Page 196 of The Christmas Wife

"You love champagne. It’s your drink of choice," he declares.

My eyebrows shoot up. "And you guessed this, how?"

"Nothing a little bit of research didn’t reveal."

I stiffen. "You had me investigated?"

"Something you already knew about." He continues, "As you did me."

I blink, then surprise myself when laughter tumbles out from between my lips. "Touché." I raise my glass.

He seems taken aback, himself. Then his lips curve up in a smile that’s so open, so real that something flutters deep inside. It’s probably ripples of hunger, that’s all. I had very little for lunch and no breakfast. That’s the reason my stomach seems to be bottoming out.

"Also, your acting skills need leveling up."

"Excuse me?"

"You knew you were being followed, considering you gave my investigator the slip a few times."

I raise a shoulder. "So, get a better investigator."

This time it’s he who barks out a laugh. "Keep up this banter, and I’ll begin to think it’s our brand of foreplay."

"You wish," I scoff.

His grin widens. "Of course, the fact that you evaded the detective I had on you makes me wonder what you have to hide."

The blood drains from my features, then I tip up my chin. "Maybe I have a lover."

"No, you don’t."

I pull back my shoulders. "You seem awfully confident about that, Minister."

He stares at me. “Why is that so sexy coming from you?”

Heat flushes my skin, and my mouth dries. Why is it so hot to hear him say that particular four-letter word? Why is the thought of this man talking filthy to me such a turn on? I toss my hair over my shoulder, then tip up my chin. “Hold your horses. I only called you, Minister, notPrime Minister, which you’re not?—”

“—yet,” he adds smoothly, then narrows his gaze. "You can’t belong to anyone else."

"Oh?"

He nods. "You’re mine, Zara, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you accept that."

My belly quivers. My pussy clenches. I feel the tickling sensation between my legs that tells me I’m getting turned on, and I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to soothe away the itch between them. Why is his declaration of intent so erotic? Why is the focus in his eyes as he fixes his gaze on me, andonly me, make me feel like I won the lottery by becoming the cynosure of his attention?

I square my shoulders and grip the stem of my flute glass tighter. "And if you can’t?" I tip up my chin. "

"I’ve never lost... And I don’t intend to start now." He touches his glass to mine. "To us."

"There is no us," I scoff.

"Not yet."

"Excuse me?" I widen my gaze. "I’m not sure I heard you correctly."

"Oh, you did. You just don’t want to admit it."

He brings the flute to his lips and takes a sip of his champagne. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows. My pulse rate speeds up.

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