power over her, simply nodding her answer.
He let his voice drop to the seductive timbre she always responded to. “No point hiding your reaction to me, Lily.”
Her eyes narrowed in contradiction but her chest moved in rapid, shallow breaths.
A smile of victory threatened, but he only let one corner of his mouth curve up. “Don’t worry, there will be time for that. A lifetime of opportunities.”
Gasping, Lily stepped back, rubbing her palms over the skin he had held. “No, Damon. I agreed to marry you. I agreed to have your baby, which it so happens I’m already carrying. But I did not agree to share your bed. It won’t be that type of marriage.”
The smile playing on his lips extended into a full-blown version. A challenge. He loved a challenge if the prize was worth winning. And this woman in front of him was worth bedding—he knew that well.
He let out a slow, easy breath and sank his hands into his trouser pockets. “Let’s just see how things unfold.”
“I know how things will unfold. We’ll be married in name only. We might live under the same roof, but we will be living separate lives. I let you hurt me before when I relied on you, needed you. And every time you had to choose between your business and me, you chose it, no matter how high my needs were or how minor the work issue. Be warned, I won’t be as naive this time.”
He waved her claim away. “Ancient history. We’re starting anew. Something I’m very much looking forward to.” He brushed a kiss on her cheek and held out his arm to escort her back to the party. After a brief hesitation, she raised her chin and preceded him out the doors.
He watched her go, appreciating the shape of her back, the sway of her hips.
Nothing would stop him from claiming his child or his father’s company—they rightfully belonged to him. And he had a burning need to have this woman under him again. Fate had conveniently wrapped all the things he wanted in one neat, sweet-smelling package.
All he must do was coax his bride-to-be back into his bed.
The following morning, Lily wandered through the crowd of art-lovers as they milled around the display of Impressionist paintings her gallery was showcasing.
This exhibition had been her special project—selecting the paintings she wanted to show together, arranging with interstate and international galleries to borrow artwork to complement their own examples of the style, organizing events with schools and the public to coincide with the opening week. And she’d loved every minute.
She continued her stroll. The sounds of a busy exhibition always pleased her—the muffled footsteps on the tiled floor, voices raised or lowered in wonder and awe, an occasional guide sharing their passion.
Blended with that was the knowledge that today was the second to last day, giving her a twinge of sadness that usually came with the end of an exhibition. From tomorrow night, they’d begin taking down the display, returning paintings, completing paperwork. In a few days’ time, another exhibition would fill this room.
Lily paused to appreciate some of her last moments with her favorite Monet. One of his series of water lilies, it was incredibly popular with the crowds for its lavenders, greens, pinks and blues—its undeniable intensity and luminosity.
But she loved this series because it showed the multitude of ways there were to look at the same subject, depending on time of day, the season or the position of the observer.
Similarly, there were many ways to view marriage: a fairy tale come true with hearts and flowers; a deep commitment with a soul mate that transcended the mere institution … or a pragmatic contract used to secure an inheritance.
She’d never yearned for the trappings of a fairy tale, but, despite her parents’ train-wreck of an example, she’d always secretly hoped that somewhere she had a soul mate and they’d eventually find each other.
Marriage to Damon was not such a union.
As the reality of her situation hit her again, the room around her rocked then swooped, leaving her feeling faint.
Oh, God, what had she done?
“The water lily collection always struck me as overly sentimental,” a deep voice said close to her ear.
She turned quickly to see Damon staring at the Monet, hands on hips, bunching the sides of his dark gray suit jacket above them.
“I like his series of the French cathedral more,” he said, gaze still on the artwork. “Same concept of capturing the subject in different lights, but a much more interesting outcome.”
She inhaled an intoxicating breath of his spicy scent. He always smelled so damn good. She’d noticed his cologne on other men and it’d had nowhere near the bone-melting impact it did when blended with Damon’s own scent.
With effort, she brought her attention back to the conversation on art. “Buildings are more interesting than flowers and nature?” Though, she knew the answer from Damon’s point of view. The material, the concrete, the financially tangible were always more valuable than simple beauty. What did interest her was his apparent knowledge of the French Impressionist. When they’d met, he’d claimed to have little understanding of the art world.
He turned, taking in her expression, and raised a brow—a look made all the more devilish by the accompanying heavy-lidded gaze. “I like buildings. And don’t look so shocked that I recognize the painting. If you date someone with a PhD in fine art for six months, something’s bound to rub off.”
Lily laughed softly, conceding the point. “So now you’re a gallery regular?”
“No, I’ve come to see my fiancée.” He cupped her chin and brushed a kiss across her lips. “I always did prefer snow lilies to their watery cousins.”
Words of praise dripped so easily from his tongue—with or without sincerity—that she refused to respond. She’d fallen for his silver-tongued flattery before. It had led to heartache whenever he left her without looking back. She must not forget.
And yet a part of her she couldn’t control craved his kiss, craved him beyond reason.
He released her chin and dropped his hand into his trouser pocket. “And to finalize some arrangements. How soon can you get time off work?”
Her mind clicked into gear, pushing aside any remnants of hurt that he could so easily, so clinically, switch topics of discussion. It was only what she’d expected. Men like Damon did not while away the time talking about paintings. They mentioned them as a lead-in to getting what they wanted. Another reminder not to let down her guard.
Instead, she began thinking through the question and implications. This exhibition was almost over and she’d be going into detailed planning of her next project—a good time to take a day or two off if necessary to organize legal documentation for their wedding. “What do you have in mind?”
He rocked back on his heels, all casual confidence. “We fly out to New Zealand in three days, exchange vows and fly back. You’ll need a week off work to cover the flights and a couple of days there.”
Her stomach lurched. She seemed to have missed a step. “New Zealand?”
