She couldn't bear it, the way he spoke of himself with such hatred and revulsion. "Rathe---"
"I don't want to lie to you. I'm … I'm not incapable of love. But I am incapable of loving you." Rathe slowly knelt down, gripping her hand. "You will always remind me of the past. You will always be the one girl that my heart will tell me I mustn't love but even so … "
It hurt. Oh dear God, it hurt to hear him say the truth, and she was so afraid that it would always stay true. How ironic that she was the one girl who made him feel loved and yet she was the one girl he could not make himself love.
"Mary … "
"I still love you, Rathe."
His head jerked up.
"And I believe that I can make you love me, too." Her voice wobbled and again her entire body shook as she gave her hand to him, waiting to see if he would take it. "The question is, will you let me try?"
Epilogue
"Do you love me now?" Mary asked, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she came back to his side and handed him a cup of steaming coffee. They were still waiting for Saffi and Staffan as well as Constantijin and Yanna, who were all joining them for Christmas in London. Their plane had been first to land and rather than staying in the comfort of their plane or leaving the airport altogether, Mary had insisted that they wait for the other couples to arrive.
Rathe rolled his eyes at the question, which was something Mary asked several times a day. It had become a game of sorts to them, one that he had fun playing at times. But other times, it scared him. "You really want me to fall in love with you just because you got me coffee?"
She pouted. "It was very expensive coffee. Normally, I get mine from a vendo machine but for you, I bought the largest one from Starbucks."
"Remind me to pay you back," he said dryly.
She pouted again.
Laughing, he bent down to steal a kiss from her lips. "I love it when my little pearl acts spoiled."
"But I am spoiled. You spoil me all the time."
He gave her a look of disdain. "That is a patent lie. You don't let me spoil you enough and you are often too nice for your own good."
She started to answer, but she was cut off by someone calling Rathe by his title. "Flanders!"
Rathe turned, and with him not letting go of her, she also turned. A heavyset man came to them, a jolly grin on his face. "Nice to see you back in London. It's been a while, right?"
Rathe nodded, smiling in return for Count Champignon was one of the nicer chaps in European aristocracy. "You look well, sir."
"You, too, Your Grace." He looked at Mary curiously. "And who may this be?"
The scrutiny made her self-conscious and tongue-tied, and all she could do was smile weakly.
Rathe needed more than a moment to get himself together. She kept bragging to him that she was no longer shy and yet when she was presented to strangers, she reverted back to her old self. "A beautiful lady who I wish to remain a mystery," was all he said.
Mary remained quiet by his side the whole time he spoke with the count. When the older man left, he looked down at her with a smirk.
She knew what it was for. "Shut up," she said glumly.
He laughed. "It's all right, little pearl. You really will be shy forever with other people and I like it that way. Besides, the only times you're not shy is when you're with me and I also like it that way."
Still glum, she said, "I just wish I could change for you."
"You want more practice about not being shy?"
She nodded eagerly.
"Your wish is my command, my lady."
Her heart jumped at the title. It was the first time he had called her that.
Rathe pulled her close to him, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, his huge overcoat covering most of her. And then---
She froze.
Was that his hand sneaking inside her own winter coat and---
Oh my God, was he cupping her breasts in the middle of Heathrow Airport?
Her eyes flew up to him, horrified.
"Think of it as practice," he said in a mixture of wickedness and ducal aloofness – a tone that only Rathe Wellesley, the Duke of Flanders, could use.
She started to speak and tell him it was wrong, but then he was twisting her nipples with his fingers. It felt too good, and her protests died. Swallowing, she leaned back against him and allowed the "practice" to continue. ###
NOT TO MARRY A BILLIONAIRE
Chapter One
The Rosemary Manor Country Club & Golf Course
Orlando, Florida
Everyone in the crowd was not breathing, their gazes trained on the player about to make his shot. He was dressed in a plain white collared shirt and a pair of khaki pants, but because his body was hard and muscular all over, the outfit seemed like it came straight off a men's designer catalog from Fashion Week.
The blazing sun in the sky cast a shadow on the grass, and when its rays touched the player's head, it caused his hair to turn into every shade between gold and copper. It was a blindingly beautiful sight, one that had women itching to run their fingers through it.
The player bent down, his posture as perfect as if he had been professionally golfing since he was a child. His long sure fingers wrapped around his club, a simple act that had the women in the crowd swallowing. Oh, oh, oh – if only they could do the same for his shaft.
He lifted the club in the air, and in that moment he looked like Michelangelo's David. Oh, oh, oh – if only they could see him naked, too!
Swoosh!
The golf ball flew into the air at the mighty shot, traveling at a perfect arc before landing less than a dozen feet away from the hole.
The crowd screamed their approval, but the player didn't seem to hear or notice them. Instead, his gaze searched for and settled on one woman standing apart from the crowd. She was small, slim, and dark-haired. There was nothing extraordinary about her, but all the women gnashed their teeth at the sight of her.
What was so special about her that made Netherlands' #1 Playboy, Constantijin Kastein, propose marriage to her?
The woman – Yanna Everleigh, her name was – had her face turned towards another man – a nobody.
Was she truly ignoring Constantijin Kastein – for real?
****
"You can't be serious." I tried to keep up with my Dutch billionaire, but it was like asking for my Dutch to be as fluent as his. And that was, like, impossible. When he spoke it, his words were like music. When I spoke it, I sounded like Transformers' Bumblebee with a badly broken voice box.
He bit out a few words in Dutch.
I winced. He had said ‘watch me'. When he spoke in his native language to me, it meant he was truly mad. So mad he couldn't risk having anyone hear him speak to me in English.
Constantijin was getting further and further away now, and I picked up my speed. Unfortunately, I was wearing two-inch high boat shoes. They were pretty to look at, a perfect complement to my white-and-khaki combo (I had to wear his colors for the tournament's championship, you know), but they were hard to run in, even on the flat-surfaced greens of the golf course.
Looking furtively around, I checked if there was anyone near who could hear us. All I saw were oaks and maples, their low-hanging branches turning this part of the course into a darker alley, shadowy paths hidden from the late afternoon sun.
Birds chirped as they landed on water lilies floating on top of the pond, the only noise that interrupted the soft whistle of a gentle breeze that wafted through the air.
Satisfied that we were as alone as we could be, I called after him, "Constantijin, come on! We need to talk about this."
No reaction.
"Constantijin, please stop running away from me!"
He stilled.
I gulped. Yeah, I had his attention now. I knew I would if I said that and---
Constantijin turned.
I blinked, and the next thing I knew he was stalking towards me, a coldly furious expression on his face. "You dare – you dare say that I am the one running away from you?"
Before I knew it, he was next to me. "If there's someone running away here, it is not me."
I opened my mouth to argue with him, but he gave me no chance to speak again, his lips closing over mine. His kiss was all-consuming, passionate and commanding. He was a man. I was a woman. I was his woman.
My arms went around him. That we were in a public place, that any one of the players or spectators could still wander back into the course even though the tournament had been over hours ago – all of it was forgotten.
He hefted me into his arms and my legs automatically wrapped themselves around his waist. Without breaking our kiss, he started walking. A moment after, he had me leaning against a trunk. When he lifted his head, I gasped for breath. I lifted my gaze up to him, and his silvery eyes blazed down on me.
"NEVER. IGNORE. ME. AGAIN."