“Unless there were other exes that I missed the pleasure of meeting tonight, then, yes, Madeleine.”
“Is that what she told you? That she is my ex-girlfriend?”
“Not in so many words, but that is the message she delivered.” With every barbed word, with every murderous look. “I felt the daggers in my back. Would you care to check for wounds?”
His breath checked, as if that answer had amused him again. “Later,” he promised. Then, when Isabelle’s glare darkened, “Do not believe everything Madeleine tells you.”
“Are you telling me she’s not an ex?”
“Neither girlfriend nor lover.”
He’d leaned forward to capture her gaze, and despite the deception of the shadows she could not ignore the sincerity in his voice or eyes. Damn him. “Then her possessiveness is…?”
“A misunderstanding.”
Isabelle puffed out a breath full of scepticism. “She misunderstood your interest in her? You’re really ‘just good friends’?”
“Exactly. I’ve known her from the weekend I arrived in England. David and Rani and Madeleine were the first to welcome me. Our parents were the closest of friends. We spent a lot of time together growing up. Our parents jested about us as a couple.” He paused, raked a hand through his hair, and despite the matter-of-fact delivery Isabelle realised that he was uncomfortable with the subject. “My mother has, unfortunately, not given up on the joke.”
“She wants to arrange your marriage?”
“Exactly,” he said darkly. “In spite of her track record, Vivi believes everyone should be married.”
Obviously he didn’t. Isabelle remembered their conversation about Amanda’s engagement and his cynical comments on true love. She also remembered Madeleine’s cutting verbal skills—the woman’s blood might run cold with venom, but her mind was as sharp as her tongue. “Surely Madeleine couldn’t believe that possible, not without some encouragement from you.”
“After her mother died…” He shook his head, expelled a harsh breath. “David took it hard. Madeleine needed a friend.”
And Cristo was that friend, the old family connection. He’d already spoken and demonstrated his desire to do whatever was needed for his extended family. “She got the wrong idea,” Isabelle said slowly, “about your interest.”
“Madeleine has always been headstrong and overindulged.”
Isabelle thought of a few more pertinent adjectives, but she didn’t voice them. Already she had pieced together a picture she understood. Cristo at his kindest would be devastatingly hard to resist. How could she fault Madeleine for wanting him? “She is used to having whatever she wants, and now she wants you.”
“Something like that.”
In the lee of this exchange, Isabelle felt deflated and incredibly vulnerable. She hadn’t needed this extra insight into Cristo’s compassionate side—she was struggling enough with the powerful physical attraction—and now she felt unexpected sympathy for Madeleine and a degree of shame for her actions. This event was named in Rani Delahunty’s honour. The charity raised funds for the cancer that had claimed her life. It would have been a difficult night for Madeleine without having Cristo’s supposed new girlfriend flaunted in her face.
“So you took me along tonight,” she stated tightly, “to show Madeleine what she couldn’t have. Don’t you think it would have been kinder to tell her straight out that you’re just not that into her?”
“I have done so, many times, in many ways, but not tonight. I took you,” he said with the same quiet intensity, “because I wanted to.”
“Not to keep Madeleine at bay?”
“I’ve been keeping her at bay, as you put it, for half of my life. I do not need you for that, Isabelle.”
“But you kissed me because of her,” she persisted, because she had to maintain the fight. She could not start thinking about what he did need from her.
“I kissed you because I’d been wanting to ever since we met.”
“Even though you thought I was pregnant with Hugh Harrington’s baby?”
“I never wanted to believe that. This is what I wanted to believe.” Again he brushed the bare skin at her shoulder, this time as a deliberate demonstration of the man-woman awareness, the lightning streak of sunfire that burned in her nerve endings. “This chemistry, Isabelle, and the honesty I believed in your eyes.”
“Honesty?” She wanted to laugh, to scoff, but her bravado was going up in flames. “How can you believe that anything between us is genuine?”
This time he turned his hand, cupping her shoulder, clouding her resolve with the textured heat of his skin and his voice. “Would you be more inclined to believe if I demonstrated?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She drew in a calming breath. “There is nothing to prove.”
“I disagree. You are sceptical of my intent.” He took her hand, twined their fingers, used that leverage to pull her closer. “What if I kissed you again, with no audience and no ulterior motive?”
“Except to prove your point. Madeleine might be—”
“Forget Madeleine.”
“—used to having whatever she wants,” she continued strongly over his interjection, “but you are no better. I think you two have a lot in common. You should reconsider.”
“You are right on one score. I have grown used to having what I want, and I am honest enough to admit that I want you.” He stroked his thumb over the corner of her mouth. “How about you, Isabelle?”
She knew a challenge when it looked her in the eye, and this challenge held her gaze with unflinching boldness. Then he slid his hand from her shoulder to the bare skin of her back. A caress, an encouragement, a gentle pressure that brought her forward to meet his lowering mouth. “One little kiss,” he whispered against her lips, “as proof this chemistry is real.”
One. Little. Kiss.
Oh, no, this was so much more. It started where the last kiss had ended, a sweet, sensual seduction of her lips and her senses, but as soon as she surrendered—as soon as the hands that had come up to ward him off yielded to the temptation to touch—it plunged into so much more. It was a bold and thorough exploration of lips and tongues and skin, a yielding and a taking and a hunger that ripped through Isabelle the instant her mouth opened beneath his. She felt the tremor deep in her body, heard his throaty sound of satisfaction, tasted the satisfaction in a big dizzying gulp of acknowledgement.
This was real, this chemistry, this mutual wanting.
Then his hands took possession, pulling her onto his lap, drawing her tight against the hard heat of his body. It was shockingly raw and primal, his hands on her thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of her invisible knickers as he licked into her mouth. She shifted in his lap, finding a better angle for the kiss and a closer contact with the hard proof of his desire.
Lost in the potency of the moment, she forgot time, place, propriety, the thousand cautions she’d issued herself over the past days. She was greedy for more, for her hands on more than his shirt, more than his throat and his face. She wanted to feel his heat without barriers. She was too close, not close enough. She itched with the craziness of need, and when he swore softly the foreign word, his exasperation, the exhalation of breath hot against her skin, only inflamed her more. She turned in his lap, hands on his shirt buttons, her laugh a husky reflection of her impatience until she realised that he’d gone still and why he’d sworn.
His hands were no longer on her thighs but restraining her hands. The car was stationary, not as part of the slow crawl home through London traffic but because they had arrived at Wentworth Square. And someone was knocking at the car window.
Calmly Cristo shifted her to the seat beside him and straightened her dress, but when he opened the window he took her hand in a reassuring grip. She sucked in a deep breath, the world stopped spinning and the dark figure outside materialised into Crash’s craggy features.
“This had better be good,” Cristo said darkly.
&nbs
p; “Hugh called,” the butler replied shortly. “From Farnbo-rough.”
Pressed close against his side, Isabelle felt his muscles tense as his irritation with the interruption turned to instant alertness. “I thought he wasn’t due back until the weekend.”
“Apparently he called Amanda last night, and she mentioned Isabelle.”
“Of course she did.”
“He’s on his way here now. I thought you should know.”
Isabelle hadn’t thought that anything could wipe that kiss so quickly from her mind. This news had managed the impossible. Uncaring about her kissed-clean lips and mussed hair, she leaned forward into view. “Does Chessie know?”
“She was in the room when the call came in. She’s waiting in the library.”
Waiting for Hugh’s arrival was torture. A diplomatic Crash suggested that she might like to “freshen up,” but she shook her head. Nobody cared if her ridiculously expensive dress was slightly crumpled, her feet bare, her hair and makeup ravaged. Chessie hadn’t even noticed, a sure indication that despite her outward signs of preparedness and her assurances that she was more than ready for this meeting, her sister was jangling with nerves.
Isabelle forced her to sit and practice her breathing. “It’s never too early,” she said, taking her sister’s hand and demonstrating with a couple of exaggerated Lamaze-inspired breaths. Chessie laughed and almost relaxed until they heard someone outside the door and her grip turned almost punishing with sudden tension.
But it was only Crash bringing them tea, and a few minutes later Cristo returned from the male version of freshening up, which meant he no longer looked as though he’d been run over by a wildly turned-on woman. He’d changed into jeans and a light sweater. His eyes found Isabelle’s right away, steady, questioning, and she nodded a silent answer. We’re good. And she realised with a warm settling of her own nerves that this wasn’t a platitude, that with the calming strength of his presence they would get through this.
He took a chair opposite and distracted them both by asking Chessie about her visit to the National Gallery and then updating them on his horse Gisele’s improving health. He was so easy to listen to, so easy to watch as he explained the rudiments of polo to Chessie with words and hands and a stray ball he found on the desk. Chessie relaxed enough to ask questions, to laugh at his answers, although every so often her gaze flicked to the window overlooking the street.
When the doorbell rang, she lifted an inch off the sofa. “He’s here.”
Her words were superfluous—who else would be calling after midnight?—and barely audible despite the sudden silence. Cristo stood, his tension marked in the rigid set of his jaw and the flexing of his hands into fists. She wondered if that was merely an easing of tension or a sign of intent, but she could not feel any alarm on Hugh Harrington’s part. He deserved whatever was coming.
In the hallway outside they heard voices, Crash’s and another, but when Isabelle reached for Chessie’s hand, her sister shook her head. “I’m good,” she said. “I can do this.”
When the door opened and Crash stepped back to usher in the new arrival, Isabelle’s eyes remained on Chessie’s face. She saw her sister’s slight recoil, the small shake of her head as she looked from Hugh to Crash to Cristo. He was the first to speak, his voice as hard and dark as the ebony timber that dominated the room.
“Hugh,” he said. “I’m glad you saw fit to return home and face the music.”
“No.” Chessie was still shaking her head as she looked from one man to the other. “What’s going on? This is not Harry.”
Ten
Cristo watched the bewilderment on every face following Francesca’s declaration and Hugh’s equally adamant avowal that he was, as recently as one hour ago when his passport was last checked, Hugh Harrington. When Francesca argued that point, Hugh reached into an inside pocket and produced the document, which Chessie refused to look at.
“Are you Isabelle Browne?” Hugh asked, and Cristo had to step in and referee the confused melee of answers. Finally he managed to explain, to everyone’s satisfaction, the story of the sister swap in Melbourne.
“I am the pregnant one,” Francesca reiterated in case anyone was still in doubt. “But you are not my Harry.”
“No, I’m not,” Hugh said thoughtfully, and then he laughed softly with what sounded like wonderment. “I’ll be damned.”
“What?” Cristo asked at the same time as Isabelle.
“I am a Harry,” Hugh replied, and Cristo went still.
“Justin?” he asked sharply.
Hugh nodded. “He flew to Melbourne for the auction.”
“He stayed at this client’s house?”
“Just for one night.”
“Apparently that was enough,” Cristo murmured.
“Who are you talking about?” Isabelle stepped forward, her forehead creased in confusion. She placed her hand on Cristo’s arm and instantly had his attention. “Are there other Harrys?”
“Justin is Hugh’s elder brother. I didn’t know they shared the nickname. It didn’t cross my mind that it could be Justin.”
“I’ll say.” Hugh still looked bemused. “Would never have picked it.”
“Why not?” Francesca asked into the beat of pause that followed this announcement. “Please don’t tell me he is married or engaged or a serial—”
“No,” Hugh cut in. “Justin isn’t married, at least not anymore.”
Under a barrage of questions, the story finally came together. Hugh had been Harringtons’ man in situ in Australia back in January, doing the groundwork for a major estate sale. Justin arrived to oversee the auction before flying back to New York. According to Hugh, that encapsulated his brother’s life since the death of his wife last summer—constant travel, little sleep, working like an automaton. Which is why it had never crossed his mind that Justin could be the “Harry” Francesca sought.
Yes, they’d both been dubbed Harry at school, as had their father and grandfather and all Harrington men since time immemorial, but the nickname hadn’t stuck to Justin. Cristo understood why. Unlike his younger brother, Justin Harrington had never been one of the party-hard players around town. He’d always been serious—not a Harry but a Lord Justin Harrington, viscount and future earl, head of a traditional and ultra-conservative family business.
And, according to Hugh, he’d become a complete social hermit since Leesa’s tragic boating accident. “To the best of my knowledge, he has not even casually dated,” he confided to Cristo. “Must say I’m somewhat flummoxed by this evidence to the contrary. Do you think Chessie is on the up-and-up?”
“Do you think I would have brought her here from Australia and put her up in my home if I didn’t?”
“From what Amanda says, I thought that might have more to do with the sister.”
Cristo didn’t give him the benefit of an answer. It didn’t matter what any of them thought; the truth would be determined by Justin. Crash had turned up an auction brochure bearing his picture, and Francesca identified him with a conclusive nod before tapping a finger against the advertised sale date. “Is he in New York for this?”
“Not only for the auction,” Hugh replied. “A key executive resigned early this year. Left the Manhattan office in a bit of a jumble.”
“Is he expected home soon?”
“For the wedding. But with the Carmichael sale only days before, there’s some doubt he’ll even make the rehearsal. Your best bet would be to call him, although I wonder…” Harry ruminated for several seconds, his expression turning from thoughtful to diffident. “I wonder if you would mind terribly much if we kept this under our hats, as it were, until after the wedding. Justin is my best man, and I would rather he were at my side than dashing you off to Vegas.”
“That is not going to happen,” Francesca said with feeling.
“Then I beg you not to break this news to my family before the wedding.”
“Will they run me out of town?” she asked. “Or fo
rce me to the altar with a shotgun?”
Hugh reassured her that neither would be the case, although they might expect a wedding before the baby. “Rather old-fashioned in that regard,” he said, “but you’ve nothing to fear. Justin will insist on doing the responsible thing. That’s why I’m concerned about telling him now, you see. It’s not only the wedding—this Carmichael sale is crucial to Harringtons’ reputation in America. Your news would prove somewhat of a distraction, I’m afraid.”
“Another two weeks won’t make any difference to me,” Francesca replied, “except we may have overstayed our welcome here.”
“Not at all,” Cristo assured her evenly. “You should not feel pressured to rush yourself from under my roof or to accept Hugh’s request for a delay. I can fly you to New York.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to turn this into a chase around the world. I can wait until after the wedding.” She rested a hand on her belly. “I have months of patience left.”
Isabelle attempted to argue, but Francesca’s mind was made up. Pleading tiredness, she excused herself and went upstairs, her stormy-faced sister at her side. A satisfied Harry left soon after, but Cristo was neither satisfied nor ready to retire. He had a feeling Isabelle would return—she would want to pursue this new development, to know where she and Francesca stood—and he did not have long to wait for her knock at the door.
“Can I pour you a cognac?” he asked, ushering her across the room to the massive ebony desk where Crash had left a tray bearing bottle and glasses. She looked pale, agitated, in need of both a drink and reassurance.
“Does it help?”
“It certainly doesn’t hurt.” When he passed her the glass, their fingers brushed and a frisson of heated memory flickered across her face. Cristo’s body stirred in response, but he said nothing; this was not the time. Leaning back against the desk, he watched her take a tentative sip. Accepted her murmured thanks.
“Not only for the drink,” she added, swirling the golden liquid for a second before taking a visible grip of her fretfulness. “You were very fair, offering Chessie the opportunity to go to New York.”
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