Page 8 of Bride Under Contract

‘Now,’ Carter interrupted, rolling up the blueprints, deciding he would work on them there.

It had to be now, or very possibly he’d change his mind.

Eighteen flying hours later, Carter was at Kuala Lumpur airport.

He still wore the business suit he’d had on for a brief meeting with a financier in KL, and his tie was still immaculately knotted—albeit a little tight around his tense neck. When he was midway along the roped-off section for first-class passengers, about to board the flight that would take him to Sabah, the sight of a passport on the floor caught his attention.

Carter’s first thought was that it was not his problem.

Then his eyes lifted to the potential owner, who lay dozing on an airport bench.

His second thought...

Sleeping Beauty.

No, he mentally corrected, because in the books he had long-ago read to Hugo she’d had raven-black hair and dark red lips. This woman’s hair was more a glossy chestnut and her long curls tumbled off the chair...her slender hand was almost touching the floor where the passport lay.

She was, though, deeply asleep.

He went to turn to his security guard, or to Ms Hill, who usually accompanied him on business trips. But very deliberately Carter had left his entourage behind, as he always did when he reluctantly returned to the place where his demons resided. Certainly he did not bring lovers, though God knows at times he would prefer the distraction.

He walked on, saw the air stewards smiling to welcome him. And yet, glancing back, Carter saw that no one had woken her and her passport still lay there.

With an almost irritated hiss at his inability to let it go, he turned around, walked back along the roped-off section and over to the bench where the sleeping woman lay. She wore a dusky pink top and black cargo pants rather well, her slim legs were knees up, her white sneakers resting on a bag.

And, yes, she was beautiful.

Stooping his tall frame, he picked up the dark document and, meticulous by nature, checked she was the owner.

Grace Andrews was twenty-five, had been born in London, and, yes, a brief glance at the photo told Carter that indeed the document belonged to her.

He did not linger on the image long enough to take in the colour of her eyes, instead he snapped it closed.

‘Madam.’

She really was deeply asleep.

‘Madam,’ he repeated.

He was about to move his hand to her shoulder, to rouse her, but her top had slipped, revealing a dark bra strap, and he pulled back, not wanting to alarm her.

‘Ms Andrews...’

Still no reaction, so he resorted to her first name. Loudly.

‘Grace!’

Green.

As her eyes slowly opened Carter found the unnecessary answer—her eyes were green.

Watching a woman awaken was a rarity for Carter.

Given his decadent history, that might appear to be a contradiction, but usually by the time morning came around Carter was turned the other way, wishing the woman away...

On occasion he was aware of lovers quietly climbing from his bed and slipping into the bathroom for a quick freshen-up. Certainly they weren’t in there for extended periods. None of his lovers would do anything so crass! Instead, they quietly returned to his bed, freshly brushed and scented, eyedrops in, seemingly flawless, perfectly fake, and before he’d even opened his eyes Carter would know he’d been lied to.

Watching Ms Andrews was different.