Page 29 of The Princess Trap
Oh, dear. “An offer, as in…?”
“You have a problem,” he said, which was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. “I do too. My… indiscretion affects both of us, believe it or not.”
She snorted. “Not.”
But he watched her steadily, unsmiling. “I have no wish to draw attention to myself, Cherry. I had a bad experience, not so long ago, that left me with little desire to cause another…” His mouth twisted as he searched for the word. “Anotherscandal. So, yes, this affects me. I have a certain reputation, one that I cannot seem to escape and desperately want to. You can help me change the narrative. And, in return, I may be able to help you. Understand?”
Cherry rolled her lips inwards, her toes curling inside her shoes. In less than a day, she’d managed to forget how it felt to bear the full force of that intensity. But she forced herself to concentrate on what mattered; on the meaning behind his words, not the thread of steel in his voice or the aura of authority that twisted something in her chest.
“So what did you do?” she asked.
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What did you do? To get this terrible reputation of yours?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing… immoral.”
“Well, you know, people rarely consider themselves to be immoral. Hitler thought of himself as a great guy. So, I’d kind of like to know.”
She could practically hear him grinding his teeth. “It was… related to my sexual proclivities.” Then, when he saw the look on her face, he hurried to add, “Nothing like that. I didn’t hurt anyone. I don’t…” He sighed. “Jesus, Cherry. I had sex. That’s what I did.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “You’re a man. You could fuck the Queen and they’d pat you on the back.”
“Well,” he said wryly, “myqueen is also my sister-in-law. So perhaps not.”
“You know what I mean. The only time men get shit for sex is if they’re on some truly twisted shit,orthey’re anything other than laser straight.” She looked up to find him watching her with quiet amusement, and something in his eyes made her realise… “Oh. You—”
“I, what?” He demanded, one brow raised. “I fuck who I want, how I want? Correct. That’s what I did. Are we done?”
Cherry bit down on the inside of her cheek, suddenly feeling kind of… shit. “Yeah. Okay.”
He inclined his head, and his voice was soft when he murmured, “Good.” But his eyes skated away from hers again, and he seemed to reel himself in. The air between them no longer swelled with the force of his personality. Everything was still and quiet and precisely as it should be. He reached for a case of black leather beside him, revealing that it was actually a huge folder. He slid open the silver clasp and pulled out a thick sheath of papers, half of which he gave to her.
“This is my offer,” he said. “You can study it at your leisure, but the long and short of it is—well. I’d like you to become my fiancée. For a year.”
In the ensuing silence, Cherry became acutely aware of the low hum of the car’s engine, its smooth glide forward. She wondered, suddenly and pointlessly, where they were. Was the driver circling the block? Probably not. That would cause unnecessary attention. Maybe they were heading towards the city, where a car like this wouldn’t garner as much notice. Maybe—
“Cherry,” Ruben said gently. “Are you alright?”
Wasshe alright? Now she thought about it, she was tapping her foot rather rapidly. And clenching her fists kind of tightly. Her nails must be carving some serious crescent moons into her palms right now. It would probably hurt, if her mind wasn’t too busy freaking the fuck out to notice minor things like pain.
“Cherry.” His hand came to settle on her shoulder again, squeezing this time. Hard enough to capture her attention, to drag her out of her own head.
She blinked at him. “Could you repeat yourself? Please?”
He swallowed. “I asked you to be my fiancée for a year.”
“I thought you did,” she nodded. “I really thought you did. But then I thought, why the fuck would you ask me to do that?”
“Well… there are, ah, several reasons…” He sat back in his seat, clearing his throat.
“Is this a joke?” she asked sharply. “Because it’s not very funny. I just had photographers crawling over my car like ants, and I am waiting, justwaitingfor a hysterical call from my mother—”
“It’s not a joke,” he interrupted. “I told you; I need your help.”
“Well, no, you didn’t say that at all. You said a load of mysterious, complicated shit that made no sense whatsoever—”
“Maybe you just weren’t listening.”
