Page 43 of On His Bride's Terms

London

Primo was sitting at a dinner table in one of London’s most famous restaurants. The sounds of the people around him chatting and laughing were muted, soaked up by the luxurious soft furnishings and thick carpet. The decor was dark and mostly leather. The atmosphere was hushed, discreet and very, very exclusive. He’d spotted one ex-American President on the way to his table—who, upon seeing Primo, had made a point of greeting him.

Primo never took things like this for granted. He’d worked to build respect for Holt Industries again after his father’s lacklustre attention, and he had no intention of squandering it.

What if Faye wants to divorce you in six months?whispered a little voice.

The notion gave Primo an unpleasant jolt. As if his footing wasn’t quite steady, even though he was sitting down. Not possible, he quickly reassured himself.

A kaleidoscope of images from the last few days came into his head. Faye was happy with him. Why on earth would she want to divorce?

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he took it out and looked at it.

How’s your dinner going?

Primo smiled.

As boring as I predicted.

You don’t look that bored.

Everything inside Primo went very still. Slowly, he looked up from his phone. He surveyed the tables nearby. Mostly men in suits. Like at his table.

His phone pinged again. He looked down.

You’re getting colder.

No, he was getting hotter at the very thought that she might be here. Proof, if he even needed it, that this marriage was turning out to be more viable than he could have hoped for.

Primo turned his head the other way, to where there was a bar area. His gaze fell on a woman sitting alone. For a second he didn’t recognise her—and then his heart stopped dead. Arrested by the sight of her.

She was sitting on a high stool, dressed in something that appeared to be poured onto her body like a glittering sheath of shimmering colours. Two straps. Low-cut. Long legs, crossed, drawing the eye to her thighs, sleek and toned. Hair down and wavy. She was looking at him, and as he caught her eye she smiled and lifted the delicate flute in her hand in a salute.

Primo’s blood thrummed with adrenalin and shock and surprise and sheer...joy to see her.

And in that same moment, as if scenting competition, Primo sensed lots of other males’ gazes going to Faye. Alone at the bar. Looking like a vision. For the first time in his life, Primo felt a surge of something very primal. Possessiveness. A need to stake his claim.

He put down his napkin and cut through the conversation of the other men, saying, ‘If you’ll excuse me, please? There’s something I have to attend to.’

He stood up without waiting for anyone to acknowledge what he’d said and strode straight over to Faye. He caught her scent. Flowery and musky andher.

She looked at him, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. ‘Hello, do I know you?’

Primo put his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. ‘Oh, I think you know me very well. Intimately, in fact.’

Faye put her head on one side. ‘Come to think of it, you do look a little familiar... Isn’t it... Holden...something?’

Primo grinned. He realised he was having fun. A concept that he’d never really entertained before, much like whether or not he washappy.

He sent an explicit look to her hand. ‘A married woman? In a bar alone? Dressed to tempt the devil?’

Faye opened her eyes wide. ‘Are you the devil?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Primo responded. ‘But right now I’m full of very sinful thoughts and desires.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

‘I’d love one. Whisky.’

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