Page 7 of Forbidden Lord
“I will honor my wife.” He squeezed Sheena’s side.
They needed to talk about their life together, alone. His friends and Chelsea all then said goodbye. Sheena spoke quietly, “Sorry about Chelsea, she’s over-protective.”
He kissed Sheena’s cheek. She was beautiful and had said yes publicly. He would not dishonor his family name. He’d never be anything like his father.
Chapter 3
Sheena’s heart beat rapidly in her chest. She pretended to smile as they made their way to his hotel room “to talk” but her nerves were shot.
Soon, he’d ask why she’d said yes to his proposal. Why had she done this?
And she wasn’t sure she had an answer.
They walked down the hall, side by side, where the floral and modern art denoted the change of floors. She hadn’t decorated here.
Matteo was tall, regal, square-shouldered, with dark hair and espresso eyes.
He slid the electric room card in the slot of the cream-colored door. She needed to get her pulse back to normal so she started a conversation. “The wedding was beautiful.” Just as they’d planned.
He motioned for her to come inside. As she entered the two-story suite with a circular stairwell that went toward a loft bedroom, she unpinned the flowers from her head. Her scalp stung but they’d been worth it.
He followed behind her but then headed toward the bar while he said, “The lawyers will be here in a few minutes. I need this to be official.”
She glanced around the room and discovered her small American Old West satchel with the brown leather handle an artist friend had sewed for her. Luckily she’d left her every day clothes in a bag in Chelsea’s room. “Looks like Chelsea already sent over my stuff. Can I go and change into my jeans before we talk?”
He found two glasses. “Of course. I’ll meet you on the balcony.”
Right. Alcohol probably wasn’t a good idea for her right now, with her racing adrenaline and empty stomach. Sheena stood in the doorway of the bathroom and called out, “I hope there’s food hidden somewhere in this suite. I didn’t realize brides don’t actually get to eat their sit-down dinners and I’m starving.”
He nodded and saluted. “Easily remedied.”
“Perfect.” She quickly closed the door and leaned against it.
If she was going to talk seriously with Matteo, she needed to feel like herself. She removed the white gown she’d chosen for the event and hung it up.
Sheena finger-combed her hair into a mass of waves around her shoulders, picking out the occasional petal. She slipped on her black jeans and beaded lime-green paisley-patterned shirt she’d worn to inspect the hall before the guests had arrived.
She pulled her hair into her usual ponytail that she wore in her studio and wiped her makeup off. Once her skin showed through and some of the airbrushing was off, along with those fake eyelashes, she relaxed.
Now she was done with design and needed to just be herself.
Minutes ticked by and she knew she was stalling. Now that she was married to the one guy she’d had a crush on as a girl, she honestly had no idea what happened next. These minutes were like a reprieve, but that was ending. She’d do it all over again to save him. Now she squared her shoulders and headed out, pausing at the door.
Matteo peered over the railing of the balcony.
He was a foot taller than her, at least, and his frame was muscular, strong, and lean.
His amazing body easily attracted women in and out of bed.
Not that she had ever been offered or anything. Her face heated but she went outside onto the cool balcony. “Are you ready to talk?”
“Not yet. I ordered room service.” He gestured to the table and kissed both of her cheeks. He’d done this countless times before, but now she had goosebumps.
Was she really his wife? The question burned in her mind. When he let her go, her gaze went to the meal before her. She saw her favorites. For the starter, there wasTerrinedu Chef, petite compotée d'oignons, terrine with onion chutney.
Her father must have done this—she sniffed, and her nose confirmed theJarret de Boeuf à façon du pays, haricots verts pommes vapeur,Shank of beef, French beans and steamed potatoes, and for dessert, hidden under the silver cloche, there would beCrème Brulée à la confiture.
Matteo hadn’t known, how could he have? ”These are my favorites.” She took a seat at the small metal table for two covered with a white table cloth, with a view overlooking theArc de Triomphe de l'Étoile. She picked up her fork. “This looks delicious.”
