Bride, Bought and Paid For

by Helen Bianchin

  An hour was designated for personal inspection of the items on display, cleverly allocated to allow guests to peruse the folder beforehand.

  Efficient planning was key, Romy noted as she wandered past the items at Xavier’s side.

  ‘Do you see anything you like?’

  A small, beautifully crafted escritoire featuring delicate inlays in contrasting wood, token drawers, and slender carved legs.

  The valuation figure was expensive. Too expensive for her to fund from her teacher’s salary, and she refused to ask Xavier to gift it to her.

  ‘Alex, come have a look at this.’

  Chanel? The sultry purr was one of a kind, and Romy felt her heart sink as the pair joined them.

  Air kisses were exchanged, and Chanel’s immaculately lacquered fingers drifted down Xavier’s arm and lingered a little too long.

  ‘What a coincidence to see you both here,’ Alex drawled, although Romy doubted coincidence had much to do with it, despite Chanel and Alex forming part of the A-list guests.

  ‘Isn’t it exquisite?’ Chanel observed, indicating the escritoire. ‘I want it.’

  Chanel, it soon became clear, had a purpose…to test her flirting skills on Xavier.

  To give him credit, he didn’t respond. A short while later she rested a hand on the lapel of his jacket and made a play of tracing the seam. A hand he deliberately removed.

  Ten minutes in, and Romy decided she didn’t have to remain by his side and watch the game Chanel had chosen to play out in public.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Romy offered sweetly. ‘I’ll go check out the items.’

  She bore Xavier’s studied look with equanimity and bade Chanel a light, ‘Have fun.’ A mixed message, if ever there was one. Did the model imagine Romy was blind, for heaven’s sake?

  ‘I’ll join you,’ Xavier said smoothly and curved an arm along the back of her waist. ‘If you’ll excuse us?’

  An act of proprietorial togetherness?

  As if Chanel would take the hint!

  She didn’t. ‘Let’s browse together.’ She spared Romy a taunting glance. ‘So much more fun.’

  Romy barely controlled the itch to give her a stinging slap…but in company it really wasn’t a polite thing to do. Instead, she merely offered a smile and pretended for the ensuing half hour to show an interest in every item.

  Consequently it came as a relief when it was announced the auction would begin.

  Items came and went, and for the most part the bidding escalated above valuation, providing a pleasing result for the charity.

  The escritoire was the second to last item in the catalogue, and the opening bid was high. There were a number of bids, but it soon came down to Xavier and Chanel.

  The figure rose to the ridiculous, more than twice the valuation…a fact which drew the attention of the guests, with whispered speculation as to who would win.

  There reached a point where Chanel began to waiver, although she continued, managing to push the bid further before conceding defeat.

  ‘That was…unwarranted,’ Romy said quietly when the auctioneer declared the item sold.

  ‘Consider it a gift,’ Xavier declared with indolent ease.

  She regarded him in silence for several seconds. ‘It’ll make a beautiful addition to your home.’

  ‘Our home,’ he corrected silkily. ‘And the escritoire is yours.’

  The money he paid went to charity, and that helped salve her conscience. ‘Thank you.’ Although she was far from done with him.

  The fact he knew merely intensified her need to upbraid him, and she waited until he eased the Maybach away from the hotel and entered the stream of traffic vacating the inner city.

  ‘You had no need to play Chanel at her own game.’

  ‘No? The escritoire became yours from the moment you saw it.’

  ‘And you figured that out…how?’

  ‘You possess a very expressive face.’

  She lapsed into silence and didn’t break it until they ascended the staircase and reached their bedroom.

  ‘It’s an exquisite piece of furniture. Thank you for gifting it to me.’

  Xavier shrugged out of his jacket, removed his tie and began loosening the buttons on his shirt as he crossed to her side.

  Without a word he moved behind her and tended to the zip fastening on her gown.

  ‘Was that so difficult?’

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘Thanking you? Yes.’

  He slid the straps from her shoulders and the gown slithered down into a silken heap at her feet. ‘Get used to it.’

  Her eyes speared his. ‘I have my own money.’

  His hands curved over her shoulders as he impelled her close. ‘You talk too much,’ he said gently and laid his mouth over her own.

  She lifted a fist and connected with his shoulder in silent protest. An ineffectual act she didn’t repeat as one hand cupped her bottom, while the other captured her nape…and she became lost.

  Caught up in the passion he was able to arouse until her body sang beneath his touch. Until mere touch wasn’t enough, and her fingers reached for his remaining clothes in feverish need.

  It became a feast of the senses…possessive, greedy. Then wild and wanton as he took her high, so high she had to hold on as it became too much…way too much. More than he’d ever gifted her, and she cried, unaware of the tears coursing down her cheeks until he gently brushed them with his mouth.

  Afterwards she slept for a while, then drifted awake at the touch of his lips teasing the delicate hollow at the base of her throat.

  This time it was she who gifted him, with an oral tasting that tested his control…and broke it, as he hauled her close and took her on the ride of her life.

  Romy stirred into wakefulness at Xavier’s feather-light touch, murmured something indistinct and buried her head beneath the pillow.

  ‘Coffee, querida. Hot, sweet and strong.’

  She groaned as he removed the pillow and plumped it against the headboard. ‘It’s early,’ she protested and heard his husky chuckle.

  ‘It’s ten, and time to rise, shine…and go for breakfast.’

  Food? He was talking food? ‘Go for…?’ She lifted her head and looked at him…saw that he’d showered, shaved, dressed, and looked far too indecently alive after a late night out.

  ‘It’s Maria’s day off,’ he said patiently.

  Of course. Sunday. ‘Are you open to negotiation?’

  ‘Are you propositioning me?’

  After last night? He had to be joking!

  ‘I take it that’s a no?’ His smile held warmth and a degree of lingering passion as he removed the bedcovers.

  ‘Hey!’

  A hand curved over her bottom, squeezed gently, and made her yelp in protest.

  ‘Here’s the day’s plan,’ Xavier drawled with a degree of humour. ‘We have brunch at one of Brighton’s superb cafés, take in a set of tennis this afternoon, after which I’ll cook steaks on the barbecue while you toss a salad.’

  ‘Not sure about the tennis.’

  ‘You’ll warm to it. Sit,’ he commanded, and she obediently slid up into a sitting position, accepted the coffee and took an appreciative sip.

  The caffeine hit her stomach, and by the time she’d drained the cup she felt awake, aware, and ready to face the day. ‘You mentioned food?’

  She hit the shower, chose casual white jeans, pulled on a knit top, slid her feet into heels, added moisturizer, a touch of lipgloss, then she caught her hair into a thick plait, collected her bag and joined Xavier in the foyer.

  ‘We could take the Mini Cooper.’

  A suggestion which incurred a wry look, and she wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Perish it.’

  She offered him an impish grin as she imagined him folding his length into the passenger seat. It was a girl’s car…sassy, zippy and cool. Very cool.

  ‘Okay, so it’s the Maybach.’ Expensive class. Ver
y expensive class.

  To complement the man he’d become, she added silently. Yet to be fair, he didn’t flaunt his wealth. There was no excessive jewellery, just a slim Rolex watch and his wedding ring.

  He lived in a beautiful mansion, yet the interior decorating was neither overt nor overdone. His fleet of vehicles numbered one in each foreign city he owned real estate, and the Brighton garage housed only the Maybach and a four-wheel drive which Maria used to shop for groceries and anything needed in the house. The Learjet he owned was leased out to high-fliers who paid for the privilege, and, apart from international flights, he preferred to travel business class on a commercial airline.

  There were worthy charities he generously supported, and he worked hard. Even now, when he could easily sit back and delegate, he chose to keep a close watch on every aspect of his vast business interests.

  The sun rode high in the sky as they strolled along a trendy avenue where a number of boutique cafés sported outdoor tables beneath protective shade-umbrellas where numerous patrons sipped coffee and lingered over a meal.

  Xavier indicated an empty table, ordered a full breakfast for each of them, and when it was served, they ate with enjoyment.

  Melbourne weather was known to be contrary, but today the skies were almost cloudless and it was warm and sunny.

  It was pleasant not to have to think of work…to view the remainder of the day with leisurely anticipation. No particular schedule, merely a loose plan, and the ability to change it as the whim took them.

  ‘Feel better?’

  Romy spared Xavier a musing look. ‘Much.’

  They lingered over coffee, then chose to browse the nearby shops, most of which were open to trade, and it was fun to check out some of the wares. Already there were a few Christmas items displayed, and she experienced a wistful few moments, picturing a Christmas tree festooned with tinsel and decorations…set, perhaps, in the foyer with fairy lights to illuminate its splendour at night.

  It was mid-afternoon when Xavier garaged the car, and they each changed into suitable tennis gear and entered the enclosed court where, in a set Xavier was guaranteed to win, Romy managed to score a few points. He could easily have powered her off the court…instead he chose to play a tactical game, fair, yet fun, and they both emerged to don swimwear and cool off in the pool.

  It was after six when, attired in casual clothes, Xavier set up the barbecue while she set a fresh, crusty baguette in the oven and began creating a delectable salad.

  They ate alfresco on the terrace with its view out over Brighton beach, watching the sun go down and the tracery of street lights provide illumination along the foreshore.

  There was an intimacy apparent, a close attuning of the minds that encouraged a desire for her to have him confide something of his background. His rise and rise in the business sector was well documented, but it was the early years which held her fascination.

  There were almost no facts available, only that his mother had died young and there were no siblings. His decision to reside in Australia had been motivated by chance and opportunity, and he’d made it his base by choice.

  Romy asked the question she’d posed a few years before…one he’d dismissed then as being a ‘no-go’ zone with a wryly cynical ‘I am who I’ve become.’

  ‘You have a burning need for me to fill in the blanks?’

  ‘It’s a part of who you are,’ she opined simply.

  ‘Poverty,’ he revealed quietly. ‘A trailer park existence with no father I recall, and a mother who was forced to work sixteen-hour days in order for us to survive. She died before my ninth birthday, and Children’s Services farmed me out to a number of foster homes whose registered carers, in the main, valued the money they received more than a child’s welfare. At fourteen I chose the streets, living by my wits and graft.’ He spared her a hard look that spoke volumes. ‘It wasn’t a time of which I’m particularly proud.’

  Romy didn’t pursue the reason why. The scars on his body revealed enough for her to guess how he’d spent those years.

  ‘A few close brushes with the law put me in counselling. A last-ditch effort to save me from myself.’

  And what? A possible jail sentence?

  ‘It was there I came in contact with someone who cared, who talked the talk I understood. I had a knack with electronics. He put me in touch with a friend who presented me with an opportunity…and issued strict instructions I’d be out if I stuffed up.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ That much was obvious, for he’d designed and patented a series of devices which attracted large companies worldwide. The rest became the mark by which legends were made.

  ‘No.’

  They shared a closeness that grew with each passing day. A bond she hugged close to her heart in the hope it might develop into more.

  A cool breeze curled in from the ocean, and by tacit agreement they collected plates and flatware and retreated indoors to clear up.

  It wasn’t late, and Xavier dropped a kiss on top of her head. ‘I’m flying into Sydney early tomorrow morning. Meetings that will run on to Tuesday.’ He traced a forefinger over the fullness of her lower lip. ‘Go slot in a DVD, and I’ll join you soon.’

  The DVD had reached the closing scene when he slid into a chair at her side, and he lifted her onto his lap as the credits rolled.

  A hand cupped her breast and rested there before beginning a teasing circling motion that stirred alive her senses. A fact he knew very well, and she placed her lips against the edge of his jaw, nibbled a path to his earlobe…and nipped a little.

  ‘You’re insatiable.’

  ‘Would you prefer it to be otherwise?’

  Her answer was to cover his mouth with her own in a kiss that left no reason for doubt…and every need to seek their bed.

  He was gentle, so incredibly gentle he almost brought her to tears, and afterwards she slept in his arms…only to wake in the morning to find she was alone in the bed.

  Saying goodbye had been more difficult than Romy had imagined, and the imprint of Xavier’s mouth as it had possessed her own stayed with her during the drive to school and much of the morning.

  It was almost as if he’d found it hard to leave, and she held the thought close to her heart.

  In bed…let’s face it, anywhere they enjoyed sex, Xavier was everything she could wish for. Passionate, giving, primitive. Ensuring her emotional needs were met…and more.

  Just thinking about the more melted her bones, and she issued a silent admonition to concentrate on the work, the students, the class.

  Heaven forbid, he would only be away one night…it was not as if it was New York! So get a grip, why don’t you?

  Call Kassi, suggest dinner and a movie, a girlie night in watching DVDs.

  Romy made the call during lunch break and set up a time and place to meet, then, when the buzzer sounded over the address system announcing afternoon class, she collected her satchel and moved into the teachers’ common room. It wasn’t often she had a free break, and she intended to utilize it by marking Grade nine English homework assignments.

  Ten minutes in, and she recollected the need to notify administration of a problem…something she could easily achieve with a phone call. Except it was a lovely early summer’s day, the sun was shining, and she felt the need for some fresh air.

  The walk to the administration block didn’t take long, and she entered the main office, greeted the woman manning Reception, and stated her request.

  A quick glance at the telephone communication system brought an apologetic smile. ‘Suzy’s on the phone in the back office. I’m sure she won’t be long. Do you want to wait, or shall I have her call you?’

  What did a few minutes matter? ‘I’ll wait.’

  The phone rang, and Romy moved towards the notice-board, idly checking a few of the papers that had been push-pinned there. End-of-year exams were soon to begin, and the date and venue for the Grade twelve formal was up, together with various reminders of upcoming eve
nts.

  The long summer break would herald a gap year for some whose parents could afford to send their teenager overseas before commencing university.

  Romy vividly recalled her own gap year spent with a host family in Provence, where she’d polished her language skills and acquired a knowledge of French cuisine. A faint smile curved her lips…Paris in the spring time, she recalled, had spelt love in true romantic style, with an ardent French student who’d wooed her with wine and roses, picnics and sightseeing, Romy riding passenger on the back of his motorbike.

  Friends, in the truest sense of the word.

  A carefree time when life had been relatively simple, she mused in fond memory as she took a sideways step to read yet another notice.

  Seconds later she sensed someone enter the office, and she turned slightly and glimpsed a male figure attired in jeans and a jacket whose hood partly obscured his facial features.

  Something about him caused her instincts to go on alert. Deciphering body language was an art form, and one learnt well by those who taught children in school. A knowledge that, combined with finely tuned instinct, often prevented a situation from escalating out of control.

  It kicked in now as she pretended further interest in the notice board, aware on a base level that she’d caught his attention.

  The receptionist was occupied with an incoming call and gave no indication she’d noticed anything untoward. Yet all Romy’s senses were heightened, and she attempted calm when every instinct warned her to leave now.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she dismissed in self-admonition. He’s probably here on a mission, an older brother in lieu of a parent bent on communicating a message.

  There was a sudden blur of movement, and he was there, in her face, a hand gripping her elbow in a killing grip as he shoved a hard object into her ribs. Dear heaven, what was that? A gun? Shock speared through her body at the possibility…although the logical part of her rationalized it was unlikely. Australia didn’t have a ‘right to bear arms’ policy. Not that it prevented the illegal acquisition of a firearm.

  ‘Walk.’ The tone was guttural, decisive.