Stefano came around the desk. “I suggest you continue to talk things out. Communication is imperative between you going forward. And, Elie, don’t forget you need to have bodyguards on you both when you’re not locked in with a security system. Make your bride very aware that is an absolute law she will be living with at all times.”
Elie inclined his head. “I am not about to forget anything regarding her safety.” He was fully aware that the reminder was more for him than for his bride.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brielle didn’t say one word on the long ride to Elie’s house. She didn’t know what to say. She was exhausted from the long flight and the shocking culmination of her arranged marriage. Never, in a million years, had she expected she would be married to Elie Archambault. She’d gone to great lengths to ensure she would never see him again.
She’d left her beloved country, France, and gone to Spain in order to get away from Elie and his apologies. She hadn’t been running from the things he’d said about her body, although of course his cruel, cutting words had hurt, but she was used to being belittled in worse ways by her parents and sister.
She’d sat on Jean-Claude’s couch, in his sitting room, burning with embarrassment that the Archambaults had vetted her, investigating her like some prize heifer, and then summoned her to be looked over by their prize bull. Elie’s unmitigated rejection stung, but then she’d gone there to reject him and all things Archambault. Let Fayette and her parents have them.
How was she going to explain that to Stefano or Elie? Thank God they didn’t ask the right questions and force her to confess her real reasons for not wanting to be married to Elie, but now she was in this terrible situation and she was too tired to figure out how to get out of it. Or even if she wanted to. That was the worst of it. What if she didn’t really want to get out of it?
It was too late anyway. He knew things about her she’d never wanted him to know. He was the one person on earth she hadn’t wanted to know the sexual preferences she’d answered so honestly about herself. There was so much more—the more she’d planned on confessing to her new husband if he was a good man and treated her right.
Fayette had told her so many lies. Brielle had reached a point she didn’t believe anyone. It was just that—what possible reason could Elie have for lying? She was no treasure, no prize. If Elie had a hidden agenda, she couldn’t see what it could be. Stefano Ferraro could hear lies even if she doubted herself. He had believed Elie. Now she had to resign herself to being married to him. First, she had to figure out how she felt about it and the revelations he had given to Stefano. She was just too tired to know how to feel anything at all.
Had he really stalked her? She certainly had stalked him. How could she not know he was doing the same thing? She had noticed he came into both of the places where she worked frequently, but she hadn’t noticed he paid her a lot of attention. He had apologized a million times to her, and he had told her he thought she was beautiful. She sent every letter back and eventually never received them because she’d gone to Spain. She didn’t dare be tempted by him. He was the one man she didn’t want to give her secrets to. Now here she was, married to him. And he was the kind of man who would never leave things alone. He’d find out every single secret she had.
She must have dozed off in the car because, the next thing she knew, he was waking her and she found herself stumbling a little as she made her way into a large, two-story house. Blinking sleepily, she did her best to take in the high ceilings and stone fireplace but he kept her moving toward the master bedroom and bath.
The thought of their wedding night had her heart suddenly beating out of control. She didn’t think she could handle the idea of physical intimacy between them, not as tired as she was. He opened a door for her and gestured.
“Master bath. Get ready for bed, Brielle. You look like you’re going to fall over any minute.”
She nodded and pulled her gown in after her so she could close the door behind her. It would be such a relief to finally take off the wedding dress. It had been comfortable when she’d first put it on, but now it felt heavy, as if it weighed a ton. The moment she was out of it, she was going to take a long, hot shower, or better yet, soak in that luxurious tub that had bath oils sitting on the edge of it.
She reached behind her in an attempt to undo the very tiny buttons that ran up the back of the dress. It was impossible to slide them from the cleverly hidden loops crocheted into the tulle. No matter what she did, she couldn’t free herself from the dress. She wanted to collapse on the beige and white splotched tiles and just cry. That would look lovely when Elie came to get her—and he would. She was certain of it. He would come to claim his prize heifer. Laughter bubbled up, a bit of hysteria she couldn’t quite repress with two fingers to her lips.
Brielle stared at herself in the large mirror. She looked terrible, but then she always did when she was around Elie Archambault. She told herself it didn’t matter. He preferred tall, rail-thin models, not extremely petite women who had to fight to keep every extra pound from their already hourglass figures.
Elie had put on his questionnaire that it didn’t matter what his intended bride looked like, but she knew he had a preference. He was photographed for years going to charity events and fund-raisers, coming out of nightclubs and hotels, with the same type of woman on his arm. Models and actresses, all interchangeable as far as Brielle was concerned. Not one of them was under five foot seven. Not a single one.
She stared at her too-pale face in the mirror. She was desperate to take a bath in the very deep tub. Its elaborate silver faucet had all kinds of extensions coming out of it that she probably couldn’t get to work, but she didn’t care. She longed to immerse her bone-weary body in hot water and just forget everything for a few minutes—especially forget that she had a husband just outside the door waiting for her. A husband who was going to find out her deepest, darkest secrets that shamed her more than she’d already been shamed.
She’d like to pretend she didn’t want him to see her body, but she honestly didn’t care. What mattered was him never finding out all the things she hid from the world. She wanted to cry. To scream. Mostly, she wanted out of the damn wedding dress. Emmanuelle had gotten her into it, but Brielle hadn’t considered how she would be getting out of it. She thought to rip it down the front, but that seemed . . . wrong.
“Brielle, you’re going to have to come out of there sometime. You can’t sleep on the bathroom floor.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Elie’s voice startled her. It wasn’t that he spoke loudly; in fact, his voice was incredibly low, a blend of velvet and raw sex. The sound stroked along her nerve endings and brought her body to life in spite of the fact that she was so exhausted. That frightened her. She hated that he could have so much control over her when she already felt so out of control.
Brielle took a deep cleansing breath and forced herself to calm down. For years, she had worked hard to become self-confident, to become her own person. She wasn’t going to let this marriage to Elie Archambault destroy her hard-won confidence. If she wasn’t so exhausted, she might be able to come up with better ideas, but right now, there was only one way out for her and she was going to act like it was no big deal.
She had no choice; she was going to have to ask him for help. Could the day get any more humiliating? She closed her eyes for a moment and then, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, went to the door.
“I’ll admit I’m so tired that sleeping on the bathroom floor is a possibility at this point, but I’d like a bath, so I’ll sleep there in very hot water if you show me how to use that complicated silver faucet. The big holdup is my dress.”
“Your dress?” Elie echoed. He came into her line of sight. His hair still gleamed with beads from the shower. The drops clung to the ends of his hair. His eyes were so dark, they appeared to be nearly black. He had the kind of face that was chiseled granite, beautifully detailed with rugged lines and planes. An aristocratic nose and defined mouth that could be sensual or cruel, maybe both at the same time.
His shoulders were very wide, although he was so well proportioned, it was difficult to notice at first, but there was no escaping the fact that he had muscles that went on forever from his thick chest down to his impressive abs, which led lower into the loose towel hitched around his hips.
She didn’t look like that on her best day after six months’ worth of salads and six-hour workouts six days a week. A little groan of despair slipped out and she turned away from him.
“What is it, Brielle?” He came into the room and she stepped back to make way for him.
The master bath was spacious, mostly white tile above her head and on the walls, adding to the feeling of space, but Elie managed to dominate the entire room the moment he stepped inside. It was as though he sucked all the available air out of it, so she couldn’t breathe—or maybe she needed to just not look at him.
She focused on the tub, trying not to make a total fool of herself. “I’m just really tired, so exhausted I can’t think. I’m sure there’s a way for me to get out of the dress without asking you for help, but I couldn’t think of it.”