The Right Bride?

by Sara Craven

  Karyn, by now, was light-headed with fatigue, wine, repressed sexuality and suspense. Rafe led off the dancing, taking her into his arms and sweeping her around the floor in an old-fashioned waltz. His arm around her waist, his fingers clasping her own to his shoulder, the closeness of his determined jaw and unfathomable dark eyes all worked their magic. Her body yielded in his arms in a way that spoke volumes. He said harshly, “So that hasn’t changed.”

  “Did you expect it to?”

  “I’ve given up knowing what to expect from you.” His fingers were now splayed over her hip in overt possessiveness. How important was Steve likened to the elemental simplicity of Rafe’s embrace? It was Rafe who matched her, body and soul. Rafe who from the beginning had shown her that passion could be coupled with integrity, willpower with trust.

  What a fool she’d been to compare him to Steve. In all the ways that mattered, there was no comparison. How could she have forgotten the first time Rafe had made love to her, in the bungalow in Maine? He’d put his own needs on hold in order to soothe her fears and bring her to fulfillment. He’d been breathtakingly generous.

  Yet she’d run from him like a terrified sheep.

  Not paying attention, she stepped on his toe. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “Only another three hours,” he said heartlessly. “I have to circulate…I’ll pass you over to the count.”

  Soon Karyn was whirling around the dance floor with a succession of partners young and old. Normally she would have enjoyed this immensely. But as the minutes and hours passed, the knot in her belly tightened. Rafe hadn’t danced with her again. Nor did she have any idea what she was going to say to him when, as he’d promised, they found themselves alone.

  Promised or threatened, she wondered with a shiver along her spine.

  For the second time she watched him lead a frail, whitehaired dowager onto the floor, dancing with her with such care for her pleasure that sudden tears shimmered on Karyn’s lashes. As she rubbed them away, it was as though she rubbed scales from her eyes.

  She loved Rafe. Of course she did.

  She had for weeks.

  Her new knowledge didn’t arrive in a blinding flash, like the lightning flickering over the city streets. It held none of the threat of a stormy sky. Rather, it had the integrity of Rafe’s beloved Stoneriggs, and the deep roots of her connection to Fiona. It was as dependable as stone, she thought; as beautiful as the sea. She could feel her heart expanding to encompass him, to hold him there forever. Happiness welled up within her.

  She loved him. Now she must tell him so.

  The orchestra announced the last waltz. With a sense of inevitability, Karyn watched Rafe return the dowager to her equally aged husband and then swiftly search the crowd. For herself. Talking and laughing as he went, he eased his way toward her and took her in his arms.

  I love Rafe, she thought. That’s all I need to remember. The rest will look after itself.

  I hope.

  But she couldn’t recapture the delight of being in his arms. Twice she tripped over her own feet; her body felt clumsy, her brain empty of any kind of strategy. Finally the waltz ended; as the guests started to depart and Rafe began a round of goodbyes, she slipped into the ladies room and repaired her makeup. Lipstick for courage, she thought ruefully, running a comb through her tangled curls. She didn’t look like a woman who’d been up for twenty-one hours. She looked fully and invigoratingly alive.

  When she went back out, the great ballroom was nearly empty, the musicians putting away their instruments as the staff cleared the tables of used glasses. The party’s over, she thought, and slowly walked over to Rafe, who was shaking hands with the last of the guests.

  As though he sensed her presence, he turned. His face inscrutable, he said, “Let’s go.”

  Deliberately she laced her arm with his, feeling the muscles rigid as steel beneath the sleeve of his tuxedo. They crossed the lobby to the elevators. The attendant pressed the button for the penthouse suite, and in silence they were whooshed upward. Rafe unlocked tall double doors and stood aside for her to enter.

  In one quick glance, she took in her surroundings. Space and simplicity, she thought with a sigh of relief. “Is this your own suite?”

  “Yes. We won’t be disturbed here. Why did you come to London?”

  So there was to be no social chitchat. Karyn sat down on the arm of the nearest chair and eased her stiletto sandals off her feet. “I came to see you.”

  “Why?”

  I’ve all of a sudden realized I love you? It didn’t sound very convincing. “You don’t look too happy that I’m here.”

  “The jury’s out on that one. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Your mother told me.” With a flick of satisfaction she saw she had surprised him. “If I can get past your mother, you should be congratulating me.”

  “Just how did you meet her?”

  “She was at the airport, waiting for me. She gave me the third degree. I like your father’s socks.”

  “Stick to the point, Karyn.”

  “You’re not making this very easy!”

  “Give me one good reason why I should. I’ve just had the worst two weeks of my whole life. When Celine fouled me up, that was kidstuff compared to you. So I don’t feel particularly friendly toward you, and if you try to compare me to Steve one more time, we’re through—have you got that?”

  Her visions of a romantic late-night tryst in ruins at her feet, Karyn let her own temper rise to meet his. “You’re not the least bit like Steve.”

  “Then why did you send me away?” he snarled.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Because I hadn’t figured that out yet.”

  “So you sent me packing along with the necklace I’d given you—you wouldn’t even keep that.”

  “I’m sorry!” she cried, then modulated her tone. “I really am sorry, Rafe. I did the best I could at the time—and it wasn’t good enough. I see that now. But hindsight’s always twenty-twenty and I came here to make amends. Well, that’s sort of why I came.”

  “I laid my cards on the table at Heathrow,” Rafe said in a harsh voice. “I love you, I want to marry you—that’s what I said. Causing you to bolt like a frightened pony. Good move, Rafe. I might be a dab hand at building a business empire but when it comes to one five-foot-seven blue-eyed blonde, I’m—”

  “Oh, stop!” she yelped. “You know what I really want to ask? Do you still love me? Do you still want to marry me? But I’m not going to. I’m going to say my piece first. I love you, Rafe Holden. I want to marry you. That’s why I’m here, and if I could get past your redoubtable mother, you ought to be down on your knees kissing my feet.”

  “I’m damned if I’m getting down on my knees—I did that at Heathrow. What changed your mind? Why all of a sudden aren’t I the reincarnation of Steve?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got all night.”

  Panic-stricken, because her declaration of love might as well have been spoken to the four corners of the room, Karyn began by describing how Fiona had turned up on her doorstep last Saturday morning in a rage. “You should have seen her—maybe she’s been taking lessons from your mother. Anyway, I promised I’d come here as soon as I could, and…well, see you. I guess that’s what I promised.”

  “You’re seeing me. Right now.”

  “Did I ruin everything by sending you away?” Karyn croaked. “Oh, please, tell me I didn’t…”

  “You answer me first. Am I dreaming this whole scene? This whole evening? Any minute am I going to wake up in a bed that feels like a desert because you’re not in it?”

  “I’m real.” She reached out and touched him, snatching her hand back before he could react.

  “So you are. You love me,” he said, advancing one step toward her, “and you want to marry me. You did say that?”

  His eyes were gleaming with something other than anger; the first tiny quiver of hope rippled through her body. “Yes,
” she said primly, “and it’s not even a leap year.”

  “I accept.”

  “Huh?”

  “I accept your proposal of marriage,” he repeated, “and I’ll make damn sure our grandchildren know it was you who asked me and not the other way around.”

  “You asked first.”

  “Don’t remind me. When are we going to get married? It had better be soon.”

  “Whoa,” she said, “you’re leaving something out. Something basic. If you don’t love me any more, the proposal’s off.”

  “Oh, I love you,” Rafe said softly, taking one more step. He was now so close she could feel the heat of his body and see the tiny flames deep in his eyes. “Do you think I’d change that quickly? That’s the whole point, Karyn. I’m in this for life. Forever. For better and for worse, and since Heathrow I’ve had more than enough of the worse, thank you very much.”

  A smile lighting her eyes, she said severely, “You’re playing very hard to get.”

  “You’re darn right I am. Although if you got past my mother, maybe, just maybe, I should forgive you.” She laughed, a delightful cascade of sound. “You’re darn right you should.”

  Still without touching her, his voice deepening, Rafe said, “I love you, Karyn. Love you more deeply than I knew it was possible to love. I want you to be my wife, to be the mother of our children, to live with me day by day, to sleep in my bed.” The little flames kindled to points of fire. “To make love with me again and again, because I’ll never have enough of you.”

  Her face radiant, Karyn whispered, “That’s what I want, too. More than I can say.” Then, very naturally, she moved into the circle of his arms, linked her hands behind his head and kissed him.

  It was a kiss that seemed to last forever, an avowal of love, an ache of desire, a pledge of belonging. When Karyn finally raised her head, her cheeks were bright pink. She said the first thing that came into her mind. “Rafe, I’m so sorry I sent you away.”

  “You’re forgiven,” he said and kissed her again.

  Through the windows that opened onto the balcony, Karyn heard the faraway growl of thunder. “We’re in for a storm.”

  Rafe laughed, his white teeth gleaming. “We are the storm, sweetheart.” When he ran his eyes down her body, it felt as intimate as a caress. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, “oh, yes.”

  “When you look at me like that—” He pulled her hard into his body, smothering her face and throat with hot, urgent kisses. “I want you, I need you, I love you.”

  Karyn rested her palm on Rafe’s cheek, smiling into his eyes. “I love you, too,” she said. “Oh, Rafe, I love you so much.”

  “That’s all you have to do—keep telling me that for the rest of my days.”

  “That’s easy,” Karyn said contentedly, reaching up to unhook his tie. He swung her off her feet, carrying her through the sitting room into the bedroom with its panorama of city lights. Laying her on her back, he covered her with his big body.

  She was home. In Rafe’s bed, in his heart. Where she belonged.

  A month later, on a Friday evening, Karyn was maid of honor and Rafe best man at Fiona and John’s wedding in the thick-walled Norman church in Droverton. On Saturday afternoon, Karyn was standing at the end of the same aisle, her hand tucked into John’s sleeve as the organ pealed the wedding march. Her gown was an elegant flow of white crepe, her bouquet exquisite lilies from Joan’s conservatory at Castle Holden. The diamond pendant Rafe had given her in Greece hung on its delicate gold chain around her neck.

  Fiona, wearing apple-green crepe, turned to smile at her. “Your turn,” she said. “May you be as happy as I am, Karyn.”

  “It’s because of you that I’m standing here.”

  “It’s because of Rafe.” Karyn could see him at the far end of the aisle, his black hair uncharacteristically tidy, his morning suit molded to his broad shoulders. Joy spilled over in her heart. She leaned forward and kissed her sister on the cheek. Then she smiled at John, whom she already liked enormously. “Ready?” she asked.

  “Be happy, Karyn,” he said.

  “I will be. I am.”

  She paced slowly up the aisle, the stained glass throwing a mosaic of brilliant colors on the guests. Clarissa and Douglas, valiantly smiling; Rafe’s mother, severely elegant in bottle-green silk; Reginald enlivening his formal clothes with an orange bowtie.

  Her new family.

  Also among the guests were Liz, Pierre and their children, whom Rafe had brought here to surprise her: a gift that had, predictably, made her weep.

  Then Rafe himself turned to find her, his dark blue eyes meeting hers with such an immensity of tenderness that her heart overflowed. She took her place at his side. In a few moments Rafe would be her husband and she his wife.

  She’d freed herself from the past. Freed herself to a lifelong commitment with Rafe and, she hoped, to bearing his children. She could ask for nothing more.

  Resting her hand on Rafe’s, she smiled up at him, and as the music swelled around her, the future began.

  Vacancy: Wife of Convenience

  By

  Jessica Steele

  Jessica Steele lives in the county of Worcestershire, with her super husband, Peter, and their gorgeous Staffordshire bull terrier, Florence. Any spare time is spent enjoying her three main hobbies: reading espionage novels, gardening (she has a great love of flowers) and playing golf. Any time left over is celebrated with her fourth hobby: shopping. Jessica has a sister and two brothers and they all, with their spouses, often go on golfing holidays together. Having travelled to various places on the globe, researching backgrounds for her stories, there are many countries that she would like to revisit. Her most recent trip abroad was to Portugal, where she stayed in a lovely hotel, close to her all-time favourite golf course. Jessica had no idea of being a writer until one day Peter suggested she write a book. So she did. She has now written over eighty novels.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE had first seen him at her father’s funeral, and had not expected to see him again. But here he was standing in front of her, tall, as she remembered, dark-haired and somewhere in his middle thirties.

  Colly had not had the chance then to learn who he was; her stepmother of two years, only five years older than her, had monopolised him as they stood at the crematorium after the service. ‘Do come back to the house for some refreshment’, Colly had clearly heard Nanette urge.

  He had suavely declined, looked as if he might come over to Colly to offer his condolences, but she had been buttonholed by someone else and had turned away. He spoke to her now, though, apologising that Mr Blake—the man she was at the Livingstone building to see—was unfortunately incapacitated that day.

  ‘Silas Livingstone,’ he introduced himself. She had not known his name; he obviously knew hers. ‘If you could hang on here for ten minutes, I’ll be free to interview you in his stead.’

  ‘Would you rather I made another appointment?’ She would prefer not to do that. She was nervous enough about this interview as it was, and was unsure if she would ever have the nerve to come back.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied pleasantly. ‘I’ll see you in a short while,’ he added, and was already on his way to the adjoining office.

  ‘Would you like me to wait elsewhere?’ Colly asked the smart, somewhere in her late thirties PA, who appeared to be handling at least three tasks at one and the same time.

  ‘Better not,’ Ellen Rothwell replied with a kind smile. ‘Mr Livingstone has a busy day. Now that he’s found a slot for you, he’ll want you to be where he expects you to be.’

  Colly smiled in return but decided to say nothing more. She found it embarrassing enough as it was that apparently, so Ellen Rothwell had explained, Vernon Blake’s present secretary had phoned around all the other applicants to cancel today’s appointments. But, on phoning Colly’s home at the start of business that day, had been informed that she was out and that there was no w
ay of contacting her.

  She had known that her stepmother had a spiteful streak. To deliberately refuse to call her to the phone when she had been in all the time only endorsed that fact.

  Colly held back a sigh and tried to direct her thoughts to the forthcoming interview. Vernon Blake was the European Director at Livingstone Developments, and was looking for a replacement multilingual senior secretary. The salary advertised was phenomenal and, since Nanette wanted her to move out, would, if Colly were lucky enough to get the job, enable her to rent somewhere to live and be independent.

  That had been her thinking at the time of spotting the advert. Never again would she be dependent on anyone. She had read the advert again. ‘Multilingual senior secretary.’ What was so difficult about that? She could, after all, type. And, though a little rusty with her languages, she had at one time excelled in French and Italian, and had scraped through with a pass mark in Spanish and German. So what else did a multilingual secretary need?

  Watching Ellen Rothwell expertly deal with telephone calls, take notes in rapid shorthand and then calmly and charmingly sort out what seemed to be some sort of a problem, Colly realised that there was a lot else to being a secretary. And what experience of being a secretary did she have? Absolutely none!

  She almost got up then, made her excuses, and bolted. Then she remembered why she wanted this job that paid so much. Very soon she would be homeless. And she, who had never had paid work in her life, desperately needed some kind of well-paid employment.

  It hurt that her father had left his will the way that he had. His twenty-eight-year-old widow had inherited everything; his daughter nothing. He had a perfect right to leave his money and property to whoever he cared to, of course. But she, his only child, his housekeeper since the last one had walked out seven years ago, was now about to lose the only home she had ever known. Not that it felt like home any more.

  Colly had been little short of staggered when, just over two years ago now, her dour, often grumpy parent had gone all boyish over the new receptionist at his club.