Page 35 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

To hell with that.

Leaning forward, he grasped her chin and directed her gaze to his.

‘If you’ve got something to say to me, Belle, you best spit it out.’

She blinked, the mask of indifference collapsing to be replaced by something he liked even less... And recognised from the previous evening... Panic, and regret.

‘I apologise. For last night. I should not have let things become so...intimate...’ Isabelle murmured, both mortally embarrassed and out of her depth in the face of his anger—while also feeling like the worst kind of fraud. ‘It was wrong to leave you unsatisfied.’

She’d sensed Travis’s frustration, the impatience bristling under his skin, ever since she had met him in the chauffeur-driven car taking them both to the airstrip half an hour ago for the photo call before their flight. She had wanted to say something,anything, to defuse the tension and make amends for her selfishness, as she suspected it was not the done thing to enjoy a man’s touch with the fervour she had enjoyed his, and then leave him visibly erect without offering him some relief.

But what could she say? When she knew not one thing about the etiquette of sexual relationships. So, she had remained silent.

She had paid for her cowardice though. Because having to stand so close to him during the photoshoot, while trying not to react to the heavy weight of his palm resting possessively on her waist, and the brush of his breath against her ear when he told her to relax—exactly as he had done the night before—had been excruciating.

He let go of her chin and cursed.

She flinched. Had she said the wrong thing? He didn’t look pleased by her apology. If anything he looked even more frustrated. And appalled.

‘Don’t do that polite reserved crap with me, it drives me nuts. And don’t apologise for last night. What the hell does that even mean?’ He lifted his fingers to do sarcastic air quotes. ‘“It was wrong to leave you unsatisfied.”’

She looked away from him again, her face on fire. ‘It means I had an orgasm and you didn’t,’ she said, as calmly as she could while her hands were shaking. ‘And I suspect that sexual frustration—and more specifically anger with my selfishness last night—is the reason you were unable to control your temper with that reporter,’ she added, determined to acknowledge her part in this fiasco. ‘Which is why I felt an apology was appropriate.’

He swore again, the word low with fury now. ‘Exactly how much of a jackass do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know,’ she snapped, her own patience starting to evaporate.

She was trying to do the right thing here. But she’d had a virtually sleepless night. And while she had no doubt at all she was partially responsible for this morning’s outburst, there was a limit to how much blame she was prepared to take.

‘Although so far you haven’t surprised me,’ she added, her voice clipped.

How was last night’s fiasco and his difficult behaviour this morning all her fault? He was a grown man. And he was the one who had pushed to reset the terms of their agreement as soon as they had been alone together. Yes, she had been a willing participant in what had transpired—far too willing—but shouldn’t he take some of the responsibility for this disaster, too?

He collapsed back into his chair and yelled another profanity at the ceiling—the anger making his chest flex under his shirt. The sight sent an inconvenient shot of awareness through her tired body—because the memory of exactly what all those muscles looked like, flexing in unison as he worked her into a frenzy, was now apparently tattooed on her frontal lobe.

Fabulous!

‘Wow, you’re really a piece of work, aren’t you?’ he said, his gaze fixed on her again, his dark eyes flinty with temper. ‘How do you do it?’

‘How do I do what?’

‘Pull off the “ice queen” act like that.’ He leant forward, resting tanned forearms on his knees. ‘When we both know there’s enough passion inside you to set fire to Alaska.’

‘It’s not an act,’ she said. Disturbed by the way he was staring at her now, with the same intensity that had terrified her the night before, as if he could see past all her defences, all the emotions she had learned to control, to find the insecure, needy girl beneath.

He laughed, the sound raw and brittle. ‘Yeah, it is. Don’t forget I’ve seen you when you’re aching for my touch. Smelt your need when you’re clambering for release. And there’s nothing cold about you then, is there?’ He leant back, his gaze searing in its contempt. ‘You know, it would be pretty funny that you think I’m good enough to pretend to marry, but not good enough to touch you—if it weren’t so damn insulting.’

Shock reverberated through her at the accusations she didn’t understand.

Superior? Not good enough?

Her own temper died, consumed by confusion and regret.

Clearly, she had insulted him, without intending to. The thought seemed incongruous—given the man’s ego up to now had appeared stronger and more resilient than the White Ridge itself. But when he turned away, she noticed the muscle clenching in his jaw and the dark flags of colour on his cheeks—and it occurred to her she might not be the only one who had allowed themselves to get carried away last night.

Strangely, the thought calmed her rampaging pulse and her own feelings of inadequacy.

She hadn’t meant to insult him, certainly did not believe herself to be superior to him. But the fact he had not been completely unmoved by their intimacy made her feel a little less insecure, a little less powerless.

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