Page 34 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

Because the hollow ache when she’d run out on him had reminded him of when he was a twelve-year-old kid, at his first junior snowboarding championship, and his old man had showed up with his ‘real sons’ and stood in the crowd to cheer for them, instead of Travis.

That would be the needy kid he’d buried a long time ago.

He didn’t need anyone’s praise or approval any more, especially not from the woman standing next to him—who wasn’t even his real wife. So how had she made him feel like that dumb kid again?

‘Travis, can you tell us why you two left the festivities so early? And missed the fireworks? Was that planned? Or was it a spontaneous decision?’

Travis zeroed in on the young female reporter at the front of the pack who had shouted out the intrusive question. And was grinning at him now with deliberate innuendo.

Isabelle stiffened, but of course she didn’t respond. Her dignified silence, though, and the memory of exactly what they had been doing when those fireworks had gone off had the last of his patience with this crap snapping like a dry twig.

He’d been advised by the press secretary not to respond to the reporters—that they wouldn’t expect answers to their questions as it was all part of the protocol that the Queen didn’t react.

But no way was he letting that pass.

‘Why do you think we left early?’ he said. ‘We’re newly-weds. How about you take a wild guess...?’

He heard Isabelle gasp, just before the media horde exploded into a cacophony of sound—each shouted question cruder and more provocative than the last.

The palace press secretary looked as if he were going to have an aneurysm. The expressions on the faces of the members of Isabelle’s court and the representatives of the privy council—who had been assembled to see them off—had gone varying shades of shocked and appalled. While the palace guards had to use their decorative rifles to restrain the surging tide of tabloid hacks sensing an exclusive.

Isabelle went deathly still beside him—her cheeks stained a vivid scarlet, her emerald eyes glassy with shock.

To hell with this.

He grasped her hand. ‘We’re out of here.’

She didn’t object, didn’t utter a sound, probably because she couldn’t without making even more of a scene. But somehow her refusal to react only infuriated him more.

He didn’t break stride as he marched across the tarmac with her hand gripped firmly in his, then led her up the steps into the waiting plane.

The steward closed the plane door behind them, shutting out the media circus. But as he led Belle into the jet’s lounge, he could sense her disapproval, even as the regal mask—which had slipped spectacularly last night—remained firmly in place.

The volatile emotions hit critical mass and the hollow ache in his gut widened, just as it had on that day so long ago, when he’d aced every race, broken a ton of records taking stupid risks to impress a man who had looked right through him as if he didn’t exist.

‘Mr Lord, we’re cleared for take-off whenever you’re ready,’ the pilot said, greeting them in the gangway.

‘Great. We’re ready now,’ Travis replied. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’

The pilot nodded and headed to the cockpit.

‘We’ll strap ourselves in, Bill,’ he said to the steward. ‘Give us some privacy.’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ If the guy was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘Just let me know if you want any refreshments once we reach our cruising altitude,’ he finished before disappearing into the service pantry.

Travis walked through to the lounge, so on edge now he was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of his ears. Isabelle had taken one of the leather armchairs and fastened her belt. Her face was still hot with embarrassment, but her expression remained impassive as she stared out of the window.

The tension tightened like a vice around his ribs.

He took the seat opposite her. The plane’s engines rumbled to life, drowning out the furore outside.

He held his tongue as the jet taxied down the runway, waiting for her to give him hell for the crude comment, which was probably slapped all over the Internet already.

But Isabelle remained calm and unmoved, her hands folded in her lap, the only sign she even had a pulse the staggered rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tailored silk blouse—those would be the breasts he’d had in his hands the night before and discovered were supremely sensitive.

When the jet reached its cruising altitude—and the pilot informed them over the public address system of their eleven-hour flight time to Denver International—she still hadn’t said a damn word. She hadn’t even made eye contact.

Was she giving him the silent treatment?

---