Convenient Brides (21 page)

The ring was a perfect fit and Emily wondered if that too was an omen of a different sort. Damien didn’t kiss her, however. He simply thrust the ring on her finger and turned
to lead her past the small gathering of his friends who’d come to witness the event.

It was ironic that Danny, not Damien, was the first to kiss her after her nuptials.

‘Congratulations, Emily,’ he said, hugging her far too tightly. ‘I’m sure you and Damien will be very happy.’

She must have said something in reply but later couldn’t recall just what it had been. She hoped it had been suitably polite and fitting for a new bride because she sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

‘Darling!’ Clarice Connor sidled up to her, waving the mandatory champagne. ‘What a clever girl! Now you’re related to Rose Margate! Just think of the fame and fortune to follow.’

Emily gave a vestige of a smile. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I get an interview,’ she said flippantly.

It was unfortunate that Damien chose that moment to approach his new wife. Guilt at her careless words flooded her face in flushing tides as his own face clouded in suppressed anger.

‘Having fun, my love?’ he taunted.

‘Ecstatic,’ she returned. ‘I can’t wait for the honeymoon.’

He gave her a chilling look before he turned to speak to one of his colleagues.

The evening was interminable. Emily’s fake smile made her face ache with the effort of keeping it firmly in place. She longed for a warm bath and a soothing cup of tea, but no one seemed in too much of a hurry to leave the new bride and groom to their own devices, so she had no choice but to go on pretending to be the happy, blushing bride.

Finally it was over. The last guest left and the limousine transported Damien and her back to his house in Double Bay. He opened the door and waited until she stepped through. She hesitated, her last two alcoholic drinks giving her a courage that was more foolish than Dutch.

‘Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?’ she asked provocatively.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with your legs,’ he said, brushing past her. ‘Your things are in the green room,’ he tossed over his shoulder as he threw his suit jacket towards the hall stand. ‘Goodnight.’

Emily chewed her bottom lip. ‘Goodnight,’ she answered, but he’d already moved beyond the range of her soft voice.

She waited until she heard the click of his bedroom door before she moved. With dragging steps she made her way upstairs and found the room he’d allocated for her.

After a bath she curled into bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling above her. She turned over and clamped her eyes shut on the images of her wedding day. How far from her dreams had she travelled? A mocking husband who’d married her to stop her from writing a book about his aunt. What sort of a reason for marriage was that?

Emily sat upright in bed. Perhaps her suspicions were right. Perhaps Rose wasn’t his aunt at all, but more closely, intimately related. Why else would he go to the sort of trouble he had? What she hadn’t been able to find out before should be much easier now she was married to Damien.

Married to Damien. The very words made her spine tingle, but she didn’t know precisely which emotion precipitated it. She wasn’t exactly frightened of him—not really. He made her feel agitated, angry too, but she wasn’t in fear for her safety. She’d noticed on occasions how gentle he could be. Even today at the wedding he’d scooped up his friend’s little girl of fifteen months and cuddled her while she undid his bow-tie with chubby fingers. He’d laughed that deep melodious laugh and Emily’s stomach had shifted, wondering if…

She slammed the pillow with one fist, knocking a lamp sideways with a splintering crash. She reached blindly to retrieve it but a shard of glass pierced her hand and in the darkness she felt the stickiness of her blood dripping on to the floor.

The door flew open and a blinding light flashed on.

‘What the hell happened?’ Damien stood in the frame of the door, his body bare but for a pair of silky boxer shorts.

Emily’s eyes squinted at the sudden light and she clutched at her bleeding hand. ‘I cut myself,’ she said, stemming the flow with the edge of her short nightie, which left her long legs uncovered and her bright yellow bikini briefs on show.

‘How?’

‘I tried to commit suicide but failed,’ she said through clenched teeth.

‘That’s not funny,’ he rasped as he stepped over the broken lamp. ‘Let me look at your hand.’

She unwrapped it from the hem of her nightie and his gentle touch as he inspected the wound made her want to cry. She bit down on her lip and fought against the tears.

‘It doesn’t need stitching, but it needs dressing. Come to the bathroom and I’ll clean it for you.’

He hesitated when she didn’t move.

‘Emily?’ He peered at her as she huddled over her bent knees. ‘Come on, it’s not that serious. One bandage and you’ll be as good as new.’

A tiny sob escaped and he saw the slight tremor of her slim shoulders.

‘Emily?’ He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

She was crying in earnest now, and he bent down to her level, one determined finger locating her wobbling chin and lifting it upwards. Her blue eyes were swimming with tears and his chest felt tight at the raw emotion reflected there.

‘Perhaps we should take you to hospital,’ he said. ‘It might be a severed tendon or something.’

Emily pushed him away with her good hand and stum-bled towards the bathroom. ‘It doesn’t need stitching! I’m not crying about my hand!’

‘Then why are you crying?’ He followed her into the
en
suite
bathroom, sidestepping the droplets of blood she left in her wake.

‘I’m not crying,’ she howled, reaching for the tap.

‘Don’t worry about the lamp.’ He turned the tap on for her and handed her a face cloth. ‘It wasn’t anything special.’

‘I’m not crying about the bloody lamp!’ She sobbed into the wet facecloth, her hand stuffed into a towel like an oversized boxing glove.

Damien shook his head and gathered her into his arms, patting her slender back as she burrowed into his body.

‘Is your hand hurting?’ he asked.

She shook her head against his chest.

‘Can I have a look at it again to make sure it’s not serious?’

She nodded and unfolded herself from his arms.

He unpeeled the towel she’d wrapped around it and inspected the wound once more. The blood was slowing and he opened the cupboard above them to retrieve a bandage, which he deftly wrapped around her hand, securing the end with a tiny clip.

‘There—that should keep the bleeding under control,’ he said with an encouraging smile.

Emily sniffed and he reached out behind her and passed her a tissue.

‘All better now?’

She nodded and mopped at her eyes.

‘Sorry. Weddings always do this to me.’

His mouth twisted into an amused smile. ‘Emily Sherwood—you are absolutely priceless, do you know that?’

She blinked up at him, her eyes still shiny with tears. ‘Isn’t my name Margate now?’ And with that she burst into tears all over again.

He changed the sheets on her bed and politely left the room when she removed her blood-stained nightie to put on a
fresh one. She was sitting propped up against the pillows when he returned with a glass of hot milk on a small tray.

‘You look about ten years old,’ he said as he set it down beside her.

‘I feel about a hundred,’ she replied.

He perched on the edge of her bed and handed her the glass of milk.

‘Twenty-six is young to be an established author,’ he observed as she sipped her drink.

‘I’m not established. One bad book and it’s all over.’

‘Perhaps you should choose your subjects a little more carefully,’ he advised.

‘I intend to.’

‘What will you do next? Another biography?’

She hesitated over her reply.

‘I thought I might try my hand at a soap opera script. I’ve heard there’s good money in it, and less chance of being sued.’

‘Is that why you agreed to marry me?’ he asked. ‘Just to avoid being sued?’

She found his question unsettling. It still wasn’t clear in her mind why she’d agreed to marry him.

‘Getting a divorce is the same as being sued,’ she said. ‘Lots of money changes hands and everyone ends up bitter.’

He took the empty glass from her and set it back on the tray.

‘You sound very cynical. Did your parents go through an acrimonious divorce?’

‘Is there any other type of divorce?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let’s hope if we end this marriage we do so with respect and dignity.’

‘What’s with the “if”?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you mean “when”?’

He gave her a long look before he picked up the tray
from beside her. ‘This marriage will end if and when I decide.’

‘Don’t I have any say in it at all?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

‘What sort of answer is that?’ She sat upright in the bed, wincing as her injured hand caught the edge of the lamp table.

‘It’s all the answer you’re going to get for now, so be a good girl and go to sleep.’

‘Stop treating me like a little kid!’ she stormed. ‘I’m not your daughter, for God’s sake, I’m your wife.’

He put the tray back down and approached the bed, a glint lurking in the melted chocolate depths of his eyes. Emily’s own eyes widened in alarm as his tall figure loomed over her prostrate form. His hands came down either side of her, effectively trapping her.

‘Is that an element of pique I hear in your voice, my love?’ he asked silkily.

‘I’m…I’m not your love,’ she said hoarsely.

‘No,’ he agreed, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. ‘But you are my wife, as you so cleverly reminded me.’

‘I’m…I’m not really your wife,’ she croaked. ‘I’m just a paper wife—remember?’

His eyes ran over her face, dipped to the shadowed cleft of her nightgown where her breasts lay secretly aching for his touch.

‘You’re a very beautiful and very tempting paper wife,’ he said against the corner of her trembling mouth.

‘Please…’ She shrank back against the pillows, suddenly terrified she’d betray herself if his mouth so much as touched hers.

‘Aren’t paper wives allowed to kiss their husbands goodnight?’ he asked, running an idle fingertip along the fullness of her bottom lip.

‘I…’ She ached to take his finger into her mouth. Her lips swelled with the need to feel his tongue graze hers and thrust into the moist cavern of her mouth. Her legs sagged against the mattress with the weight of need as he leaned inexorably closer.

‘Goodnight, Emily,’ he said, planting a soft breath-like kiss on her mouth. Then he lifted himself away from her and, picking up the tray, closed the bedroom door behind him on his way out.

I
T WAS
a long night. Emily tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot for her hand and a restful space for her tortured mind, but both eluded her. She watched as the sun rose defiantly in the east as if to spite her, its searing heat an added insult to her sleep-deprived state of mind.

Damien was in the kitchen when she came downstairs, looking disgustingly refreshed and handsome in a dark business suit and light blue shirt with perfectly toned tie.

‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘No, I did not,’ she snapped irritably.

His gaze slid to her bandaged hand. ‘Hand giving you trouble?’

‘A bit.’

‘Are you a breakfast girl?’ he asked, reaching across to pour some skimmed milk into a jug.

‘A what?’

‘Do you eat breakfast? Or are you one of those people who insist on skimping on the most important meal of the day?’

Emily eyed the bowl of home-made muesli he had in front of him.

‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ she said, dragging out a stool.

He handed her a bowl and the container of muesli. She went to open it but it proved too awkward for her injured hand. He got up from where he was reading the morning paper and took the container from her.

‘Here, let me.’ He dished out a hearty portion, then reached for the milk and began pouring. ‘Tell me when.’

‘When,’ she said, and thanked him as he pushed the bowl and a spoon towards her.

‘We made the social pages.’ He pointed to the newspaper in front of him.

Emily wasn’t sure she really wanted to see what the press had made of their unexpected union, but she came round and leaned over his shoulder all the same.

‘I look fat.’

He chuckled in amusement. ‘You look beautiful.’

She sat back down opposite and toyed with her cereal, her brow furrowing as she relentlessly chased a sultana around her bowl.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Not regretting it already, are you?’

‘What?’ She looked across at him. ‘Oh, no. I was just thinking.’

‘About what?’

She crushed the hapless sultana with the edge of her spoon before looking back at him. ‘Why didn’t your aunt Rose come to your wedding?’

His eyes hardened as he surveyed her face. ‘I was won-dering how long it would take you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Her stomach tightened at the caus-tic tone of his voice.

‘Here was I, thinking you’d at least wait a few days, maybe even a week or two before you made your move.’

‘What are you talking about? What move?’ She looked at him blankly.

He got to his feet, pushing his bowl away with an angry movement of one hand.

‘It’s why you agreed to marry me, isn’t it? The real reason, I mean.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stared at him speechlessly.

‘An interview with Rose was the icing on the wedding cake, isn’t that right?’

‘I—’

‘Don’t bother to deny it—it’s written all over your face. Anyway, I heard you talking to your agent about it.’

‘But I didn’t mean it! I was joking!’ She found her voice at last.

‘I told you before that Rose is off limits. It will be her decision if she wants to be interviewed by anyone, and that includes you. Being married to me doesn’t automatically give you any special privileges.’

‘You can say that again,’ she muttered darkly.

‘What was that?’ He snagged her uninjured arm and turned her towards him. ‘You’re not happy with our current arrangement? If so, I can always reinstate your mortgage and credit card debt, not to mention starting legal proceedings against anything you might be thinking of writing.’

A cold despair settled in her chest at the hatred in his eyes.

‘I hate you,’ she said bitterly.

‘Hate is good. I can handle hate. Hate me all you like—see if I care.’

Emily pulled at his hold, desperate to escape before her anger turned to grief. ‘Let me go! You’re hurting me.’

‘Don’t push your luck with me, Emily,’ he warned. ‘I’m prepared to be reasonable. Don’t make me regret my decision to help you.’

‘Help me?’ she flared at him. ‘Have I missed something here?’ Her lip curled in scorn. ‘Oh, I get it now! You married me to
help
me. I’m so glad I’ve finally figured it out.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’

‘Neither does marriage,’ she threw at him.

‘Well, I can assure you neither will bankruptcy, so let’s give this a try first.’

‘I’d rather starve than spend another day with you!’ she retorted.

‘You’re acting like a child, Emily,’ he reprimanded her sternly. ‘Do yourself and me a favour and grow up.’

It was all too much for her. Her lack of sleep, the emotional roller coaster of her disappointing wedding day and
her injured hand finally cracked her fragile hold on her emotions. She bent her head and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Emily,’ he groaned, and gathered her to him. ‘I’m being a brute to you. I’m sorry. Hey, come on—no more tears. I prefer it when you’re throwing punches at me.’

She cried all the harder and he pulled her even closer. He bent his head to the fragrant cloud of her hair and let her cry. Her soft little body was nestled against his as if it had been fashioned just for that purpose. Her breasts were jammed up against his chest and he could feel the buds of her nipples pressing through the silk of his shirt. His trousers tightened over his groin and his breathing quickened as he fought against the rising desire pumping through his veins.

‘I’m sorry.’ Emily came up for air, her nose bright pink and her eyes still trickling tears. ‘I’m not good without sleep.’

‘I’m the one who should apologise. Let’s call a truce. Down all arms and see if we can get through the rest of today without a cross word.’

Emily nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Here.’ He handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes.

‘I feel foolish.’ She gave the handkerchief back. ‘I hardly ever cry.’

‘Sorry to have that effect on you.’ His tone was wry.

She looked up into his eyes and suddenly realised his arms were still around her. She could feel the muscles in his thighs pressing against hers, and the unmistakable pressure of his maleness issuing its own insistent message.

‘Emily.’ His body shifted slightly against hers, his eyes darkening with desire. ‘This is not such a good idea.’

‘What isn’t?’ Was that her voice? That tiny breathless whisper?

His body collided intimately again with hers and she gasped.

‘Oh, that,’ she croaked.

‘Yes, that.’

There was an infinitesimal pause. She gazed up at him, her breath stalling in her throat as his eyes burned into hers. Then, as if in slow motion, his head came down towards hers. His lips moved over hers with a deepening pressure until his tongue probed and swiftly entered her mouth. Emily sagged against him, her legs weakening as his tongue danced with hers, drawing from her a response she hadn’t known she was capable of.

His lips moved to the silky texture of her neck, the underside of her ear and back again to her mouth. Emily strained to get closer to him, her feminine softness moulding itself to every hard plane of his body until he groaned against her mouth, ‘This is crazy.’

She didn’t respond in words. Instead, she unbuttoned his shirt and released his tie with fingers not quite steady. His chest was smooth and muscled, a fine sheen of sweat already beading at the fervent touch of her searching fingers.

His hands began a search path of their own, slipping underneath her T-shirt and deftly unhooking her bra. His warm hands captured the weight of her breasts and she gasped at the sensation of his exploring fingers discovering her contours, and then his mouth, when he bent his head to their hardened peaks.

He swept back to her mouth as her hands went to his belt. He jolted at her touch, but she continued her mission with a wantonness that surprised herself even more than it did him.

She felt him press her back against the table, the urgency in his hands and tongue preparing her for the inevitable. There was no turning back. Her track pants were at her ankles, his suit trousers at his knees, his fingers searching for her slick moistness.

‘Yes, oh, yes!’ She rocked against his hand and he pulled her down the table until his fingers were replaced with his own heat and length. She cried out at the force of his first thrust, her legs wrapping around him tightly to prolong the
sensation. He steadied himself, slowing just a fraction, his breathing ragged.

Emily gloried in the loss of control she’d evoked in him. She’d brought him to the brink of unbearable desire and even now he was struggling to keep himself in check in order to bring about her pleasure before giving in to his own.

She could see it in the passion-contorted features of his face as he drove into her. She could feel the rigid control wavering as he hunted for her mouth once more. She felt the desperation in his fingers as they located the tiny swollen nub of her desire and coaxed her towards ecstasy at the same time as his throbbing length filled her again and again as he retreated and returned, each time firmer, deeper.

She almost screamed with the pleasure of her release. She bit down on his shoulder to dampen the sound, her nails raking his back as he continued his assault on her senses. His own climax soon followed, his agonised groan of pleasure like music to her ears. She held him to her, wanting to prolong the sensation of being filled by his liq-uid warmth, but he was already moving from her.

‘That should never have happened.’ He pulled up his trousers, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

‘Wasn’t it good for you?’ she asked pertly, adopting a pose of streetwise promiscuity when nothing could have been further from the truth. She hitched up her track pants and combed her fingers through her ravished hair as if she’d just returned from a jog around the block.

Damien gave her a sweeping glance, his eyes still reluc-tant to mesh with hers. ‘I’ve certainly no need to ask you the same question,’ he said. ‘My back feels as if I’ve been on a rack, not to mention that gnaw you gave my shoulder.’

‘Well, you know the saying.’ She reached for the cereal bowl she had discarded earlier and picked up her spoon. ‘If you can’t stand the heat—get out of the kitchen.’

Damien frowned at her as he tucked in his shirt.

‘Have a good day at the office,’ she added, and opened her mouth over her spoon.

He picked up his tie off the floor, where she’d tossed it earlier, and draped it loosely around his neck. This wasn’t how he’d planned things. Emily was up to something, he was sure. Somehow she’d switched the tables on him—quite literally, he thought, with a wry glance towards the table they’d just christened.

‘I’ll call you later.’ He scooped up his jacket and made his way to the bathroom.

She heard him leave the house a few minutes later. The sound of his car roaring out of the driveway triggered a deep sigh in her chest as she contemplated spending the rest of the day alone.

Emily used the morning to explore Damien’s house, her ears constantly pricked in case he was to return unannounced. She moved from room to room and from floor to floor to familiarise herself with her new surroundings, each room offering a clue to the mysterious man she’d married. It was a beautiful house, but it was definitely not a home. It didn’t even feel particularly lived-in. Some of the rooms were stale from being unused for so long, so she opened window after window as she went through each room, stopping to rearrange the stiff cushions on the velvet sofas in the formal lounge to make them a little more welcoming.

Damien’s bedroom she left well alone. As she skirted past a pool of heat trickled into her belly at the remem-brance of their passionate union this morning.

Her previous experience of sex had been somewhat limited. Her first had been little more than a teenage fumble that had been embarrassingly interrupted by the boy’s parents returning home. The second had been Raife Norton-Floyd, who’d claimed to love her but had already been married. The irony of her situation made her smile ruefully. Damien claimed he didn’t care for her at all, and yet had
married her within days of asking her. Who could make sense of men?

The garden was an outside version of the interior of the house. It, too, was beautiful in its way, but unwelcoming with its array of neatly landscaped plants that offered a green screen from the nearest neighbours but very little in the way of blossom and fragrance.

Emily sat on the sun-lounger near the pool and dangled her toes in the cool water, watching as the ripples travelled outwards in ever-widening circles. Just like her life, she reflected. The circles of her life were moving further and further beyond her control, at least ever since Damien had entered her life so forcefully.

She was a married woman, in every sense of the word. She was finally free from her crippling financial burden but shackles of a different kind had settled about her, holding her in Damien’s controlling hands.

She found it difficult to unravel her feelings about him. Sometimes she thought she hated him; other times she found herself thinking about him, his darkly handsome fea-tures filling her head until there was no room for her own thoughts. She pictured his smiling mouth when she flew back at him with some witticism, and she could recall the warmth and comfort of his arms around her when she’d hurt her hand and he’d gathered her close. She didn’t understand him, couldn’t imagine why he’d acted the way he had in marrying her. But then she thought about the very deep and loyal love he obviously felt for Rose, stopping at nothing to protect her. If only someone, some day, would love her like that!

Emily went back into the house and fetched her purse and the set of keys Damien had given her. She walked towards the cafés and shops, stopping to buy huge bunches of flowers as well as the latest bestseller—unfortunately not her own. She grimaced ruefully as she handed over the money.

Some time later she stepped back and inspected her floral handiwork. ‘Mmm, that’s much better.’

She had planted spilling blossoms in each of the formal rooms, their sweet fragrance soon wafting through the long corridors.