Page 4 of Signed, Sealed, Married

It made sense and Gisèle could hardly object, yet the gleam in his eye told her it was a deliberate manoeuvre at her expense.

She repressed a sigh. How she hated the games some men played.

A waiter laid the place setting before him, offering menus and drinks. It was a relief to concentrate on food rather than Adam Wilde. Yet she couldn’t relax. She was far too mindful that, despite his lounging ease, his gaze was keen and, she suspected, his brain too.

Of course it was. He was a self-made man, renowned for his razor-sharp perspicacity. And the ruthlessness needed to build an empire from nothing.

Gisèle ignored her tiny shudder at the thought of Fontaine’s at his mercy as she steered the conversation through safe waters. The long flight from Australia. The delights of Sydney Harbour on a sunny day.

Did she imagine amusement lurking in those green eyes? Her hackles rose at the hint of condescension but she didn’t react. This wasn’t about her, but her family’s legacy and the livelihood of everyone they employed.

Wilde waited until the drinks were brought, sparkling water for her and beer for him, before turning towards her. He was too big for this intimate table for two. His knee brushed her thigh, his broad shoulders imposing in her peripheral vision.

But it wasn’t just his size. The atmosphere had become charged, creating tiny pinpricks of awareness across her body. Her breathing was too shallow and quick.

Only a lifetime’s training stopped her from frowning. Not at the big man who seemed to enjoy discomfiting his opponent in negotiations. That was an old ploy. No, her annoyance was for herself, for reacting to him as a man, not a professional challenge.

The first course was served and as he picked up his cutlery Gisèle spoke. ‘So, Mr Wilde—’

‘Please, call me Adam. And you’re Gisèle.’

He didn’t ask permission to use her first name and, for the first time she could remember, Gisèle wanted to insist he use her surname.

Because, she discovered, there was power in a name. At least when spoken in that deep, slightly scratchy voice that stroked at something unexpected inside her.

The sensation reminded her of the time she’d had a massage on a frozen shoulder. The deep probing was intensely uncomfortable but immediately followed by a melting warmth that she couldn’t get enough of.

Something like fear skittered through her.

‘Unless you prefer Ms Fontaine?’

There was a change in his expression, a tightening around the lips and something hard in his gaze.

She couldn’t offend the man who might save the company, even if it meant she and Julien lost everything.

‘Gisèle is fine.’ She curved her lips into an obligatory smile. ‘I was simply going to say that you didn’t come all this way to discuss travel and the weather. About your proposal–’

‘You seem in a hurry to divest yourself of the company your family built.’ He lifted an eyebrow as he took a mouthful of seared scallop and slowly chewed. ‘Why don’t you tell me about yourself first?’

Incredulity vied with indignation.

She hadnodesire to divest herself of the company! Her heart broke at the idea. It felt like a betrayal of her grandfather and all the staff, to hand it over to a stranger.

Her happiest childhood memories had been made in the flower fields and perfume distillery. Losing the firm would be like losing part of herself.

‘You’re wrong about that, Mr Wilde—Adam.’ Her mouth flattened as she struggled to rein in her feelings. ‘We’re not in a hurry to have someone take over the House of Fontaine. But we’re here to discuss business. I don’t see how talking about myself is relevant.’

He shrugged, the nonchalant movement of those impressive shoulders reminding her of the power this man wielded. Everything depended on his agreement. Without him there’d be no deal. The House of Fontaine would cease to trade and its employees would be out of work.

‘Humour me, Gisèle. I’m interested.’ His expression turned implacable and she glimpsed the iron fist beneath the velvet glove. ‘We have plenty of time.’

Gisèle regarded him carefully, trying to work out what he was doing. Other than unsettling her. Not that it mattered what he thought of her. Yet she sat straighter, her expression smoothing as she battled not to betray instinctive hauteur at his probing.

‘What do you want to know?’

He gestured to her untouched plate. ‘You’re not hungry?’

Of course she wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was doing somersaults, but it wouldn’t do to make that obvious. Gisèle cut a segment from her dainty vegetable flan and chewed mechanically.

---