by Sara Craven
Altogether too bridal, she thought, pulling a critical face at her reflection. Red flannel pyjamas would have been more appropriate.
She felt relaxed but not particularly drowsy as she climbed into bed, so she piled the pillows behind her and reached for her book. Considering she’d been reading it for most of the evening, she could remember very little of the plot, she thought, turning back to the beginning again.
She’d just started the second chapter when she heard it. The quiet but definite sound of a knock on her door.
The book slipped from her hands. ‘Who—who is it?’ she called, her voice strangled.
‘Who do you think?’ He sounded irritable rather than amorous, she noted thankfully. ‘There’s hardly a cast of thousands out here. May I come in?’
‘I’m in bed.’ It was a feeble protest and she knew it.
‘Really—in a bedroom?’ His tone was caustic. ‘How bizarre. This I must see.’
The door opened, and he walked in, carrying a tray on which reposed a steaming porcelain beaker. And a plate of biscuits.
Louise’s eyes widened incredulously. ‘What is this?’
‘You said you liked hot chocolate.’ He placed the tray on the night table. ‘I ordered some for you.’
‘Oh,’ she said, touching the tip of her tongue to dry lips. ‘That was—kind.’
‘Well, make the most of it.’ He slanted a grin at her. ‘It doesn’t happen very often. It’s also practical,’ he added. ‘Lunch was a long time ago, and you could have problems trying to sleep on an empty stomach.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes—I suppose so.’
‘Is the bed all right?’ He tested the mattress with an experimental hand, then sat down on its edge. ‘I’ve never slept in it.’
Well, that at least was a comfort, Louise thought, her apprehension increasing with every second. She tried unobtrusively to move further back against her pillows.
‘And I’ve no immediate plans to do so,’ he went on mockingly. ‘Unless you insist, which seems unlikely. I hope that sets your mind at rest.’
‘I’m really not concerned.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘I hardly think you’d be stupid enough to jeopardise our deal.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘but—to seal it perhaps.’ And he leaned forward and kissed her lightly but sensuously on her parted lips.
She wanted to leap away, shuddering—to scream her outrage—to hit and claw at him, but that would only suggest that it was important to her. That it mattered too much. And she could not let him think that.
So by a superhuman effort she forced herself to remain still and passive under his brief, but telling, exploration of her mouth.
And when, at last, he lifted his head and looked at her, his green eyes shadowed and speculative, she spoke with cool derision. ‘Just testing the waters again, Mr Fabian?’
‘As you say, Miss Trentham,’ he murmured. ‘And they were just as icy as I expected—and as you could wish.’
She said crisply, ‘I’m delighted to hear it—if it means I’ll be spared any more of your unwanted advances.’ She turned, and gave one of her pillows a thump. ‘And now, if I could have some privacy?’
And only realised as she saw his gaze sharpen and focus that her sudden movement had caused the thin strap of her nightgown to slip down from her shoulder, revealing, as it did so, far too much of the rounded curve of her breast.
Alex tutted reprovingly, then leaned forward and hooked a finger under the errant strap, lifting it back into place with exaggerated solicitude, breathing in, as he did so, with smiling and quite deliberate appreciation, the warm fragrance of her skin.
‘Careful, darling,’ he said softly, ‘or I might think you were coming on to me—and that would never do. Would it?’
He got to his feet and sauntered to the door, whistling quietly under his breath. Then turned.
‘Enjoy your chocolate,’ he said, and disappeared.
Her hand was already reaching for the tray, to send his damned chocolate crashing after him, when some instinct halted her. Warned her that was just what he’d be expecting. And that, more than anything else, she needed to keep her cool.
To demonstrate her total indifference to the kiss that still seemed to be burning on her lips—and to that stroking, too-knowing finger that had left its indelible brand on the bare skin of her shoulder. To his intimate enjoyment of the scent she’d rubbed into the smoothness of her skin.
Not shaken, she thought, ignoring the fact that her heartbeat was going crazy. Not stirred, either, in any way that he would ever discover.
Because Alex Fabian was a sexual predator par excellence. One sign of weakness—one drop of blood in the water—and he would be circling on her. Moving in for the kill.
She could no longer doubt that he believed it would happen. Not immediately, as he’d said himself. But eventually. Not ‘if’ but ‘when’…
When time and enforced proximity had done their work.
When the ring on her finger, allied to the indisputable fever in her blood, gave her no reason to resist him any longer.
Because, she realised with an odd sense of detachment, he would make her want him. He had that power, as she’d probably recognised in the first moments of their meeting. Recognised and feared…
And, if she was honest, the lingering touch of his mouth on hers had already done its damage. Because there had been a brief, shocking moment when she’d felt the sharp pang of desire. When she’d longed for more, and it would have been so easy to put her arms round his neck and draw him down to her. So easy—and so fatal, she thought, shivering.
She swallowed. Well, if he was the irresistible force, she would have to be the immovable object, adamant and unyielding in spite of him. Keeping him rigidly at much more than arm’s length.
And causing him to experience failure for once in his spoiled, self-indulgent life. A rejection that would register on the Richter scale for a man who regarded women as his legitimate prey.
Because it was nothing more than a game to him, she acknowledged bitterly, and one that he confidently expected to win. Her inexperience would be a challenge to him, and he’d regard seduction as a bonus while he set out to acquire the house of his dreams.
Pass ‘Go’, she thought, her mouth curling, and collect whatever was available.
Only she wasn’t playing. She was deadly serious. And she wasn’t available either.
Alex Fabian was her ticket to the new life she needed to build for herself. But that was all he was, she cautioned herself. And she could not allow herself to consider him in any other way.
Otherwise, she would just be another name on the long list of sad women who’d mistaken his lovemaking for love.
Not, she thought sorrowfully, that she knew a great deal about love either, or she would not be here now—a puppet dancing to Alex Fabian’s strings…in every way but one.
And tomorrow she would start again—guarded, wary. Armoured against the involuntary pull of her senses in response to his wickedly male allure.
And, in the meantime, she still had the solace of hot chocolate and biscuits. A much safer consolation at bedtime, she told herself, her mouth twisting wryly, as she leaned across to reach for the beaker.
And noticed for the first time the metallic glint of what was lying beside it. A key. The key to her bedroom door, in fact.
And offered, she thought with sudden fury, in the full and certain knowledge that her pride would not allow her to use it. That she would use her own force of will to keep him away, rather than cowering behind locks and bolts.
And that what had happened between them was merely a preliminary skirmish, with the real battle to follow.
‘So be it, then,’ she said aloud, her voice shaking. ‘I’m ready for you.’
And, for no reason she could ever explain, she burst into tears.
When she awoke the next morning, she felt drained and almost disorientated. But maybe that last bout of weeping had been exactly what she
needed, because she seemed to have slept deeply and dreamlessly.
Overslept, in fact, she realised, glancing at her watch. And she had better get up and dress before Alex came to find her.
She showered rapidly, then dragged on close-fitting cream trousers that hugged her slim hips and long legs, topping them with a matching crew-neck sweater.
As she walked along the passage to the sitting room, she realised that her hands were balled tensely into fists, and thrust them into the concealment of her pockets.
Alex was lounging on one of the sofas, reading the financial pages of one of the Sunday broadsheets, a cup of coffee beside him, the paper’s remaining sections scattered at his bare feet.
He was wearing, Louise saw with a nervous leap of her pulse, a black silk robe, and apparently nothing else. His tawny hair was still damp from the shower, and she was breathlessly aware of the faint scent of some enticing citrus-based fragrance in the air.
He said, without looking up, ‘Good morning. There’s more coffee in the kitchen if you’d like some, although you’ll have to take it black.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She needed a shot of caffeine to energise her. Get her focused. Also an excuse to get away from the sight of all that brown, muscular chest and long, tanned legs exposed by the inadequacies of his dressing gown.
This, presumably, was how he chose to spend his Sunday mornings, she thought with a mental shrug. And he was signalling quite clearly that her presence would not change a thing.
When she returned, he was putting down the white internal phone.
‘I’ve ordered scrambled eggs and smoked salmon to be delivered in about fifteen minutes. I hope that suits you.’
‘Yes—thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘But it seems crazy to order something from a restaurant that I could easily make for us both.’
‘Wanting to cook for me, darling?’ He came back to his seat, shaking his head reprovingly. ‘That’s the first step on the slippery slope. Next, you’ll be offering to have my babies.’
‘No,’ Louise said between her teeth, ‘I will not.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ he murmured unabashed, and continued his scrutiny of the paper.
When the scrambled eggs arrived, they were accompanied by Buck’s Fizz, brown toast, curls of butter in a small dish and Seville marmalade. And a further tall pot of coffee, with, this time, a jug of cream.
Louise, discovering she was ravenous again, ate and drank everything she was offered.
Breakfast over, she said stiltedly, ‘Can you tell me where I’ll find the nearest supermarket?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But my driver will undoubtedly know. If you can curb your housewifely impulses for twenty-four hours, I’ll send him to pick you up tomorrow.’
‘Is that strictly necessary?’
‘You’ll certainly find it more convenient.’ He paused. ‘Do you plan to question everything I say?’
Louise flushed. ‘I’m just not used to having my decisions made for me.’
He shrugged. ‘Then that’s something you’ll have to deal with. Although I promise to try and curb my natural arrogance,’ he added drily. ‘And any—suggestions I make are only intended for your benefit. Why struggle with buses or cope with the rush-hour on the underground when you don’t have to?’
Louise’s mouth tightened in irritation. ‘How do you always manage to sound like the voice of sweet reason?’ she asked crisply.
He grinned at her. ‘Years of practice. And as you’re cross anyway, may I wind you up further by suggesting that you turn your mind to forgetting the past, and start looking forward to the future?’
‘Not easy,’ she said, ‘when I’ve no real idea when I’ll be free to enjoy it.’
‘Then don’t think about that aspect,’ Alex said softly. ‘Concentrate instead on the prospect of seeing the Taj Mahal at sunset, or exploring the Great Barrier Reef.’
‘And what do I do about the current situation?’ She lifted her chin. ‘Simply—grit my teeth?’
‘I don’t think a bride with her jaw permanently set would give a convincing picture of wedded bliss,’ he said reflectively. ‘You’ll need to do better than that.’
‘How much better?’ Her tone held misgiving.
He considered for a moment. ‘Primarily, you need to relax more. At the moment you’re vibrating like some high-tension cable whenever I’m around.’
It might help if you were actually wearing some proper clothes. She permitted the thought, but didn’t dare utter it aloud. Because she could not let him see that anything he said or did mattered. Or that his lack of attire allied with the beguilingly clean scent of his skin had the least effect on her.
She drew a breath. ‘So what do you want me to do?’
The green eyes studied her dispassionately. ‘You need to be able to smile, to walk with your arm in mine, and to talk without spitting my name out like cobra venom. At some point at my grandmother’s party we’ll be expected to dance together, without you turning to stone in my arms.’
He paused. ‘And, of course, we’re going to have to kiss each other as if we meant it,’ he added silkily. ‘To behave, in fact, as if we were physically and mentally attuned.’
She said harshly, ‘The perfect couple.’
‘You’ve got it in one,’ he returned coolly. ‘Pretend it’s the next production of your village drama group, darling, with costumes and script supplied, and you’ll be fine.’ He studied her rigid expression, his mouth twisting wryly. ‘And in return I promise to keep the kisses to a minimum, although I suspect the opposite course of action might yield better results.’
‘On the contrary.’ She took a quick, uneasy breath, anxious to move the conversation to safer ground. ‘Do you really think your grandmother will be fooled by this nonsense?’ She shook her head. ‘I—I can’t believe that.’
‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But whatever she suspects about my motivation, she can’t deny that I’ve fulfilled her requirements to the letter. And all you have to do, my sweet, is behave, in public, like a girl who’s been swept off her feet, and hasn’t touched earth since.’
‘I see.’ She swallowed. ‘May I ask, in turn, how you plan to behave? In public?’
He said slowly, ‘Like a man who, against all expectation, and to his own astonishment, has finally met the only woman in the world for him. And is totally bewildered by his undeserved good fortune.’
‘Tricky,’ she said, ‘for someone who clearly believes he’s merited all the good things in life.’
He said gently, ‘If I ever believed that, Louise, then meeting you would soon have made me think again.’
He got to his feet. Stretched lazily, making her disturbingly conscious of the strength of bone and play of muscle beneath those few yards of silk. Raked back the tawny hair with a careless hand as he strolled to the door.
The Lion King, she thought nervously, on the prowl.
In the doorway, he paused and looked back at her. ‘While I’m getting dressed, decide how you’d like to spend the day,’ he told her casually. ‘I’m at your service.’
‘Oh, but…’ She paused, swallowing. ‘There’s really no need for you to bother. I—I’ll be fine on my own.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said courteously. ‘But this is all part of the familiarisation process I mentioned. Persuading you to loosen up.’
She met his gaze. ‘Aren’t you afraid that familiarity may breed contempt, Mr Fabian?’
‘The cobra strikes again.’ His mouth smiled but his eyes were hard. ‘And the name is Alex—remember. Keep saying it over and over and you’ll soon get the hang of it. Just as you’ll have to steel yourself to enduring my company for the rest of the day.’
‘It seems I have little choice,’ she said stiffly. Adding, ‘For the rest of the day.’
‘Good,’ he said mockingly. ‘You’re learning.’ He paused. ‘I’ve arranged to take some time off in the week to spend with you too.’
Louise’s eyes widened in
dismay. ‘Is that strictly necessary?’
‘Your enthusiasm flatters me,’ he said. ‘But there are arrangements to be made. Also, as I’ve already mentioned, I plan to take you shopping. For one thing, I’d prefer my bride to wear something other than jeans at our wedding,’ he added, his eyes flickering over her.
She flushed stormily. ‘I’m perfectly capable of choosing something appropriate. I don’t need—supervision.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But you need a trousseau, and I thought some guidance might be helpful.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’re an expert on women’s clothing.’
‘I tend to confine my interest to how easy it is to remove,’ he said silkily, and unforgivably. ‘But my PA Andie Crane has a more than working knowledge of Bond Street and designer shops and she’d love to show you around. I’ll confine myself to buying the ring—if you can spare me the time.’
‘Bond Street?’ Louise echoed, her face flushed, her mind flinching from the wedding ring and its connotations, among other things. ‘You can’t be serious. It’s ridiculous to spend that kind of money on a—a temporary arrangement.’
‘You’re going to be my wife,’ he said. ‘And, for the duration, you will dress accordingly. No chain-store gear, or stuff from a trunk in the attic. Primarily, Andie will help you find a dress for my grandmother’s party, and something to wear when you’re invited for lunch at the bank.’
‘You think I will be?’
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Because I’m going to be the chairman, and the directors will be forming a line to meet my new bride.’
She said shakily, ‘Oh, God—it just gets worse all the time.’
‘Don’t be scared, darling,’ he drawled. ‘They won’t eat you—unless I give the word. And maybe not even then.’
He added casually, ‘Ask Andie to recommend a hairdresser, too, and somewhere to get your nails done.’
Louise stiffened. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘And it would look beautiful spread across my pillow.’ He heard her indignant indrawn breath, and grinned. ‘But, as that’s doomed to remain a private fantasy,’ he went on, ‘maybe you should have it trimmed a little.’