Page 8 of Fairy Tale Husband

“No,” he said with pointed finality and turnedaway.

She didn’t leave. Instead she stood quietly at his side and waited. Reluctantly he glanced down at her. Aband of pearls decorated with a small sprig of flowers peeked through her pale hair, the spring green of the leaves a near perfect match for her eyes. Her dress was made of some sort of lacy material, the strapless bodice hugging her slender curves. He suppressed the savage urge to steal her away to a dark, private corner and become intimately familiar with those curves. Curves, he suspected, that would prove to be a hell of a lot softer than her hands.

“You don’t want me,” he told her in a harsh undertone. “I’m not the right sort of husband for you.”

He might as well have saved his breath. “If you won’t eat with me, will you dance with me?” she asked.

Take her into his arms? Feel that pale, velvety skin beneath his hands, breathe in her scent, and mold her body to his? He gritted his teeth. What the hell did she think he was made of? Stone?

“Not. A. Chance.” He grabbed hold of her work-roughened hand. “It’s the buffet or nothing.”

He towed her through the crowds, calling himself every kind of a fool for not avoiding the trap closing in around him. But he found he couldn’t. Something in the way Wynne looked at him, the unquestioning faith he read in those candid green eyes made him want to take her under his wing and ensure that nothing ever harmedher.

He didn’t stop to analyze his reaction. He only knew that for the past four hours he’d caught distracting glimpses of her, not to mention the men stalking her like a pack of feral dogs. Each time he’d thought her on the verge of selecting one for a husband, it had felt as though he’d been mule-kicked square in thegut.

He was doing her a favor, he decided. He didn’t know why she felt the need to go to this extreme, why she believed marriage represented salvation, but he suspected she only saw the dream, not the reality. If he married her, she’d be free in a short amount of time. By then, she’d have realized that marriage didn’t solve problems, it only added to them, and she’d be only too happy for an opportunity to escape.

His mouth tightened at his feeble attempts to rationalize a way around the truth. If he were honest, he’d admit that he cared about just two things—gaining his inheritance and having this woman in his bed. He wanted her. He wanted her silken limbs wrapped around him. He wanted to see her in the full flush of passion. Most of all, he wanted her to continue gazing at him with such blatant adoration and trust. She was a fool to assume him worthy of either.

And he was a bigger fool for condoningit.

Wynne hesitated at the doorway to the dining area, staring in wonder at the feast laid out before them. “I’ve never seen so much food in all my life,” she whispered.

Jake glanced at the damask-covered tables, piled high with every imaginable delicacy. The Montagues had spared no expense. His mouth twisted cynically. Considering what they charged for tickets to this ridiculous party, they could afford a decent spread.

“What would you like?” he asked, amused by the hungry greed she made no effort to conceal.

“Some of everything,” she answered promptly. “Let’s start with the desserts.”

He laughed in genuine amusement, amazed that he still remembered how. “Not worried about calories?”

“Oh, no,” she assured blithely. “I find plenty of ways to burn them off.”

He lifted an eyebrow, wondering if she meant her comment to sound so suggestive. “Burn them off, how?” he probed, handing her a china plate. “Busy nights?”

“Very.” She helped herself to a huge slice of fudge cake, then took a deep breath and glanced at him with a stoic expression. “I work as a waitress and dishwasher,” she informed him with determined frankness. “Correction. Iworked as a waitress and dishwasher. I’m not even that anymore.”

Which explained the hands. As for his innuendo, she hadn’t picked up on it at all. Surely, she wasn’t so naive. He frowned. Or was she? What if she were—he blanched—avirgin? Hell, he couldn’t handlethat.

Virgins expected permanency. Commitment. Romance. Virgins expected forever. He needed someone experienced. Someone who knew what she was getting into. Someone who wouldn’t balk when it came time to perform her marital duties and would have the gumption to admit as much to Judge Graydon.

Someone who’d walk away from him without a backward glance.

“How old are you, anyway?” he asked suspiciously.

“Twenty-six.”

He couldn’t hide his relief. Twenty-six. That was encouraging. There couldn’t be many twenty-six-year-old virgins left in the world. Still, there was something about her. Something pure and innocent and fresh that made him as skittish as a stallion with his first mare. “You ever slept with a man?” he demanded bluntly.

She didn’t appear anywhere near as stunned as the diners who’d overheard his question. She tilted her head to one side and blinked up at him. “Should I have?”

“Yes. Without question.”

“Oh.” She slipped a raspberry tart onto her plate. “Well, if it helps any, I’ve been engaged three times.”

His hands tightened on his plate. Damnation. Three times. Three men. Three engagements’ worth of opportunity to lure his little elf into someone else’s bed. He should feel relieved. Instead, he felt murderous.

“Three times, huh?”

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