by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
Game on.
He pushed through the crowd of photographers and reporters, ignoring all the lenses and microphones shoved in his direction, mounted the steps three at a time, and grabbed her hand to pull her into the registry office. Theresa barely had a chance to check that Julie and Rafael were following.
Once they were safely inside, he paused. Theresa searched his face, checking for last minute nerves. Emile shook his head and laid his hand on her cheek.
“Are you okay?”
She frowned. There was no way she was admitting to the doubts she’d had. She’d made her decision. Now they just had to see it through. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The crowd out there.” He gestured with his other hand. “They can be daunting if you’re not used to it.”
Oh. It was nice of him to care, but she didn’t need a guardian angel. “I’m fine. We just ignored them.”
“Good.” He smiled at her and she felt her lips curve in automatic response. Then he let his gaze drop, examining her in a way that reminded her all too vividly of their first night together.
“White, hm?” He tweaked her dress gently between his fingers.
She smiled. “My mother wouldn’t think I was properly married if I’d worn anything else.”
The ceremony was swift and emotionless. She’d chosen the blandest vows available, which hardly committed them to anything. No loving, cherishing, honoring, or obeying for either of them. Just a simple promise to be husband and wife. Not forever or until death. They both knew that would be a lie. The registrar announced their marriage and Emile kissed her cheek as briefly as it was possible for him to do so.
She took his hand and remembered to smile when she turned to face Julie and Rafael. They signed their names and waited while their witnesses did their bit. It hardly seemed possible that their marriage was as real as the ones with all the flashy ceremony and heartfelt vows. But the marriage license said otherwise, and in the eyes of the law, that was all that mattered.
Emile escorted her out onto the steps where they posed briefly for the photographers. Theresa panicked when one of the reporters called out for a picture of her ring. Emile simply picked up her hand and bent her over his arm into a deep kiss. Keeping his hand clasped in hers and ignoring every microphone thrust in their direction, he led her over to his car.
“Where to?”
“What about the others?” Theresa looked back at Julie and Rafael, marooned in a sea of journalists.
“Raf will get her out okay. Don’t worry about it.” He eased the car effortlessly out of the tight parking space and into the traffic.
“Who is he?”
His lips twitched. “A teammate.”
“Oh, right. That’s why Julie recognized him.”
“She likes football?”
“Her brother does. He supports Woolwich.”
“Good. Where are we going?”
He was already driving away from the crowds of journalists. “A ring shop, I suppose.”
“Have you eaten?”
There was the flash of tenderness again. She hadn’t expected him to be so thoughtful. “I had coffee.” She’d been too tense for anything more.
He muttered something in French, and Christ, that got sexier every time.
Tonight, she told herself firmly. There were things she had to do first and she might as well get the worst of them over with.
Theresa extracted her phone from her bag. “Excuse me.”
“Who are you calling?”
“No one. I’m texting my parents.”
Emile swerved and brought the car to a halt. He turned to face her, incredulity blazing from every pore. “You’re telling your parents by text?”
“I thought they should know before they see the pictures in the papers tomorrow.”
“Our engagement was in the papers.”
“Not in the kind of papers they read. But someone is bound to recognize me from those photos and pass it on.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
“I know. That’s why you married me.”
“No, I married you because I am crazy.”
Her fingers typed the message with practiced ease: Off shelf. See you on Saturday.
“Have you told your parents?” she asked as she pressed send.
“My mother died last year.”
She could hear the grief still present in his voice. “I’m so sorry, Emile. I didn’t know.”
He shrugged, but his hands were still curled into tense fists. “Everyone else in the world knows. It’s all in the public domain. In the papers, on the Internet.”
Theresa put her hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Emile.” She’d already said it once, but she didn’t know what else to say.
“You know, it would make this much easier if you just Googled me.”
“Right.” She took her hand away. Warned off. Clearly, he wanted to keep the emotional barriers up just as much as she did. “I’ll do that. I’m afraid you won’t find much about me online, but if there’s anything you want to know, you can just ask.”
“I’ll do that.”
Her phone rang and she checked the screen. “It’s Mum. I’d better answer it.”
He nodded. “Tell me your address, and I’ll drive while you’re talking.”
“We aren’t going to my house, are we?”
“You need to change.”
“Excuse me?”
He gestured vaguely in her direction. “Your dress. It is…ah…noticeable.”
“That’s true.” She’d chosen a knee length dress with a fitted bodice and a full skirt emphasized by layers of tulle. It couldn’t be anything other than a wedding dress, especially when paired with white heels and a white rose tucked into her hair.
“I’ll take you home to change and then we’ll have lunch and buy you a ring.”
“Great. Thanks.” She gave him the postcode to put in his satnav, then pressed the button on her phone and took a deep breath. “Hi, Mum.”
Chapter Four
The satnav took him to a pretty street in north London, and Theresa pointed out the small terraced house that was hers.
“You live alone?” he asked.
“I don’t like to share.” She unlocked the door and let him in. “Sit down. I’ll only be a few minutes.” Theresa gestured towards the small sitting room. Emile nodded and watched her run up the narrow staircase. She had beautiful ankles. Incredible arse, too, from what he remembered. Sadly, the full skirt on her white dress hid most of it. It did pretty amazing things to her breasts, though.
The sitting room was comfortable enough, though tiny by comparison to his own apartment, but there was nothing homely about it. The shelves on either side of the mantelpiece mostly held large legal books and piles of papers. A few CD cases sat beside an elderly stereo system. The curtains were two inches shorter than the windows, as if they’d been made for another home, and no one had bothered to alter them here. A few photographs in frames and a couple of nice prints brightened up the beige walls, and a striped rug hid most of the worn carpet. Everything was clean and functional, if distinctly shabby and unfashionable. He wandered through to the kitchen and found the same again: scrupulously clean, very functional, deeply unfashionable with dark oak everywhere and flower patterns on the tiles.
Like Theresa.
He smiled to himself at the thought. She didn’t favor designer clothes or care about fashion. He still had visions of her in the stretchy black underwear she’d worn the first night they met. No lace, no trims, nothing designed to make her look more sexy or more tempting than she naturally was. And yet, he couldn’t forget that image. Totally honest to the point of bluntness, but utterly desirable.
Would she have chosen white to go under her dress today? Or perhaps some subtle pastel shade that would warm her skin and make him want to taste her? Cream and strawberries. Perfectly English. He’d like to see her in deep red satin, silky smooth under his fingers and tongue. He’d
edge the fabric aside and just slip his fingers in to tease her, testing her skin was as soft and velvety as he remembered.
Emile was halfway up the stairs before he realized it. He contemplated reversing for approximately half a second. He’d promised her lunch and they had to buy the rings. On the other hand, they were married, and Theresa was getting undressed.
She hadn’t closed her bedroom door. Emile pushed it further open and grinned. Theresa was kneeling on the floor, searching through her chest of drawers.
She caught sight of him in the mirror and turned round. “I told you to wait downstairs.”
He shrugged. “But you are up here. Naked.”
She glanced down. “Yes. Well.”
“You were naked under the wedding dress?” Christ, she was even more brazen than he’d remembered.
“No, of course not. I had a strapless bustier. And a thong.”
“Can I see?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Not if you want to get out of here before the shops close.”
He shrugged again. “That’s not high in my priorities anymore.”
Theresa shook her head and stood up. “Are you going to stand there and watch me get dressed?”
“If that’s all that’s on offer.” He slanted a grin at her, folded his arms, and leaned against the doorframe.
“Men.” But she was smiling. She liked him watching her. Liked that he wanted her.
He loved the way she made no effort to cover herself. She had no shame in her body. No reason she should, but Emile had been with enough women to know that made no difference to most of them.
“Shop first, fun later.” She selected a pair of jeans and a casual top from her wardrobe.
“And then we celebrate.”
“Celebrate?”
“I have plans for this evening.”
“Oh, really?” She raised her eyebrows at him.
He gave her a look. “Oh yes. Dinner at Le Terroir. After-party at my flat. That’ll be you and me. Naked.”
“Naked, huh?” She pulled on her jeans.
“You have a problem with that?”
Not the hint of a blush or even a hesitation. “I have some underwear I thought you might be interested in seeing.”
Merde, she knew how to drive a man crazy. He cleared his throat. “I can revise my plans to include underwear.”
“I like a man who can be flexible.”
She finished getting ready with the same quick efficiency that she did everything. Unself-conscious and utterly un-coquettish, and yet she had him burning to rip those clothes off her back and show her all the ways she turned him hard.
“Come on, then. Let’s get this done.” As she walked past him, her hand deliberately brushed against his erection. Emile groaned. “The sooner we shop, the sooner we get to come back, right?”
“Right.” If he survived that long.
After lunch, they walked to a small jeweler’s shop a few streets from her house. They didn’t need an audience for this unromantic post-nuptial purchase, and here they could be relatively sure of being paparazzi-free, so long as they were quick enough. Theresa scanned the trays of engagement rings and selected one at random.
“This should be fine.”
Emile took hold of her wrist and brought her hand up to examine it. He laughed softly. “Take it off.”
“You don’t like it? I’m the one who’ll have to wear it.” Theresa kept it on her finger. It fitted surprisingly well.
“I have no opinion, but the diamond is too small.” He turned to the sales assistant. “We’ll need to see your most expensive rings.”
“No, we won’t!” Theresa glared at him.
“Chérie.” He slid his hand around her waist and pressed a kiss at the corner of her mouth. She kept it stubbornly closed. “You need a ring that people, and journalists, will believe I bought for you. You’re a footballer’s wife now, Thérèse.”
She grimaced at the images that phrase conjured up. “I’m not going to get a boob job and start drinking Prosecco for breakfast.”
Emile laughed. “You don’t need a boob job, but you do need a decent ring.” He gestured to the tray that the assistant had brought out. “Take a look at these.”
She curled her hands into fists, so that he couldn’t make her try them on. He glanced down at her, then his lips curved up and his eyes gleamed.
“Chérie, if you don’t like these rings, we can go somewhere else. We’ve got all day.”
Damn him. He knew perfectly well that she was as eager to get home as he was.
“Fine. I’ll try this one.” She pointed to a simple platinum ring with a rectangular stone. Unusual and elegant, she liked it a lot. Unfortunately, it was too big.
“Can you size it for us?” Emile asked. “This afternoon?” He flashed a grin at the sales assistant who immediately hurried away to check.
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Don’t be silly. If you’d reminded me to do it, I’d have bought you a ring that cost ten times as much.”
“If I’d remembered to do it, I’d have bought one for fifty quid at the market.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t have let you wear it. I don’t want anyone accusing me of being a cheapskate.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to stop me.”
Emile stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Oh, yes I would, chérie.” And then he kissed her.
She sank into the warmth of his lips and let him make love to her with his tongue. She slid her hands around his hips and leaned into his body. He kissed her thoroughly and expertly, and when he pulled away to look down into her eyes, she murmured softly, “You never, ever, get to dictate what I wear. Understood?”
His jaw dropped. She turned away, satisfied that he’d got the message, and smiled at the shop assistant. “We need wedding bands, as well. Nothing flashy.”
Fortunately, Emile was happy to go with her choice of plain wedding bands. The assistant told them regretfully that the diamond ring would not be ready that afternoon, but offered to have it delivered by courier the following morning.
“Perfect.” Theresa handed over her credit card.
“Excuse me.” Emile whipped her card from the assistant’s fingers and substituted his own.
The assistant looked between them both. “Madam?” he asked, nervously.
“Oh, very well. Put half on his card and half on mine.”
Emile raised an eyebrow. “We are not going Dutch on wedding rings.”
“Why not?”
“Do you have any idea how much I get paid?”
She shook her head. “A lot, I imagine. What does that have to do with it?”
“I can buy the damn rings.”
“That doesn’t mean you should.”
“I am.” He nodded to the assistant to put his card into the machine. Apparently, she’d lost this round.
Theresa slid her arm around Emile’s waist and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “I’m only letting you pay because I need a favor.”
“Another one, chérie?”
“Yes, well. This is something different.” She took a deep breath. “I need you to come and meet my parents this Saturday.”
A look of utter incredulity swept over his face. “This Saturday?”
“Yes. My mother has invited us for lunch, and it seemed sensible to get it over with. Are you busy?”
He ran a hand over his face in disbelief. He took the card machine from the assistant and punched in his number, but his shoulders were shaking.
“What is it? What’s wrong with Saturday?”
He held up a finger while he completed the transaction and took the card back from the assistant. They made the arrangements for delivery and left the shop.
“Now tell me.”
He pulled her round the corner into a quiet side street, then backed her up against a wall, one hand either side of her face, his body almost but not quite touching hers, so that she was aware of every single inch
of him.
“This Saturday.” His thumbs came to rest on her jawline. “I have to play.” He leaned in. “It’s quite an important match.”
She managed to nod. “I should have thought of that. Most people have weekends free.”
“It is my job, chérie.”
His breath was warm against her skin. She seemed to have stopped breathing altogether. “I… I understand.”
His lips kissed hers, so briefly she almost wondered if she had imagined it.
“So, if I am to meet your family…” He tilted his head and moved in closer. “They’ll need to come to the match.”
She frowned. “Not a good idea.” Her mother was going to be angry enough. Better to get it over with in private.
“Well, then.” He traced a line down her cheek with one finger. “It’ll just be you cheering for me.”
“Me?”
“I do a favor for you, you do one for me. A public show of support. My wife in the players’ box.” His mouth followed the line of his finger, along her jaw, down the side of her neck, with his tongue flicking out to trace tiny circles of pleasure on her skin. “Ernestinho is also playing. Mariella will be there. We’re all supposed to look as though we are friends.”
It was her side of the bargain. Rehabilitate Emile’s reputation. “Uh huh. You know, we could be at my house in five minutes.”
“Hmm.” He didn’t stop what he was doing.
“In bed. Naked. In five minutes.”
That made him look up, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You make an excellent point.”
…
Her phone rang just as they reached her front door. Theresa tucked it under her ear while she found her key and let them inside. Whoever was on the other end of the phone was clearly panicking about something.
“Today? Damn.” Theresa gestured to him to shut the door. “No, I understand. Fine. Half an hour.”
She switched off the phone and shook her head. “Sorry. I have to go in to work.”
Work? She was planning to ditch him and go back to the office on their wedding day? “I thought you’d taken the day off.”
She grimaced. “I did. But the client doesn’t care about that.”
