The Billionaires' Brides Bundle

She would never show weakness to him!

Ivy took a breath and walked briskly up the steps that led into the plane.

It was cool inside the cabin. Luxurious, too. The walls were pale cream; the seats and small sofas soft-looking tan leather. Thick cream carpet stretched the length of the fuselage to a closed door in the rear.

And, yes, Damian was already there, sitting in one of the leather chairs, not looking at her but, instead, reading a page from the sheaf of papers stacked on the table in front of him.

“Miss Madison, sir,” the steward said.

Damian raised his head.

Ivy stood straighter, automatically taking on the cool look she’d made famous in myriad ads and magazine covers.

She had deliberately taken time with her appearance this morning. At first, she’d thought she’d wear jeans and a ratty jacket she kept for solitary walks on chill winter mornings, just to show the prince how little all his wealth and grandeur meant.

She’d known, instinctively, he’d have a private plane. Men like him wouldn’t fly in commercial jets.

Then she’d thought, no, far better to make it clear nothing he owned, nothing he was, could intimidate her. So she’d dressed in cashmere and silk under a glove-leather black jacket she’d picked up after a shoot in Milan the prior year.

She needn’t have bothered.

Damian barely glanced at her, nodded curtly and went back to work.

It angered her, which was ridiculous. It was good, wasn’t it, that he had no intention of pretending this was a social occasion?

She nodded back and started past him. His arm shot out, blocking her way.

“You will sit here,” he said.

“Here” was the leather chair next to his.

“I prefer a seat further back.”

“I don’t recall asking your preference.”

His tone was frigid. It made her want to slap his face but she wasn’t fool enough to do that again. Far better to save her energy for the battles ahead, instead of wasting it on minor skirmishes.

Ivy sat down. The hovering steward cleared his throat.

“May I bring you something after we reach cruising altitude, madam? Coffee, perhaps, or tea?”

“No coffee,” Damian said, without lifting his head. “No tea. No alcohol. Ms. Madison may have mineral water or juice, as she prefers.”

Ivy felt her face flame. Why didn’t he simply announce her pregnancy to the world? But if he was trying to lure her into all-out war, he was going to be disappointed.

“How nice,” she said calmly, “to be given a choice, even if it’s a minor one.”

Damian looked up. Waited. His mouth gave a perfunctory twitch. “Should Thomas take that to mean you don’t want anything?”

“What I want,” she said matter-of-factly, “is my freedom, but I doubt if Thomas can provide that.”

The steward’s eyes widened. Damian’s face darkened. For a second, no one moved or spoke. Then Damian broke the silence.

“That will be all, Thomas.” He waited until the steward was gone. Then he turned to Ivy. “That is the last time I will tolerate that,” he said in a low voice.

“Tolerate what, Your Highness? The truth?”

His hand closed on her wrist, exerting just enough pressure to make her gasp.