That if I could break the contract tonight and say to hell with the consequences, I would.
Instead, I call my driver and go downstairs, giving him the directions to the restaurant where I’m meeting Saoirse for dinner. She’d suggested a favorite French bistro of hers, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach a French restaurant for a long time, if ever again.
She’s waiting in the lobby for me when I arrive, slender and beautiful in a red satin cocktail dress that skims over her slim curves, gliding over her hips in a way that any man would dream of, ending just below her knees. The straps are thin silk cords, holding up the swoop of the red satin over her cleavage, and her hair is half-up, half-down, the top part in a swirled bun at the back of her head and the rest spilling in curls over her shoulders. She’s wearing delicate diamond jewelry and nude heels, the ones with the red bottoms that all women seem to adore, and she looks like a vision.
I’ve heard it said that red-haired women shouldn’t wear the colors red or pink, but Saoirse pulls it off beautifully. In fact, the only thing unsettling about it is that the red satin is very much the shade of blood—and I can only imagine how much her father would want to spill mine, if he knew what I was thinking right now.
What I’m thinking is that the Irish princess I’m meant to marry is beautiful, graceful, elegant, stunning in every way—but that nothing about her stirs even a flicker of desire in me. She’s like looking at a gorgeous statue—aesthetically pleasing in every way. Still, I can’t imagine touching her with lust, devouring her the way I’d ravished Ana in that hotel bed with my tongue. I don’t want to fuck her.
I want to put her in a cab and send her home to her father, so I can go back to my own apartment and the woman I really want.
Instead, I let her slip her hand through my arm as we follow the hostess to our reserved table, a romantic half-circle booth in a dimly-lit corner of the restaurant, lit only by the candles on the crisp linen tablecloth. I let Saoirse slide in first over the black velvet seat before joining her, and I see her eyes sweep over me appreciatively as she looks at me just before I sit down.
I dressed nicely enough—black tailored pants and a crisp dark green button-up with the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the collar open just enough to show the upper v of my chest. It clings flatteringly, and I can see how much Saoirse is enjoying the view. It makes me feel almost guilty—she’s clearly turned on by me, but I can’t summon so much as an ounce of desire for her. Even if I had her naked in a bed right now, I’m not sure if I’d be able to satisfy her.
On the other hand, just the thought of Ana is enough to make my cock twitch with the beginnings of a desperate need that I have yet to fully slake.
“I like the beard.” Saoirse looks at me sideways with a twinkle in her shamrock-green eyes. “It’s certainly come in since the wedding. An interesting choice for a business trip, but I think it suits you.”
Is that suspicion I hear in her voice?I’d be surprised if it was, Saoirse doesn’t seem like the suspicious type, and we’re not married yet, so I’m not under any obligation to tell her the details of my trip. In fact, I know plenty of married men who expect their wives not to ask questions—often because it’s not actually business they’re after on these trips. The way she’s looking at me is perfectly normal, too, with that flicker of desire in her eyes as she takes in my bearded face.
I’m guilty, and I know that’s why I’m feeling as though she sees right through me.
I glance at her left hand, the oval diamond glittering in the candlelight, the soft green emeralds a match for her eyes. The ring looks good on her hand—it looks as if it suits her. It’s easy to imagine the gold wedding band next to it, that we’d be seated soon in a restaurant like this as husband and wife.
It’s not a great leap to imagine, but it’s not what I want.
“You’re quiet.” Saoirse reaches for my hand, and it’s all I can do not to pull it back, to remind myself that it’s a natural thing, for her to want to hold my hand. For her to want to touch me, her fiancé.
“I’m tired. I only just got back.” I let out a breath of relief as the waiter approaches. It’ll give me a moment to focus on something other than what to say to Saoirse. I order a bottle of pinot noir and a Caprese salad appetizer for us both.
“My favorite kind of wine.” Saoirse smiles. “Have I told you that, or did you just guess?”
Had she told me? I can’t remember, though it’s definitely the sort of thing I should. “You might have mentioned it at the wedding,” I hedge, and she laughs.
“Well, if you did remember it, points for you.” She leans back in the velvet booth, pushing a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back, Liam. My mother is practically foaming at the mouth, wanting to start planning the wedding, and I’m sure that you know my father is on pins and needles as well. They want a late summer wedding—”
Fuck.Late summer would only be a couple of months away. “Surely you need more time than that to plan.”
“That’s what my mother says. But my father is so insistent that we get married as soon as possible—” she smiles at me, her hand reaching out to cover mine again. “I’m not complaining, though. I know you’re not sure about the match, Liam, but I’m eager to be your bride. I’ll make you a good wife, I’m certain of it. We could be happy.”
We could be happy.She’d said the same words to me on the balcony at Viktor and Caterina’s wedding. She’d said it then like a plea, wanting to convince me. Now she says it as if it’s a stated fact, with a confidence in her words that I hadn’t heard before.
I imagine the signed betrothal contract has something to do with that.
Breaking it, in the eyes of the Kings, is a sin. An insult that no decent man would be expected to take without retaliation. I’d made a solemn vow, in a church before God and man, a vow only one step below the one that I’m intended to make with Saoirse—in a few short months, if her father has his way.
And yet, I can’t see any way to keep it. Not without spending a life in misery, longing for a woman I love and can’t have, and making Saoirse miserable in turn.
Fortunately, the waiter comes back with the wine. I take that opportunity to go through the motions of ordering expensive wine—sniffing the cork, tasting the first splash of it in the glass as he hands a sample to Saoirse and to me.
“This is lovely,” Saoirse says, taking a second sip. “You made a good choice, Liam.”
There’s an undercurrent to her words that makes me think she’s not entirely talking just about the wine.
We place our orders for dinner—a filet with shrimp for me and a chopped salad and fish for her—and then there’s nothing else but to try to make conversation as we wait for our food.
Saoirse sips delicately at her wine. “Maybe we should use tonight to try to get to know each other better,” she suggests. “Since we’re going to be married soon. There must be things you want to know about me?”