The Bride and the Bargain

by ALLISON LEIGH,

  “I make my own luck. Here, ’Retta. I’ll do that.” Gray nudged Loretta’s hands aside and it took every speck of self-control that Amelia possessed not to jump out of her skin when she felt the brush of his warm fingers against the small of her back. “André is having kittens out there about something. Go calm him down, would you?”

  Loretta gave him a knowing look. “You just want to get your hands on your intended.” But she went, giving Amelia a quick wink on her way. “Give a shout if you need anything else, sweetie.”

  What she wanted to do was beg Loretta not to leave her, because once she did, Amelia knew this wedding would become even more dauntingly real. Instead, she nodded and ducked her chin slightly when she looked into the mirror and saw the picture she made in her half-fastened gown, Gray standing tall and close behind her. “I, um, I switched gowns.”

  “I noticed.” His fingertips rose to the next button and shivers danced down Amelia’s spine.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For having a mind of your own?”

  “I didn’t want to insult you or anything.”

  “Since when?” He reached another button, between her shoulder blades. “Neither one of us has been shy about trading insults up to now.” He finished the last button and dropped his hands over her bare shoulders. “But maybe we can avoid doing so today.”

  Their reflection kept drawing her gaze. Sentimentality from Gray? It was as surreal as their wedding-topper appearance. “That sounds good to me,” she said warily.

  His thumb moved slowly—distractingly—against her skin. “It’s been a busy week.”

  “Yes.” Filled with the countless details involved in moving Daphne’s family lock, stock and barrel into an elaborate house that could never really be their home.

  “Harry likes you.”

  With no need to hold up her bodice any longer, her hands had nothing else to do. She pressed them together at her waist where they did nothing to calm the butterfly bevy. “That was the plan, right?”

  His thumb moved again, brushing slowly back and forth. While the rest of her seemed shivering and cold that three-inch arc of skin beneath his caress felt glowing hot. “That was the plan.”

  “And now that it’s coming to reality, you’re troubled by it.”

  “I’m not troubled by anything,” he assured smoothly.

  But she knew he was lying.

  She didn’t know how. Or why. But she knew it right down in her bones. And it was considerably different than when he’d given her a false name that day in the park.

  She turned to face him and found her hands lifting to the trailing ends of his tie. His eyes narrowed a little but he made no move to stop her as she reached up and flipped his collar to settle the tie more neatly. “Lift your chin a little.”

  He did and she fastened the top button of his shirt then began carefully winding the necktie into a very proper Windsor. “I’m sure this isn’t how you expected to enter a marriage, either.”

  “I didn’t expect to enter a marriage ever,” he corrected.

  That wasn’t strictly accurate given what Loretta had revealed about his onetime fiancée. But though Amelia was floundering in curiosity over his past, she was loath to break the tenuous peace between them.

  So she finished tying the knot and slid it into place, adjusted the dimple slightly and stepped back again to study her efforts.

  Gray looked at his reflection over Amelia’s gleaming head, which was crowned in a sexy cascade of curls that made his fingers itch with the desire to free them from their confining pins. “Where’d you learn to knot a tie?” Probably the geek she was better off without.

  “My father.” She sounded painfully matter-of-fact.

  “He wore ties a lot?”

  “He was a salesman. Whenever Daphne and I happened to see him, he was wearing one.”

  “Happened to see him?”

  She lifted one shoulder and reached up to adjust the tie a centimeter. “He only came by a few times a year. For the sake of appearance. One year he had a sprained wrist and he needed help so he told me how to knot his tie.”

  Instead of a touching father-daughter tale, what she described sounded like the complete opposite. “Is he still alive?” Marissa hadn’t been able to confirm that particular fact. But what father would ignore the needs of his daughters, considering Daphne’s condition?

  That was almost in the Harry realm of days long past.

  “I have no idea.” She looked toward the door when there was a soft knock on it. “Come in.”

  The photographer stuck his head into the room. “Mind if I interrupt long enough to snap off a few?”

  Despite the flawless makeup, Amelia’s cheeks looked pinched and pale. “Give us a minute,” Gray requested.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Hunt.” The camera-laden man ducked his head back out of the doorway and softly closed it again.

  No matter what he thought about Amelia—and his uncommon uncertainty about that was disturbing in itself—she was holding up her end of their agreement. “You’re making Harry a happy man today.” His father had been preening for days about how well he’d orchestrated the happiness of his sons, and practically gloated over the wedding details that had mushroomed out of Gray’s control pretty much from the get-go.

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Is that supposed to make it okay that we’re living a lie? Never mind.” She shook her head abruptly and turned to look at herself in the mirror, avoiding his gaze as she brushed needlessly at the gown that gave her an unexpectedly ethereal quality. “Don’t answer that. We both know who’s benefiting more out of this arrangement.”

  She wasn’t referring to making an old man happy.

  She was talking dollars and cents.

  Despite her refusal of the settlement at the end of their marriage, her sister’s medical costs weren’t going to be insignificant. But those financial matters were merely sprinkles in the bucket compared to what stood in the balance if Harry had gone forward with his threat to dismantle HuntCom.

  Not that Gray had any intention of sharing that particular nugget with her.

  They were unlikely allies in this marital venture, but that didn’t mean he intended to trust her any more than he ever trusted any woman.

  Still, her pale cheeks nagged at him. Maybe just because he didn’t want her standing alongside him in front of the minister and all those guests looking as if she were heading for the gallows rather than life as Mrs. Grayson Hunt. Maybe it was just his pride.

  God knew he had more than his share of it.

  He closed his hands over her shoulders, absorbing the fine quake that worked through her at the contact. He was almost getting used to those little explosive sensations whenever he touched her.

  The lie was almost laughable.

  The fact was, Gray knew he wanted Amelia. Hell. He’d learned a long time ago that desire had little bearing on his liking for a person.

  “Don’t stare at me,” she said huskily and he realized that he’d been doing just that.

  He clamped down on his unruly thoughts and reached in his lapel to pull out a small cloth bag. “This is what I came in here for.” He handed it to her. “Cornelia would have brought it in herself, but she’s riding herd on Harry.”

  Amelia’s soft lips sounded out a breathy “Oh,” as she loosened the drawstring on the pink cloth and a thin, glittering necklace slid into her palm.

  “Don’t get excited,” Gray warned. “She just figured you ought to have something borrowed. P.J. was about to send Alex back to their place so she could find something of her own when Cornelia announced that she’d already thought of it.”

  Amelia held up the delicate strand with three perfectly faceted diamonds hanging miraculously along the front. “It’s beautiful.”

  “She wore it when she married her husband, George.”

  Amelia’s lashes lifted, her gaze shocked. “Oh. My. I couldn’t possibly.”

  “You couldn’t possibly refu
se,” he assured drily. “Believe me. What Cornelia wants, she generally gets.”

  “She’s like all of you Hunts, then.”

  “I suppose so. You need a necklace, anyway.” Though the expanse of creamy skin stretching from the edge of her gown to the curves of her shoulders to the points of her collarbone and the hollow at the base of her long, lovely throat struck him as perfect in their unadorned state.

  But she was marrying him. People would expect to see some jewels. Only the ones he’d initially arranged for her to wear had been relegated back to the safe once Cornelia had offered her necklace.

  Even Gray couldn’t refuse Cornelia.

  “It’s very kind of her to think of it.” Her voice sounded thick. She unfastened the small clasp and after a brief hesitation, held up the slender white-gold chain. “Um, would you…?”

  He could have said no. Her slender fingers were far more adept with tiny jewelry clasps than his fingers were.

  He took the necklace in both hands and reached over her head, lowering the stones until they nestled against her flesh just above the edge of her gown. When he fit the clasp together at the back of her bared nape, the stones slowly climbed up that faint shadow of cleavage that—if he weren’t towering over her from above—he wouldn’t even see.

  A swallow worked its way down her throat. The golden flecks in her eyes where they met his in the mirrored reflection seemed to multiply. Her fingertips fluttered to the stones at their final resting place in the seductive hollow of her throat. “Thank you.”

  Color had risen in her cheeks again.

  He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out another item—a slender, flat box. “Lily said to give you this. Something blue, she said.”

  Amelia blinked hard as if she were trying to hold back tears. “Your brothers’ wives are very thoughtful,” she murmured. “If I were a proper bride—” She shook her head, breaking off and lifted the lid of the small box only to blink slightly at the tiny hank of lace and blue satin that lay nestled inside.

  Gray looked at the contents, his lip quirking at the corner. “Well.” He tucked a finger into the box and lifted the panties by one of their ribbon ties. “No wonder she was kind of laughing when she said it was more enjoyable than a blue garter.” He didn’t have to work hard at summoning an image of Amelia’s derriere barely covered by the skimpy garment. He did, however, have to work hard at eradicating it again.

  Amelia was flushed as she snatched the diminutive panties off his finger and slapped the lid over them in the box, turning away from him.

  “So. I guess it’s time to get this show on the road,” he said slowly. He reached out and needlessly adjusted the lay of Cornelia’s necklace against the back of Amelia’s neck.

  In the mirror, he could see her slick the tip of her tongue over the center of her lower lip. “I, um, yes. I guess it is.”

  His job was done.

  He’d delivered the necklace and the surprising garter substitute. Would be able to assure those concerned that the “borrowed and blue” they were nattering about was duly taken care of. The photographer was waiting and after that, a small church full of guests expected to see a show.

  He and Amelia had a marital contract that needed their signatures on a marriage license to ensure that Harry’s threats could never be repeated.

  But instead of moving his fingers away from her nape, he spread them wide, fanning them around her neck. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the wild beat of her pulse.

  Fear?

  Her eyes were wide in the mirror.

  He slid his fingers until they were beneath her chin. Slowly nudged it upward.

  In the mirror, her amber-flecked gaze stayed glued to his. Her fingers looked white where they surrounded the small lingerie box.

  “Are you afraid of me, Amelia?” His voice was low.

  “Should I be?” Her voice was even lower. Almost a whisper.

  “It might be safer if you were.”

  “Safer for who? You or me?”

  The taut skin beneath her throat was almost translucent. Delicate.

  Vulnerable.

  “I don’t know.” The admission surprised him as much as it probably did her. He lowered his head over hers and brushed his mouth slowly across those softly parted lips.

  She inhaled sharply and it felt as if he were being breathed in by her. Her hand lifted halfway, only there was nothing for her to touch but the unyielding mirror in front of her.

  He closed his eyes against the sight they made and dragged his mouth away through sheer effort.

  The silence surrounding them was deafening. Broken only by the whisper of their breaths. Finally, he opened his eyes again.

  She was staring at him, her pulse beating visibly at the base of her throat. “Why did you do that?” Her voice was hushed.

  He shoved his fisted hand into his pocket. He might feel manipulated into this situation, but nobody—not even Harry—was holding a gun to his head.

  He’d kissed her because he hadn’t been able to get the taste of her out of his head. If he thought she was afraid of him, maybe his feeble conscience would have drawn the line at touching her again.

  But she wasn’t afraid.

  Not of that.

  “Consider it practice,” he said tersely and strode out the door as if the hounds of hell were on his heels.

  No. She wasn’t afraid. He was.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amelia wondered if the receiving line would ever end.

  It was just her and Gray standing there, the center of attention for the guests milling around the historic ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel, as they greeted Gray’s guests.

  Their guests, if one were going to waste one’s time on being strictly accurate.

  The wedding ceremony itself was mostly a blur for Amelia. She assumed she must have made the appropriate responses, because nobody had pointed a finger and accused her of not being good enough to marry Grayson Hunt. And afterward, she’d managed to smile and pose where the photographer had indicated for the formal photographs that Harry had insisted were necessary.

  But now, they’d been standing there in that stunningly appointed ballroom for what seemed hours while a live orchestra played—not too obtrusively, of course—and fancily dressed waiters passed trays of sumptuous hors d’oeuvres and heady cocktails to the throng of bejeweled, gowned and tuxedoed guests.

  In her world, wedding receptions were usually a fairly brief affair of cake and punch, a toast or two, tossing the bouquet and garter and racing out as if the couple couldn’t wait to start the wedding night. At least that’s how it had been when Daphne married Martin.

  How long were receptions supposed to last in Gray’s world?

  Her feet hurt from the sexy shoes strapped around her feet and the cloying scent of too many perfumes hung uncomfortably in her head. Even her cheeks hurt from keeping a smile on her face as Gray introduced her to the never-ending passage of guests.

  A part of her was impressed that he really did know every single person present. Not just by name. That wasn’t so difficult—connecting a name to a face. But he actually seemed to know them.

  It was just another facet of this stranger she found herself wedded to that didn’t fit her expectations.

  He slid his palm down the back of her neck, stopping to rest between her shoulder blades and everything that pained her slid into the background, superseded yet again by something as simple as a touch. His touch.

  She smiled blindly at the woman who appeared in front of them, automatically prepared for the double-handed squeezing handshake, the airbrush of a meaningless kiss on her cheeks.

  “So this is the girl who has sneaked in and stolen my son away from me.”

  Amelia felt Gray’s fingertips flex against her back. Keeping the smile on her face seemed suddenly even more difficult as she hurriedly gathered her wits and focused on the tall, slender woman.

  Christina Hunt Devereaux Dunleavy.

  “He
llo, Mother.” Gray’s voice was even. “And we all know one can’t steal what was bartered off decades ago.”

  Amelia winced a little.

  But Gray’s mother didn’t seem to turn a single one of her soft blond hairs that were swept up in a sophisticated knot atop her head. “Oh, Grayson. It’s your wedding, darling. Don’t be tiresome. And I understand there is more to congratulate than just your little marriage, here.”

  “Pull in the claws,” Gray advised mildly. “And remember that you’re here only because I’m allowing it.”

  Christina’s pale blue eyes tightened. “Well. As usual, you’re displaying your father’s propensity for putting me in my place. You’ll do an admirable job replacing him as chairman of the board for HuntCom. People won’t even be able to tell that the mantle has been passed to you.” She slanted her gaze to Amelia’s face, then dropped to focus on the diamond necklace. “You and I have so much in common, Amelia. We’ll have to do lunch soon. Somebody will have to take you in hand.” She lifted Amelia’s hand at that, studying the wedding ring that Gray had slid on her finger during the ceremony where it nestled against the enormous stones of the engagement ring. “That necklace looks like a schoolgirl chose it, but at least he’s given you a decent ring. But someone will need to teach you what it means to be the wife of a Hunt.”

  Amelia’s fingers curled. Cornelia’s necklace couldn’t be more beautiful. And while she didn’t personally care for the ring, having this woman call it “decent” in that superior tone sent defensiveness shooting right through her.

  Gray’s hand moved away from her spine, only to settle around her shoulders, instead. “Amelia needs no lessons from you, Christina.”

  The woman tilted her chin, never losing her regal bearing. She wore three strands of enormous pearls and diamonds around her neck, and the soft gold strapless gown clinging to her figure from breast to toe could have come straight from a fashion runway. “One day when Gray takes your children from you, you might change your mind.”

  Amelia stiffened. She automatically looked over to the table not far from them where the children were sitting with Paula, looking somewhat shell-shocked, and Gray’s brothers and wives.