Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘I just miss them both. I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing Mum. I was only twelve. You shouldn’t lose your Mum when you’re twelve. And then when Dad died last year—it wasn’t exactly a surprise, you know, but—’ She broke off, shrugged, and he reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder gently.

  ‘I know. It’s always a shock. Even when you know, even when you’re expecting it, there’s always that last breath, and then they’re gone. And that’s never going to be easy to accept, even when you can see a mile off that it’s coming.’

  She nodded, another tear joining the first, and she brushed them away impatiently. ‘Kate seems to be taking it so much better.’

  ‘Perhaps because she doesn’t feel any responsibility? I mean, if Annie gets married again—’

  Her head snapped up. ‘Are you going to marry her?’

  He laughed, wondering if it sounded as strained as it felt. ‘Good grief, she only met me on Monday. I think that’s a little hasty, even by my standards. I was just hypothesising. So, if she were to get married again, what next? Kate would assume you’d sort it. Wherever you are would become her home, her focus, unless Annie’s new husband was prepared to welcome you into his home.’

  Vicky chewed her lip worriedly. ‘And if not? What would happen to this house?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s something you’d have to discuss with Annie if it ever arose. But I can’t imagine her making a new life that excluded you; she’s not that sort of woman. I think she’d give up her own personal happiness before she’d do that to you.’

  She was doing it now, he could have told her. Carrying on with this house, still keeping the home fires burning so the girls felt secure until they’d truly flown the nest.

  And it was something he was going to have to take on board. Was he prepared to welcome the girls into his home, as well as Annie and his son?

  Yes, he realised in surprise. Even after just one rather eventful evening, he found he was—because if he didn’t, Annie would be unhappy, and he couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t do it to any of them. God knows they were going to have enough to come to terms with without that.

  He shot Vicky a crooked smile. ‘I get the feeling we’ve been deliberately abandoned so we can have this chat,’ he said softly, and she smiled back.

  ‘We have. I asked them to. And I really am sorry—’

  He grinned. ‘Hey, Vicky, I’m cool with it, really. Don’t worry.’

  He patted her hand, stood up and stretched out the kinks in his neck and shoulders. ‘I need to go home. Things to do. I’ll see you round. You take care, now.’

  ‘You, too. And, for the record, I’m really pleased for Annie. She looks kind of lit up inside, you know? And it’s been so long since I’ve seen that, if I ever have. So thanks, if it’s your doing. And good luck.’

  His grin slipped a little. ‘Thanks.’

  He went out and closed the door softly, sucked in a breath and let it go, then turned to find Annie standing just feet away, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered almost silently. ‘Thank you for being so kind to her.’

  He ushered her into the kitchen, pushing the door closed behind them. The lights were out, and as she reached for them he stilled her hand, wrapped it in his and cradled it against his heart and with his other hand, he threaded his fingers through her hair, anchored her head and kissed her very, very thoroughly.

  Then he lifted his head a fraction, propped his forehead on hers and sighed softly.

  ‘I need to go,’ he murmured.

  ‘I know. I need to get to bed. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. Thank you for letting Stephen win—’

  His finger found her lips, shushing her silently. ‘Leave the kid his moment of glory,’ he murmured. ‘The next time he’ll have to try a lot, lot harder. Right, I’m going. I’ll see you on Monday—damn, no I won’t. I’m in Norfolk. I’ll see you on Tuesday. In fact, what are you doing on Tuesday evening?’

  ‘Tuesday? That’s chess club. Cooking, then, until eight.’

  ‘Fancy playing hookey?’

  ‘Hookey?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll cook for you. I’ll pick you up at six. Be hungry.’

  And, with a quick kiss to the tip of her nose, he let himself out of the back door and went home while he could still drag himself away.

  * * *

  Tuesday took for ever to come. Crazy how much she was looking forward to it. Grace and Jackie and Chris came in for lunch, Chris juggling the baby, and they took one look at her and sat her down and pumped her for information.

  ‘So, how’s it going?’ Jackie asked. ‘Has he asked you out?’

  ‘Have you asked him out?’ Chris said with a grin. ‘I wouldn’t leave a little thing like that to chance!’

  She pulled a face. ‘He’s had supper at mine three times now—all with the chess in mind, of course—so yes, in a manner of speaking I have asked him out.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  Grace rolled her eyes. ‘And has he asked you?’

  She felt herself colour slightly. ‘Um—he’s cooking for me tonight.’

  ‘Where? In the flat upstairs? I hope the kitchen’s perked up since the last time I saw it—it was in a skip!’

  ‘Jackie, don’t be silly.’

  They were sitting looking at her expectantly, and she realised she didn’t really know the answer.

  ‘His house, I imagine.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ she admitted. ‘None at all. Can’t be far.’

  And she felt a sudden flutter of panic. She was going out for the evening with a man who was almost a stranger, to an unknown destination—good grief, there were names for people like her. Starting with naïve, and foolish, and ending with idiot.

  And yet somehow she knew she was safe.

  And anyway, he wasn’t a stranger. Ruth had known him for years and said he was one of the kindest men she’d ever met, and the way he’d been with the kids on Saturday night backed that up.

  But nevertheless, a little shiver of something—anticipation? Dread? Excitement?—ran over her skin.

  ‘Are you going straight from here?’

  She nodded, and Grace sat bolt upright. ‘You can’t! You need to go home and freshen up. Shower, change, shave your legs, put on your best underwear—’

  ‘Grace!’ she hissed, glancing over her shoulder and hoping all the rest of her customers were stone deaf, but Grace was unabashed.

  ‘I’ll babysit the tearoom for you. You go—what time do you want me back here? Four? That give you long enough?’

  ‘Tons—’

  ‘So use it wisely. Right, girls. What’s she going to wear?’

  ‘What are you going to eat now, more to the point—’

  Jackie shot her an astonished look. ‘What could possibly be more to the point than that? He’s to die for, Annie. You need to dress up, woman. Glad rags. This needs planning like a military campaign.’

  ‘He’s probably planning beans on toast,’ she protested weakly, but the girls were up and running, and before she knew what was what they’d got her house key off her and were gone, leaving her with the baby and the mess on the table while they plundered her wardrobe.

  ‘Right,’ Grace said when they came back a few minutes later. ‘We’ve put a selection out on your bed. And you will be vetted when I’ve shut up shop. Here’s your key. I need to shoot.’

  ‘What about lunch?’

  She flapped her hand at Annie. ‘No time. Things to do before four. I’ll see you then. Bye, girls.’

  She zipped out, leaving Jackie and Chris plotting while the baby waved her arms around
and smiled happily.

  Oh, to be so young and free, Annie thought wistfully, and it wasn’t just the baby she was thinking of…

  * * *

  ‘I can’t wear them!’

  She looked at the clothes the girls had left out for her and laughed a little frantically. A clingy dress, a pair of evening trousers and a slinky top, a clingy jumper—what was it with the clingy stuff?—a skirt she’d been meaning to throw out for ages because it was too short, a pair of outrageous little shoes with wickedly high heels that she could hardly stand in, never mind walk—she couldn’t wear any of this lot!

  She put on the trousers and the jumper, but it just looked like something she’d wear every day. A bit dressier, but nothing special. And suddenly, for no very sensible reason and a lot of rather silly ones, she wanted to look special.

  For him.

  She pulled off the jumper and trousers, slipped the dress over her head and shimmied it down her hips. She’d never worn it. She’d bought it ages ago for a Christmas do, but then they hadn’t gone. It must be nearly two years old. She wriggled her feet into the shoes, turned to the mirror—

  And froze.

  Was that her? That woman with the sparkle in her eyes and the glow in her cheeks and the soft, full lips that were rosy with anticipation?

  The doorbell rang, and she stared at herself in horror. No! He couldn’t be here this early! But he was. She looked down and there he was, in the front garden, chatting to Grace, the scheming little she-rat.

  Oh, well, there was no time to do anything about it now. She sucked in her stomach, straightened her shoulders and checked herself in front of the mirror, then slapped on the merest touch of lip gloss to complete her make-up and picked her way carefully through the abandoned clothes and down the stairs.

  ‘Coming!’ she called and, grabbing her coat, she dived into it and buttoned it before opening the door, bag slung casually over her shoulder.

  Grace narrowed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, but then her eyes slid down, clocked the shoes and she smirked. Annie reached out and took the key and thanked Grace, then turned to Michael.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ she said, closing the door firmly behind her, and Grace winked and mouthed ‘Good luck!’, wiggled her fingers and ran across to the car park in the middle of the square.

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Next to Grace’s,’ he said, and she looked.

  OK. Neither of them was the respectable and middle-of-the-road Volvo estate he’d been using all last week. On one side was a grubby but newish off-roader, the other side was a—oh, boy. Something much classier. Gorgeous, in a sleek and sinuous and utterly outrageous way. But which—?

  ‘The DB9,’ he said. ‘It’s my baby—a lunatic bit of self-indulgence. I thought you might like it.’ He pressed a plip on the remote and the Aston Martin’s indicators flashed. Well, she conceded, if he’d bothered to break out the flash car, maybe Grace had been right about the clothes. And he’d probably had the meal catered. He was always saying how he never got round to cooking. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so overdressed.

  He opened the car door, seated her, pulled down the belt and leant over her to clip it, his face just inches from hers, his hand warm against her hip.

  ‘OK?’ he murmured, and she nodded.

  She didn’t dare trust herself to speak.

  He closed the door with one of those clunks that whispered quality, and went round to the driver’s side, sliding in beside her and clipping on his seat belt before firing up the engine.

  A fabulous, deliciously throaty burble echoed through the bodywork and made her shiver. As he eased out of the car park, through the village and on to the open road, he opened it up and the burble turned to a sexy, full-blooded growl that took her breath away.

  He didn’t exceed the speed limit, nor did he take her out of her comfort-zone, but the coiled power of the car was there, and somehow that was enough.

  Then he eased back on the throttle, turned down a track and guided the car slowly alongside the hedge until they rounded a bend and there it was.

  ‘It’s a barn!’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘Oh, Michael! I didn’t know you lived in a barn! Oh, I’m so envious!’

  ‘Your house is gorgeous,’ he said, but there was a question in his voice and she answered it.

  ‘It’s not my house. It’s Liz and Roger’s house, their dream, their home, their sanctuary. It’s not mine. I feel as if I’m living in a museum sometimes. Someone else’s image of the perfect house. But this—’

  He opened the door and ushered her in, reached out to touch the switch that brought the lights up slowly, illuminating every nook and cranny of the interior.

  It seemed to go up for miles. She shook her head wordlessly, taking it all in. The heavy, twisted oak beams, the steel walkway that crossed the central space and linked the two ends upstairs, the open-plan living area that flowed naturally from the sitting end through to the kitchen—and in the central section a wall of glass on each side that soared all the way up to the eaves of the roof.

  Through the one they were facing she could see lights twinkling in the gathering gloom. ‘Is that the church spire in the village?’ she said, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s just on the other side of the market square to the house, behind the shops.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How amazing. What a fabulous view you must have in daylight.’

  ‘It is. It’s gorgeous.’ His hands cupped her arms gently. ‘Here, let me take your coat,’ he murmured, and she let it slip from her shoulders into his waiting hands, holding her breath for his reaction to the dress.

  She wasn’t disappointed. He inhaled sharply and, as she turned, his eyes flared and then were swiftly controlled.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said huskily, his voice sounding more gravelly even than usual. ‘Come on through. You can sit here and talk to me while I cook. We’re having beef Stroganoff.’

  They were, as well. Properly cooked, with meltingly tender fillet steak and soured cream and onions sweated in butter, served with wild rice and baby-leaf salad.

  She perched on a stool at the granite-topped island, propped her chin on her hands and watched him work.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pouring a slug of red wine for her and sliding it towards her. ‘Taste that.’

  ‘I’m not much of a wine buff.’

  ‘You’ll like this one. My godfather gave it to me yesterday. One of his friends owns a very old vineyard that’s been in the family for generations, and he sent him a case.’

  It was gorgeous. Unbelievable. It slid down her throat like velvet, leaving a wild burst of flavours that brought her eyes wide open then let them drift shut on the experience.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said, and he grinned.

  ‘Said you’d like it. It’s not commercially available. Friends and family only, and they’re pretty good friends, so every now and then he gets a treat.’

  ‘And you’re wasting it on me when you’re driving me?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not bothered. I don’t drink a lot. I can have a glass with you, and if there’s any left I can finish it later.’

  ‘If there’s any left?’ she said with a chuckle. ‘I’m hardly going to drink the other however-many glasses, even if it is sublime! I might have two, at a push.’

  ‘Then I’ll certainly get to enjoy it later. That’s fine. It’s quality, not quantity.’

  He stirred the onions in the pan, came back to the island and smiled at her. ‘OK?’

  ‘Wonderful. But I feel curiously redundant. Can I do anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just talk to me.’

  So she did, in between watching the quick, precise movements o
f his hands as he tore and sliced and whisked. And she found herself wondering what those hands would feel like on her body, just as he dipped his finger in the salad dressing and sucked it, then dipped it back in and held it out to her to taste.

  Their eyes locked, and he leant over, holding his finger to her lips in silent invitation.

  How could she refuse?

  She opened her mouth, closed it round his fingertip and suckled gently. Heat exploded through her, and as she looked up at him she saw that same heat reflected in his eyes.

  She straightened up, dragged in a breath, looked away.

  ‘Um—it’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘Estate-bottled olive oil from the same vineyard, and they also make the balsamic vinegar,’ he said, his voice so husky she could hardly hear the words.

  Or was that because of the roaring in her ears?

  She turned away, clutching the fabulously rare and delicious wine in front of her with both hands, like a cross to ward off evil spirits.

  What was it she’d told Ruth about not wanting a man in her life? And yet here she was, just two weeks later, burning for him so fiercely she thought she’d die in the fire.

  His hands closed over her shoulders, turning her gently towards him. The wine vanished, and then she was in his arms.

  ‘Relax. I’m only going to hold you,’ he murmured, his voice low and soothing, and she let herself lean into him, resting her head against his chest and listening to the deep, even rhythm of his heartbeat.

  And gradually her body relaxed, the tension easing, shifting as she accepted this thing that was happening to her—to them—and let herself acclimatise.

  ‘OK now?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to this. It’s been a while since I’ve dated anyone.’

  His laugh was gruff and warm, and he hugged her. ‘That makes two of us,’ he said, and let her go, returning to the onions and mushrooms, testing them, then throwing the rice into a pan of boiling water.

  ‘Can I lay the table?’ she asked.

  ‘Done,’ he said, and she turned and stared.

  How could she have missed it? A long, plain wooden table and tall, graceful chairs, set in the centre of the vaulted section, was laid with sleek stainless steel cutlery and slate place mats arranged at right angles to each other at one end, slender white candles waiting for a flame to work their magic.