She squared her shoulders, breathed in and out very deeply, and made her way into the sitting room to clear away the mugs and plates.
Chapter 2
Annoyingly, once Blossom was lying under the tastefully scented, crisp linen sheets in the generous double bed in Melissa’s guest room, sleep became an impossibility. She found herself embroiled in a minute-by-minute post-mortem of the whole day, right from when Greg had first called her.
The crazy dash to the house, Greg’s poor little wan face, the frantic pace that had ensued with the children, not to mention the mistakes she’d made in dealing with Harry—and overall the awful knowledge that her sister was in terrible pain and she couldn’t help her. That had been excruciating.
Finally, when she couldn’t keep him at bay a moment longer, she allowed Zak Hamilton to walk through the door of her mind. This resulted in a distinctly harrowing, squirmingly hot and embarrassing twenty minutes when she replayed every word he had said and she had said, every gesture, every look. She did this several times. More than several. It got worse, not better.
When she couldn’t stand it a moment longer, Blossom slid out of bed and walked into the en suite, running herself a hot bath and adding a liberal amount of bath oil which magically promised to soothe and calm in equal measures. Stripping off the practical ‘I’m dealing with children’ pyjamas she had bought especially for her last babysitting endeavour, she surveyed herself in the full-length mirror to one side of the deep cast-iron bath before climbing into the perfumed water.
Only someone as effortlessly slim as Melissa could think having a mirror you couldn’t avoid when you were naked was a good idea, she reflected ruefully as she inched her bottom slowly into water which seemed to be a good few degrees hotter than she had thought. Not that she was a two-ton Tessie by any means. She just wasn’t naturally willowy like her sister.
She was now resting on the bottom of the bath, and breathed out thankfully. It had been obvious from an early age she took totally after their mother, whereas Melissa had inherited their father’s to-die-for genes. Yet it had been apparent to anyone within a five-mile radius of their parents that their father had worshipped the ground his sweet but homely wife walked on.
Blossom’s face took on a tender quality. She was so glad her parents had lived long enough to see Harry and Simone before they had been killed in a multiple car-crash three months after the twins had been born. They’d been so thrilled Melissa had achieved her heart’s desire. She and Melissa had had the best of childhoods, and their parents had continued to be utterly supportive even after she and her sister had left home—Melissa to married life, and Blossom to follow her career in London. She had always dreamed she’d find a relationship similar to the one her parents had had one day, a love which would lead to marriage, perhaps even children, whilst her career was put on hold for a short time.
And then, a few months after her parents had died, Dean had come along just when she’d been beginning to doubt there would ever be a Mr Right among all the Mr Wrongs she’d dated in the past. She hadn’t known then that, if all the Mr Wrongs in the world had been gathered up into one bundle, they wouldn’t be as wrong as Dean had been.
Blossom tried to close her mind against the memories now pouring in, but it was too late; she had opened Pandora’s box.
They had met at a fashion shoot; he had been one of the male models, and she had been bowled over by his dark Latin looks and smouldering charm. As he had intended she should be.
They had married two months to the day they had met, and already her photographs had begun to open doors for him. She had established good contacts over the years, and she had used every last one of them for Dean. He was her husband, her love; there was nothing she wouldn’t have done for him.
She had been so looking forward to their first Christmas together. Blossom clenched her teeth as the pictures in her mind rolled on with relentless accuracy. On the day before Christmas Eve she had come home to the flat—her flat; Dean had been sharing a grotty bedsit with a friend called Julian when they had met. She found all his clothes and belongings gone and a note waiting for her, propped inappropriately—or perhaps completely appropriately, she thought bitterly—against their wedding photograph. A small, neatly folded piece of paper.
He was holidaying in the Caribbean, Dean had written. He would not be returning to the flat when he came back to England. Their marriage had been a terrible mistake. It was better they faced it now than later. This was all for the best, and he hoped she understood. They had been married for seven months.
It had got worse. Oh, how it had got worse.
When she had gone to the bank after Christmas it was to discover Dean had withdrawn every last penny from their joint savings account, which had housed her half of the inheritance from her parents’ estate. A tidy nest-egg. All gone.
A week later a concerned work colleague had reported he had heard whispers Dean had taken someone with him to the Caribbean. Subsequent enquiries had revealed the woman had in fact been living with him in the bedsit when Blossom had met him—‘Julian’ was ‘Juliette’, and the two had never stopped seeing each other.
It had been a bitter pill to swallow, but Blossom had had to accept Dean had married her purely for the size of her bank account, and the influential circles within the modelling and TV fraternity she could introduce him to. His career—due mainly to her efforts on his behalf, along with the cash she had lavished on him for anything he had needed—had taken off far better than even he could have hoped for. He’d begun to fly high, and he and his Juliette must have been congratulating themselves at Blossom’s gullibility as they had basked in the warm Caribbean sun, laughing at her as they’d sipped their cocktails.
She had been ill for some time after that.
Blossom moved restlessly in the warm water, drawing a mental veil over the emotional devastation she had suffered. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. She nodded to the thought which had been voiced by Greg, of all people. He had been right. When she had surfaced from the blanket of grief and despair, she found she’d become curiously autonomous, and she welcomed it. She never, ever wanted to put her trust on the line again. Her heart was her own, and she intended it would continue to remain so.
She understood work. Work was safe, secure, sure, even taking into account the inevitable backstabbing and diva-like skirmishes which were part and parcel of the fashion world. That world could be irritating, false and cruel; it could make her angry or plain disgusted on occasion. But the ups more than made up for the downs and, more importantly, even the worse aspects didn’t touch the inner core of her. Didn’t make her feel as though life wasn’t worth living, that she was the ugliest, most unattractive, unworthy female since the beginning of creation. A man had done that, and she never intended to give another male the same opportunity. Once bitten, definitely twice shy.
Her mouth tightening, she stood up, reaching for the fluffy bath sheet and wrapping it round her. Why was she thinking about Dean tonight, reliving it all? She had thought that was behind her. It wasn’t as though she cared about him any more.
Zak Hamilton. The name popped up as an answer all by itself. Blossom frowned. Over her dead body. She wouldn’t give a man like Zak the tiniest chance of entering her life. But—the frown deepened—he had unsettled her. Rattled her. She didn’t know why, but he had. And it wasn’t his looks or wealth; she came into contact with plenty of drop-dead-gorgeous men in her line of work, and more than a few were well-heeled. Nothing like that intimidated or impressed her any more.
So—what was it about Zak she didn’t like? His confidence, which definitely bordered on arrogance? The fact that he was probably one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, and certainly possessed a male charisma that was dynamite? The way he’d looked at her, the amusement in his eyes, along with the fact he had made her feel like an insect under a microscope? A bumbling, somewhat ineffectual insect at that. His manner, which had spoken of unlimited wealth
and the knowledge people would jump as high as he ordered them to?
Dropping the sheet, she pulled on the pyjamas again and then rubbed the bottom of her shoulder-length hair with the handtowel. It had got slightly wet as she had lain in the bath.
She was probably being monumentally unfair, because she really knew nothing at all about Zak Hamilton, but she didn’t care. She didn’t like him. The brown-haired reflection in the mirror stared back at her, and as though it contradicted her she said firmly, ‘I don’t. Not one iota.’
Padding into the bedroom, she climbed into bed and was asleep within a minute or two.
The next days were hectic, but by the time Melissa came home Blossom felt she had got a handle on running a home and caring for four energetic and high-spirited little ones. Admittedly she hadn’t attempted to bake—she knew her limits—but she had learnt how to manage Harry, and that was an accolade for anyone. The house was spick and span, she was up to date with the washing as well as the ironing, she’d even found time to cut the lawns and weed the flowerbeds. The children had been fed well on Melissa’s cooking—courtesy of the well-stocked freezer—and had fully accepted Blossom after the somewhat disastrous first day.
‘Thank you so much for holding the fort, everything looks lovely,’ Melissa said gratefully once the initial hullabaloo caused by the children having their mother home again had died down. ‘I feel positively guilty, having spent hours in bed watching TV and reading books in that lovely room at the hospital.’ Courtesy of Greg’s handsome private-health package at work.
‘It was a pleasure.’ Well, parts of it had been. Things such as reading Rebecca and Ella their bedtime story, when the two little girls had been damp and sweet-smelling from their bath and curled up sleepily beside her. Wrestling the rake off Harry when he’d snuck into the garden shed while her back had been turned hadn’t been so hot. Her nephew had been intent on terrorising his sisters with it, and hadn’t taken kindly to his fun being spoilt.
‘Were they good?’ Melissa turned fond eyes on her little brood, who were playing with Greg in the garden while the two sisters had a welcome cup of coffee. Fresh ground, now Melissa was home. She wouldn’t dare to suggest anything else.
‘Angelic,’ Blossom lied stoutly. Some of the time.
‘I bet you can’t wait to get back to your flat and your own way of doing things,’ Melissa said. ‘Peace and quiet for hours on end if you want it.’
Blossom knew her sister didn’t mean a word of it. Melissa couldn’t think of a more wonderful existence than being with her children, and she expected everyone else to feel the same. Surprisingly—and she admitted this with a very real feeling of astonishment—Blossom knew she was really going to miss her nieces and nephew when she left. She loved them very much, of course, she always had, but over the last days she had begun to thoroughly enjoy their company and she hadn’t expected that. They were funny and cute, and naughty and exhausting, but overall so alive, so brimming with wonder and excitement about the most ordinary things. And it kind of rubbed off on her, she’d found.
‘Harry found a stone with a face in it this morning,’ she said vaguely, her eyes intent on the children. ‘He’s wrapped it up as a present for you later, so make a big thing of it when he gives it to you, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Melissa said softly, taking her twin’s hand and squeezing it tight as she added, ‘You’re a star, sis, but you don’t have to stay any longer if it’s making things difficult with your work.’
‘It isn’t.’ That was the truth, but even if work had been piling up to the ceiling she wouldn’t have left. She had been shocked at how pale and washed out Melissa was. The doctors had discovered she was severely anaemic on top of having her appendix out. The result of having two sets of twins within twenty months of each other probably. Whatever, she intended to stay at least another week or so, and make sure Melissa had plenty of rest and sleep. She’d try and fit in a talk about not having to be superwoman all the time too if there was a suitable opportunity. The children wouldn’t expire on the spot if they had to have a bought loaf now and again or a microwave ready-meal.
The next morning Blossom let Melissa and Greg sleep in—Greg had looked worse than her sister the day before—while she got the children up, gave them their breakfast and took them to nursery. On her way home she visited the local supermarket and bought a load of convenience foods without the merest shred of remorse. Melissa was going to have to lighten up a bit.
As she drew off the road on reaching the house, and into the pebbled front garden which had been given over solely to parking due to the fact that Greg needed a space the size of a football pitch to park successfully, Blossom saw the silver-grey car parked next to Greg’s people-carrier and groaned softly. Zak Hamilton. Damn it. And she was in her oldest jeans and a cotton jumper that had been washed so often and become so baggy it could pass for a dress. But she had taken the time to apply some mascara that morning and curl the ends of her hair, so that the bob just skimmed her shoulders, having known she was calling in at the supermarket. Overall it was an improvement on the last time they’d met. Not a big one, but something at least. Not that it bothered her what Zak Hamilton thought of her. Not in the least. Not for a second. The very idea!
Ignoring the little voice in the back of her mind that was saying nastily, ‘And pigs fly,’ she parked the car and began to lift the bags of shopping out. Along with the little voice she was determined to pay no heed to, her stomach was fluttering about as though it was host to a flock of butterflies. If butterflies came in flocks? She wasn’t sure about that.
‘Hi again.’ The deep, faintly accented voice was behind her.
She straightened up so quickly she heard her neck snap, but it was more the fact that she caught a carrier bag on something sharp in the boot, tearing it so that a can of baked beans dropped on her foot, that brought forth the exclamation of pain. Turning, she saw Zak Hamilton walking towards her.
‘Want some help with all that?’ he offered, waving a hand at the bags round her feet. ‘You look pretty loaded up.’
She would have liked to say no, but as she wasn’t an octopus it would have been rather silly. She forced a smile, wondering if her toe was broken. ‘Thank you,’ she said politely.
‘You’re very welcome.’
As he bent and picked up several of the bags, she caught a whiff of a deliciously sexy and definitely very expensive aftershave. The torn carrier-bag chose that moment to empty itself completely, and in the ensuing scramble for tins and packets of this and that Blossom got control of her breathing. Until she registered Zak crouching down, trousers pulled tight over muscled thighs as he stuffed some of the food into another bag. He was more sexy than any man had the right to be.
‘I thought Melissa cooked everything from scratch.’ He glanced up at her, a packet of cherry bakewells in his hand, and his eyes so piercingly blue their brightness made Blossom blink.
‘She does,’ Blossom said shortly, wishing he would stand up. When he obliged in the next instant she felt sufficiently in control again to add, ‘But I’m in charge for the next few days until she’s feeling a bit better.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘I wonder if they’ll get the kids back to the healthy option once they’ve tasted fish fingers and oven chips.’ He grinned at her, eyebrows raised. ‘What do you think?’
‘The odd meal like that does no harm at all.’ Even to herself she sounded schoolmarmish. ‘They’re quite nutritious.’
‘You know that and I know that, but mother love is a strange force,’ he said gravely.
He was laughing at her—again. The difference was this time she found she was having a job not to smile. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m just the aunty.’ Picking up two
bags of her own, she made for the house. There was safety in numbers.
Melissa and Greg were in the sitting room, a tray of coffee and a plate of shortbread fingers on the low oak coffee-table in front of them. Blossom paused at the open door long
enough to say, ‘I’m just putting the shopping away,’ before continuing to the kitchen. A cosy foursome? Not on your life.
‘I think I got them out of bed.’
Zak had followed her, and now he dumped his bags on the breakfast bar as she glanced his way. ‘It’s half-past ten, don’t worry about it,’ she said briefly. ‘They’d slept enough.’
‘Greg made the coffee.’ It was faintly plaintive.
There was a message in there somehow, and Blossom raised her eyebrows enquiringly even as she wondered what it was about raven-haired men and pale blue shirts. Killer combination.
‘It’s as weak as dishwater.’ Zak’s eyes were laughing at her.
‘Oh dear.’ That’d teach him to call without warning. ‘I’ll put the shopping away and make some more; the other is probably cold by now, anyway.’ I’m putting shopping away—hint, hint.
He nodded. ‘Want some help?’
Even standing six feet away he was too close for comfort. Not that she thought he was going to try anything. He was far too sophisticated for anything so gauche and clumsy, she knew that. ‘No thanks. I won’t be long.’ Just go before I drop something else. Give me a few minutes to do some deep-breathing exercises.
He didn’t take the hint. Folding his arms, he leant back against the open door and watched her. It was disconcerting to say the least. Having grown up with someone as totally stunning as Melissa, she had never liked being stared at, always assuming she was being compared unfavourably to her twin. Maybe that was why she’d chosen a career behind the camera? Interesting thought, she told herself feverishly. Freud would probably have had the time of his life messing with her head. If he hadn’t been dead for eight decades, that was.
The shopping disposed of in record time—she’d never be able to find anything now—Blossom switched the kettle on and steeled herself to smile and glance at Zak as she said, ‘Shall we join the others? I’ll make the excuse about the coffee and bring the tray out.’
His Christmas Bride Page 3
