Oh, so that was it. He respected her professionally. She swallowed the metallic taste of disappointment. Yet she pondered what he’d told her, couldn’t stop prying into his personal life. 'Is that why you’re not married? Is that why you don’t have children?'
'Partly. I love my work—there’s no room for a wife. If I get married I want to do it properly. I want to know it’s going to last,' he said, staring at her intensely.
'I know. If that was on the cards for me I’d want the same. I’d definitely be the kind of parent who enabled my child's dreams. I have the blueprints of what not to do.'
He nodded in agreement. 'What if I could enable your dreams? What would you wish for?'
I’d wish for you. I’d wish you knew how I felt. I wish I was brave enough to tell you that I can’t stop loving you/falling in love with you.
'I’d wish I was brave enough to expose my work in a gallery one day.'
His eyes glistened, widening into big azure pools of delight, as though the idea excited him. Then he looked at her with such intensity she thought her soul would burst.
'Nothing else?'
'Nope.' she lied.
'Why no ring?'' He lifted her hand, sending a tsunami of longing flowing through her.
'I dunno.' Issy, pulled her hand away, and flicked at her nails. Suddenly she wanted to open up to him. To risk telling him things that would make him walk away, stay away. 'You’ll probably think I’m a train-wreck. I’ve had rings. Plenty of them. But after a while they end up losing their shine. Know what I mean? I don’t care for fool’s gold anymore.'
He said nothing, just sat, looking at her in such a way that she suddenly didn’t want to hide anything from him anymore.
'First prize, someone says they love you. Second prize a ring. Third prize, they disappear into the arms of another.'
'Good job.'
'What?'
'Well if they’re not loyal you’re better off knowing that before you get married. Marriage is sacrosanct. It’s forever.'
'Is that why you never got married?'
'I’m not marriage material.' he said, his tone hinting at some truth he didn’t wish to reveal. 'At least you’re not afraid to commit.'
Issy laughed. 'I should be. Relationships just seem so transitory. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I was looking for love in the arms of all the wrong men.'
'I thought, geeze, Issy, you’re 27—we’re talking five years ago—you really have to get your crap together. So I tried to love someone who I thought would be good for me. Enter James. An investment banker—practical, grounded, conservative—he ticked all the boxes. Or at least I thought he did.'
'Boring – he sounds boring.'
Issy laughed. 'Yeah, he was pretty painful.' She bit her lip. But I really wanted kids. And I thought he would be a good provider, a great dad. So when he asked me to marry him, I thought why not? I always dreamt that one day I'd find myself in some field somewhere, standing on grass, and it's raining, and I'm with the person I really, really love. And he really, really loves me back.'
'So what happened?'
'I tried to be what I thought he wanted. To fit in, I changed my clothes, my hair … . '
'You mean pink’s not your natural color?'
'This?' she said, trailing her fingers through her hair. 'This is Push-off pink – that’s what I call it. The color I chose when it all crashed and burned. It couldn’t have been more spectacular.'
'I know this sound corny, but all I ever wanted was to be cherished. I wanted to be loved for me. But mostly I wanted a promise keeper.' She shrugged. 'I wanted the impossible.'
'You’re zany. You’re unpredictable. You’re fabulous. I love that you’re someone who is anything but perfect. Don’t change for any man. You’re wonderful. Any man would be lucky to have you.’
'Any man but you?' Her thoughts blurted forth before she could reign them in.
'What?'
'Forget it, I was just being provocative. There’s no way we’d work. We’re opposite in every way. I’m chalk, and you’re mozzarella.'
'Opposites attract, mia cara,' he said, as the energy sparked, and cracked, and hissed between them
‘There must be a reason for that.’
*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
'Marry me.' The words spun out of his smiling mouth before his mind could censor. Like a riderless horse his passion had run away from him. For the first time in years he’d happily let it run free. He couldn’t stop grinning as he waited for her response.
Issy looked up at him. Her eyes once dreamy now flared wide. 'What—did you say? Her saw her body stiffen as though every cell of her body were afraid.
'Marry me.'
'Why?' she stammered.
'Why?' Why was she asking so many questions? A sinking feeling invaded his gut. He tightened his clasp as she tried to pull away. 'In these last few days you’ve given me my life back.'
'How? You said it yourself, we’re opposites in every way. I’m chaotic, you love structure. I’m late and you’re early, I’m talk and you’re silence.'
He brought his mouth down upon her doubting lips, needing to know that she felt the way he felt. Fire exploded around them as his tongue met hers, devouring every protest. A thrill of electricity jackknifed between them as she yielded to him, melting momentarily in his arms.
Her eyes welled with tears. She pulled her hand away, pressing it against her mouth.
'You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.'
'Te amo,' he said. 'I love you.'
'No, you don’t love me. Not for me. You love me as your muse. You love me because I’ve given you back your creativity. But I want more. I don’t want to be paraded, draped in your designs, relegated to a muse whose only purpose is to penetrate and stimulate your creativity, to bring forth ideas from the womb of your mind, to give birth to nothing but frocks and necklaces and buildings. Because I, stupid fool that I am, love you and I want to live in your heart.'
'My work is everything,' he heard the emptiness in his words, and wished he hadn’t spoken. It was him that was the fool.
'And what about my work? What about my ambitions? My dreams? Are they to be relegated to the back seat because your needs come first. Name me one muse who is famous for her creativity.'
'I didn’t know you wanted to be famous.'
'That’s not the point. I just don’t want to be forgotten, devoured by your work, useful only to be the mid-wife to your creative babies. I want real babies. Your babies.'
'I didn’t know—you never said.'
She paused. 'You never asked.'
'I’m asking now.'
'It’s too late. You don’t mean it.' She took a ragged breath and turned from him, tears streaming down her cheeks. 'I can’t be the woman you want.'
*
'You did what?' Nancy blurted down the phone.
'I told you,' Issy said, trying to mask the defensiveness in her voice.
'If you told me a hundred times I wouldn’t believe it. But tell me again.'
'Getting him to express his feelings had been the sole purpose of the trip—it’s what Passion Down Under tours was about, right? It’s why I was drawn here to work as an art therapist. I just didn’t think he’d propose. I mean, sure I dreamed about. But it’s a fantasy, right? I mean, I can’t just go waltzing into his glamour life, can I?'
Issy sat beneath the starry sky, wrapped beneath a black velvet cloak of aloneness. 'Oh, God. Let’s face it—when it comes to relationships I’m a train wreck.' Here she was on Christmas Eve in one of the most beautiful, most romantic places on earth and she had no one to share it with. 'I’m a fool aren’t I, Nancy?'
'That’s putting it mildly! You rejected the guy. Not just any guy—but one of the world’s sexiest, wealthiest and, from what you’ve told me, kindest billionaire bachelors. The guy’s a keeper. But you, Issy Jane Riley, push eject.' Nancy sighed. 'Have you completely lost your mind?'
'Here I am in paradis
e on one of the most beautiful nights of the year – alone with a can of Pringles, and a glass of diet Coke. I’ve fucked up, haven’t I?'
'Yip. Geeze, how did the poor guy handle it?'
'He confirmed my suspicions.'
'Your suspicions.'
'He laughed. Told me he was just kidding around. That he’s only asked me because he felt sorry for me.'
'And you believed him?'
'Why wouldn’t I? Look, I’m no oil painting, I’m at least four dress sizes bigger than most of the stick-insect models he dates—'
'Has anyone told you, you’re impossible. You’re a goddess of beauty. You are a wondrously beautiful being of light, a creative woman, a spiritual woman, a generous woman—you have everything going for you. Everything. There is nothing to change or fix. A guy like Max would be lucky to have you. And he knows it. And it’s time you knew it too. Stop running yourself down. Just be yourself, just love and accept yourself as you are.'
Issy shrugged and pressed her phone to her ear, picking out some Pringles with her free hand.
'So where is he now?'
'At the local village, with Tukana and his family. They’re having a Christmas Eve party.'
'Go Issy. Go!'
'Issy. You came!' Tukana said, spotting her hovering self-consciously at the edge of the village. 'Come. Come drink Kava and then we shall dance.'
Kava sounded like a great idea, she thought, searching through the Fijians seated on traditional woven mats under the stars for the one familiar face she realized with a sting she longed to see.
'Where is Max?' she asked, injecting her voice with what she hoped would be taken for disinterest. If she was going to stick her neck out trying to win his affection better keep it a private affair. She wasn’t a hundred percent certain he would accept her, not after her stinging rejection. Not fifty percent. Not even twenty percent. The man had turned into an emotional refrigerator.
Where was he, she wondered, her heart filling with disappointment as she sat down beside Tukana? She grasped the hollowed half of a coconut he passed her and drank the murky liquid, as approving eyes nodded to the sound of three deep claps.
The Kava was stronger than she remembered and she felt her mouth tingle then go numb. Almost instantly she was handed another Kava and she noticed it had come from the Chief’s bowl—a large ornately carved wooden bowl which sat on three short wooden legs in front of him.
'The chief says it’s been an honour to have you both in our village,' Tukana said.
His words were said so thoughtfully and earnestly anyone overhearing them would have thought she was the Queen.
‘It’s me who’s been honoured,' she said. 'I am only sorry to be leaving.'
'He is a marked man,' Tukana said, nodding to the left of them, where a group was dancing.
'Sorry?'
'Max. All the women of the village want to dance with him. He has been dancing all night.'
Max dancing? She followed his gaze. There was nothing to explain the sudden surge of jealousy. It was an innately primitive response, entirely out of character and out of order given that to all intents and purposes she was still his employee—her only purpose to get him through a particularly stressful time.
Max didn’t look in the least bit stressed now, she judged, feeling a stabbing pain in her chest, her adrenaline racing as she watched him sway his far too sexy cotton-clad butt to the music, smiling broadly at the young Fijian woman who smiled equally broadly back. Unlike many of the other Fijian girls with their tight springs of wiry black hair, her hair fell down her back in a cascade of silken black ending where his hand pressed gently on the small of her back as he guided her into a twirl.
She laughed with the confidence of a young woman who, as the other women watching her admiringly also knew, was in the dawn of her youth—her beauty a bud ready to burst into flower. A girl with her looks could easily be Italy’s Next Top Model.
Issy turned to leave, feeling suddenly old and frumpy—what the hell had she been thinking? Suddenly a handsome young Fijian man in a cheery pink top scattered with lemon hibiscus flowers approached her.
'Would you like to dance?' he said gently. Unlike the Fijian women with their air of confidence and willingness to take the lead he appeared a little hesitant.
Around them, men sat cross-legged drinking Kava and smiling approvingly.
The music played by local men who, after finding success in Australia, had returned for Christmas to the village. Their sound was powerful and spiritual, sung deep from the heart. Although loud, courtesy of the amplifier the village had recently purchased following a successful fundraising trip to Melbourne, the lyrics and beat had none of the irritating bass and angry angst laden words that characterised so much of Western music.
It was enticing and invigorating, and whether it was this or the Kava suddenly taking effect, Issy agreed to his request.
Why not, she thought, fighting a smidgen of self-conscious paralysis? If Max could loosen up, let himself relax, chillax, she was allowed to dance and have fun too.
'I’d love to,' and she walked with him to the centre of the floor feeling ‘ridiculously free’. She closed her eyes and let the music take her. She danced like she’d never been hurt, letting the music wash all the disappointment and pain of the last year away. And she was smiling too as she raised her arms like everyone else and threw her head back and let her body move to the rhythm.
And she danced and worked hard to have fun, ignoring the small nagging part of her that wished she was dancing with Max.
*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was his fault. He’d been the dumbnut to rush things. He'd blurted it out in a reckless sort of spontaneity, only to realize he was deadly serious. He wanted to marry Issy Riley more than anything in the world. There was no point analyzing, or rationalising, or any other rational tool upon wish he had always staked his future. Like the Fijian heat, love had been inescapable. He had not sought it, not chosen it, but now, dare he admit it, he’d got used to it and didn’t want to ever go back to the cold.
The cold of a bed devoid of love, the cold of a ballooning bank balance with no wife or children of his own to share it with, the cold of a calculating, at times soulless commercially driven fashion world devoid of the balance a wife and children at home. Something he knew with punching certainty Issy would bring.
And now she was with dancing with another man, and it took a superhuman effort not to stride through the crowd of dancers and drag her away like a prehistoric caveman taking his woman.
Did it make it better or worse that she wasn’t even looking at him?
Better, he decided, and then thought that, no, actually it made things infinitely worse.
He told himself she was just dancing, as were about one hundred other people around her, but then the music slowed and the change in the tempo of the music immediately charged the atmosphere.
The dancing shifted from impersonal to personal as the voices and lyrics reached deep into what—if he believed in such a thing—he would call his soul. Something deeply moving penetrated parts of his psyche he’d long thought dead.
The musicians and crowd swayed from side to side like coconut fronds in a warm breeze.
Max watched through narrowed eyes as hands curved into the centre of Issy’s back. That smooth, bare back that had been distracting him all evening.
Max had a sudden image of the flickering of flames of the torches scattered around the garden throwing a bewitching firelight on her soft skin that night he had first claimed her as his own. Suddenly he was striding toward her, snaking past entwined couples, until he reached his target.
If he’d been asked to explain his behavior he couldn’t have done so. Not once had he ever pursued a woman and never had he cared enough about a woman to extract her from the clutches of another.
He would fight for her, if it came to that. She was his woman. He was her man.
'My dance,' he said without hesitation. The F
ijian man, sensing it was a command not a request, acknowledged it with a reluctant smile and a nod of the head, as he dropped his hand from Issy’s hip and backed away.
'Perhaps I’ll have the next dance,' he murmured, and Max felt his mood grow darker.
'I’ve got the next dance covered, and the ones after that.'
*
Issy went to object, but closed her mouth, swallowing a strange honey-taste of pleasure, as his hand slid around her waist and pulled her against him before she could object. Suddenly she didn’t mind being controlled. She liked the assertive way he held her as though claiming her.
She folded into his chest, her body moulding into his with the familiarity of a favorite leather chair, the imprint of the intimacy they’d shared growing strong.
They were surrounded by people, and yet they might as well have been alone for all the difference it made to the attraction.
Their bodies already knew each other, the remembrance was there and with it the scorching memories. And she felt the sparks ignite between them. It was no longer a simple dance. This time it was forever.
The music stopped and they stood staring at each other. Before the band had a chance to kick into their next set he grabbed her wrist. 'Come on, let’s get out of here.'
She felt her pulse flutter against his fingers as he guided her off the dance floor in long confident strides.
'What’s the hurry?'
'I won’t accept no.' He lifted her face, cupping her chin beneath his fingers. She lifted her eyes to his, emerald green eyes where past, future and present melded into one. 'I know you’re frightened. I’m frightened too. I can’t give you guarantees but all I know with certainty is that I love you. Can’t you see that. How many times do I have to tell you?'
'Tell me again,' she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
'Te amo, mia principessa.'
'I was stupid,' she said, her voice quivering, her lips parting softly, the moisture of the hot balmy evening making her skin glow. 'What we …'
The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride Page 15