Sale or Return Bride

‘Then you should have waited.’

‘For what? For you to decide you’d had enough of that woman?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘That woman happens to be the owner of this club. She is the reason we came here tonight. She needed my advice.’

‘Don’t treat me as if I’m stupid,’ Alesia advised hotly, stabbing a finger into his broad chest. ‘She was all over you like wrapping paper. And if you’re going to seduce other women in public then I’ll dance with who I like.’

Sebastien’s hand curled over hers. Every inch of her body was locked against his and the feel of his hard, muscular frame made her head spin with longing.

Oh, help—

‘Flirt again,’ he warned, his tone lethally soft, ‘and you’ll discover exactly what it’s like to be married to a Greek man.’

Heart thumping, knees shaking, Alesia stared at him helplessly and gave a tiny moan of self-disgust. How could she find this man so attractive? Trying to halt the insidious warmth that was spreading through her body, she made an attempt to pull away but he simply tightened his grip. Reminding herself that he’d just spent the best part of the evening stuck to another woman, Alesia gritted her teeth. ‘I already know what it’s like to be married to a Greek man, Sebastien. It’s lonely and frustrating. You marry me, then you vanish for two weeks without telling me where you’re going and then you take me out for an evening and proceed to flirt with someone else. I hate you.’

And what she hated most was the fact that she cared.

Colour streaked his magnificent cheekbones. ‘I was not “flirting”.’

‘You were,’ Alesia informed him unsteadily. ‘Your eyes were all over her and she couldn’t stop touching you and you forgot I was even there. Well, I refuse to be ignored! You chose to bring me here and then you were rude. And, what’s more, everyone was watching.’ Suddenly she felt horribly dizzy and clutched at him for support. ‘And now I feel a bit sick.’

The breath hissed through his teeth and he muttered under his breath. ‘Have you been drinking?’

She frowned, wondering why her head was swimming. ‘I never drink.’

His mouth tightened. ‘You downed most of your drink in one mouthful.’

‘I was thirsty.’

‘Then you should have drunk water,’ he suggested helpfully, holding her firmly when her legs would have given way. ‘For the record, alcohol is not the best thirst quencher.’

She leaned her forehead against his chest and wished the room would stop spinning. ‘All I’ve drunk is the lemonade you gave me. I’ve probably just been twirled around too many times. That man was a very good dancer.’

‘The drink was vodka with a dash of lemonade,’ he said grimly, ‘and I think you’re not safe to be left for five minutes unattended. You’re like a child at its first party.’

‘And you’re horrible,’ she muttered, lifting her face to his, struggling to focus as she tried to remember exactly what it was that she hated about him. ‘You do all those things to me in bed and then you just walk out and never say anything nice. Not one single thing. I just don’t understand why women think you’re so amazing. You don’t make sense and I can’t keep up with you. And I don’t think I can pretend to be the person you think I am any more. It’s just exhausting.’

Sebastien stilled, every muscle in his powerful body suddenly tense as he focused all his attention on her. ‘Run that past me again?’

There was something in his tone that rang alarm bells but her head was too fuzzy to work it all out. ‘You never say anything nice to me when we’re in bed—’

‘Not that bit—the other bit.’ Thick dark lashes swooped downwards, concealing his expression. ‘The bit about not being able to pretend any more.’

‘Well, I’m not this stupid, brainless heiress and frankly it’s a struggle to pretend that I am,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve never worn a designer dress in my life, I’ve never had time to party and you think I’m some sort of mammoth slut and yet I’ve never even—’ She broke off and he raised a dark eyebrow in question.

‘Yes?’ he prompted her helpfully, his dark gaze still fixed on her face. ‘Never even—?’

The loosening effects of the drink were fading and she was suddenly swamped by a horrid, horrid feeling that she’d just said totally the wrong thing but she couldn’t exactly work out what. Suddenly all she wanted to do was sleep.

‘Well, I’m not a slut,’ she repeated vaguely, ‘although I like the clothes they wear. Except the shoes hurt.’