The First Night

The penthouse suite at The Plaza felt like a gilded cage. Isabella stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching Manhattan's lights twinkle in the darkness. Behind her, she heard Alexander moving around the massive suite, his shoes clicking against marble floors, his presence impossible to ignore.

The wedding would be in three days. Three days to prepare for a lifetime of pretense.

"Your things will be moved to my residence tomorrow," Alexander said, his voice closer than she expected. "I assume you don't object to leaving your father's penthouse?"

Isabella turned to face him, finding him casually leaning against a pillar, his tie loosened and jacket discarded. The casual pose did nothing to diminish his intimidating presence.

"Do my objections matter?"

His lips quirked. "No. But I enjoy hearing them anyway." He moved to the bar, pouring two glasses of amber liquid. "Drink?"

"I don't—"

"You'll learn." He pressed the glass into her hand, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. "Consider it lesson one in becoming Mrs. Kane. I don't trust anyone who won't share a drink with me."

Isabella stared at the whiskey, then at him. "And I don't trust men who try to get women drunk."

Instead of anger, amusement flickered in his eyes. "Interesting. Victoria would have downed it without question."

"I'm not Victoria."

"No," his gaze traveled over her slowly, making her painfully aware of how her simple black dress clung to her curves. "You're definitely not."

Heat crept up her neck. "Why are we here? The contract's signed. Couldn't I have gone home for these last few days?"

Alexander took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Because, sweetheart, we need to establish our story. Society papers are already buzzing about Victoria's disappearance. We need to show them that you and I are madly in love."

"Madly in love?" Isabella couldn't hide her disbelief. "No one will believe that."

"They'll believe what I tell them to believe." He set his glass down and stalked toward her with predatory grace. "Which is why you're going to spend the next three nights here, where everyone can see us together. Dancing at Le Bernardin. Shopping at Bergdorf's. Playing the happy couple."

Isabella backed up until she hit the window. "You've planned everything, haven't you?"

"I always do." He braced one hand against the glass beside her head, effectively caging her in. "Now, lesson two: physical comfort."

Before she could protest, his other hand caught her chin, tilting her face up. "A couple in love doesn't flinch when they touch. They don't maintain careful distances. They certainly don't look terrified when their fiancé does this..."

His lips brushed hers, feather-light, testing. Isabella's breath caught in her throat. She'd expected him to be rough, demanding. This gentle exploration was far more dangerous.

"Relax," he murmured against her mouth. "If we're going to convince the world, you need to stop trembling every time I touch you."

"I'm not—" but she was, her whole body vibrating with tension.

Alexander pulled back slightly, studying her face. Something flickered in his eyes – curiosity, maybe even concern. "When was your last relationship?"

The question caught her off guard. "That's none of your business."

"Everything about you is my business now." His thumb traced her lower lip, sending shivers down her spine. "Answer the question, Isabella."

She lifted her chin defiantly. "Two years ago. James Cooper."

"The senator's son?" Alexander's eyes narrowed. "The one who got engaged to a banking heiress?"

"Yes." The memory still stung, though not as much as it once had.

"Interesting." His hand slid from her face to her neck, resting over her racing pulse. "And since then?"

"No one serious." She forced herself to meet his gaze. "I was focused on finishing my MBA."

"Which you're now dropping out of."

"Which I'm putting on hold," she corrected. "The contract doesn't forbid me from studying."

His laugh was low and dark. "Trust me, sweetheart, you won't have time for studying. Running my household, attending social functions, playing the perfect wife..." his hand slid lower, tracing her collarbone, "keeping me satisfied... it's a full-time job."

Isabella caught his wrist, stopping his downward exploration. "I'm not your plaything, Mr. Kane."

"Alexander," he corrected. "And no, you're not a plaything. You're my wife. Or you will be in three days." He pulled his hand free but didn't step back. "Which brings us to lesson three: the sleeping arrangements."

Her heart stopped. "The contract doesn't take effect until after the wedding."

"No, but appearances do." He nodded toward the master bedroom. "The staff here know we're engaged. They expect us to share a room."

"I'll take the couch."

"You'll do no such thing." His tone left no room for argument. "We'll share the bed. Unless..." his smile turned predatory, "you're afraid you can't trust yourself around me?"

Isabella fought the urge to slap him. "You're the last man I'd lose control with."

"Liar." He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "Your pulse is racing, your pupils are dilated, and you haven't moved away despite having plenty of room to escape." His lips brushed her earlobe. "Face it, Isabella. You're attracted to me. And that terrifies you more than any business contract."

She shoved him back, hard. To her surprise, he let her, stepping away with that infuriating smirk still in place.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"Good." He picked up his whiskey again. "Hate is a much more reliable emotion than love. At least it's honest." He headed toward the master bedroom, loosening his tie further. "I'm going to shower. Feel free to join me... or don't. Either way, we're sharing that bed tonight."

Isabella waited until she heard the bathroom door close before letting out a shaky breath. She looked at the untouched whiskey in her hand and downed it in one burning gulp.

Three days until the wedding.

Three hundred and sixty-five days until freedom.

And one very long night ahead.

She just prayed she was strong enough to survive them all.