Page 16 of His Innocent Unwrapped In Iceland

A tempting thought and yet so dangerous. Those kisses up in the plane had made the whole world fall away, stoked the flame in her heart, and she was half afraid of what his touch would do to her. Especially when his very presence made her unsettled and angry.

He made her feel volatile and she didn’t like that. Being volatile had caused her so many problems in the past. Because David hadn’t been the first person who’d wanted to adopt her. There had been another couple. They’d already had a son and now longed for a daughter. She’d been ten and thrilled to be given a home, except their son hadn’t been thrilled. He’d hated her from the moment she’d arrived and seemed determined to keep hating her, no matter how friendly she’d been. She hadn’t wanted to upset anything and lose her home and her new-found family, so she’d tried her best to fit in and to not make things difficult.

Her new brother never hurt her, but he consistently made life difficult, breaking things and making messes and blaming them on her. She hadn’t argued. She hadn’t wanted to rock the boat. Yet the unfairness of it burned in her heart. She’d been there six months when one day he scratched his father’s prized new car and told his parents that she’d done it. They’d been angry, unable to understand why she kept doing these things when all they’d done was give her a home. And that day she’d had enough. She’d told them that none of it had been her fault, that he’d scratched the car not her, and that he didn’t like her and he didn’t want her there, and that it wasn’t fair. She’d been so angry.

They hadn’t believed her and they’d called the social workers the next day, telling them to halt the adoption process. That it wasn’t going to work out.

It had hurt. It had hurt to have the family she’d wanted so much snatched away, but she knew she only had herself to blame. Perhaps if she hadn’t said anything, if she’d just kept on accepting the blame it would have been okay. Perhaps that boy would have grown out of taunting her, perhaps he would have grown to like her, but she’d never got the chance to find out, because her anger at the unfairness of it had erupted and turned everything to ashes.

Even now, it still hurt to think of it. The shame of being returned like an unwanted pet, and the frustrated fury at how it had all gone down. Fury at that boy and the adults who hadn’t believed her, and most of all at herself for losing her temper. She shouldn’t have been so caught up in her own feelings that she lost sight of what was important. A family and a place to belong.

But you don’t even have that now though, do you? You never belonged to David or Gianni, and you don’t even belong at Kendricks’. You don’t belong anywhere.

Isla shoved that thought away and turned to face Orion, her heart thudding hard in her ears. Answers, that’s what she needed now, not passion.

‘Why did you marry me, Orion?’ she asked abruptly. ‘What was so important about me that you felt the need to pay off Gianni and buy Kendricks’ in order to have me? I need an answer.’

He didn’t reply for a long moment, still staring at her, the weight of his gaze driving all the breath from her lungs. ‘I saw an opportunity,’ he said at last. ‘And I took it.’ He pushed himself away from the doorframe and took a step into the room. ‘Do you remember that function at the National Gallery? Some fundraiser, I think it was.’ He took another step, full lazy, predatory grace.

Isla stared at him, her heartbeat getting louder, electricity prickling everywhere. Of course she remembered that fundraiser, how could she not?

Sometimes, when she’d been a kid and things had been difficult at whichever foster home she’d been in, she would slip away to a gallery or a museum and spend time looking at beautiful things. It was a cheap way to distract herself, and art especially was her favourite.

She shouldn’t have sneaked away that night at the National Gallery, because her attendance had been required. Yet there had been a special Van Gogh exhibition on, and she hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of looking at one of her favourite paintings.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember.’

‘I found you looking atStarry Night,’ he murmured and took another step, getting closer. ‘I asked you what you found so interesting about it and you told me.’ Another step. He was so tall, she felt dwarfed by him. ‘You talked about the paint, and the layers and the brush strokes. You talked about movement and luminosity.’ Another step. His eyes had gone from dark amber to brilliant gold. ‘But the most luminous thing in the gallery that night was you.’ A final step brought him so close she could feel his heat, smell his scent. ‘And I want to know why.’

Her heartbeat was frantic now, the electricity between them morphing into a delicious kind of exhilaration. It was such a strange feeling, almost akin to fear, though not fear for her life or that he’d hurt her. More the kind of fear you experienced being on an extremely fast roller-coaster, knowing you couldn’t get off and that the only thing you could do was surrender to the moment and the breathless excitement of it all.

The only other time she’d felt that same thrill was standing in front of a particularly beautiful painting. Getting lost in the colour, becoming absorbed by the layers of paint and the brushstrokes and the play of light...

She’d known who he was when he’d entered the small gallery—most people in the business sector know who Orion North was—though they’d never actually met. She’d felt vaguely unsettled by his presence and her instant, electric response to him, and she’d been trying to think of a way to leave without being too offensive, when after a moment’s tense silence, he’d asked her about the painting.

It had been the last thing she’d expected and had been so surprised, she’d answered him. She hadn’t talked about art to anyone before and so had been hesitant to talk about it with a complete stranger. Yet he’d remained silent, and because she hadn’t liked the silence, she’d started to speak. Then, before she knew what she was doing, she’d shared everything she knew about it and that was a lot since she researched all her favourite artists and paintings extensively.

He hadn’t said a word the whole time, though she’d felt him watching her. And when she’d finished, all he’d said was, ‘Fascinating.’ Then he’d turned his back on her and walked out.

She’d felt like an idiot in that moment, as if she’d shown him something precious and he’d crushed it under his foot.

She stared up at him now, remembering that feeling, wanting to step back and put some distance between them, yet also bizarrely wanting to get closer.

‘You remembered?’ she asked stupidly. ‘I thought I’d bored you.’

‘You didn’t bore me.’ He was staring at her with such intentness she could barely breathe. ‘Quite the opposite in fact.’

‘But...’ Her heart was beating even faster now. ‘You just...walked away.’

‘Of course, I walked away.’ He lifted a hand and casually pulled one of the pins in her hair out and dropped it. ‘It was either that or demand to know why you were the most luminous thing in the whole damn gallery.’ He pulled out another pin. ‘I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.’

She should stop him. She should tell him to leave her hair alone, that she could take out her own pins, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.

He’d thought she was luminous...

No one had ever thought she was that. Too volatile. Too quiet. Too obedient. Lots of potential. But neverluminous...

‘So you married me for...that?’ She couldn’t keep the raw husk of emotion out of her voice. ‘I don’t understand.’

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