Page 3 of On His Bride's Terms

She made her way to the cloakroom and got the jacket that matched her dress—loose cape-style, with sleeves—and slipped it on. When she got to the lobby she didn’t have time to worry if Primo Holt might have changed his mind or come to his senses, because he was already waiting for her, wearing a long overcoat. He was intimidatingly suave.

He saw her and watched her walk towards him. Faye prayed she wouldn’t fall flat on her face and somehow managed not to. Primo put out a hand for her to precede him and she went out and down the steps, to be guided into the back of a sleek SUV with tinted windows.

It was early spring, and the air still had a nip, but she knew that wasn’t why her skin prickled. It was the man sliding into the back alongside her now, issuing instructions to the driver, who nodded, and then they were moving out smoothly into the night-time Manhattan traffic.

Faye was still too stunned to say anything, not really believing she was in the back of Primo Holt’s car being driven across town.

‘There’s a private club where we can have a drink without being bothered, is that okay?’

Faye turned to look at the man who seemed so huge on the other side of the car. His scent was crisp and unmistakably masculine. She nodded. ‘That sounds fine.’

Before long they were pulling to a stop outside a discreet building. She found that she liked the fact that he hadn’t tried to make superficial conversation to fill the time en route. She rarely met people who could sit in silence with such ease.

The driver opened her door and she got out. Once again Primo put out a hand to let her precede him to a doorway under an awning that opened as if by magic as she approached. She heard Primo address the suited man in the doorway in fluent French.

Then he said, ‘Marcel, I’d like you to meet Faye MacKenzie. I think we’ll just be having drinks—unless you’re hungry?’

Faye shook her head. The thought of trying to eat in this man’s company made her stomach flip-flop. ‘No, just drinks is fine.’

Their coats were taken. Faye guessed this was a private members’ club and maybe a guesthouse. It was sumptuously decorated with soft carpets, muted colours, hand-painted wallpaper, and luxurious drapes that were pulled back at the entrance to the bar. It had dimly lit booths and tables, around which sat at least a couple of A-listers whom Faye recognised.

They were directed to a booth near the far end of the bar, tucked away but with a view of the room. Faye sat down and Primo slid in from the other side.

Low music accompanied the murmur of chatter and laughter. It was decadent and ultra luxe. Discreet glamour. No wonder Primo Holt’s personal life was a well-kept mystery if this is where he conducted his liaisons.

Faye’s face grew warm under the soft lights. Who said this was a liaison? And since when was she so hungry for male attention? She’d been burned a long time ago with her first—and only—marriage, and she’d carved out a life for herself in which her independence was the most prized thing.

She hadn’t felt the need to follow a man in such a long time that it was only now she was realising she hadn’t even hesitated to acquiesce to his invitation. As if her brain had decamped and allowed her body to dictate her actions. She could tell herself it was purely professional curiosity, but she knew that wasn’t true.

A waiter approached the table. Primo looked at Faye. ‘What would you like?’

She said, ‘A classic gin martini—and some water, please.’

She hadn’t drunk much at all this evening, but this situation was too surreal. She felt she needed the alcohol, but at the same time wanted to maintain a clear head.

He ordered a whisky.

When the waiter left Faye forced herself to look at Primo Holt, even if it did feel like looking directly into sunlight. Her mind blanked and that was unnerving, because it wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to talking to VIPs.

As if hearing her thoughts he said, ‘I read about the deal you just negotiated for a Picasso for a client rumoured to be part of the British Royal Family.’

Faye couldn’t help but feel a little glow of pride. Ithadbeen a monumental deal. She inclined her head and said, ‘I can confirm it was a Picasso, but as for who my client was... I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘Someone who knows how to be discreet? I like that.’

Faye felt more than a frisson this time. She had a sense that he wasn’t just talking about professional discretion. Right now, Primo Holt was managing to eclipse even royalty.

His hand went to his bow-tie and he made a small face as he said, ‘Do you mind? These infernal things always make me feel like I’m being strangled.’

Faye shook her head and watched wordlessly as long fingers undid his tie and he opened a top button, revealing the strong, bronzed column of his throat. It jogged her memory. Hadn’t his mother been a Brazilian supermodel?

He lifted his glass and said, ‘Cheers.’

Faye looked around. Her drink was on the table on an embossed coaster. She hadn’t even noticed the waiter’s return. Too busy ogling Primo Holt.

She lifted her glass and let it touch his. She echoed hischeers, then took a sip, relishing the slight burn of the alcohol. It gave her the courage to say, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t have a date with you.’

He put his own glass down and shook his head. ‘I was there alone. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. Are you?’

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