The Bride Wore Red At The Ladies Club: Arabella's Story (Cosmic Hot Shorts Book 4)

by Susan Stephens

  From a practical point of view, the Old Hall and surrounding estate were everything he'd hoped for. The thought that he might not be able to charm Lady Frost tonight had never crossed his mind. He'd got on in life by being warm and openly friendly, whilst hiding his calculating brain, and occasionally his cold and ruthless side. He would buy this house. It meant too much to him not to.

  There was only one thing missing and that was the redhead. He'd been thinking about her a lot since their chance encounter in the rain. He needed a woman like he needed food, water, and clean, fresh air. And with her feisty nature and full figure, she was his ideal woman.

  That was one frustration. Harold Frost was another. Jack frowned with impatience as he gunned the bike. Was Lady Frost such an old boot that her husband couldn't convince her of the advantages of selling to him? He was offering way over the asking price, and the agent had told him the house was practically falling down, and the Frosts didn't have any money to repair it.

  His expression hardened as he skidded the bike to a halt outside the gates. He was just in time to see a man he presumed to be Harold Frost leading a team of friends into the house. He couldn't see the man clearly from where he'd stopped, but had seen enough to know that the owner of the house he intended to buy had had too much to drink. Was Frost mad taking that drunken crew inside the house? It would hardly put his wife in the best of moods for signing the contract.

  He stayed until he saw the front door open in the hope of catching a glimpse of Lady Frost, but he couldn't make out who was standing in the shadows. The old boot, he presumed.

  She couldn't believe it. In one breath Harold had told her that she needed to smarten herself up and prepare to entertain an important guest tonight, and in the next he arrived with a posse of drunken friends—the type who consumed every drop of liquor in the house, and then proceeded to smash whatever few heirlooms remained as they lurched drunkenly out of the house. She was furious—so coldly furious she came up with a plan.

  "No. Please. I insist. You must finish the bottle," she said when one of Harold's friends asked for another drink. "Here," she said helpfully, reaching beneath the wet bar that had meant tearing out half of the antique paneling in the library to fit it in. "Here, look at all these bottles," she said with a big smile. "Drink the lot of it—please. I insist."

  "That's uncommonly generous of you," Harold mumbled into his glass.

  His friends all agreed.

  "Now. If we could just have a few sandwiches to go with that?" Harold added.

  "No trouble at all," she said, bustling off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Bracing her hands against the pitted marble surface, Arabella dipped her head and bit back tears. The smell in the library reminded her of a backstreet bar—not that she had too much experience with backstreet bars.

  "I hate this," she said, addressing the ceiling as if the spiders were her friends. "I hate it so much."

  She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then made a large platter of the most delicious–looking sandwiches, and carried them through.

  She stood back as the men started to trough. Not one of them asked if she would like a sandwich. Not that she would. She had some standards left. They were so rude. She despised them. They were greedy, and crude, and selfish, and there was too much history in these walls to allow them to carry on like this.

  "Another drink," one of them demanded with a belch.

  He had just sealed his fate, along with all the others.

  "Of course," she said brightly.

  She made sure that she tipped every last dreg from every bottle into all the outstretched glasses. "Drink up," she encouraged, and then her expression changed, "—because that's the last drink you'll ever get here—unless Harold feels like stumping up the cash for a fresh supply."

  Their shouts and cries of alarm probably reached the next village. She couldn't have cared less. They were hangers–on and users, all of them—and the gravy train had reached the station.

  And as for Harold?

  Firing a warning glance at him, she told him as clearly as words that if he said anything out of place she wouldn't be slaving away in the kitchen to entertain his important guest tonight.

  Stalking out of the room with her head held high, she ran up the stairs to the bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. She had never done anything quite so anarchic before. She had been brought up to mind her P's and Q's, and to welcome every guest into the house as if they were members of the family—the men downstairs were Harold's family, she thought, starting to laugh hysterically. They were nothing to her.

  Crossing to the bed, she flopped down and cuddled a pillow until she heard the last of the men stagger out of the house. She wasn't too worried about Harold trying to wreak vengeance on her tonight—he needed her, and he also needed to sleep it off before he entertained their guest.

  And what was she going to do until it was time to light the fires and start cooking?

  She stared out the window at the beautiful grounds that had once belonged to the house, but which now belonged to some stranger. He'd bought up the lot, according to Harold, and now he wanted the house to complete the set. Harold had refused to tell her the name of their guest tonight, but she guessed that the mystery land–grab man was their important guest.

  Would she sign away the only home she'd ever known? Would she give up that easily? "Over my dead body," she grated out, feeling more confident after her comprehensive victory downstairs.

  Pressing her cheek against the cold, smooth glass, she heaved a breath. Confident, yes, but sometimes it was very lonely here. That was why she'd joined the Ladies Club. The club was just a small group of like–minded women in the village. It had started off as a bit of a joke—they were going to find each other hot studs and have lots of dirty sex, but it had ended up more PG rated than X–rated. They talked dirty, but they didn't do a lot. In fact, she sometimes wondered if she'd ever have sex again. Harold wasn't interested, and after years of being told she was fat and ugly, she had started to believe him, so she wasn't exactly holding her breath.

  She pulled back from the window, still staring out at the rolling hills and the lush green valleys. Who knew how long she'd be able to call this wonderful place home?

  Oh, cheer up! Arabella instructed herself firmly. Who knew what was around the next corner?

  Her mind immediately flew to a rainy day in town, when there had been an incredible–looking man around the next corner.

  She'd probably never see him again, she told herself sensibly. Though he had been concerned about her shopping getting ruined, he'd hardly bust a gut to get her number.

  It had turned into a lovely afternoon and she was tempted to go for a walk. There was time before making dinner, and having got rid of Harold's cronies, at least for now, she owed herself a celebratory walk.

  She was just approaching the main gates when she was almost run over.

  "What the—" She couldn't believe her eyes. A reckless biker, having performed a one–eighty turn, had skidded to a halt at her feet. Spitting dust and gravel out of her mouth, she glowered at the black–clad rider. "Get off my property! This is private property!" Or it had been, before it was sold. "Didn't you see the sign? PRIVATE PROPERTY!" Even as she spelled out the words, she had a really bad feeling.

  The biker appeared unperturbed as he dismounted. Removing his helmet, he eased onto one tight, denim–clad hip.

  "You!" she exclaimed. It was Sir Galahad from the other day in town! "Isn't it enough that you try to run me over in the High Street?" she exploded. "Have you come here to finish the job?"

  "I thought it was you," he said, looking pleased.

  Her heart was going crazy. He was even better looking than she remembered.

  "I would surely remember if I had been trying to run you over," he said, firm lips pressing down attractively. "But as it happened, you walked in front of my car. You thumped on my hood. And you l
ed a helpless old lady in front of my car as well. It was only thanks to my whip–fast reflexes that I managed to save you both."

  Did he have to grin like that? "That's your account of the event." She scowled, wishing desperately that she had bothered to put on some makeup before coming out, and had at least brushed her hair. Something different in the clothes department might have helped. Her oldest jeans, battered Barbour, and stinking, dung–covered boots didn't help her confidence at all. "What are you doing?" He was holding out a spare helmet!

  "Taking you for a ride."

  She didn't doubt it for a minute.

  "Well?" he said.

  His curving grin heated her up in all sorts of ways, and not one of those ways was angry. She meant to refuse, and spluttered something that sounded like no, but her hand seemed to have a life of its own, and reached out to take hold of the helmet.

  "You'll have to help me," she admitted. "I've never put one of these on before."

  "My pleasure," he drawled.

  Everything about him suggested pleasure, she thought, closing her eyes as he accidentally brushed her chin as he secured the helmet.

  "Relax," he murmured, smiling. "I don't bite. At least, not yet..."

  Her eyes flashed open. Was that supposed to reassure her?

  "There. You'll do," he approved, standing back.

  Refusing to take any more mockery from those ridiculously compelling eyes, she slammed down the visor—only to get her finger caught as it sprang shut.

  "Ow! Ow! Ow!" she wailed, dancing on the spot. Now she was really angry, and regretting even stopping to give him the time of day.

  "Here—let me see," he soothed.

  To her absolute horror and her utter amazement, he put her wounded finger in his mouth. And sucked. An astonished breath shuddered out of her as sensation rippled through her body, from her finger in the warm, secure captivity of his mouth, to places it was polite not to mention.

  "Better?" he asked.

  She huffed.

  If only...

  "Good to see you've got your fighting spirit back." He smiled as he turned away. "Coming?" he invited.

  Don't, she warned her rampant imagination.

  Remounting his monstrous machine, he patted the thickly padded leather seat behind him. "What do you have to lose?" he murmured.

  He had no idea.

  "Grab a hold..."

  Was he serious? Mounting the machine was one thing, but now she was supposed to wrap her arms around a mountain of muscle clad in a fine cotton top? She hadn't been this close to a man—a real man...since, like, forever.

  "Come on," he pressed, revving the engine to a throaty roar.

  Inching closer, she tentatively did as he said. It was like embracing a beautifully carved pillar of warm marble.

  "Lean your head against my back..."

  Lean her—

  "Fuuuuck!" The breath shot out of her lungs as G–force hit her in the back. The speed as he took off was sensational, and exhilarating—the vibrations beneath her, too intimate to describe. She didn't dare to examine her fantasies where the man she was hanging on to was concerned, other than to say he looked even better in the sunshine than the rain—and far better on a monster bike than in his sleek, sophisticated muscle car. He was a real man now, rugged and sexy, the type she'd always dreamed about, before Harold had changed her perception of men.

  She surprised herself by loving every minute of the ride, though it took her a few seconds to have the courage to open her eyes, by which time they were close to breaking the sound barrier. Lifting her head, she thrilled at the speed and the pressure of the wind as they cut through it. Her life had been so rigidly structured, that this was absolutely crazy. It was the most amazing feeling she'd ever had. She was free!

  She was free!

  Closing her eyes, she smiled, realizing she was confident in him, and could maybe relax her death grip around his waist a little. When she did open her eyes she noticed everything about him...the waves of strong black hair escaping his helmet, the tan of his neck, the impossibly wide spread of his shoulders, and his tight, muscular thighs gripping the sides of the machine. He was shielding her with his body, and she had never been shielded before. She knew it was temporary—dangerous, even—and what if someone saw her—what if Harold saw her?

  "Okay, honey?"

  She gave a start, and then realized that he was speaking to her through the microphone in her helmet. "Fine, thank you," she said primly, tightening up again. She might be enjoying herself, but she knew this was wrong.

  "Just tell me when you've had enough."

  Never?

  "I will," she promised.

  This was so amazing. She hadn't done anything like it before. They were heading for the lakeside, where the shrubbery was lush and the trees were bound close together. The greenery created an enchanted dell through which a crystal cool stream bubbled and gurgled over smooth, timeworn rock. It was possibly the most magical place on earth—or she had always thought so. Imagine him knowing just where to look for such a place.

  He stopped the bike and dismounted. She stared at the hand he was holding out.

  "You don't need my help?" He shrugged. "Okay—"

  "No. I do. Thank you," she said politely.

  He didn't just give her a hand off the bike, he lifted her off the bike, and then he held her in front of him. She was so sure he was going to kiss her that her heart started beating faster than a hummingbird's wings.

  Lifting off her helmet, he set it down on the saddle behind him. And then, to her astonishment, he removed the band from her long red hair and ran his fingers through the tangles until it floated around her shoulders like a fiery cloud.

  "Beautiful," he murmured, smiling that faint, curving smile.

  She gave a nervous laugh. She had no idea how to handle compliments. She wasn't exactly showered in them in the general run of things.

  "What now?" she asked with an awkward shrug.

  "Now?" His handsome brow pleated as his dark eyes narrowed on her face. "Now I take you over there—see that shade beneath the trees, beside the stream? I'm going to lay you down on a soft, yet firm bed of moss, and then I'm going to make long, slow love to you."

  Chapter Three

  "What?" She jumped back a yard. "No! Absolutely not! Please! No! Stop! Don't even think it!"

  "Why not?" He was still smiling. "Personally, I can't think of anything else," he drawled.

  "But I don't even know your name," she protested, and then she had to laugh, if only at the craziness of the situation.

  Raking his thick black hair, he raised his smiling eyes to hers. "Apologies. I got so carried away, I clean forgot about introductions."

  Breath shot out of her as he dragged her close. She was taken aback. She didn't have any experience with this, and so she didn't have the tools to deal with it. When he brushed her lips with his, she remained absolutely static. She didn't dare to move a muscle. She was incapable of reacting, beyond convincing herself that she had recently cleaned her teeth and didn't need to hold her breath.

  As if encouraged by her complete lack of reaction, the touch of his lips became a little more insistent, and as if her body had a mind of its own, she found herself leaning into him, tightening her arms around him, and even lifting her face to his.

  "That's better, isn't it?" he murmured, smiling down at her.

  Did he expect her to respond? She was still mesmerized as he deepened the kiss, working his mouth insistently against hers, until she parted her lips and invited him in.

  That was how easy it was to fall from the straight and narrow into a life full of complications, even if it was just a dream—

  A dream that would soon become a nightmare if she didn't stop this now!

  "I'm married!" she protested, jerking away. "I know I should have told you before, but—"

  "My name is Jack," he said, not in the least bit fazed.

  "Well, I'm really sorry, Jack. I don't know what came over me
. I should never have led you on."

  He laughed, a blinding flash of those perfect teeth. "You're not leading me on...?"

  "Arabella," she supplied as Jack stared questioningly down at her.

  "I like that." He smiled. "I'm going to call you Bella," he said, as if there was the remotest chance they'd meet again.

  "Bella," she echoed. "I like it," she admitted.

  "Then, Bella it shall be. You didn't lead me on Bella. I led you here, and I brought you into my arms and kissed you. You can't punish yourself for kissing me back."

  She could. But as Jack's arms were still linked around her waist and she had allowed herself to dream, she had to tell herself sternly that this was no reason to bow to the rules of the Ladies Club, which, had they been written down, would almost certainly say that it was perfectly fine to shag a stranger under a tree.

  A lifetime of rigid living and conformity didn't allow for such behavior. She had joined the Ladies Club, not because she wanted to shag herself to death, but because she had found friendship amongst the other women. They stuck by each other through thick and thin—and there was a lot more thin than thick in the Ladies Club. Take her marriage as an example. She was doomed—

  She was not doomed. She was stuck like so many other women in an unhappy relationship that could only get worse. And what was the alternative? She had no doubt that gorgeous Jack could take her to paradise and back again several times over. He certainly looked as if he had the stamina. But what happened the day after the amazing sex? That could be spelled out in one word: trouble. And that was one thing she'd had more than enough of. And, as of now, she didn't know what she was missing in the sex department, so it was better not to find out. The warmth and humor in Jack's face was enough to prove addictive, without trialing him in other ways.

  "I'll take you back," he offered.

  He was looking at her quizzically, almost as if he understood. He had no clue, thank goodness. He would never guess how much she wanted him—wanted this. She could only thank her lucky stars that she had more sense.