by Lucy Gordon;Sarah Morgan;Robyn Donald;Lucy Monroe;Lee Wilkinson;Kate Walker
She heard his short, sharp sigh of relief, before he said, ‘As I’d applied for, and been granted, a special licence, the only thing necessary was to alter the name of the bride. That I did yesterday, while you were getting ready for the party.’
‘Then this was already planned! You must have been very sure I’d agree.’ Her voice held more than a touch of bitterness.
‘Hardly,’ he answered drily. ‘But you know what they say: Faint heart never won fair lady…’
‘Won hardly seems to be the appropriate word.’
‘You consider coerced would more apposite?’
‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘Though I feel sure you’d hate to see Varley languishing in prison, I don’t believe that was what…shall we say…swayed you?’
‘Oh?’
‘I think, possibly at some subconscious level, you want to marry me.’
What if he’d guessed the truth? Feeling hollow inside, she asked, ‘What makes you think that?’
‘For one thing you kept the ring on…And for another there’s a strong sexual bond between us, and has been since we first laid eyes on each other.’
He tipped her face up to his and looked into her eyes. ‘You may loathe me, but you still want me.’
‘I don’t loathe you,’ she said in a small voice.
He smiled. ‘Then there’s hope for us yet.’
After spending some time downstairs in his study, apparently making and receiving phone calls, Blaze put their small amount of luggage into the car and they set off for London.
It was a fine, bright day, and after an easy drive they reached Mayfair by early evening, and took what Blaze quizzically described as ‘the scenic route’ to Abercrombie Square.
Noting that the surroundings were familiar, without thinking, Fran remarked, ‘Isn’t your flat somewhere near here?’ Then, recalling the nights she’d spent there, she found herself blushing furiously.
Blaze slanted her an amused glance. ‘Yes, it’s just a bit further on. I’m pleased to see you remember it…’
The attractive little corner flat on Green Lane had overlooked some leafy gardens and an old grey church. A quiet backwater in the centre of town, it had been a favourite of Blaze’s, and she was wondering why they weren’t staying there instead of a hotel when he added casually, ‘I decided not to keep it.’
Seeing her surprise, he explained, ‘Somehow a service flat, however pleasant, never seems like home, so I ended the lease when I went back to the States.’
He turned down Abercrombie Street and into the square, and while she was still puzzling over his stated reason for giving up the flat they drew up outside the dignified entrance of the Empire Park.
Blaze tossed the car keys to a uniformed garage attendant, and a moment later the manager, a pleasant-looking man in his fifties, appeared to greet them by name and personally usher them up to the penthouse suite.
Two bell-boys followed behind, one with their small amount of luggage, the other with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two long-stemmed crystal glasses.
The suite was quietly palatial, with an elegant sitting room and two large bedrooms separated by a dressing room. From the sitting room sliding glass panels opened on to a roofed terrace, screened by a lattice-work grille.
When the manager and his minions had taken their leave, Blaze looked at the two pieces of luggage which had been placed side by side in the master bedroom, and with a slightly mocking gleam in his eyes asked, ‘Are you happy with this arrangement?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he went on, ‘Or would you like to observe the proprieties until we’re married?’
‘You mean separate rooms?’
‘As I’d like us to share a room when we’re married, this could well be your last chance to sleep alone.’ As she hesitated, he added, ‘The choice is yours.’ But it was obvious he had no doubt of her answer.
Feeling a sudden urge to deflate his ego, she said sweetly, ‘In that case, I’ll take this opportunity to be alone.’
‘Very well.’ If he was at all put out, he didn’t show it. Picking up her case, he carried it through to the other bedroom.
Then, glancing at his watch, he suggested, ‘We’ve plenty of time before dinner, so how about a spot of decadence?’
Cautiously, she said, ‘It rather depends what you mean by decadence.’
He gave her a mocking grin. ‘Nothing very terrible. Just a glass of champagne in the Jacuzzi.’
‘Do we have a Jacuzzi?’
‘There’s one on the terrace.’
‘I haven’t got a bathing costume.’
‘You won’t need a bathing costume. It’s shielded from every direction, and quite private.’ Seeing she was about to refuse, he raised a dark brow. ‘Too daring for you?’
Stung by the taunt, and remembering his remark about Melinda being more adventurous, she said, ‘Not at all. Give me a couple of minutes.’
Fran took off her clothes and put on a white towelling robe that was hanging in the bathroom before venturing on to the terrace.
To the left, marble steps led down to a sunken area with mosaic-type tiles that reminded her of a Roman bath-house. In the centre was a Jacuzzi, from which steam was rising gently.
She had hoped to be the first in, but, his towelling robe hanging over a convenient rail, Blaze was already seated on the bench that ran around the bath, bubbling water up to his chest.
Still oddly shy, in spite of everything, she saw with relief that his head was back and his heavy lids were closed, the dark lashes lying on his hard cheeks.
Barefoot and silent, she took off her own robe and hung it next to Blaze’s, before turning to go down the steps.
With something of a shock she saw that his eyes were open and he was studying her slim body and long, shapely legs with undisguised interest and admiration.
Feeling her colour start to rise betrayingly, she kept her head high and, gathering her composure round her like a cloak, walked slowly down the pale marble steps and into the hot water.
He held out a hand, and when she took it pulled her down beside him. ‘Bravo,’ he applauded softly. ‘You certainly don’t lack spirit…And your figure is even better than I remember.’
Red as a poppy, she made no reply.
‘Champagne?’ He turned to reach behind him, where the bottle was waiting. Easing off the cork with a pop, he filled two glasses with the smoking wine and handed her one, before lifting his own in a toast. ‘To us!’
‘To us,’ she echoed.
They sipped in silence, the combination of hot bubbling water and cold bubbling wine a strangely potent one.
When their glasses were empty, Blaze returned them both to the tray. As he did so his arm lightly brushed against her breast, and she caught her breath.
She saw by his small, satisfied smile that he was well aware of her reaction.
Leaning her head back against the padded rest, she closed her eyes and tried to relax while the underwater jets, at once soothing and invigorating, massaged her torso and limbs. Blaze sat quietly, making no further effort to talk. But, very aware of his supple, naked body beside her, it was several minutes before some of Fran’s tension began to slacken.
He on the other hand seemed to be totally at ease, his breathing light and even. A surreptitious glance from beneath her long lashes proved that his eyes were closed once more.
She had just decided that he was asleep when he moved a fraction, and the length of his muscular thigh touched hers.
Stiffening, she was about to inch away when some instinct warned that he was only pretending to be asleep, and was intent on teasing her.
Determined not to be teased, she stayed where she was, while every nerve-ending in her body zinged into life.
After perhaps thirty seconds, with a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan, he admitted, ‘Okay, you win.’ Then, ruefully, ‘Hoist with my own petard.’ Taking her hand he put it on his firm flesh, trapping it there.
‘Serves yo
u right,’ she said with malicious satisfaction.
‘Now that’s what I call heartless.’ His eyes on her breasts, he added, ‘However, I’d hazard a guess that you’re not totally unaffected.’
When, unable to deny it, she stayed silent, with a gleam in his eye he suggested softly, ‘We’ve time to do something about it before dinner, if you like?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d prefer to observe the proprieties until we’re married, as we agreed.’
Sighing, he released her.
Absurdly disappointed that he’d taken her at her word, she said, ‘You mentioned half an hour. It must be all of that, and I’m beginning to feel hungry. So if you don’t mind I think I’ll start to get ready.’
‘By all means,’ he agreed politely.
She got to her feet and, aware that he was watching her, made as dignified a retreat as possible.
Pulling on the towelling robe, she belted it securely before turning to ask, ‘Are we eating in the hotel?’
He followed her out of the bath, water pouring down his long, straight legs, and, shrugging into his own robe, shook his head. ‘I was thinking of taking you to the Medici.’
Fran knew that the Medici, which was quite close to Park Lane, was rated as one of the top London restaurants, and her heart sank.
‘Have you already booked?’ she asked anxiously.
‘No.’
‘Will you be able to get a table this late?’
His voice casual, he answered, ‘I think so.’
Though he’d said think, she knew he must be quite certain.
‘Only I’ve really nothing to wear,’ she admitted.
‘What about the cocktail dress you wore on Friday? That looked quite charming.’
With a clear picture in her mind of Melinda’s wardrobe, with its rail of elegant designer dresses, Fran said in a rush, ‘It’s not very posh…I—I don’t want you to be ashamed of me.’
‘I won’t be ashamed of you.’
Forced to be content with that assurance, she went through to her bedroom, and, opening her case, took out the dress.
It was off the peg and inexpensive, but at least the material was the uncrushable variety, and it had a lined stole which would serve as an evening cloak.
Having dressed and made up with care, she studied herself in the full-length mirror and decided that, though she was no match for Melinda, she would pass muster.
The stole over her arm, she went back to the living room to find that Blaze, wearing a well-cut evening jacket, was standing by the window waiting.
Though her feet were quite silent on the thick carpet he turned at her approach, making her wonder whether he had some kind of sixth sense.
His eyes travelling slowly over her, from the smooth chignon, which emphasised her pure bone structure, to her slim silk-clad ankles, he nodded in silent approval.
Then, taking the stole, he moved behind her to put it around her shoulders, at the same time stooping to touch his lips to the vulnerable spot where her neck and shoulder joined.
The caress made a little shiver run through her, and heightened the sexual tension which still gripped them both.
One of his hands went round her waist to draw her against him while the other slid beneath her chin and tilted her head back. His mouth was only inches from hers when his mobile phone began to bleep.
He muttered, ‘Damn!’ and, straightening, drew it from his pocket.
Moving away, she watched his face as he answered curtly, ‘Balantyne…Yes…Yes, I see…Where…? You’re quite sure…? Excellent…Yes, I’ll be there…Twenty minutes…Half an hour at the most…’
His grey eyes were bright, the set of his dark head alert, and she could sense both a leashed excitement and a steely purpose behind his quietly controlled manner.
Dropping the small phone back into his pocket, he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but our dinner venue has changed.’
‘No, I don’t mind at all,’ she assured him, and waited for him to tell her where they were going and why the change of plan.
But with no further explanation he hurried her out of the penthouse, across the luxurious foyer, and into the lift.
Chapter Nine
THEY were just crossing the main lobby when a taxi drew up outside to deposit some guests.
‘Just what we need,’ Blaze said with satisfaction. He signalled to the driver, gave an address Fran didn’t catch and, having handed her in, jumped in beside her.
As they headed west, he added, ‘This will be more convenient than taking the car.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘The Royal George. It’s a small hotel not far from Kensington High Street.’
He didn’t volunteer any further information, and, though puzzled by the sudden change of location, she didn’t ask for any.
As they headed for Kensington in the gathering dusk, shop windows made the pavements bright, and street lamps glowed orange against the deep blue of the sky. There were few pedestrians about, and even the traffic was fairly light.
The Royal George was in Newlands Street, a quiet culde-sac. Once a handsome private house, now a hotel with a porticoed entrance, it displayed a board with gold lettering advising that the Georgian Room was open to non-residents.
At first glance it didn’t strike Fran as the kind of place that Blaze would favour, but clearly she was wrong.
Having helped her out of the taxi, he had a low-toned conversation with the driver before escorting her up the steps and across the wine-red carpeted lobby to the Georgian Room.
Its decor was early nineteen-hundreds and unappealing, with dark walls and heavy lampshades, while the atmosphere was stifling in its respectability.
Fran wasn’t in the least surprised to see that there were only two tables occupied.
One was close to the door, and as they walked past it a middle-aged couple—a woman with crimped grey hair and a balding man—paused in their discussion of what to have for dessert to glance up at them.
The other was at the far side of the room, in a gloomy alcove partially screened by a collection of dejected-looking aspidistras.
A hand beneath her elbow, Blaze led Fran across the room and over to the table in the alcove, where another couple were eating in silence.
Fran was still staring at the pair in stunned disbelief when Blaze said smoothly, ‘Good evening. I hope you don’t mind if we join you?’
The man and the woman looked up, startled. As both faces reflected shock and dismay Blaze added conversationally, ‘I wouldn’t have thought this place was quite your style.’
Melinda was easily the first to recover. ‘Nor yours, Edward darling.’
Blaze smiled grimly. ‘It seems we all had a special reason for coming here.’
Sitting quite still, his shoulders hunched defensively, Kirk looked for all the world like someone who had just received a fist in the solar plexus.
Melinda glanced from one man to the other, and with a poise that in the circumstances Fran was forced to admire, said coolly, ‘I don’t believe you two men have met. Kirk, this is Edward Balantyne…Edward, Kirk Varley…’
‘Forgive me if I don’t shake hands,’ Blaze said, more than a hint of contempt in his voice.
Pulling out a chair, he pressed Fran into it before taking the remaining seat.
As he settled himself an elderly waiter appeared and presented them each with a menu. Having given his a cursory glance, Blaze looked up to ask, ‘Is there anything you can recommend?’
Looking quite pleased to be consulted, the waiter suggested, ‘At the moment we have a French chef whose speciality is Coquilles Saint-Jacques…’
‘Francesca?’ Blaze raised an enquiring brow.
Her voice having deserted her, she nodded.
‘Coquilles Saint-Jacques it is, then, and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé.’
When the waiter had gone, Melinda, who seemed determined to treat the whole thing lightly, asked, ‘So how did you know we’d be he
re?’
‘How do you think?’
‘Oh, dear! And we felt sure we’d given that odious little man the slip when we stopped at a service station. I guess there must have been more than one of them?’
‘The agency was learning from past mistakes.’
‘Why were you having us followed?’
‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you.’
Carefully, she said, ‘I presume you have the necklace?’
‘Yes, it was delivered safely.’
‘What do you think of it?’
‘The design is beautiful. It’s a pity the stones aren’t real.’
She sighed. ‘Kirk said it wouldn’t take you long to spot a fake.’ Then, looking at Fran for the first time, she asked, ‘Just for curiosity, how did it come to be delivered safely?’
‘I wasn’t happy about carrying it.’ To Fran’s surprise, her voice sounded almost normal. ‘So I decided to wear it.’
Jumping to his feet, Kirk snarled, ‘You stupid little bitch! If you’d done as you were told, none of this would have happened. Why in hell’s name couldn’t you—?’
‘That’s enough!’ Though quiet, Blaze’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘I’d strongly advise you to sit down.’
When the other man had sunk back into his seat, he added coldly, ‘And mind what you’re saying in future. If you speak to Francesca like that again, I’ll break your neck.’
‘There’s no need to get angry, darling,’ Melinda reproved him. ‘You can’t blame Kirk for being upset. All his plans have gone wrong, and frankly the whole thing has turned into a nightmare that I would rather not be involved in…’
Blaze gave her a straight look. ‘I haven’t the faintest doubt that you planned everything together. So it’s a bit late to try and come the innocent.’
Melinda pouted at him prettily. ‘Darling, how ungallant of you. And as a matter of fact it was…’ She was interrupted by the waiter bringing a bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé.
Almost as soon as Blaze had tried it, nodded his approval and indicated that four wine glasses were to be poured, the coquilles arrived.