“What this is,” Cristo said evenly, “is none of your business.”
Vivi even managed to make her scoffing reply sound elegantly European.
“Aren’t you needed in Sussex?” Cristo continued. “Surely the wedding preparations cannot run without your interference.”
“Everything is ready,” Vivi said, “according to that wedding planner who has not earned her overpriced fee. If she does create any more dilemmas, we shall manage them just as well from here. In the meantime, I am going to enjoy a few restful days with you and Isabelle. Now, the tea. Are you pouring, Isabelle?”
On the outside Cristo maintained an unaffected facade—over the years, he’d learned it was the only way to shake Vivi when she sunk her teeth into something. If she couldn’t create a drama, she grew bored and moved on. Unfortunately she had latched on to his relationship with Isabelle today, of all days, and he did not have the luxury of wearing her down, nor could he delay his trip to Moscow.
He hated the necessity of leaving Isabelle, halving the time he had left with her before Saturday’s wedding. If it were possible, he would take her with him, but the negotiations were delicate, the accommodations uncertain, and now there was Vivi. Ever since he received the message from his driver—too late to change the course of his mother’s actions—he’d been quietly fuming. Mostly because he’d been so obsessed with getting Isabelle into his bed, he’d missed the obvious.
Of course Amanda and Madeleine and Lord knows who else would have told her about Isabelle. Why hadn’t he anticipated her reaction? He did not bring casual girlfriends to Chisholm Park. He didn’t take them to the polo or walk hand in hand with them through the village and French kiss them against the courtyard wall of the Maiden’s Arms.
Now Vivi had met Isabelle and declared her approval. Taking the stairs two at a time, Cristo shuddered. He did not trust Vivi at the best of times; an acquiescent Vivi roused all his suspicions. He’d brought Isabelle to Chisholm Park to escape his family and their machinations. Now he would have to make other plans.
Isabelle had excused herself a little while back, saying she needed to change out of her riding clothes, and he found her just out of the shower and pulling on clean underwear. Brief. Lace. Dusky blue. The sight distracted him for a good long moment, until she shrugged into a clean blue shirt and started buttoning. If not for Vivi’s arrival and the changed plans he needed to put into effect, he would have stalked across the room and started unbuttoning.
“I will have the car run you into London,” he said. “You can spend the next few days at Wentworth Square.”
She paused in her buttoning. Her expression was trickily composed, and he had no idea what she was thinking or feeling. “Because of Vivi?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you don’t trust me to deal with your mother.”
“I did not bring you here to deal with my family,” Cristo said, “especially my mother, who will have you measured up for a wedding dress before I return.”
Something shifted in her gaze, something he couldn’t catch before she shook her head and laughed softly. “I’m pretty sure I can prevent your mother booking the church. You have nothing to worry about there. I am used to difficult clients and…”
“You are not the housekeeper,” he said curtly.
“If you prefer me gone—” her gaze fixed on his, steady and searching for a long moment “—I can have my bag packed in five minutes.”
Backed into a corner of his own making, Cristo had to let her stay. He was not happy. The edge remained until he’d unbuttoned her shirt and backed her against the dresser and used his fingers and mouth to bring her to a quick, shattering climax. And when he finally stripped away the lace and buried himself in her silken heat, he leaned forward and spoke with hot intensity against her ear. “This is why you are here and why you are staying. This—” he backed off slowly, enough that he could look into her eyes “—is why I will be doing everything in my power to finish this business swiftly. So you will be here in my bed when I return.”
He had thought sex would settle his malcontent; that and putting the basis of their relationship into clear words. But Cristo’s dissatisfaction escalated from the moment he left Chisholm Park. The caveman approach was not him, and it niggled that Isabelle had accepted his dictate without any response.
It niggled more when every attempt to call, to explain, to apologise failed.
In the morning she was out riding with Chloe; later she’d taken Vivi to lunch; and when his late-night call went unanswered, he could not settle without knowing she was all right. That neither his boorish tactics nor Vivi’s demanding temperament had sent her running for the hills. He tried Crash, who knew nothing, except that Chessie was to remain with him for a few more days.
Stewing over his lack of foresight—not only regarding Vivi’s guerrilla tactics; why hadn’t he given Isabelle a mobile phone?—he paced and waited until Meredith returned his curt message. “There’s no need to worry,” she assured him. “Isabelle and Vivi are getting along famously. They’ve gone into London to meet with Amanda. Something to do with dress fittings.”
That explanation did nothing to soothe Cristo’s aggravation. He could just imagine Vivi railroading Isabelle into doing her bidding…and Isabelle allowing it. Jaw set tight, he punched the keys to Amanda’s number. She answered sleepily, but when she recognised his voice and his cutting tone she immediately launched into a lengthy explanation.
“I suppose you’re put out about the bridesmaid thing, but honestly I had no choice. I needed someone who would fit into the dress without major alterations. I was going to ask Madeleine, but I couldn’t risk pairing her with Alejandro in the wedding party. You know what those two are like together,” she said with an audible shudder. “But Isabelle is perfect.”
Cristo swore softly. “As a replacement bridesmaid?”
“Harry’s sister took a tumble from a horse. She’s broken her collarbone and banged up her shoulder. Gia said she’ll be fine by Saturday, that she’ll do it with her arm in a sling, but her mother won’t hear of it, and Vivi agrees. She suggested Isabelle as a replacement, and for once she has got it right!”
“Did Isabelle have any say in this?”
“She took some convincing,” Amanda admitted. “She was talking about not coming to the wedding at all, and I rather gather that’s because of you. Are you afraid she’ll get ideas?”
“No,” he said sharply, remembering with a flash of irritation how she’d coolly told him he had nothing to worry about on that score. “Isabelle is far too sensible for that.”
“She is sensible, isn’t she, and very capable. I suspect she is the queen of organization. I wish she’d been around to help me plan the wedding. She is going to speak to the caterers tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s sorted. Oh, and she’s arranged for Vivi to have a facial at Aylesbury while she’s doing that, so she is also smart, your Isabelle. You should not let her get away!”
Cristo had spent the past week getting to know his Isabelle; he did not need his family’s approval. Nor did he need her virtues spelled out, especially not in such a heavy-handed, she’s-the-perfect-woman-for-you fashion. “I give you enough latitude in other areas,” he told Amanda sternly, “but my love life is off-limits.”
“Well, yes, but it concerns me that she says she is returning to Australia. Even though Bill and Gabrielle Thompson offered her a job.”
Cristo went cold. He knew nothing of this job offer from a high-profile professional couple, nothing about any future decisions. During the past week, they’d skirted around that topic; he’d assumed she would wait until Francesca’s plans were decided before looking ahead.
Yet she’d discussed this with his sister?
His antsiness snarled into more, and his tense silence was enough encouragement for Amanda to keep on talking. “I only know because we ran into them outside the Ritz tonight. Apparently Isabelle worked for them when they were in Australia last ye
ar, and they said to call them whenever she wanted a change of location. When they saw her here, they immediately made a firm offer, but she said she was going back to Australia.”
“That’s her home,” Cristo said shortly, but as he ended the call he felt hollow. Cold. Impotent being so far away and unable to speak to Isabelle. Suddenly the Antovic contract didn’t matter as much as being where he needed to be. Home. With Isabelle. Sheltering her from his ravenous family and convincing her to remain after the wedding.
Fourteen
Isabelle didn’t remember agreeing to the bridesmaid gig, yet here she stood in a fairy-tale concoction of shimmering pink with lace and pearl embellishments. Apparently she and Georgina Harrington were a similar size and shape, and the gown was sent with accessories to Chisholm Park. By chauffeured limousine. The only transportation more fitting would have been a horse-drawn glass coach.
“I can give you a tad more room here,” Vivi decided, tugging somewhere in the back where Isabelle couldn’t see. Nor did she care; she was more interested in the concept of Vivi doing the work. So far she’d been very adept at making work and offering suggestions—Isabelle as bridesmaid, for example—but not so big on the doing.
“Do you sew?” she asked.
Vivi’s perfectly made-up face appeared from beyond the gown’s voluminous skirt. “Beautifully,” she said with the trademark family confidence. “I did my apprenticeship on Savile Row. That is where I met my first two husbands.”
Isabelle tried not to look too astonished, but failed dismally. “Not both at the same time, I hope.”
Vivi laughed, then sat back on her heels. “If Alistair had been in the same room as Juan Verón I would not have noticed him, and that would have been an immense shame.” Her eyes met Isabelle’s in the mirror. “All the good in Cristo, that is from Alistair. He was a good, good man. Too good for me.”
Afraid that everything she felt might show in her eyes, Isabelle let her gaze drop away in feigned contemplation of the gown’s adjusted fit. Over the past days she’d grown adept at parrying Vivi’s questions and avoiding the deeply personal, but now she was trapped in weighty folds of pearl-encrusted taffeta and by the new gravity in the woman’s dark eyes. There was no escape.
“I am not all bad,” Vivi continued, “but I have made some impulsive decisions that were not always in my family’s best interests. My heart is in a rush and I am a selfish woman. When I left Juan, he did not want me to take a thing.”
Isabelle knew she wasn’t talking about fripperies. She knew but she had to ask.
“Not even your children?”
“I tried to take my sons, but Alejandro ran away. I had to make a choice, you see, to leave with one son or to take Cristo back to his father and leave with none. Cristo did not understand why he had to leave his home and his brother—he hated this ugly, grey country. But I hoped that this one time, my selfish heart made the right choice.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I suspect that Cristo will not, and I want you to understand.” From her seat on the floor, Vivi reached up and touched Isabelle’s hand. “He is everything that you see and he is so much more, Isabelle, with so much love to give. Yet I fear that I have spoiled his view of love and marriage. He is a man and so he is stubborn. He is my son and so he is a cynic. If you love him, Isabelle, you need to know this. That is all.”
After completing the alteration, Vivi and her copious luggage left for Sussex. Chisholm Park seemed cavernous and empty and as she awaited Chessie’s arrival, Isabelle found herself with too much time for reflection. Too much time to chew over the implications of what she’d learned from Vivi…and to fill in the gaps.
Vivi hadn’t mentioned the marriages after her first two, and how those upheavals in her household had affected Cristo. Every time Vivi followed her selfish heart to a new man, her child also had to follow. To a new home, a new country, into the care of strangers. How could he not equate falling in love with disruption and change and loss, all inextricably linked? Could a belief entrenched from such an early age be overturned, especially by a man with no need to change? He had so much that he loved already—his business, his home, his horses, his family—how could he possibly want for more?
And beneath the flickering doubt in Isabelle’s heart, a new hurt burgeoned. He hadn’t shared much of his life at all. Despite all the time they’d spent together, all the long walks and pillow conversations, she had only grazed the surface of his past.
Walking and thinking brought Isabelle to her bedroom, the one she’d taken the first night she arrived at Chisholm Park and where she’d eventually unpacked and stored her things. She’d only slept here the one night, but maintaining the pretence of her own room had been her safety net. She’d used it after Vivi’s arrival, when she’d been spooked by the reminder of this family’s wealth and position. When she’d needed a hole to scamper to. This is where Cristo had found her afterward, when he’d wanted to send her away and she’d resisted. When she’d chosen to block out the message he’d delivered so clearly in words and in action.
In two days her commitment to Cristo and his family would end. It was time to start thinking about her future. Time to call Miriam to confirm her next position, time to pack her bags. The fairy tale was over.
Cristo returned to find his home as he liked it—blessedly free of uninvited guests. On her way out the door, Meredith confirmed that his mother had departed after lunch. Isabelle was upstairs packing. “Happy to be home?” she asked.
“You have no idea.”
With the remnants of shattered tension shooting through his blood, Cristo longed to bound up the stairs, but the power of that desire lent him restraint. Wanting this strongly did not sit comfortably, but he’d not examined the reasons. He would convince Isabelle to stay; that was all that mattered.
Packing meant the room she’d insisted on keeping, and that’s where Cristo found her…or at least the signs of her presence. The plain black suitcase she’d brought from Australia sat open on the bed, several neat piles of clothes beside it. Something about that innocent sight sat wrong, and by the time he’d prowled around the bed and inspected the partially packed bag he knew why.
He picked up white cotton underwear he’d never seen before, fingering the soft fabric as he inspected the rest of the contents. Everything was plain, clean, serviceable. No lace bras or silk camisoles or sheer panties. He saw nothing of what he’d bought her from Nina, nothing that looked suitable for the wedding weekend.
Sensing her imminent arrival, his head came up as though tugged on strings of anticipation. She stopped on the threshold to the bathroom. Her deepwater eyes widened with surprise and a fleeting glimpse of pleasure. He hated how she shut that down. How she limited her smile to a tentative welcome.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” she said.
“Is that why you’re packing?”
Her gaze slid away to the suitcase, and she shrugged slightly as she came into the room. “I was feeling a bit lost, actually, and I decided to get a start on. I wasn’t sure what time we’d be leaving tomorrow.”
“Unusual choices for a wedding,” he said, running his hand across a stack of T-shirts.
“This is my own stuff.”
“I can see that.”
“For when I leave here.”
A simple exchange, it should not have been incendiary. But her cool, calm manner as she picked up the panties he’d discarded and placed them back in the case acted like gasoline on the fire of Cristo’s mood. “Tell me about that,” he said, folding his arms across his chest and narrowing his gaze on her carefully composed face. “When are you leaving?”
“That depends on Chessie, but after the wedding. I spoke to Miriam today, and she has a job for me next weekend.”
“What about the job with Bill and Gabrielle Thompson?”
Shock flared in her eyes. She blinked it away. “How did you know about…” She puffed out a breath. “Amanda. It doesn’t matter.
I’m not taking it.”
“Why not?” he persisted, shifting his body to block her attempt to turn away. “What if your sister stays in England to have her baby? Have you considered that possibility?”
“It’s one possibility, but I can’t make plans based on maybes. Nor can I risk my current job.”
“As a housekeeper.”
Isabelle’s head came up. “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply.
“I mean it’s a job you can get anywhere, with any service or any number of private clients, as demonstrated by the Thompsons’ offer.”
Irritated and ridiculously hurt by his put-down of her job, Isabelle struggled to maintain her composure. This could decline into a clash of tempers too easily—she’d sensed him spoiling for a fight the instant she came out of the bathroom—and the recognition of her feelings and the continuing flutter of hope that he might yet return them had her on an emotional edge. She could not do verbal sparring right now. Not without the risk of revealing too much.
“I have a home in Melbourne,” she said with admirable calm.
“You could have a home here.”
Despite every good intention, her stomach clenched with longing. “Are you saying that you want me to stay?”
“Yes,” he said staunchly. “I am.”
“And do what?” This was long term, not a weekend, not an extra week of a fairy-tale affair. This was real life, and she had to be sure; she had to nail down the details of that reality. “If I took a job with the Thompsons, for example, I would be expected to live in and to travel with them. And when you or Vivi or Amanda came to one of their dinner parties, I would be greeting you at the door and serving your meal. Is that how—”
“No.” His head came up a fraction, his nostrils flared and his eyes flashed with primitive fire. “You won’t be living in with these people, and I want you by my side at the table.”
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