by CC MacKenzie
Chapter Six
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Bronte stared at the door.
Why did she feel as if she was in the wrong? She'd seen vulnerability in his eyes, quickly hidden, but it had been there. And she'd upset, angered him, and why should that make her feel small? He was the one who'd come into her home - uninvited by the way. He was the one who'd used that tone and attitude with her. She had every right to defend herself. He was an adult. He'd get over it. If it meant that he'd forget all about the Dower House then it was worth it.
Irritated with herself that she was such a wuss with disagreements and scenes she actually felt sick. And irritated with him because he'd turned her into a bitch, Bronte picked up the thick expensive envelope, almost tossing it into the fire before she stopped herself. Her name was written in black ink in a strong, fluid hand.
Ripping it open, she pulled out the stiff cream and gold embossed card and sank to the sofa as she read.
Mr Nico Ferranti would be delighted and honoured if Miss Bronte Ludlow would accept an invitation, to accompany him to a Ball to celebrate the Grand opening of Ludlow Hall next Saturday evening, in seven days time.
Shit, shit, shit.
Bronte stared at it in dismay, tapping the card on her palm before dropping it on the table. He'd set her up knowing she'd assume the letter was an offer for the house. Great, she'd just jumped down his throat over an invitation. And now she would need to apologise.
By the afternoon Bronte had managed to put him out of her mind.
At least that's what she told herself. The hot lump of guilt in her stomach was a niggling reminder of the scene. Yes, she'd been unpleasant, but he deserved it. The task in hand should be her main focus, not an Italian who was so damned sexy he should have a warning label tattooed to his forehead.
The wedding ceremony itself was being held in the old chapel in the grounds of Ludlow Hall and she had mixed feelings about the entire business. Today was the first time she'd really seen inside her old home since Nico Ferranti had sprinkled money like fairy dust. Honesty had her admit that the house looked fabulous, but she missed her previous life and the people in it too much. Money had always been tight with not much left over to indulge in the pretty things as her mother had called soft furnishings.
The grand hall was filled with round tables and chairs covered in pristine white cotton. Heavy brocade curtains in deep jewel colours spilled onto the floor from windows that arched almost to the ceiling. Glittering chandeliers, dripping with clear crystals bathed the room in light. The effect was one of quiet good taste edged with luxury. Pink and cream wild roses spilled out of tall centre-pieces on the tables, swept over the arches and wound around staircase balustrades. Nico's expert team obviously knew how to put on a wedding.
She checked the soft pink roses were still fresh between each tier of the cake and nearly jumped out of her skin at the deep voice too close behind her.
"It is a work of art. You are not a guest? I understand you are a friend of the groom."
Turning to the harsh unsmiling face of Nico, for a moment Bronte lost the power of speech. He wore a dark bespoke suit which hugged those enormous shoulders and lean, muscular thighs. Along with a snowy shirt and a silk tie the precise colour of his eyes. Heavy silver cufflinks peeped out from the sleeves. Black hair was brushed back and immaculate, merely enhancing the smooth skin, the plains and valleys of his brows and cheekbones. Eyes, almost black with what looked like possession, swept over her face and settled on her mouth. Bronte felt the heat of mortification rush into her cheeks as she realised she'd been openly staring, again.
Add in the fact that he smelt amazing and Nico Ferranti in all his finery was quite the package. He was too close and judging by her body's reaction to him, too dangerous.
Rubbing damp palms down the front of her crisp white apron, Bronte felt like Cinderella at the Ball minus the gown and glass slippers.
Her hormones buzzed like bees in her system. She studied his expressionless mask and found it difficult to swallow. He was still angry with her. It was ridiculous to be so nervous of him. What on earth could he do to her in the middle of a room full of staff?
"We almost never mix business with pleasure. It's not a good idea. But we will attend this evening and have a drink with the happy couple. Rosie loves to burn up the dance floor." Mortified, Bronte realised she was babbling. And decided she really needed to get a grip.
Unable to meet his eyes she focused instead on his chin, which was a mistake since just above it was that amazing mouth with the sensual bottom lip. It was important to Bronte to apologise for her behaviour this morning. She'd deliberately insulted him. There was nothing worse than being in the wrong.
"Look, I want to apologise for my behaviour ..."
Before Bronte could finish her carefully rehearsed speech, he took her hand, rubbing his finger over the back of her knuckles as his eyes caught and held hers.
"Please, do not worry. I should have made it clear the letter was an invitation and not another offer. But I could not resist bringing the spark to your eyes. You are quite beautiful when you are angry."
She was?
Then she wondered if it was an Italian thing the way he always wanted to touch her, because she seriously wished he wouldn't since it kept her off balance and scrambled her brain cells.
A commotion at the entrance alerted them to the presence of a tiny flower girl with black curls, flushed cheeks and over excited eyes.
A pink circlet of flowers hung at a crazy angle on her head. Spotting the wedding cake, she let out a yell and headed straight for it.
Bronte moved to intercept, scooped her up in her arms with a laugh and spun her round to delighted squeals and giggles.
"Oh, no you don't, Melissa Jane Lucas. You can have cake after the ceremony." She gave the child a big kiss on her rosy cheek. Melissa dimpled adorably so Bronte indulged herself with a soft kiss on the small nose and adjusted the circlet of flowers on her dark head. "And don't you look like a princess? Are those new shoes?"
Three year old Melissa dressed in pink silk taffeta with huge puffed sleeves and skirt that made her look like an irresistible fairy, batted big blue eyes. She arched a foot that wore butter soft ballet pumps in white leather, nodded and stuck a thumb in her mouth. Someone, Bronte realised with a smile, had missed her nap.
"There you are." The pregnant sister of the groom, looking flushed, plucked Melissa out of her arms and air-kissed Bronte's cheek. "Thank you. I'm going to enter this one for the sprint in the Olympics. Gosh the cake looks fabulous, darling. You are so clever."
She stared at Nico with a look in her eye that was pure female checking out an attractive male. With a roll of her eyes at Bronte, she rushed off with Melissa gazing longingly at the cake over her shoulder.
For a big man, Nico moved fast.
His breath sent a frisson of awareness from her neck to her toes.
The firm hand at her waist and deep voice in her ear made her tremble in reaction.
"Good with children too, I'm impressed."
The words might have been like a dagger to the heart, but the low suggestive purr in his throat scorched her cheeks. His breath fanned her ear, the scent of him making her head spin. She knew it wasn't his fault, he had no idea she may never have a child.
Emotions all over the place, instinctively Bronte moved out of reach.
The hot expression in his eyes cooled and the realisation she'd annoyed him again made the nerves in her stomach wind even tighter.
The man tied her every logical thought in knots.
"It's all part of the job."
She took another step back, cleared her throat and smoothed the table cloth with a hand that was far from steady.
He took a step forward and she forced herself not to retreat.
"Have dinner with me tonight," he said, without taking his eyes off her face. It wasn't a request.
As a result of her stomach clutching, her chin lifted with sheer bravado.
"No, thank you."
Dark eyes explored her face as his thumb caressed her jaw. He studied her mouth as if it was the last Belgian chocolate in the box. Attraction flooded her system and his pupils dilated as his eyes stayed on hers.
She couldn't look away.
"Scared, Bronte?" His husky voice deepened his accent.
Terrified actually. "Now you're being ridiculous." Why couldn't she breathe? Bravado leaked away to be replaced by a dark longing, a response to the soft seduction of his accent.
"Prove it," Nico demanded.
Grey eyes challenged hers and she studied him for a long moment. Taking a breath, she stepped out of his touch. "I'm attending the party this evening, or had you forgotten?"
"What time did you rise this morning?"
She blinked.
What had that got to do with anything? "Six o'clock."
"Then you need to eat. We have a new chef, what do you say? I've been invited too. We can have a few dances with the band, have dinner and return later for the disco. We appear to have got off on the wrong foot, Bronte. This way we can have a chance to get to know one another."
He took her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, again the sensation sent shock waves through her system. That voice went dark and low. "Please, cara."
Bronte hissed out a breath as her hormones fizzed.
Temptation whispered in her ear, it would save her heating up a pizza. The new chef was supposed to be brilliant too. Perhaps they could get to know one another and perhaps he would realise how much her home meant to her.
Almost swaying on her feet, she wondered if this devastating and exciting sensation was the elusive chemistry that Rosie was always going on about. For the first time in months, she felt truly alive.
"What time do you want to eat?" She asked, immediately telling herself she was a fool.
He didn't attempt to hide how pleased he was to have won. The smile transformed his face showcasing dimples and Bronte's hormones did a little shimmy through her system. She'd always been a sucker for dimples. Obviously she'd lost her tiny mind because there was no way she could possibly resist him when he looked at her like that.
"Eight thirty." He placed a hand on her arm as she moved away. "What made you change your mind?"
She turned, sent him a small smile.
"You said, please."
