The Marriage Takeover

by Lee Wilkinson

  Glancing at his watch, Lang said briskly, ‘Now it’s getting on for three o’clock, so I’m afraid I must press you for an answer.

  ‘If it’s yes, we’ll be married straight away and Brent will get his promotion. If it’s no…’ He let the sentence tail off. ‘Though I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  His quiet confidence shook her, as it had been meant to, yet still she fought a rearguard action. ‘How long do you imagine a marriage like that could possibly last?’

  His voice inflexible, he answered, ‘If you happen to be pregnant, you might choose to stay with me. If not, then as long as I want it to last.’

  How could something so bizarre have happened to her through no fault of her own? And the worst of it was, she wasn’t alone. Poor Alan, caught up in all this, equally innocent and unsuspecting, stood to lose everything. Perhaps be branded a jailbird.

  No, she couldn’t let that happen. She owed him a big debt of gratitude. He was the only person who had ever loved her, and she would never be able to live with herself if she let him suffer for it.

  Watching her face like a hawk, judging his moment, Lang took both her hands and, his previous hardness replaced by a reassuring gentleness, asked, ‘Well?’

  ‘What about the missing money?’ she asked raggedly. ‘Do you intend to keep that threat hanging over Alan’s head?’

  ‘No. The moment you say yes, I’ll make arrangements to have the money replaced, and all traces of fraudulent conversion removed from the books.’

  Staring down at the lean, tanned hands holding hers, and the muscular wrists where a sprinkling of sun-bleached hairs glittered, she agreed tonelessly, ‘Very well, I’ll marry you.’

  Drawing her to her feet, he said jubilantly, ‘Then let’s go and get changed.’

  ‘For what?’ she asked as he hurried her across the terrace and through the door into the penthouse.

  ‘For our wedding. Everything’s organized…’

  So they were the ‘arrangements’ he’d been making. He must have been very sure of her, she thought bitterly.

  ‘The chapel’s booked for four-thirty, and as I wanted to avoid the more tacky places it’s a reasonable drive out of town.’

  He’d said ‘straight away’, but she hadn’t realized he’d meant it quite so literally. ‘Oh, but I need to talk to Alan first. I have to try and explain—’

  A shade impatiently, Lang broke in, ‘It would be almost impossible to explain without telling him the truth. And I presume you don’t want to do that, as it would defeat the object?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I—’

  ‘Then talking about it would be both harrowing and futile. The best way would be to say as little as possible. Simply face him with a fait accompli.’

  ‘It would be such a shock…’

  ‘But kindest in the long run.’ Lang’s expression said that the matter was now closed.

  Turning her towards her bedroom door, he gave her a little push. ‘You’ve got exactly fifteen minutes to put on your wedding dress and get ready, unless you want me to come looking for you… Oh, and leave your hair down.’

  Like someone in a dream she went into her room and closed the door behind her. On the bed was a large ivory box.

  Opening it with unsteady hands, she found, swathed in soft tissue paper, a halter-neck, knee-length dress of blue silk chiffon shot with the delicate pinks and greens and golds of a desert sky at sunset.

  It needed no bra, but with it were a pair of dainty briefs and a half-slip, a matching stole, and pair of high-heeled sandals.

  Lang, it seemed, had thought of everything.

  The outfit, obviously chosen with great care, was lovely and romantic. For some unaccountable reason, her eyes filled with tears and she was forced to blink them away.

  If only he really had loved her, in spite of everything they might have made it work. But all he felt for her was a kind of weird attraction, and all she felt for him was…

  What did she feel for him? She should hate him after the way he’d wrecked her life, but all she could feel at this moment was exhausted and empty, utterly drained.

  The only thing she wanted to do was crawl into bed, close her eyes, and find the blessed oblivion of sleep.

  But she couldn’t do that. She had a bare fifteen minutes to get ready, and she didn’t intend to have him come looking for her. The only way she could face what lay ahead would be with spirit and dignity, and as much pride as she could muster.

  That decision taken, she hurried into the bathroom and, stripping off her clothes, pulled on a shower cap and stepped under the spray of hot water.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed and ready. Trembling inside, cool and composed on the outside, she walked into the sitting-room with her back ramrod-straight and her head held high.

  To show she didn’t mean to obey him slavishly, her hair had been tamed into a businesslike chignon.

  Lang rose to his feet and came to meet her. His dark blond hair was still a little damp from the shower, and he’d changed into a well-cut lightweight suit and tie. He looked tough and handsome and disturbingly attractive.

  He took both her hands, and his critical gaze travelled over her from head to toe. ‘You make a beautiful bride. But I don’t think you need this.’ He removed Alan’s ring, which she had deliberately left on her finger as a further gesture of defiance, and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘Nor do we need the “Secretary Marries Boss” look.’ Before she could make any protest he was deftly removing the pins from her hair.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said as the silky mass tumbled around her shoulders.

  ‘Quite sure you’re satisfied?’ she asked tartly.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said blandly, ‘but I expect to be.’

  Cheeks burning, she wished she’d stayed silent.

  From a Cellophane box on the sideboard he removed an exquisite spray of small, delicate green and gold orchids, pale pink rosebuds, blushing magnolias and creamy carnations all interlaced with pale blue and green ribbon. ‘Your bouquet.’

  Their combined scent was sweet and heady, not unlike freesias, and she knew she would never smell anything like it again without reliving this moment.

  ‘Just one more thing…’ Seemingly from nowhere he produced a ring with a huge sparkling emerald in a plain gold setting, and slipped it on to her engagement finger. It fitted perfectly and looked wonderful on her slim but strong hand.

  Though she knew very little about gems she could tell it was an unusually fine stone, the colour clear and good.

  When she made no comment, he remarked, ‘I thought it would match your eyes, but if you prefer we can replace it with a diamond.’

  She shook her head. ‘I would be quite happy if I didn’t have a ring.’

  ‘Ah, but I wouldn’t… Ready to go?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  At his quirked eyebrow, she added, ‘Surely you don’t expect me to appear ecstatic?’

  ‘Not when we’re alone.’ An edge of steel to his voice, he added, ‘But when there are other people present I shall expect you to make some effort to appear reasonably happy.’

  Having laid it on the line, a hand at her waist, he escorted her to the door and across to the elevator.

  When they reached the foyer it was deserted apart from two well-dressed elderly women sitting on a gilt-backed settee, and a smart young man behind the reception desk who looked up with a smile.

  ‘The car’s here, Mr Dalton. They’ve left it by the steps.’

  He produced a bunch of keys, which Lang took with a nod and a word of thanks.

  It wasn’t the big four-wheel drive Cassandra had been expecting, but a sleek ice-blue convertible, its top down, sun glancing off its polished bonnet.

  Taking her bouquet, he put it on the back seat and handed her the car keys. ‘A present for you.’

  When she just stood with her mouth open, he suggested, ‘I thought you might like to drive?’

 
; It was a far cry from the old Cavalier she drove in London, and while one part of her itched to get behind the wheel a feeling of outrage, that he thought he could sway her with presents, made her shake her head and give him back the keys. ‘I really can’t accept it.’

  She saw his jaw tighten, but his voice was calm, reasonable, as he said, ‘Don’t you agree that a bridegroom should buy his bride a wedding present?’

  ‘Even if she’s been coerced into marrying him?’

  Blue eyes dancing, he repeated what she’d said to him during their first conversation. ‘Especially if she’s been coerced into marrying him.’

  Refusing to be won over by his undeniable charm, she informed him stiltedly, ‘I would prefer not to have it.’

  ‘And I would prefer not to have to send it back.’ Once again she heard that hint of steel.

  Almost pleadingly, she said, ‘I don’t want you to keep buying me things. I can’t afford to lose my self-respect on top of everything else.’

  ‘Perhaps, if you regard this as a one-off, we can both keep our self-respect.’

  Signifying her surrender, she said, ‘But I have nothing to give you.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ he drawled, and smiled as her cheeks grew warm.

  Vexed that he could so easily make her blush, when he offered her the keys, refusing to make her surrender total, she asked with cool hauteur, ‘Will you drive?’ A second later she spoilt the effect by adding, ‘Despite the fact that I slept so late, I’m still rather tired.’

  ‘Then we’ll have an early night tonight,’ he promised gravely as he opened the car door and helped her in.

  Her blush deepening, looking anywhere but at him, she settled herself into the comfortable seat, and fastened her seatbelt.

  He slid in beside her. A moment later the engine sprang into life with a soft, throaty purr, and they were off.

  To her horror, his words had set her pulses racing and made every nerve-ending in her body tingle with anticipation. Damn him… Oh, damn him!

  She could almost wish he was physically unattractive, or a clumsy, insensitive, uncaring lover, then at least she would be able to remain unmoved and salvage her pride.

  But she was forced to admit that he was none of those things. He was skilful and sensitive, caring and generous, and wildly exciting…

  Snapping off the thought like a dry twig, she told herself sharply that if she wanted to retain any degree of composure the last thing she could let herself think about was the coming night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SEEING him glance in her direction, aware she must look flushed and agitated, she turned away to stare resolutely out of the window.

  They were driving through streets that in the afternoon heat were practically empty. It seemed that Las Vegas snoozed during the day and only blossomed into brilliant life after dark.

  Now last night’s ribbons of laser and neon had faded into insignificance, eclipsed by the bright sun, it looked even more unreal.

  Remembering the instant wedding chapel she’d seen the previous evening, Cassandra felt a sudden distaste. This would be very different from the simple church wedding she had planned.

  Though as it was a forced marriage to the wrong man, what did it matter? Maybe the very fact that it was so different would help to make it bearable…

  But that sounded as though she had accepted the situation, whereas it still seemed inconceivable that she was about to become the wife of a man she hardly knew, and was closer to hating than loving.

  Even when she had agreed to marry Lang, and put on what was to be her wedding dress, part of her mind had found it impossible to credit that it really was going to happen. She had felt a sense of disbelief, of unreality…

  When they reached the edge of town, as though it had lain in wait like some playful animal, a hot desert wind sprang up.

  It pounced on the fine sandy grit at the side of the unpaved road, swirling it into dust-devils, and bowled a tangle of dry and spiky vegetation along like tumble-weed, before ruffling Lang’s thick blond hair and tossing Cassandra’s tangle of loose curls.

  Since they’d left the Golden Phoenix neither of them had spoken, each busy with their thoughts. Now, slanting her a glance, Lang broke the silence to remark, ‘Soon be there.’

  A moment or two later a sprawl of pastel-washed buildings came into view. Amongst them were several places to eat, some turn-of-the-century shops, and a saloon with a wooden railing and boardwalk.

  The scene was charming and colourful, with bougainvillaea-draped walls and several varieties of cacti flowering in brilliant profusion. A few people were wandering about, but most of them looked like tourists, rather than locals.

  In the centre of the village, in a dusty, sun-baked square, stood a little white chapel with narrow windows and adobe walls. Simple and picturesque, Spanish in style, its bell was sharply outlined against a cloudless, cornflower-blue sky.

  ‘This is it,’ Lang remarked, bringing the car to a halt beneath the shade of an old, gnarled tree.

  Surprised, she admitted, ‘It isn’t a bit what I’d expected.’

  ‘Although the Chapel of San Miguel is still used for “instant weddings” it’s somewhat better than average. There are no plastic flowers or highly scented candles, no guitar-playing Elvis look-a-likes singing “Love me Tender”, and no warm “champagne”.’

  Jumping out, he came round to open the door and help her out, before handing her her bouquet.

  Looking around, wanting to buy a little time, she asked, ‘Is this a genuine, lived-in village, or some kind of tourist attraction?’

  ‘It used to be lived in, but now it’s just a showplace for tourists to visit, I’m afraid. Though of its kind, it’s quite well done.’

  Taking her hand, he tucked it under his arm and led the way towards the chapel. At the old, sun-warmed doors they were met and greeted by a slim, petite, no longer young woman, wearing a fawn suit and a trim white blouse with a bow at the neck.

  Though Lang had made it clear that this was still essentially a Las Vegas-type wedding, Cassandra had half expected a black-frocked priest.

  Smiling pleasantly, the woman queried, ‘Mr Dalton and Miss Vallance? I’m Emmaline Veras… How nice to meet you.’ She shook hands with them both.

  Then, obviously used to dealing in practicalities, she suggested to Cassandra, ‘As you’re wearing an engagement ring, it might be a good idea to move it over to your other hand.’

  The swap duly made, she led the way inside. ‘Everything’s ready for you. Mr and Mrs Lopez will act as your witnesses.’

  Smiling, the witnesses rose from the back pew where they’d been waiting. Mr Lopez was wearing a flower in his buttonhole. All four shook hands before the bridal pair moved on.

  The chapel was cool and dim after the glare, with rough white-plaster walls and a plain wooden altar. An equally plain wooden cross was flanked by twisted, black metal candlesticks.

  When they reached the altar steps, obeying a sudden impulse, Cassandra put her bouquet down on the front pew and, pulling free a single carnation, turned to put it in Lang’s buttonhole.

  As they stood facing each other, their eyes met and held. Some emotion she was unable to decipher flared in his, before he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the palm.

  How long they stood there gazing into each other’s eyes before Emmaline Veras cleared her throat to gain their attention, Cassandra never knew. But when she tore her gaze away from Lang’s she felt oddly giddy and light-headed.

  A moment later the ceremony began. Though it was very short and to the point, the age-old, solemn phrases were still used and still held meaning.

  ‘Do you take…? With this ring…’

  Like someone in a dream Cassandra listened to Lang’s responses, made her own, and watched him produce a plain gold ring which he slid on to her finger.

  A few moments later it was all over.

  ‘By the authority invested in me… Man and wife… You may kiss the br
ide.’

  Lang’s kiss, though light, was proprietorial enough to leave her breathless and shaken.

  After more handshakes and thanks all round, Lang passed a discreet but, Cassandra guessed, liberal gratuity to the witnesses, and they made their way to the door.

  Outside, a battered pick-up had been parked next to the convertible, and a young couple, little more than teenagers, were standing in the hot sun waiting.

  The bride-to-be was wearing a new and pretty, but obviously inexpensive, dress, in shades of pink and blue. She carried no flowers.

  Cassandra glanced at Lang who, apparently reading her thoughts, gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  As the pair approached, she invited, smiling, ‘Catch,’ and tossed her bouquet.

  The girl caught it, and smiled back. ‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’ She made to return the bouquet.

  ‘Oh, please keep it,’ Cassandra urged. ‘I’d like you to.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s beautiful.’ The girl’s face flushed with pleasure. Frankly, she added, ‘Pete and I decided that instead of spending what little money we had on flowers we’d have a special meal out tonight to celebrate.’

  ‘Then perhaps, as a wedding present, you’d allow us to contribute a bottle of champagne?’ Unobtrusively, Lang passed the fresh-faced bridegroom a folded bill.

  He was rewarded by an earnest, ‘Gee, thanks! This sure is turning out to be our lucky day!’

  The pair smiled joyfully at each other and, holding hands, moved forward to be greeted by Emmaline Veras. Cassandra sighed, envying their obvious happiness. They looked so elated, so sure of themselves and their love for each other. Whereas she was full of doubts and fears, of anger and resentment, of anxiety over the present—she still had to think of some way to break the news to Alan—and dread of the future.

  Watching her expressive face, Lang lifted a level brow. ‘Bad as that?’ Though his tone was mocking, his expression showed genuine understanding, perhaps even a hint of sympathy.

  ‘What time is Alan due back?’ she asked baldly.

  ‘Not until late this evening.’