if that bastard or his absence had had any impact on him.

Sure, not having a father had been tough at times when he was a kid, because his mom had been forced to work like a dog to keep them clothed and fed. But never having anything given to him on a silver platter had been a blessing in disguise, because it had made him that much more determined to win at all costs and on his own terms.

‘I always knew who he was,’ he said, because denying the truth now would just make it look as if he cared. ‘My mom cleaned his place in Aspen for years.’

He shrugged, uncomfortable now, because she was still looking at him as if any of this mattered, when it never had, not to him anyhow.

‘I think she had some dumb notion that if he knew about me, he’d want to be my dad. Because she was a romantic, who always believed the best in people, even him. And it was easier to kid herself he had loved her once—than face the reality that he’d taken advantage of a seventeen-year-old virgin who had a summer job cleaning his vacation home, while his wife and kids were out of town.’

He stared out of the window, the bitter taste in his mouth when he spoke about his old man annoying him. It was kind of lowering to realise that thinking about his mom’s misguided attempts to rewrite the narrative of his parents’ relationship could still make him mad.

‘As far as he was concerned,’ he added. ‘I was a mistake he’d made that he didn’t want to acknowledge. That upset her, but it was fine by me.’

‘He sounds like a selfish and unpleasant man,’ Isabelle said.

He let out a hollow laugh. ‘Yeah, probably, I never met him,’ he lied easily enough, because he’d given her too much information already.

She frowned. ‘But if you never met him, how did he teach you about rejection when you were only twelve?’

For the love of Mike! Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut?

‘It’s a long story,’ he growled.

‘We have eleven hours,’ she countered.

‘It’s a long boring story...’

Which is none of your business , he wanted to add. But didn’t, because he was the dumbass who had made it her business and it sounded way too defensive.

‘And I’m shattered,’ he added, unclipping his belt.

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Royal duties are often more taxing than they look.’

‘You’re telling me,’ he said, ignoring the prickle of unease that she was treating him with kid gloves now—as if he were some kind of hothead who couldn’t keep it together under pressure.

But then he’d created that rod for his own back, by behaving like a jerk this morning—not just to the press, but also to her.

He’d accused her of judging him, when what he’d really been doing was judging himself—just as he had as a kid. No wonder he’d gotten all bent out of shape about nothing.

He thrust his fingers through his hair as he stood up, the pressure of the last twenty-four hours taking a toll.

He’d never been a guy to overthink anything, especially not his own emotions, but then he’d also never had to spend eight hours straight pretending to be in love with the whole world watching, while wearing a monkey suit and not being able to touch what he was already supposed to have.

Note to self: marriage in name only totally sucks when you have the hots for your fake wife.

He still didn’t know why Isabelle had run off like that, why she hadn’t wanted the quick stress fix that great sex could provide. Because one thing last night had proved was that she had the hots for him too.

But he had ten days in Colorado to figure out if there was a way they could make their chemistry work as a stress-relief valve without having it blow up in both their faces.

He’d also been pretty arrogant thinking the duties of monarchy were nothing. He could see that now. After less than twenty-four hours of living in the full glare of that spotlight he’d somehow managed to dredge up stuff from his childhood that he’d gotten over years ago.

He had to give her some credit for holding it together this morning when he hadn’t. He was also pretty curious now about how she did that, while also being so artless and unworldly. Maybe it was just an act, but he wasn’t as convinced about that any more.

‘I’m gonna head to one of the bedrooms at the back and crash,’ he said. Then, because she was still looking at him like a stick of dynamite that might explode at any second, the devil got the better of him again. ‘If you want to finish what we started last night, you’re welcome to join me.’

Her face flushed a deep shade of pink—and her eyebrows rose. ‘I... I don’t think so,’ she sputtered.

He grinned at her reaction. Good to know he could still unsettle her—because she sure as hell unsettled him.

‘Lady’s choice, Your Majesty.’ He gave her a mocking bow, then headed to the bedroom. Alone.

One thing was for sure, he needed to get some shut-eye if he was going to stop himself from behaving like a dumbass again.

But as he showered, the thought of actually finishing what they had started had a predictable effect, and it occurred to him he needed to find a way to handle this hunger, if he was going to get what he wanted out of this deal—without crippling himself in the process.

‘I understand.’

Isabelle stared after Travis as he strolled to the back of the plane, his teasing offer of finishing what they had started only making her feel more insecure and confused... And hopelessly turned on.

Why on earth had she said she understood him, when she didn’t understand the man at all? Admittedly, her knowledge of men and relationships was extremely limited, but Travis Lord was already turning out to be a great deal more complex than she had assumed.

The revelations about his father had shocked her, but also saddened her—the curt, clipped tone when he talked about that relationship, or rather the lack of it, so unlike the relaxed, confident, and frankly shallow man she had believed him to be.

Because she had seen the strength of feeling even as he had boasted about his lack of emotional engagement and heard the suppressed rage in his voice, even as he had pretended his father’s rejection had meant nothing.

How could that be the case? Surely no one could be treated with such casual cruelty by their own flesh and blood and come out of it unscathed?

But what had moved her even more was the sense of connection.

After all, she had suffered a similar loss in her childhood too, when her parents had died so suddenly. At the time, the one thing that had helped her recover from that loss was the knowledge they had died together, and that they had loved her very much—even if they had been unable to show it in demonstrative ways.

How did you survive the loss of a parent, though, when their absence in your life had been a choice, not an accident? Had Travis survived it by persuading himself he couldn’t be hurt by it, even though he clearly had been?

Whatever the answer, it was clear a fascinatingly complex and passionate man lay beneath the veneer of relaxed charm and devil-may-care confidence. A man she needed to get to know better.

Surely if she could understand him, it would enhance the time they spent together over the next year. It would also help to ease him into the role of consort, and help her better manage the charade they were forced to play, which was clearly going to be more difficult for both of them than either one of them had assumed.

That said, she also knew she needed to be careful. Because while Travis Lord presented an intriguing emotional puzzle, he also had an aura about him—a latent, potent, sexual energy—which she found disturbingly attractive.

How could she be sure she wouldn’t freak out again, and make matters even more difficult between them? Or worse, give in to this chemistry only to become overwhelmed by feelings he had made it clear would not be reciprocated?

She yawned as the young steward popped his head around the lounge’s doorway.

‘Would you like me to serve lunch now, Your Majesty?’ he asked. Then peered around the lounge area. ‘Is Mr Lord in the restroom?’

Isabelle found her cheeks burning again. How did she explain Travis had repaired to his bedroom, without her? Would the young man think it odd? Given that they were newly-weds? And what if he had heard their argument? Of course, she had to trust Travis’s staff, like her own, knew how to be discreet. But it would be necessary over the next ten days to learn how to create the illusion of intimacy for a wider audience—and contain any more emotional outbursts.

‘Um... No,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you. I think we’re good for now.’

She frowned. Having spent her whole life knowing exactly what to say at any given time or do in any given circumstance, she had no idea what was the done thing in an intimate relationship with a man, let alone a marriage.

Apparently, if she was going to teach Travis how to assume the responsibilities of royalty over the next ten days, they would have to teach each other how to look like a couple in love. Even though it was obvious he had no more aptitude for that than she did.

As she made her excuses to the steward and headed to the other bedroom at the back of the plane, it occurred to her the tangled web she was currently weaving might very well end up strangling her... Especially given that the fascinating man she’d chosen to weave it with had also proved to be impulsive, headstrong, dominating, far too hot and completely unpredictable.

Bother.