Page 15

I look at him crossly.What else does he need me—

"Your other question."

What other—

Oh.

Right.

"You should answer me while I'm giving you a chance to do so," he suggests.

Oh, really now?

"Unless, of course, you wish for another demonstration..."

And just like that, my half-baked and ill-advised attempt to challenge him comes to an end.

"Non, monsieur," I say quickly. "I, er, remember now."

"And?"

And of course he really wants to hear me say it.

"And I g-get it now..." My words end in a stammer when my husband lazily reaches for one breast, and I'm thrown into confusion as he starts kneading my flesh.

"Ce qui est quoi, exactement?" Which is what, exactly?

It's so hard to think, with him squeezing my breast like this.

But...I suppose that's the whole point, too.

"Only you,monsieur," I say reluctantly, resignedly. "Only you can make me feel this way."

My husband's lips slowly curve in a smirk, and the sight of it actually makes me want tosquealandsnarlat the same time.

Tellement, tellement folle.

Oh, how crazy this man makes me feel!

"Indeed."

After that is a blur. He helps me dress, and he does so with such breathtaking efficiency that I realize I'm actuallyjealous.Because expertise comes at a cost, and I need to know the exact numbers. Just how many women has my husbandundressedfor him to be this good?

I'm determined to know the answer. But I have no chance of asking, with my husband's property now coming into view as the limo turns off the main road, and trees are closing in around us.

Wrought iron gates manned by armed guards swing open as we approach, and we climb up a winding driveway that seems endless. Centuries-old sentinels of wood and leaves watch over us from every side, their branches creating dappled patterns from overhead.

I've stopped trying to figure out how much land my husband owns by the time a sprawling manor finally emerges. Its every stone and arch narrates a story of classic French architecture, its manicured gardens, a landscaped ode to a lifestyle of understated elegance. A royal existence that's earned from sweat and blood, rather than birthright.

It's the most beautiful house I've ever seen. And somehow, that makes this situation even more terrifying.

This isn't the lair of a monster. It's the home of a king, and my confusion only grows in leaps and bounds. Who is this man I'm married...when he's not playing the role ofMonsieur Le Dernier?

The car stops, and my husband (oh, how surreal it still feels, to think of him in this manner)...

Well, he's still the king of rudeness, that's for sure, with the way he allows me to step out of the car all on my own.

His staff is already lined up on the front steps, their gazes sharp but not cruel, their faces impassive but not hard.