Yvonne Lindsay - Claiming His Runaway Bride / High-Stakes Passion

She walked down the stairs ahead of Luc. Her hand stroked the fronds of the potted palms that guarded the base of the shallow stairs and trailed over the surface of the baby grand piano nestled in an alcove of the room to her left.

“You play?” she asked.

Her fingers grazed the cool ivory of the keys, sending a single discordant note to hover on the air.

“After a fashion,” Luc answered noncommittally.

Belinda lifted her head and met his gaze fully for the first time since they’d left the hospital.

“Did you play for me?”

Suddenly she needed to know. The piano was a beautiful instrument—an instrument of passion, capable of expressing deepest desires and yearnings even when words failed. As she waited for Luc’s response his eyes changed, deepening in colour, becoming the stormy green of a storm-tossed lake. The scar across his cheek paled and she noted the tension in the set of his jaw.

“Luc?” she prompted.

“Yes. I played for you,” he finally ground out.

The light in his eyes changed again, reflecting a heat that flared to unexpected life from deep within her body. She saw the muscles working in his throat, the twin spots of colour that marked the slant of his cheek-bones—sensed the unleashed power of his body. Had he wooed her with music? Had she been seduced by the power of his long-fingered hands as they’d coaxed perfection from the keys of the baby grand? Had he then coaxed perfection from her?

A shiver of longing played down her spine, and she felt her breathing slow, her blood thicken languidly in her veins.

Belinda forced herself to break eye contact, to step further into the room with its luxurious fittings and deeply comfortable furnishings. Despite the value of each piece it was obviously a room that was used and enjoyed. Or at least it had been until they’d been hospitalised.

“I’ll show you the rest of the suite.” Luc’s voice cut sharply across her thoughts.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she replied as she followed him up the shallow stairs on the other side of the lounge, to the informal dining area and small but functional kitchen. “So you’re completely self-contained here,” Belinda observed as they passed through to another corridor.

“We are.”

Belinda couldn’t help but notice his subtle emphasis on the word “we.”

Luc continued. “The lodge has its own gym and indoor pool, and you can see the tennis court through there.” He indicated a deep-set window that framed a vista out toward the back of the main section of the lodge where a full-size tennis court stood in readiness. “My office is located in the main section of the lodge.”

“Do you have any guests here at the moment?”

“No. Not since the accident.”

Belinda furrowed her brow in confusion. “Is it your off season or something? Couldn’t your staff still have been able to provide their services and the full range of your facilities even while you were in hospital?”

“Certainly they could. I wouldn’t employ them otherwise.”

“Then why?”

“This time had been booked up for personal reasons.”

She hesitated, noting how his hand had tightened on the head of his cane. His limp seemed more pronounced.

“Personal reasons?” she probed.

“Our honeymoon, to be precise.”

He bit the words out as if they were poison past his lips and Belinda flinched at his tone.

Their honeymoon?

“Just how long have we been married?” Her voice shook as she asked the question.

“Not long.”

“Luc? Tell me.” Belinda pushed her back against the wall behind her, certain she’d need its support.

“Belinda, the doctors said you need time. You must take things slowly.”

“How long have we been married?” she insisted, enunciating each word as clearly as she could through a mouth that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool.

“Just over six weeks.”

“Six weeks? But then that means…” Her voice trailed away weakly. Her legs threatened to give way on her, and she braced her hands against the solid strength of the wall behind her.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

Luc stepped toward her, but Belinda threw up one hand in protest as he leaned forward to touch her.

“No! Don’t. I’m okay. I’ll be okay. It was just…unexpected, that’s all.”

Six weeks? That meant they’d been involved in the accident shortly after their wedding. But then why would no one give her any details about it? Why couldn’t she remember?

Luc remained silent, his eyes flicking over her, searching for proof of her affirmation that she was indeed all right. He took a step away and turned to throw open double doors that led into a sumptuous bedroom. Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the king-size pedestal bed that dominated the room, dwarfing the exquisite outlook from the French doors that lined the outside wall.

Despite the generous proportions of the room and the bank of glass that allowed the crisp sunlight to warm the air, she felt the walls close in on her as the tension between them tautened like a drawn bow. Belinda could barely tear her eyes from the expanse of fine linen, the teals and blues of the damask duvet cover mirroring the tones and textures of the water in the far distance and the flora outside. She hadn’t stopped to think about their arrangements once they arrived here. What if he expected to sleep with her?

An image imprinted in her mind of her body entwined with Luc’s. Her throat dried, making it difficult to formulate her next words.

“Is this the only bedroom?”

“Yes. When we start our family we will extend this part of the lodge. I already have the plans drawn up.”

“I would prefer to sleep somewhere else.”

“Impossible.”

“What?”

“You’re my wife. You sleep with me.”

“But—”

“Are you afraid of me, Belinda?”

Luc stepped close enough to her that she could smell the subtle tang of his cologne, the lime and spice intertwined into something that sent her pulse skittering through her veins. He lifted a hand to stroke a tendril of her hair back behind her ears. She tilted her head slightly, breaking the tenuous contact even as it began, but not soon enough to halt the heated tingle that danced across the surface of her skin.

“Afraid? No. Not at all,” she lied. Afraid? She was terrified. As far as she was aware, their acquaintance, their knowledge of each other—be it physical or mental—had started from the moment he’d walked into her hospital room only a scant few hours ago.

“Then you think I would force my attention on you?” He cupped the back of her head, stroking her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I don’t know you.”

“Ah, that’s where you are wrong, my beautiful wife. You know me. Intimately.”

With that he bent down. She was momentarily aware of the almost driven expression on his face before the distance between them closed and the coolness of his firm lips captured hers. She went rigid at the contact and felt his fingers tighten imperceptibly at the nape of her neck. Her lips parted on a gasp of shock and despite her determination not to return his caress she found herself unable to halt the answer of her body to his. The pressure of his kiss firmed, demanded more, and like an automaton she gave it.

She bunched her hands into fists to stop herself from lifting her arms, from curling them around his shoulders and pressing her body against his to ease the ache that made her breasts throb with need. Luc deepened the kiss, his tongue probing past her lips to gently stroke the soft inner recess of her mouth. A spear of desire drove through her from deep within her core. She fought the near overwhelming craving to be touched by him. To be dragged from the fugue of not knowing, to full aching awareness of Luc—of his taste, of his touch.