Married for the Prince's Convenience

He growled under his breath. He was sitting opposite a beautiful, poised woman who was warm enough for his people to fall in love with. Visually, the duchess was the antithesis of his mother and Anaïs, and that alone would sway his people, who’d hated Queen Isolde Navarre, towards her.

And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about the reluctant thief with the body that called to his like a siren to a sailor.

He forced himself to focus on his dinner companion. After another minute, he threw down his napkin, stood and smiled down at the duchess.

‘We won’t need to worry about what you’ll call me. After tonight we’ll most likely never meet again.’

He entered his suite twenty minutes later. It was barely nine o’clock so he knew Jasmine would still be up. He told himself he was searching for her to give her a piece of his mind about how appallingly his evening had gone.

He had a right to, after all.

When the living room proved empty, he contemplated leaving the dressing-down till morning. Going to the bar, he poured himself a cognac and walked out onto the penthouse terrace.

He heard the splash of her swimming before he rounded the corner to where the private pool was located.

Despite warning himself that he needed to stay away, he couldn’t stop his feet propelling him forward until he was standing on the edge of the aqua-tiled pool, staring at her stunning figure as she swam underwater.

Her arms and legs kicked in a graceful flow, the sight of her scantily clad figure robbing him of breath and sanity. That feeling of skating on the edge of his control escalated to the point where he was in a foul mood by the time she broke the surface.

‘You failed.’ His snarl was deep and ruthless enough to make him inwardly grimace.

Nevertheless, he felt a measure of cheap satisfaction when she whirled to face him. ‘Actually, I was winning. Twenty laps without stopping is an achievement for me.’

‘I don’t mean your swim. I mean you failed with the duchess.’

A single frown line marred her perfect skin. ‘Okay. I guess that’s why you’re back early? What happened?’

Her legs continued to swirl lazily underwater as she stared up at him. Reyes’s groin pounded hard as he followed the sexy movement.

When she raised her eyebrows, he dragged his gaze away, tried to find words to enumerate the duchess’s faults. None came to mind. ‘She lacked the qualities I need.’

Jasmine’s eyes shadowed. She glanced away, then back at him. ‘You did the kissing test?’ An odd note in her voice made something jerk in his chest. He didn’t have time to examine it because she kicked away from the edge. Her breasts bounced, and he nearly swallowed his tongue as flames spiked into his groin.

‘I didn’t need to. I knew she would fail.’

‘Wow, you’re psychic now?’ Her tone had returned to normal. She swam towards the steps.

He followed, mesmerised by the curve of her spine and the roundness of her behind. He watched her rise from the pool and pluck a towel from the chair. His fingers tightened around his glass when she patted the towel over her body.

Focus! ‘Perhaps you need to be reminded of my earlier statement. You failed.’

‘You have two more candidates. Maybe you’ll strike it lucky second time round. If not, three times will be the charm.’

The restlessness that prowled through him intensified. ‘You’ll come with me tomorrow.’

She froze and stared at him with wide, wounded eyes. ‘I’d rather not, Reyes. I’m not the one marrying these women!’

He exhaled harshly. Ploughing a hand through his hair, he glared at her. ‘I...need you.’

Her eyes widened further. He kicked himself for uttering words he had no business saying. ‘No, you don’t. I’ve done my bit. It’s time to do yours.’

‘Dios! Have you always been this infuriating?’

Her face fell. ‘You think I’m infuriating?’

Reyes was overcome with a desire to placate her. Take that look off her face. Replace it with one of those stunning smiles that lit up his insides.

He pondered the feeling, adding extreme puzzlement to the many emotions he felt around this woman.

This woman should be in jail somewhere dark and harrowing, not enjoying the luxury of a Parisian emperor suite, wearing a sexy bikini, and swimming in his pool.

‘Yes. You’re infuriating. And you’re also supposed to be good at your job. So far you’re doing a pathetically poor attempt. Were you in my permanent employ I’d have fired you a long time ago.’