Page 38 of Lucas
Hugo chooses that moment to return with our breakfast, setting down plates piled high with fluffy eggs, crisp bacon, and golden toast. The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as he pours us each a cup before excusing himself.
I stab my fork into my omelet as yesterday’s scene plays over and over in my head.
Ava clears her throat. “I noticed my things had already been unpacked,” she says, spearing a piece of melon with her fork. “And there seem to be some new additions to my wardrobe.”
I shrug, not looking up from my plate. “Standard procedure. I had my personal shopper see that you’d have appropriate attire for any events you might need to attend as my wife.”
“And by appropriate, you mean?”
“Designer. Expensive. Sexy. The kind of thing a Valeur wife would wear.”
“Those dresses aren’t really my style. I don’t wear sequins or provocative dresses.”
“In your private time, dress as you wish. When you’re accompanying me, you’ll wear the dresses I bought for you. I?—”
“Think carefully about your next sentence.” She narrows her eyes.
I smile. There she is. I was beginning to think the wedding killed her fighting spirit. “You agreed to this, Ava. You signed the contract. So if I say you need to show up to an event naked, you’ll damn well do it with a smile because that’s the deal. During your weekly commitment, you belong to me.”
Her green eyes blaze, and her nostrils flare. “I will never belong to you. You can buy my time, the way I dress, and even behave. But not me.” She stands and clenches her fists.
“Naked, you say?” She reaches for the tie of her robe, her fingers trembling as she undoes the knot. “If that’s what you want, Husband, far be it from me to deny you.”
And then, in one fluid motion, she shrugs the robe off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet.
I go still, my breath freezing in my lungs as I take in the sight of her. She’s wearing a scrap of lace that can barely be called underwear and nothing else. Every glorious inch of her smooth skin is on display, from the elegant column of herthroat to her rose-tipped breasts. Round and small and perfect.
I swallow hard, my breakfast turning to ash in my mouth as my body responds, hot and immediate. It takes every ounce of my control to keep my expression neutral, to not let her see just how much she affects me.
“Enjoy, and burn this moment into your memory because this is the first and last time you’ll have the privilege of seeing me naked.” She picks up the robe from the floor, puts it back on, and walks out.
“Fuck.” There’s no way in hell I’m ever forgetting that image.
I sit there for a long moment, my breakfast forgotten, trying to get my body back under control. It’s not easy, not with the vision of her burned into my retinas.
She’s gotten under my skin, into my head. And that’s dangerous.
This is going to be a long two years.
Chapter Twelve
AVA
It’s my second day at the mansion, or as I’ve started calling it, “The Showoff Palace.” I don’t understand why Lucas keeps this enormous place outside the city when it’s just him living here alone. It seems like such a waste, all this space and luxury for one person.
And already, on the first day, he drove me crazy. I can’t believe I stripped in front of him like that, in the middle of the damn breakfast room. What was I thinking? I don’t know why I did it or what I was trying to achieve. To prove to him I don’t care? That I’m not afraid of him? Of this?
Fuck. The memory of the way he looked at me, his eyes dark and hungry as they raked over my exposed flesh. I was so turned on in that moment, so caught up in the heat and the anger and the twisted thrill of it all, that if he had taken a step toward me, there’s a chance I would have let him?—
No. I cut off that train of thought before itcan fully form, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. I can’t let myself go there, can’t afford to entertain those kinds of fantasies. All I did was prove to myself that I am indeed attracted to him, and that’s bad. Very bad.
I need to get out of here, need to clear my head.
Determined, I set off across the vast lawn. I have no destination in mind, just a desperate need to put some distance between myself and the house, between myself and him.
I’ve only taken a few steps when a flicker of movement catches my eye. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat as I notice a bent figure in the backyard, obscured by a towering hedge. “Excuse me?”
The figure straightens, and I discover a woman in her fifties, her brown hair pulled into a bun above her head, holding a pile of green leaves in her hands.
