Claiming My Bride of Convenience

‘Surely this place has a guest bedroom?’

‘No, it does not. I’ve never had a guest who required a separate bedroom.’

‘Of course you haven’t.’

She hitched her slipping towel higher, affording me a glimpse of the tops of her breasts before she knotted the towel with firm decision.

‘So you expect us to share a bedroom? A bed?’

I nodded towards the king-sized bed. ‘It looks big enough to me.’

‘Of course it does.’

She bit her lip, and I wondered if she was waiting for me to be ridiculously gallant enough to offer to sleep on the sofa. I wouldn’t. I’d promised not to touch her—not that I’d keep my distance at all times.

‘Can you at least give me a little privacy while I get dressed?’ she demanded in a quavering voice, and I gave a gracious nod.

‘Of course. I’ll take a shower.’

After I emerged from the shower and dressed I found Daisy curled up in the corner of a white leather sofa in the living room, clearly dressed in the most modest clothes she could find, staring out at the starry night, her expression drawn in thought.

‘The food should be here shortly,’ I told her, and she nodded without looking at me. I regarded her for a moment, wondering what was bothering her. ‘You found something to wear, I see.’

‘Who do the clothes belong to?’

Ah, was she jealous? The thought pleased me. ‘No one. I had them delivered today—for you. Tomorrow I’ve arranged for several stylists and beauticians to come directly to our hotel in Paris.’

She gave another nod, without so much as a glance. I was starting to feel a bit irritated, or perhaps it was something more than that.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Finally her gaze slid to mine, as quiet as the rest of her. ‘Nothing.’

‘Why are you so...?’ Sad? I stopped before I said the word—because why did I care? I had never once before been attentive or attuned to a woman’s emotions. The fact that Daisy’s affected mine so significantly was both worrisome and annoying.

‘Why am I so what?’

‘Never mind.’ I ran my fingers through my damp hair as I headed towards the kitchen for a beer. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Still, her quiet stillness, the definite sorrow emanating from her, persisted all evening—and persisted in irritating and unsettling me. Don’t care, I instructed myself, frustrated that I even had to issue such a directive. When had I ever had to before?

‘What’s wrong?’ I burst out, after we’d eaten a mostly silent meal and Daisy had announced her intention to go to bed.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘You’ve been looking long-faced all evening.’

‘This feels a bit strange, that’s all.’

‘Strange can be good.’

‘And it can also be bad. Or just...strange.’ She shook her head. ‘Why do you care, Matteo?’

Exactly. ‘I don’t,’ I said shortly. ‘But it’s not very entertaining, sitting with someone who looks as sour as a pint of old milk.’

‘What a lovely comparison,’ she snapped, her ire rising—which was debatably better than her melancholy mood. ‘I didn’t realise it was my job to entertain you.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ I said in exasperation.