Page 41 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

He should have asked Isabelle what the issue was, but they’d been avoiding each other since that first night—with him boarding all day and only returning to the house at nightfall, by which time she had escaped to her rooms.

He didn’t even know if she’d used any of the facilities. The only signs she was even still here were the meals that had been disappearing, and the empty containers that appeared washed and stacked neatly on the sideboard each evening.

But from the state of his knee, it looked as if he was going to be housebound until after Christmas now. His heartbeat kicked up a notch at the thought of bumping into his invisible house guest. He probably ought to have a conversation with her about their plans for tomorrow, because it was Christmas Eve already and it looked like they were going to be stuck together tomorrow.

Great.

What did royalty do on Christmas? He hoped she wasn’t expecting him to do the catering.

He huffed out an annoyed breath. It had always been just him and his mom on Christmas Day until that final Christmas before she’d died, when he’d messed up. The guilt and grief still hit him on the day itself, so he wasn’t in the mood to socialise.

Having to spend the day with Belle wasn’t going to make him feel any less raw, especially as he knew his mom would have chewed him out for ever agreeing to get married for a business opportunity in the first place.

Not for the first time, he wondered what his mom would have made of Belle.

He pushed down the prickle of disappointment when he found the living room and kitchen empty. Having to deal with her would only be more awkward while dealing with his bum knee.

But as he limped across the living area in the dusky light, a splash from outside had him scanning the pool terrace.

His heart stopped as Isabelle rose from the pool, her blonde hair tied in a knot, wearing just a couple of swatches of lace. Soaking-wet see-through lace, which reminded him of the panties he’d had his hand inside three days ago.

She tugged on a thick dressing gown and grabbed a towel lying on one of the heated loungers. Starting to shiver, she slid her feet into a pair of oversized slippers and shuffled across the terrace as fast as she could.

‘Open the door, please,’ she requested of the house’s integrated system with her typical politeness.

The glass panel slid across, and then back, as she shot into the indoor space. She hadn’t spotted him standing by the tree, his hands braced on the back of one of the couches to take the weight off his leg.

He stood there like a dummy, or the worst kind of peeping Tom, and watched as she shook out her hair. The curls fell in disarray onto her shoulders. His stomach muscles tightened, the familiar heat plunging south, at the memory of releasing her hair from the tangle of pins. The feel of the silky tresses, the sound of her groan as he massaged her scalp and the phantom scent of flowers and her assailed his senses all over again. And the pain in his knee moved north.

She looked as glorious now as she had on their wedding night. Young and fresh and approachable, without the regal reserve she so often cloaked herself with.

As she began to dry her legs with the towel, her full breasts—the rigid nipples poking through her wet bra—played peek-a-boo with the open robe.

She shivered again, then let out a soft laugh. His heart skipped several beats. And the tension in his gut cinched tighter, because her expression was a captivating combination of excitement, exhilaration and mischief—like a kid let out early from school on the first snow day of the semester.

This wasn’t the controlled, unapproachable monarch, this wasn’t even the forthright woman who had skewered him with her logic on the journey here and made him feel like a hot-tempered jerk... This was the other Isabelle, who hid behind both of those. The bold, impulsive girl who loved to ski too fast, who had the throwing arm of a Major League baseball pitcher, who kissed with a passion that could blow his head off—and who had come apart in his arms three nights ago.

His need—and his fascination—made him forget not just the pain in his knee, but all the reasons why he didn’t want her here.

The gruff chuckle came out before he could stop it. Her head rose, the towel slipping out of her hand as surprise crossed her features. But right there with it was the thrill of desire.

Yeah, she felt it, too. The livewire chemistry they’d been trying to ignore by avoiding each other.

‘Travis,’ she whispered, her expression wary as she gathered the robe, cutting off his view of all that delicious skin. ‘You’re back early.’

The fierce need charged through his veins as he watched her eyes darken with arousal.

He’d messed up. That night. They both had. But there had to be a way back from that. Because they had a week left, and he couldn’t think of a better way to get them through a vacation period that they both seemed to have hang-ups about than feeding this incessant hunger.

‘Yeah,’ he said, the husky word scraping his throat. ‘Great swimwear,’ he added, loving the way her pale skin pinkened all the way to her hairline. ‘But don’t wear it for anyone but me.’

Isabelle stared at the man less than five feet away as hot yearning rushed over her chilled skin. He’d been gone yesterday morning at dawn and returned after dark—and as she’d roamed the house alone during the last two days, she had convinced herself his absence was for the best.

But as the ache in her breasts and the glorious heat in her sex pulsed, her heart turned over in her chest. Because she was happy to see him. Excited even.

‘I didn’t wear it for you,’ she said, but the hoarse tone and the thrust of her swollen nipples against her damp bra called her a liar.

She had been bored and stressed without him here—overthinking every aspect of their interactions so far. And miserable at the thought of spending another Christmas alone.

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