by Jane Porter
She blinked up at him. She seemed to be struggling to find her voice. “That doesn’t seem fair,” she finally whispered.
“What doesn’t seem fair is that you knew about Crisanti and Sophie and you never said a word to me.” He stared down into her wide, anxious eyes, not caring that she looked as if she might truly faint any moment, because her thoughtlessness had jeopardized his future and security. “Collect your things and meet me in front of the house. We’re leaving immediately.”
* * *
Poppy was so grateful to be out of the antechamber and away from Randall that she practically ran through the Langston House entrance and up the huge, sweeping staircase to the suite on the second floor that the bride and attendants had used this morning to prepare for the ceremony.
The other bridesmaids had already collected their things and all that was left was Sophie’s purse and set of luggage, the two smart suitcases packed for the honeymoon—and then off to one side, Poppy’s small overnight bag.
Poppy eyed Sophie’s handsome suitcases, remembering the treasure trove of gorgeous new clothes inside—bikinis and sarongs, skirts, tunics and kaftans by the top designers—for a ten-day honeymoon in the Caribbean. A honeymoon that wasn’t going to happen now.
Suddenly, Poppy’s legs gave out and she slid into the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands.
She really hoped one day Randall would thank her, but she sensed that wouldn’t be for quite a while, but in the meantime, she needed to help Randall pick up the pieces.
She was good at that sort of thing, too.
Well, pretty good, if it had to do with business affairs and paperwork. Poppy excelled at paperwork, and filing things, and then retrieving those things, and making travel arrangements, and then canceling the arrangements.
She spent a huge chunk of every day booking and rebooking meetings, conferences, lunches, dinners, travel.
But Poppy never complained. Randall gave her a purpose. Yes, he’d been Sophie’s fiancé all this time, but he was the reason she woke up every day with a smile, eager to get to work. She loved her job. She loved—no, too strong a word, particularly in light of today’s fiasco, but she did rather adore—her boss. Randall was incredibly intelligent, and interesting and successful. He was also calm, to the point of being unflappable, and when there was a crisis at work, he was usually the one to calm her down.
She hated humiliating Randall today. It hurt her to have hurt him, but Sophie didn’t love Randall. Sophie was only marrying Randall because her family had thought it would be an excellent business deal back before she was even old enough to drive. It wasn’t a marriage as much as a merger and Sophie deserved better. And Randall definitely deserved better, too.
“I came to find out what was taking so long,” Randall said from the doorway.
His voice was hard and icy-cold. Poppy stiffened and straightened, swiftly wiping away tears. “Sorry. I just need a moment.”
“You’ve had a moment. You’ve had five minutes of moments.”
“I don’t think it was that long.”
“And I don’t think I even know who you are anymore.”
She blanched, looking at him where he remained silhouetted in the doorway. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“But at the same time you’re not trying to help. I don’t want to be here. I have my entire staff downstairs trying to figure out what to do with the hundreds of gifts and floral arrangements, never mind that monstrosity of a wedding cake in the reception tent.”
“Of course. Right.” She rose and headed toward Sophie’s luggage. “Let me just take these downstairs.”
“Those are Sophie’s, not yours. She can make her own arrangements for her luggage.”
“She’s my best friend—”
“I don’t care.”
“I do, and as her maid of honor—”
“You work for me, not her, and if you wish to continue in my employ, you will get your own bag and follow me. Otherwise—”
“There’s no need to threaten me. I was just trying to help.”
“Mrs. Holmes manages my house. You manage my business affairs,” he answered, referring to his housekeeper.
“I just thought Mrs. Holmes has quite a lot to manage at the moment. She doesn’t need another worry.”
“Mrs. Holmes is the very model of efficiency. She’ll be fine.” He crossed the room and pointed to a small, worn overnight case. “Is this one yours?” When he saw her nod, he picked up her case. “Let’s go, then. The car is waiting.”
Poppy’s brow furrowed as she glanced back at Sophie’s set of suitcases but there was nothing she could do now, and so she followed Randall down the sweeping staircase and out the front door.
Mrs. Holmes was waiting outside the big brick house for them.
“Not to worry about a thing, sir,” she said to Randall, before turning to Poppy and whispering in her ear, “Poor lamb. He must be devastated.”
Poppy wouldn’t have described Randall as a poor lamb, or all that devastated, but Mrs. Holmes had a very different relationship with Randall Grant than she did. “He’ll recover,” Poppy answered firmly. “He’s been caught off guard, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”
Randall’s black Austin Healey two-seater convertible was parked at the base of the stairs in the huge oval driveway.
He put Poppy’s overnight bag in the boot, and then opened the passenger door for her. The car was low to the ground and even though Poppy was short, she felt as if she had to drop into the seat and then smash the pink gown’s ballerina-style tulle in around her so that Randall could close the door.
“This is a ridiculous dress to travel in,” she muttered.
She’d thought she’d been quiet enough that he wouldn’t hear but he did. “You can change on the plane,” he said.
“What plane?” she asked.
“My plane.”
“But that was for your honeymoon.”
“Yes, and it can fly other places than the Caribbean,” he said drily, sliding behind the steering wheel and tugging on his tie to loosen it.
“Speaking of which, should I begin canceling your travel arrangements?”
“My travel arrangements?”
She flushed. “Your...honeymoon.”
He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I may have lost my bride at the altar, but I’m not completely inept. Seeing as I made the reservations, I will cancel them.”
Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m sure you are. You are a singularly devoted secretary, always looking out for my best interests.”
She sucked in a breath at the biting sarcasm. “I’ve always done my best for you.”
“Does that include today?”
“What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means, Poppy? Or have you suddenly become exceptionally good at playing dumb?”
* * *
Dal wanted to throttle Poppy; he really did. She knew far more than she was letting on but she was determined to play her role in whatever scheme she and Sophie had concocted.
He was disgusted, and not just with them, but with himself. He’d always believed himself to be an excellent judge of character, but obviously he was wrong. Sophie and Poppy had both betrayed his trust.
He hated himself for being oblivious and gullible.
He hated that he’d allowed himself to be played the fool.
His father had always warned him not to trust a woman, and he’d always privately rolled his eyes, aware that his father had issues, but perhaps in this instance his father had been right.
Dal’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as he drove the short distance from Langston House to the private airport outside Winchester. There was very little traffic and the sky was blue, the weather warm without b
eing hot. Perfect June day for a wedding. This morning everything had seemed perfect, too, until it became the stuff of nightmares.
He gripped the wheel harder, imagining the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. How the media loved society and scandal. The headlines were bound to be salacious.
Unlike Sophie, he hated being in the public eye, detesting everything to do with society. In his mind there was nothing worse than English society with its endless fascination of classes and aristocrats, and new versus old money.
He’d spent the past ten years trying to avoid scandal, and it infuriated him to be thrust into the limelight. The attention would be significant, and just thinking about having cameras or microphones thrust in his face made him want to punch something, and he hadn’t wanted to fight in years.
Dal had been a fighter growing up, so much so, that he’d nearly lost his place at Cambridge after a particularly nasty brawl. He hadn’t started the fight, but he’d ended it, and it hadn’t mattered to the deans or his father, that he’d fought to defend his mother’s name. To the powers that be, fighting was ungentlemanly, and Dal Grant, the future Earl of Langston, was expected to uphold his legacy, not tarnish it.
The school administrators had accepted his apology and pledge, but his father hadn’t been so easily appeased. His father had been upset for weeks after, and then as usual, his anger finally broke, and after the rage came the despair.
As a boy, Dal had dreaded the mood swings. As a young man, he’d found them intolerable. But he couldn’t walk away from his father. There was no one else to manage the earl, never mind the earldom, the estates and the income. Dal had to step up; he had to become the dutiful son, and he had, sacrificing his wants for his father’s mental stability, going so far to agree to marry the woman his father had picked out for him fifteen years ago.
Thank God his father wasn’t alive today. His father wouldn’t have handled today’s humiliation well. God only knows what he would have done, never mind when. But his father wasn’t present, which meant Dal could sort out this impossible situation without his father’s ranting.
And he would sort it out.
He knew exactly how he’d sort it out. Dal shot a narrowed glance in Poppy’s direction. She was convenient, tenderhearted and malleable, making her the easiest and fastest solution for his problem.
He knew she also had feelings for him, which should simplify the whole matter.
Dal tugged on his tie, loosening it, trying to imagine where they could go.
He needed to take her away, needed someplace private and remote, somewhere that no one would think to look. The Caribbean island he’d booked for the honeymoon was remote and private, but he’d never go there now. But remote was still desirable. Someplace that no one could get near them, or bother them...
Someplace where he could seduce Poppy. It shouldn’t take long. Just a few days and she’d acquiesce. But it had to be private, and cut off from the outside world.
Suddenly, Dal saw pink. Not the icy-pink of Poppy’s bridesmaid dress, but the warm, sun-kissed pink of the Mehkar summer palace tucked in the stark red Atlas Mountains... Kasbah Jolie.
He hadn’t thought about his mother’s desert palace in years and yet suddenly it was all he could see. It was private and remote, the sprawling, rose-tinted villa nestled on a huge, private estate, between sparkling blue-tiled pools and exquisite gardens fragrant with roses and lavender, mint and thyme.
The spectacular estate was a two-hour drive from the nearest airport, and four hours from the capital city of Gila. It took time to reach this hidden gem secreted in the rugged Atlas Mountains, the estate carved from a mountain peak with breathtaking views of mountains, and a dark blue river snaking through the fertile green valley far below.
He hadn’t been back since he was an eleven-year-old boy, and he hadn’t thought he’d ever want to return, certain it would be too painful, but suddenly he was tempted, seriously tempted, to head east. It was his land, his estate, after all. Where better to seduce his secretary, and make her his bride?
The jet sat fueled and waiting for him at this very moment at the private airfield, complete with a flight crew and approved flight plan. If he wanted to go to Mehkar, the staff would need to file a new flight plan, but that wasn’t a huge ordeal.
Once upon a time, Mehkar had been as much his home as England. Once upon a time, he’d preferred Mehkar to anyplace else. The only negative he could think of would be creating false hope in his grandfather. His grandfather had waited patiently all these years for Dal to return, and Dal hated to disappoint his grandfather but Dal wasn’t returning for good.
He’d have to send word to his grandfather so the king wouldn’t be caught off guard, but this wasn’t a homecoming for Dal. It was merely a chance to buy him time while he decided how he’d handle his search for a new bride.
CHAPTER TWO
POPPY CHEWED THE inside of her lip as the sports car approached the airstrip outside Winchester.
She could see the sleek, white jet with the navy and burgundy pinstripes on the tarmac. It was fueled and staffed, waiting for the bride and groom to go to their Caribbean island for an extended honeymoon.
She’d only learned that Randall owned his own plane a few weeks ago, and that he kept the jet in a private hangar at an executive terminal in London. Poppy had been shocked by the discovery, wondering why she hadn’t known before. She’d handled a vast array of his business affairs for years. Shouldn’t she have known that he owned a plane, as well as kept a dedicated flight crew on payroll?
“We’re back to London, then?” she asked Randall as the electric gates opened, giving them admittance to the private airfield.
“Will there be press in London?” he retorted grimly.
“Yes,” she answered faintly.
“Then we absolutely won’t go there.”
His icy disdain made her shiver inwardly. This was a side of him she didn’t know. Randall had always been a paragon of control, rarely revealing emotion, and certainly never displaying temper. But he’d been through hell today, she reminded herself, ridiculously loyal, not because she had to be, but because she wanted to be. He was one of the finest men she knew, and it could be argued that she didn’t know many men, but that didn’t change the fact that he was brilliant and honorable, a man with tremendous integrity. And yes, she had placed him on a pedestal years ago, but that was because he deserved to be there, and just because he was short-tempered today didn’t mean she was ready to let him topple off that pedestal. “But won’t there be press everywhere?” she asked carefully.
“Not everywhere, no.”
“You have a place in mind, then?”
He shot her a look then, rather long and speculative. It made her feel uncomfortably bare, as if he could see through her. “Yes.”
Her skin prickled and she gave her arm a quick rub, smoothing away the sudden goose bumps. “Is it far?”
“It’s not exactly close.”
“You know I don’t have my laptop,” she added briskly, trying to cover her unease. “It’s in London. Perhaps we could stop in London first—”
“No.”
She winced.
She knew he saw her expression because his jaw hardened and his eyes blazed, making her feel as if he somehow knew her role in today’s disaster, but he couldn’t know. Sophie didn’t even know, and Sophie was the one hauled away on Renzo’s shoulder.
Randall braked next to the plane and turned the engine off. “You can cry if you want, but I don’t feel sorry for you, not one little bit.”
“I’m not crying,” she flashed.
“But knowing you, you will be soon. You’re the proverbial watering pot, Poppy.”
She turned her head away, determined to ignore his insults. She’d take the higher ground today since he couldn’t. It couldn’t be easy being humiliated in front of hundreds of people—
“I trusted you,” he gritted, his voice low and rough. “I trusted you and you’ve let me down.”
Her head snapped around and she looked into his eyes. His fury was palpable, his golden gaze burning into her.
Her heart hammered. Her mouth went dry. “I’m sorry.”
“Then tell me the truth so we can clear up the confusion of just what the hell happened earlier today.”
“Renzo took Sophie.”
“I got that part. Witnessed it firsthand. But what I want to know is why. Why did he come? Why did Sophie go? Why are they together now when she was supposed to be here with me? You know the story. I think it’s only fair that I know it, too.”
Poppy’s lips parted but she couldn’t make a sound.
His narrowed gaze traveled her face before he gave his head a shake. “I appreciate that you’re loyal to Sophie. I admire friends that look out for each other. But in this instance, you took the wrong side, Poppy. Sophie was engaged to me. Sophie had promised to marry me. If you knew she was having a relationship with another man, you should have come to me. You should have warned me instead of leaving me out there, stupid and exposed.” And then he swung open his door and stepped out, walking from her in long, fast strides as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Poppy exhaled in a slow, shuddering breath. He was beyond livid with her. He was also hurt. She’d never meant to wound him. She’d wanted the best for him, too. And beautiful Sophie would have been the best if she’d loved him, but Sophie didn’t love him. There had been no love between them, just agreements and money and mergers.
Shaken, Poppy opened her door and stepped out. She needed to fix this, but how? What could she possibly do now to make it better?
She wouldn’t argue with him, that was for sure. And she’d let him be angry, because he had a right to be angry, and she’d be even more agreeable and amenable than usual so that he’d know she was sorry, and determined to make amends.
Poppy went around to the back of the car to retrieve her bag, but a young uniformed man approached and said he would be taking care of the luggage and she was to go on board where a flight attendant would help her get settled.
