by Anne Oliver
Thank you? No. She batted his chest. ‘You’re confusing me; it’s what do you say.’
‘I say I love you right back and let’s get married.’ He slid the ring onto her left finger. ‘It suits your bright and shiny personality. And it’s stunning, just like you. But I’ll pay for it.’
‘No, no, no.’
‘I insist. No pay, no marriage contract.’
‘You can buy an eternity ring for our first wedding anniversary.’
‘I’ll buy that too.’
She settled against his chest. ‘Since you insist, I’ll let you win. This time.’
‘Deal.’ Leo sealed it with a kiss, then swept her off her feet and up, before blowing out candles.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I want to make love to you and you’ve said this place is off-limits so I’m taking you home.’ He swung past the ice bucket. ‘Grab that bottle of bubbly.’
‘Home?’
He kissed her as he carried her to the door. ‘To West Wind.’
* * *
Hours later, Leo awoke. They lay together, their limbs entwined in the dimness. Brie had agreed to share his Melbourne house on occasional weekends, and he’d be there when he worked in Victoria, but they were making their home West Wind. She’d even agreed to let Mrs J come over and keep house for them. With her heavy workload and commitments to Pink Snowflake, he knew Brie needed someone to help, and Mrs J was more than keen.
He turned his head on the pillow and watched her sleeping. Her breasts were warm and soft against his chest, and his erection was nudging her hip. He rolled over, pinning her beneath him and stroking her hair from her face. ‘Wake up, baby doll.’
Sleepy eyes opened, her full inviting lips curved. ‘I wasn’t asleep. I was thinking.’
He cupped a breast, rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger. ‘About this?’
Her smile widened against his roaming lips. ‘About your constant need to be on top of things.’
‘I let you be on top last time.’
‘You did,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s not sex I’m talking about right now, Mr Must-stay-in-control-at-all-times Hamilton.’ Wriggling out from beneath him and rolling onto her side, she propped her head on her elbow and studied him in the semi-darkness. ‘Did you thank Sunny, or give her a lecture about interfering in your love life?’
‘Sunny? What do you mean?’
‘She didn’t tell you?’
Brie looked so horrified, he bit back a smile. ‘Tell me what?’
‘That she came to see me at the salon.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh.’ She rolled onto her back. ‘I think I just messed up a beautiful sibling relationship.’
‘You mean when Sunny-Sky went to extraordinary lengths to beg you to give me a chance?’ His hand found and stroked her belly button.
‘Yes.’ She visibly relaxed. ‘Sunny-Sky. You weren’t mad?’
‘Why would I be? She convinced you I was the one, didn’t she?’ He touched her little piercing. ‘Why a strawberry?’
‘My sixteen-year-old self’s little rebellion. My parents hated body decoration. And I love strawberries. They’re pretty and dainty and they taste sweet.’
‘Since you possess all three attributes, it suits you perfectly.’
She snorted. ‘I thought we were going to be honest with each other?’
‘Okay, maybe dainty’s—’
‘Fine, if you think it suits me, I’m happy.’
‘So am I.’ He spread his hand over her flat belly. Would they ever have their own children? He hoped so. ‘You know something? Mum would have loved you. Almost as much as I do.’
Her smile was brilliant against the dimness. ‘See? Easy. I don’t need flowers and fancy gifts, just the words. Just the love. And I adore you right back.’
EPILOGUE
The Sunrise-Sunset ballroom was a glittering collision of sensory delights. Rainbows bounced off glassware and jewels sparkled beneath chandeliers dripping crystals. Hope Strings entertained with a selection of Vivaldi and Purcell while the guests, who’d paid big bucks to attend, enjoyed canapés including such delicacies as chicken and coriander dumplings, lemon-myrtle-dusted fish goujons with tartare sauce and lobster onion pâté with lavoche, to be followed throughout the evening by three more courses of equally sumptuous fare.
Brie saw her brother—a head taller than everyone else bar the man at her side—near the window overlooking the harbour and glimpsed Olivia’s flaming red hair alongside. ‘They’re here,’ she told Leo and, grabbing his hand, she tugged him through the crowd.
The four of them had caught up a month ago when Jett and Olivia had returned from their honeymoon, and the newlyweds were almost as excited as Brie and Leo about the upcoming wedding.
Jett’s face lit when he turned and saw her heading towards him. ‘Hey, Brie.’
Brie would never get sick of her big brother’s smile. ‘Hey, there, yourself.’ She hugged Jett first, then turned to Olivia. ‘How are you feeling today, honey?’
‘Not bad now. Pretty awful for the rest of the day.’
Livvy looked amazing, as usual, but there were smudges beneath her eyes. There was a reason for that and it made Brie smile. ‘How’s my little niece or nephew coming along in there?’ Brie patted the small mound covered in sky-blue silk.
‘It’s a he,’ Olivia muttered. ‘A female would never give me such a hard time. Don’t let me put you off having babies though.’
Brie smiled up at Leo. ‘As if.’ She hugged his arm. ‘Just not yet though.’
Olivia grimaced. ‘That’s what I said and look at me.’ She glared at her husband, who just shrugged as if he’d had nothing to do with it.
Brie slung an arm around Jett. ‘Go on, you were both thrilled. Did you purchase that little cradle you were looking at?’
‘Yes.’ Livvy’s expression brightened. ‘And while we were there we saw some adorable wallpaper with teddies.’
Leo exchanged a look with Jett and raised his glass. ‘Anyone for a refill?’
Talk of cradles and babies obviously made Brie’s future husband uneasy and she smiled to herself.
Jett jerked a thumb. ‘There’s a guy over there who wants to talk to you about his environmental concerns on the north-west coast, if you’ve got a minute.’
Brie caught Jett’s glint of humour directed her way then watched the two most important guys in her life merge into the crowd. She smiled and turned to Olivia. ‘How’s Jett with all this baby talk?’
‘He’s as thrilled as me, he just doesn’t want to show it in public. So Eve’s Naturally is doing okay?’
Brie’s business had moved to the McPherson retreat last month. ‘We’re almost on track after Leo’s hard work with the filing system.’ Brie groaned. ‘I swear I didn’t inherit the organisational gene.’
‘You don’t need to—you have a slave at your beck and call now.’
Brie laughed. ‘Don’t let him hear you say that.’
* * *
Hours later, the Blue Menagerie jazz band provided an easy syncopated beat and Leo got Brie onto the dance floor, more as an excuse to have her up close than to dance. Sunny and Gregor were taking a well-deserved break near the orchestra and waved as Leo guided Brie past.
He loved whatever she wore but tonight she looked extra special. She was wearing the dress she’d proposed to him in. A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. And it wasn’t even a leap year...
‘See? I am capable of allowing a man to lead on the dance floor,’ she told him, batting her lashes coquettishly.
‘And I’m thinking of lying back in bed and letting you do all the work tonight,’ he replied.
She looked at her watch in mock surprise. ‘Goodness, it’s getting late. We should go. Now.’
‘Not so fast.’ He tugged her closer, ran his hands over her bare shoulder blades. ‘It’s nice, holding you like this.’ They moved slowly to the music, wrapped in each other’s arms and lost in
the moment. ‘Don’t ever change, baby doll. You’re perfect just as you are.’
‘That goes for you too.’ She smoothed his lapel and stared up at him. ‘We’ll have that for our wedding waltz.’
‘Have what?’
‘Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”.’
‘We’ll make a list and vote on them.’
‘Okay. So long as we both vote for Billy.’
‘One thing’s for sure, we’re going to take forever to get bored.’
She pressed her lips to his chin. ‘Sounds perfect to me.’
* * * * *
Read on for an extract from DRESSED TO THRILL by Bella Frances
ONE
Tara Marie Fitzpatrick Devine knew how to behave badly. Very badly. She made it her business to work hard, play hard and then read the hard online copy of her triumphs. It was quite simply the most delicious way to promote herself in the dog-eat-dog world of international fashion. And tonight—the culmination of a whole season of glamorous graft—tonight, her wild streak was shining like neon body paint in a nightclub-dark room.
‘But what am I going to do?’
Barely aware of the feet that drummed beside hers under the table in the shady booth, Tara dipped into her clutch and pulled out her compact. Another streak of siren-red over her pout while she was still sober enough to care.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she managed to say, looking at her reflection in the tiny mirror.
The thick slicks of liquid eyeliner were almost perfect—crazy that she had never rocked this look before—it was so, so burlesque!
‘But I’m sure he’ll be on his way here next! And if he catches me here…after I told him I was going straight home…’
Tara replaced the lipstick in its little case. Honestly, there was no getting through to this girl.
‘Fernanda.’
She swept a glance from the now resting silver platforms to the mouthwateringly beautiful face of Fernanda Cruz—the sexiest Spanish teenager to grace the runways and the tabloids in a decade. Her brown mane hung sexily over one eye and her fuchsia silk mini-dress rode high on endless thighs. The girl looked as if she had never even heard of the word carbohydrate.
‘What?’
Tara pointed her lipstick at her.
‘You need to stop this. First of all, you’re not even sure if he’ll definitely turn up. Secondly, if he does…and—let’s face it—it is quite likely, then you need to stand up to him. Tell him to get out of your life and stop acting like the overbearing, macho pain in the ass that he is.’ She flipped open the compact again and checked her slightly wonky teeth for lipstick, rubbing at them until they squeaked. ‘It’s not as if you’ve done anything wrong, Fernanda. It’s only an after-party! ‘
‘But you don’t understand. My brother Michael rules the family. If he is here, I’m…’ She mimed being garrotted.
‘And he has to realise that a life in fashion these days means you have to promote yourself—be seen, get papped, kiss Harry…’
‘But I’m his baby sister, Tara! And he hates it. Hates all of it. He wants me to study to be an accountant or something. He thinks models are airheads and designers are fakes.’
Tara’s snapped her clutch closed with a little more attitude than was necessary. She knew all about the über-dominant Michael Cruz, Fern’s brother and legendary King Machismo. Ten hours earlier, as Fernanda had sublimely showcased Tara’s funkiest spring/
summer dresses on the runway of her London show, her sickeningly handsome brother had sat in the front row, looking as bored as if he were watching paint dry—the dull shades.
And, though no one had dared tell Tara at the time, the press had been all over it. Photos of him in his immaculately tailored suit, with his perfectly masculine jaw and utterly uninterested expression had hit every online fashion site within moments. Thank heavens his other sister Angelica had shown enough enthusiasm for the whole row. And had been kind enough to drop that she was ‘considering’ commissioning Tara to design her wedding dress. That just about made up for the arrogance of the man!
‘Fern, honey, we’ve worked hard. Our careers are just taking off. For me, this party is as important as the show. And for you it’s what you’ve been looking forward to for the last month. And we’ve got it all to do again in two weeks’ time in Paris! Cha-ching! So if he is here we’ll tell him to…to go and count his own beans—and we’ll mingle and dance and see what column inches we can capture. Come on!’
She grasped Fern’s hand and pulled her to her feet. All six feet of her size zero frame only served to highlight Tara’s own whipped cream curves. Fattest woman in fashion. Overeater von Tease. Yep, she’d heard them all. And sometimes it hurt—of course it did. But she’d learned long ago that even if she ate air and drank dew she was only ever going to be voluptuous. So she’d put her voluptuousness to good use—she knew how to enhance a cleavage and minimise a belly better than any bra or pair of magic pants.
And, now that the fashion elite had begun to show interest, getting some mainstream press was her next mission. Hence the headline-grabbing dress from her show—she’d styled it The Seven-Year Bitch: Marilyn meets Madonna. Though maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to go this short when there was nothing surer than a cringe-worthy ‘getting into the limo badly’ photograph appearing in the morning’s news feed. More column inches, and even more reasons for Team Devine back home to decry her. Devine girls were supposed to put up and shut up—two of her weakest skills…
The DJ changed and the music turned darker. Tara saw Fern head onto the dance floor with some up-and-coming young cutie and wandered off herself into the throng, smiling and air-kissing the other bottom-of-the-food-chain celebrities. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved back out to the foyer—keen to avoid having to chat with her Dutch financier, easily the most boring man on earth. But when her breath seemed to catch as a gulp of fizz hit the back of her throat, and the faces of the crowd all turned, she realised that someone very A-list had just arrived.
Everything in Tara Devine’s life happened at a million miles an hour. Her brain processed thoughts that her mouth duly delivered. Which sometimes led to problems. Like when she didn’t actually know what she’d just said or done until two seconds too late. But here—now—she felt as if she had slipped into slow-mo. She watched, transfixed, as the foyer seemed almost to fade and there, stalking along the red carpet, was the arrogant alpha himself. Michael Cruz. Incorporated.
As the camera flashes whited out the space he turned his head slightly, as if a mildly irritating noise had sounded. Now that she could see him clearly, she saw he was as tall as she had imagined, his physique as perfect. And, though she rarely dressed men, she just knew what lay under the cut of cloth on his back. The ripple of muscle over the perfect masculine ratio of shoulders to waist was flawless.
One hand was at his hip, pushing back his jacket, and the perfect illumination of a white silk-linen shirt gleamed. He turned, paced, and took something handed to him by one of his security team. He slipped it into his pocket, seemed to search out the faces closest to him, and then…
And then a flash of intensely dark eyes landed on her. He scanned her, and her heart raced the moment his gaze probed and zoned over her. His eyes narrowed as they landed on her chest and she instinctively lifted her arms to shield herself. He turned full body to face her as he continued to stare, his eyes sliding down, over and up her legs.
The cameras whirred and flashed, people were talking, calling out to him, capturing his appraisal of her. And then, with what seemed infuriatingly like a condescending smirk, he turned away, dismissing her.
Tara felt colour rush up her chest and burn her cheeks—the stab of childhood sensitivities all over again. It had been a long time since anyone had pierced her armour. And that made her even angrier—how dared he? She made to step forward, to tell him what she thought of him—him and his dull, dark, bespoke suit. He was here in the hub of one of the most creative
cities in the world, at one of the most exciting times—when the eyes of the fashion media were trained upon young talent—and he was being openly dismissive of anything other than twenty-four-carat conservatives just like himself.
She had checked him out—the media darling, yet another poacher turned gamekeeper whose definition of art was as narrow as his totally on-trend, no-risk tie. There was no way anyone other than the beautiful people would get a foothold in his world. Old money and limb length spoke more than any genuine talent. As far as she could see.
As if to prove her point, a little posse of coltish runway girls circled him, giggling and preening and flashing their thigh-gaps like currency. He brightened and slung arms round two who snuck right under his
‘Daddy’s home’ embrace. Their coquettish display was vile. Sometimes the sisterhood let itself down so badly.
‘Tara, querida! How lovely to see you again.’
Tara turned to see the third member of Club Cruz glide her way towards her. The outrageously elegant Angelica: dream customer and media-savvy goddess of style. Oh, yes. Let the Lord be thanked for the double X chromosomes in the procreation of generation Cruz.
‘Angelica!’
Air-kiss, air-kiss and smug glare right over to the arrogant alpha himself. He caught her look and made no effort to hide his calm assessment of the scene. Stood with his adoring troupe, relaxed and controlled. And who could blame him—the way they were practically licking the air around him?
‘Angelica, you look beautiful—as ever. Let me see.’ Tara stepped back to scan the perfect ensemble, ‘You wear couture so well. It’s a shame your brother is rocking the boring businessman look, though.’
Angelica laughed lightly and preened politely, linking her arm in Tara’s and stepping into the party. ‘Michael is putting up with this for me. He doesn’t really like the scene any more. But he does enjoy some of the benefits.’
She flicked her eyes to where he stood, acknowledging his current difficulties with amused acceptance.