Bride, Bought and Paid For

by Helen Bianchin

  In seeming slow motion she saw her father’s features pale and take on an ashen tinge as his tortured eyes searched her own.

  ‘I won’t let you do this.’

  There was only one way to go, and she took it as she clasped his hands between her own. ‘I’m marrying Xavier this weekend,’ she said gently. ‘Will you honour me by being at my wedding?’

  His eyes filled, and for a moment she thought he might break down, then he managed to regain a degree of composure. ‘Can you give me your word you’re doing this of your own free will?’

  God forgive her, but what could she say other than—‘Yes.’

  It hurt to see him struggle to accept her decision, and for a moment she thought he meant to protest further, except after several long seconds he inclined his head.

  ‘I won’t disappoint you.’ A sufficiently ambiguous claim that almost brought her undone.

  Romy was unsure how she managed to get through the ensuing half hour before she indicated a need to leave. It was almost ten, and she had papers to mark. Besides which, it had been a hell of a day, and she desperately wanted the quiet solitude of her flat.

  In the car she simply leant her head against the cushioned rest and momentarily closed her eyes as Xavier ignited the engine.

  ‘Relax.’

  ‘Sure, and that’s going to happen any time soon.’ She turned her head towards him and sent him a venomous glare. ‘Do you have any idea how much I hated what went down in there just now?’

  ‘It was better we approached Andre together.’

  ‘Better for whom?’

  He spared her a glance as he paused the car at an intersection. ‘You.’

  ‘I didn’t need any support.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Please,’ she remonstrated, hating him afresh. ‘Don’t play the protector.’

  ‘You don’t see me in that role as your husband?’

  His query was indolently deceptive, and there was nothing she could do to quell the sudden spear of pain.

  ‘Like the title of wife is security against you taking a lover or three when you tire of me?’

  ‘Why would I take a lover if my wife satisfies me?’

  ‘That’s a two-way street.’

  ‘You doubt I can satisfy you?’

  She remembered too well how he’d managed to satisfy her. Dammit, her body still reacted just thinking how it had sung in response to his touch.

  He smiled as he eased the car into a main arterial road leading to St Kilda, and she focused her attention beyond the windscreen, aware of the passing traffic, the wide tree-lined thoroughfare.

  It was a relief when he turned into Marine Parade and drew the car to a halt outside her apartment building.

  Her hand was already on the seatbelt release, and the breath caught in her throat as she reached for the door clasp, only to have him frame her face with his hands.

  He was close, much too close.

  ‘What—’

  ‘This.’

  There wasn’t time to complete the protest as his mouth closed over her own in a slow, sweeping kiss that tore at her resolve and shattered it.

  For a wild moment she forgot everything except the feel and taste of him and the electric pulsing sensation throbbing through her body.

  It was as if the past three years had ceased to exist, and she was barely conscious of the faint groan that rose and died in her throat at her unbidden response.

  She felt the stroke of his thumb along her jawline, sensed the increased pressure of his mouth, and she gave herself up to the sweet passion of his touch.

  Magic, she accorded silently, unable to think as she became lost. Cast adrift from reality and flung heedlessly into a time and place where emotion ruled.

  Until sanity returned, and she wrenched away from him, her eyes impossibly large as she attempted to control her ragged breathing. ‘Don’t—’

  Xavier’s eyes gleamed dark in the reflected street light.

  Romy reached blindly for the door clasp, and he let her go, waiting until she had keyed her security code into the numeric pad and had passed through the foyer before he engaged the engine.

  She was barely aware of the lift’s swift passage until it slid to a halt at her floor, and she muttered a curse as she fumbled the key when she inserted it into the lock.

  For heaven’s sake…what was wrong with her?

  Her mouth still tingled from his touch, and she put a hand to her still-racing heart as she closed the door behind her and leant against it.

  What had just happened back there?

  If she’d ever wondered about the sensuality they’d once shared…oh, call it what it was, she dismissed in silent chastisement…passion. Incandescent and primitive…emotion that took possession of the soul.

  Hers, she admitted reluctantly. But not his.

  For Xavier, she merely represented the bride price he was prepared to pay in order to gain a legitimate heir.

  And to exact revenge against father and daughter, don’t forget that, she reminded herself with cynicism.

  It would be the height of folly to imagine otherwise. She pushed away from the door and drew in a deep, calming breath.

  So take a reality check, why don’t you?

  She slipped out of her stilettos, shrugged off her jacket, crossed into the kitchen where she made a cup of strong coffee, then she set it down on the table, opened her leather satchel and turned her attention to marking student assignments.

  It was after midnight when she crawled into bed and doused the light, convinced her brain was buzzing too much to enable an easy sleep.

  Except she was wrong, and the next thing she remembered was waking to the early dawn light filtering through the shutters of her bedroom window.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE next day began with an alarm clock which didn’t go off, ensuring Romy woke late, dressed hurriedly, gulped coffee on the run and took a banana to eat en route to the high school in the northern suburbs.

  Traffic was heavy, and there were the usual delays at computer-controlled intersections.

  Consequently, she arrived with bare minutes to spare before she was due in class. Not the ideal way to begin a day.

  Worse, the few miscreants in class seemed bent on providing distraction, testing the new teacher on the block.

  OK, so the English classics failed to inspire their attention, despite her every effort to provide modern, upbeat comparisons, and it became a morning where male testosterone vied with female hormones in a bid for witticism supremacy.

  ‘So, Teach—like, who is this Will Shakespeare dude, anyway? And what does someone dead have anything to do with us?’

  ‘Yeah. And what’s with sonnets and couplets?’

  ‘Like we care?’

  Explaining the greats were an important part of literary history didn’t seem to cut it.

  ‘Bono, now, he’s a dude with something to say.’

  ‘Ice. Snoop Dogg,’ a voice added.

  ‘Seal.’

  ‘Yeah,’ endorsed a recalcitrant chorus, and Romy swung into idiomatic lingo with an ease that surprised them.

  Be prepared, was an adhered-to motto when all else failed. She’d done her homework well, isolating verses from the literary greats and comparing them with gangsta rap idioms.

  Not so different in translation, given the mores of different centuries, and she gave a silent yes in victory as the overt boredom underwent a change and emerging interest took its place.

  Nothing was said. Overkill wasn’t on the agenda.

  At the end of class, she merely thanked them for attending and asked them to provide ten more comparisons for their next English class.

  Lunch was eaten in the staffroom, whose occupants seemed grateful for the brief respite prior to taking on the afternoon.

  Romy’s cellphone beeped with an incoming text message as she ascended a flight of stairs en route to an afternoon class.

  Xavier, she determined, alerting her he’d ring her at
seven that evening. Why? she quickly keyed and received wedding details within a few seconds.

  Romy bit back an unladylike oath, stowed the cellphone in her bag, summoned a smile and entered a classroom where several students either lolled against their desks or sat on them, and whose belligerent expressions promised a difficult session.

  One teenager, he of the class clown species, made a conscientious point of addressing her as Miz too frequently with such faux-angelic regard she was sorely tempted to laugh, something she managed to avoid as she suggested he move to the front of the class and read two verses of Byron out loud.

  An edict which saw him slide to the floor on his knees, bow his head in mock prayer and beseech—‘Anything, Miz, but not Byron.’

  ‘William Wordsworth,’ Romy responded without hesitation. ‘“The Daffodils.”’ She waited a beat. ‘In its entirety.’

  A subtle irony that was lost as the class leafed to the index and turned to the section on Wordsworth.

  Two lines in, the class clown lifted his head, looked heavenward, cursed, then uttered a pitiful, ‘Sheesh, you have to be joking.’

  ‘Begin again,’ Romy instructed evenly. ‘This time, restrain from adding your own comments.’

  Did she win points? Doubtful. A smidgen of respect? Unlikely.

  It came as a relief to wind up the school day, gather papers into her satchel and slip behind the wheel of her Mini Cooper.

  There were things she needed to do, and persuading her father to exchange his meagre digs for her apartment held priority. Something which took a while, and involved his pride and her perspicacity until he reluctantly accepted her insistent decision to continue paying the monthly leasing fee. Relevant phone calls cemented the arrangement, making it a done deal before Andre could change his mind.

  ‘Now?’

  His incredulous query brought a determined smile as she reiterated, ‘Now. I’ll help you pack.’

  ‘Since when did you become so bossy?’ His voice held a tinge of amusement, something she welcomed, and her answering grin was genuine.

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  Not that there was much to fold into a suitcase, and she held back the tears as she saw just how little he’d kept from his former lifestyle. A framed wedding photograph, one of Romy the day she began school, another when she graduated. A treasured miniature crystal Waterford world globe, a gift to him from her mother, and clothes.

  ‘I’ll take the couch,’ he said firmly as they entered her St Kilda apartment.

  But only until her marriage to Xavier…the knowledge was uppermost, a fast-moving event planned to happen soon.

  Much too soon, as Romy discovered when Xavier rang shortly after seven and relayed, after a brief greeting, ‘I’ve arranged for a celebrant to conduct the marriage at six-thirty Friday evening. I suggest you pack and move here tomorrow.’

  She counted to three…slowly. ‘I’ll transfer my belongings to the house on Thursday evening. I have classes on Friday.’ One being the last for the afternoon. ‘I won’t be able to make it until six.’

  ‘Romy.’ His voice was like silk, and she ignored the silent warning evident.

  ‘Where, precisely?’

  She took a notepad, pen, and jotted down the address. Upmarket Brighton, in a street which overlooked the beach. Expensive real estate. Make that very expensive real estate. ‘Thank you.’ She cut the connection, summoned a smile and turned towards her father.

  ‘Shall I put on a DVD? Refill your coffee?’

  Andre indicated a chair close to his own. ‘Come sit down for a while.’

  It was easy to do his bidding, not so easy to relax.

  ‘I won’t pretend to believe the arrangement you’ve struck with Xavier is anything other than what it is,’ her father offered tentatively. ‘No matter that you once shared a brief relationship with him, never allow yourself to forget he’s a ruthless man, and one you’d be advised not to cross.’

  ‘You think I’m not aware of that?’ Romy posed quietly.

  Forty-eight hours from now she’d be Xavier’s wife. She’d fulfil her end of the bargain…but on her terms. She didn’t intend for him to hold all the cards in this diabolical game.

  It was after ten when she retired to her room, and almost midnight before she finished fine-tuning the next day’s assignments.

  On the edge of sleep she conducted a mental review of her wardrobe, discarding the few good clothes she possessed as being unsuitable to wear to her wedding…which meant she needed to add shopping to her list of things to do.

  Thursday proved to be one of those days. A day she weathered with true grit and determination.

  There were few students who saw the need to learn the technicalities of English language usage. Yet their knowledge was tested, their grades counted, and at the end of the school year…it mattered.

  Why? became an oft-asked query, usually accompanied by a groan of despair, when computer software held a dictionary, spell-check and grammar-check at the click of a mouse?

  Besides, who cared?

  With back-to-back classes, surviving the day became something of an endurance test, and Romy experienced a short-lived feeling of relief as she eased her Mini towards a suburban shopping centre where, after searching a number of boutiques, she discovered a lovely design in ivory voile, whose simplicity enhanced her slender curves. A scooped neckline, elbow-length sleeves, and a hemline that fell just below her knees.

  Not exactly bride wear, it nevertheless was sufficiently stylish for a very small intimate wedding where the number of attendants were restricted to the bride and groom, the bride’s father and Xavier’s lawyer.

  It was almost six when she entered her apartment to the welcome aroma of cooked food, and she crossed to her father’s side, brushed her lips to his cheek, and offered an appreciative smile.

  ‘Thanks. Smells great.’

  ‘Spaghetti bolognaise with garlic bread,’ Andre enlightened. ‘Go wash up and we’ll eat.’

  She did, and she expounded on her day, asked about his, and insisted on dealing with the dishes before retreating to her bedroom in order to pack.

  There seemed little point in transferring every item of clothing she possessed, and she simply placed what she’d need for a week into a capacious bag, then carried it into the lounge.

  Her father cast her a look of concern, and his lips parted as if he would say something, only for them to close again.

  Go, a silent voice prompted, and she did, offering a faint smile as she moved towards the front door. ‘I won’t be long.’ An inane comment, if ever there was one…except any words she might utter right now seemed superfluous.

  So she’d visit Xavier’s Brighton home, say hi, deposit her bag…and leave. How difficult could it be?

  There was no reason for the stirring of butterflies in her stomach as she hit the main road and made her way along the busy thoroughfare.

  No reason at all, she assured herself. Xavier might not even be at home, and she could simply hand her bag to his housekeeper.

  Sure, like that’s going to happen, Romy thought as she closed the distance to his prestigious address.

  By the time she drew the Mini to a halt before an imposing set of closed gates the nerves in her stomach had tightened into a painful ball.

  What now? Where was the speakerphone to announce her presence?

  At that moment the gates slid open, and she bit off a silent oath at the reality of electronic surveillance. A necessary precaution for the wealthy in today’s era, she had to admit as she eased her car onto the illuminated semi-circular driveway.

  A two-storied Tuscan-style mansion stretched across the block of land, and she caught a glimpse of landscaped gardens, shrubbery, in the time it took to reach the front entry. Wide double wood-panelled doors which opened as she closed off the engine.

  Xavier’s tall, broad frame was unmistakable as he crossed the tiled forecourt and reached for the car’s door clasp as she released her seatbelt.

&nb
sp; For a brief second, she resembled a frightened doe caught in the spotlight, he mused, watching as her expression assumed a bland mask.

  ‘My bag is in the trunk.’ Amazing, her voice sounded normal! She caught up her purse and slid out from behind the wheel as he retrieved her bag, then she preceded him into the spacious lobby.

  She caught a glimpse of marble floor tiling, a wide, curved double staircase leading to an upper level, solid mahogany furniture, paintings adorning the walls.

  Wealth, representing superb taste, was clearly evident, the crystal tiered chandelier linked to the high ceiling magnificent as it lit a lobby highlighted by wall sconces.

  Xavier set her bag at the foot of the staircase, then indicated an open door to his right.

  ‘I’ll have Maria serve coffee.’

  She wanted to say she couldn’t stay, except he’d see it for the excuse it was. And she refused to give him the satisfaction.

  ‘Thank you.’ She could do this…exchange polite conversation over coffee, then she’d leave.

  The large formal lounge was vaguely intimidating, and she wondered if his choice was deliberate.

  Oh, for the love of heaven, get a grip, she bade herself silently.

  He caught the slight edge of tension apparent and chose to ignore it as his housekeeper appeared with a tray.

  Introductions complete, Maria poured steaming aromatic coffee into two cups before retreating from the room.

  The need to say something…anything, seemed paramount in the ensuing silence.

  ‘I’ve arranged for my father to take over my apartment,’ Romy said quietly as she accepted a cup and saucer from his hand. ‘Naturally, I’ll maintain the lease.’

  Xavier offered sugar and cream, both of which she refused. ‘He’s there now?’

  She inclined her head and met his gaze with equanimity. ‘Is this where I ask about your day?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Give it a shot.’

  The edges of his mouth lifted a little, and a glimmer of humour lit his dark eyes for a few seconds. ‘Meetings, closing an important deal.’ He waited a beat. ‘Having my PA organize accommodation at Peppers on the Mornington Peninsula for the weekend.’