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

by Susan Stephens

  "Don't look so worried, Bella. I understand."

  Did he? She had never once crossed the line, and if she did that with Jack there would be no going back, and however unfair life was, and however unkind Harold could be, no one could ever accuse her of giving up on her sham of a marriage.

  She stared into Jack's eyes for what was probably the last time. She wouldn't feel sorry for herself. She'd had a taste of adventure, and it had been exciting, but now it was over.

  "There's no need for you to take me home," she said. "I can cut through the woods and get home even faster than you could take me."

  Jack frowned. "I'm not sure about that."

  "Honestly, it's quite safe. I know the area, and just beyond those trees, there's a lake with fishermen. I'll be home in no time. Oh, and please don't—"

  "Say anything about this?" he guessed. "Of course I won't. I doubt our paths will ever cross again."

  "You're right," she agreed as a spear of pain and a ridiculous sense of loss—considering she'd only just met the man—drove a batch of tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. "I don't expect we will," she agreed brightly. "But thanks for the ride..." Turning for one last look at him, she smiled and quickly walked away.

  She had no one to help her at the Old Hall. Everyone had had to leave. She couldn't afford to pay a decent wage, and no way was she going to pay the minimum, as Harold had suggested. Right now she was on her hands and knees, making sure the floor was as clean as the windows, after making sure the windows were as clean as the doors. As soon as she laid the fire, swept the path, and brought all ten bathrooms up to the rigorous standard of an operating theatre, she would take herself off for a shower, happy in the knowledge that she only had the cooking to do now...

  "Turn off that shower!"

  "Harold, I really need a shower—"

  "Turn. It. Off." Harold bellowed, making her flinch at the coarseness of his voice. It seemed so pronounced now that she had heard a real man speak with such low, sexy tones.

  "I've been timing you," Harold rapped. "And this is your second shower of the day. Do you have any idea how much hot water costs?"

  She should, since she paid the bills.

  "Harold, please," she said as he barged through the door. "Would you mind leaving the bathroom? I want to get out of the shower."

  "Thanks for the warning," he sneered. "The last thing I want to see before dinner is your ugly body. It would put me right off my food. And there's no need to clean your teeth again," he said, pausing by the basin. "Twice a day is enough for anyone."

  It was certainly enough for Harold as he soaked his teeth in a glass by the bed.

  "We can't afford these water bills," he shouted back from halfway down the stairs. "If you'd directed some of those club funds you waste on upgrading the facilities there to my bank account, as I recommended, we'd never be short of money—"

  Harold was advising her to steal money from the club, though he would see it as borrowing—borrowing that never got paid back, if Harold had anything to do with it. Not a chance she was going to put the club funds at risk. They went toward really important things like cameras to keep the staff safe, and little treats for everyone at Christmas.

  Turning the water off, she crept out of the shower like a criminal. She wanted to make sure Harold had gone. She didn't want him jumping out at her—one of his many little jokes.

  The coast was clear, so she grabbed a towel—two towels—wrapping them around her as fast as she could, and then she cleaned her teeth as fast as she could also.

  This was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. She was behaving as if she was a criminal, and her heart was thundering with guilt. If Harold did creep back, she'd send him packing. She practiced her fierce look in the mirror, and then gave up.

  Look on the bright side—being covered in towels meant she didn't have to look at her 'ugly' body—not that there was much chance of that, as the mirrors were all steamed up.

  Perhaps she should still cover up, so the mirror didn't have to look at her?

  She laughed, but she knew it wasn't funny really.

  "Are you dressed yet, Arabella? I want to check you over," Harold chivvied pettishly, barging into her bedroom while she was still struggling into her pantyhose.

  He made a sound of disgust. "Like I need to see this? You're leaving things very late," he added. "You always take on too much. I've no idea why you had to go out this afternoon. You shouldn't be taking time off when I'm entertaining."

  She held her dress in front of her like a shield. She was longing to put it on, but was reluctant to give Harold another reason to mock her.

  "I hope you're not going to let me down tonight," he grumbled. "You should have stayed in the kitchen getting things ready for tonight, and not gone gadding about the countryside like some batty old woman."

  Charming, she thought, telling herself not to be upset as she looked at herself in the mirror. How had it come to this? Harold could have said: Hmm, that smells delicious. What could you possibly be cooking that smells so wonderful? Or maybe even, "Thank you, Arabella, for clearing away my muddy boots, my dirty whisky glasses and my overflowing ashtrays." But no, all Harold could come up with was, I'm here to check you over. Was she a recruit on parade? Bad enough she was wearing the sensible dress from the sensible store that made sackcloth and ashes seem a preferable choice. And as for her being a batty old woman? Maybe she was, living with Harold.

  "Arabella? I'm speaking to you! Are you deaf as well as stupid?"

  "I've been dressing myself since I was three years old," she pointed out reasonably. When she had decided that the frilly outfits a series of long–suffering professional nannies picked out for her were for the pretty girls who went to ballet classes, and not for the plain girls who stayed home and read. She'd known she looked ridiculous when they tried to pretend she was dainty, and the nanny squad had finally given up, allowing her to wear the shorts and T–shirts Arabella liked instead.

  "Arguing again, are we?" Harold stormed on his way out the door. "Hormones having a last hooray?"

  Oh, please...just let me get on with things, she pleaded silently. She'd never have time to finish the dinner she was preparing at this rate.

  She jumped as Harold poked his head around the door again. "Don't forget the importance of this guest. He might take this house off our hands, if we're lucky."

  "Harold," she said as mildly as she could manage. "You know the house isn't for sale."

  "Can you afford to run it?" he demanded. "No. I didn't think so," he scoffed before she had time to answer. "Just be friendly, if that's not too hard for you. I'll do the bargaining, and get him to up his offer."

  This House Is Not For Sale, she intoned silently. There was no point saying anything out loud to Harold. He wouldn't listen. She couldn't deny that the thought of finally meeting the man who had been buying up all the land and stalking the house intrigued her, but if he was the type to do business with Harold, she doubted he would be very nice.

  "What's his name, this man you've invited to dinner?"

  "Just make sure the food's ready on time," Harold said, ignoring her question. "I want it served at eight o' clock on the dot. Understood?"

  "It will be," she promised, hurrying off.

  "You look fat in that dress," he remarked as she walked past him.

  He sat outside the door for a good ten minutes. There didn't seem to be anyone around. The gardens surrounding the house—the only piece of green he didn't own as far as the eye could see, he was pleased to acknowledge, were still in good shape, and the pots outside the immaculate front door were neatly tended. Lady Frost's work, he presumed. He couldn't imagine how she handled such a big garden on her own.

  He'd have to go inside at some point, but he wasn't looking forward to the evening, or to the meal. If this house hadn't been so important to him, he would have delegated this visit to someone else, but it was a necessary exercise to make sure he won over Lady Frost and got her signature on the co
ntract.

  It wasn't just the thought of a long, dreary evening ahead of him that was keeping him in the car. He was still thinking about the redhead. Thoughts of her had been plaguing him since the last moment he saw her, when she had left him.

  She had left him?

  He couldn't remember the last time that happened. And like all treats that were snatched away, he wanted her more than ever. He wanted to learn more about her. He should have asked for her number and her address. He was usually such a smooth operator where women were concerned, that things like that never slipped his mind. She had really distracted him.

  The redhead was enough to distract anyone, he reasoned, and tonight nothing must interfere with the purchase of this house.

  Closing his mind to the cracks in the outer walls that suggested subsidence, together with peeling paintwork and a general air of neglect, he swung out of his Lamborghini and jogged up the steps. The door swung open almost before he had the chance to raise the lion's head doorknocker. It flew back so violently on its hinges that it slammed into the wall. He couldn't have been more surprised to find himself staring down into the face of the little bully from the wet street. The stench of alcohol coming off him turned Jack's stomach. His thoughts turned immediately to Bella. Was she here too? Was this the husband she'd told him about? Was Bella Lady Frost?

  At the far end of the hall there was a portrait of a young girl in a white dress with red hair. Bella. There was no mistaking her. The thought that he'd found her thrilled him beyond expression. The thought that she was married to this creep appalled him.

  "The great Jack Castle," Frost gushed as he extended his arms to welcome Jack inside.

  "Mr. Frost, I presume?" Jack said pleasantly, stepping carefully around the man as he swayed perilously to and fro.

  "Please call me Harold—everyone else does—when they're not being rude about me, of course."

  Jack summoned up the expected laugh, but he was more interested in finding Bella. The thought of her living with this drunken bully made him sick to the stomach, as well as uneasy about her safety.

  He took everything in at a glance. The smell of decay, the damp patches on the ceiling that extended down the walls, and the half empty bottle of single malt, sitting in a pool of spilled drink on a highly polished console table. The top of the bottle was missing and Frost had a glass in his hand. He was dead drunk to the point that when he reached for Jack's hand to shake it in welcome, he missed.

  "Can I help you?" Jack offered, trying to take the glass from Frost's hand so the man could steady himself against the wall, but Frost just hugged the glass closer, as if he thought Jack might steal his drink away. This did not argue well for a business meeting, let alone the rest of the evening.

  "Welcome to our humble home," Frost declared, staggering back a few steps. "My good woman can't wait to meet you. Won't you come inside?"

  "Thank you." He followed Frost down the hall, looking to the left and right in the hope of seeing Bella. "I hope your wife hasn't gone to too much trouble tonight." He hoped that prompting Frost might give him a clue as to where she was.

  "She will have gone to a lot of trouble. I told her to put on a good show for you."

  I'm sure you did, he thought as Frost stopped outside a set of double doors. The doors opened onto an imposing library. The first thing he noticed was that a great chunk of the wall had been ripped out to make way for a glass and granite wet bar that stuck out like a sore thumb in the elegantly paneled room.

  "Won't you have a drink?" Frost invited, after he'd filled his own glass to the brim.

  "Thank you. Water, please," Jack said.

  She had rehearsed this carefully, and knew exactly what she was going to say to the prospective purchaser. In her head, the phrase began with a word that rhymed with luck and ended with off. In reality, she would listen to whatever he had to say. She didn't have much of an option. They were massively in debt with no hope of a bailout, and the bank was threatening to foreclose. She had this vague idea that maybe the new owner of the estate could be persuaded to work with her in opening the house to the public—maybe he'd even fund it—

  And maybe she was going off her head.

  She would handle this calmly. If she could persuade him to loan her the money to carry out repairs, she could have the house paying for itself in no time. Who knew the area better than she did? She'd lived here all her life. Some of the faithful staff might agree to come back if she could afford to pay them a decent wage. She'd take paying guests—she'd scrub and clean—she'd cook—she'd wash their smalls—she'd run a gift shop—anything to keep the old house in the family.

  She went still, hearing muffled voices moving from the hall to the library. So he was here! She'd better get in there fast. Harold was already well oiled.

  She stopped outside the door to smooth her dress and lift her chin. That done, she turned the handle and walked in.

  "May I present my wife, Lady Frost? Darling...this is Jack Castle."

  She froze to the spot, stunned into silence. Harold sounded very pleased with himself, while Jack—Jack Castle, as she must now think of him—the monster who was determined to buy up the house at any cost to add to the rest of the estate he'd already gobbled up, was staring at her with a mixture of amusement and frowning interest on his handsome face. He could at least have the decency to look a little bit embarrassed.

  "Well, don't just stand there," Harold rapped. "Get our guest a drink. I trust you bought some more booze for tonight," he added in an oily tone.

  She had. Harold had all sorts of cunning ways to get her to lay in more stock for his cronies, and she had wondered if this supper for an important guest was just another ruse to get her to restock. They could have met in town, over coffee, after all.

  "Why don't I help you?" Jack suggested.

  She looked up, and if she hadn't been so sensible, she might have overheated. Jack was the type of man that, in different clothes, would make a fine Regency rake. He had a wicked glint in his eyes, and was as swarthy as the pirate she'd first thought him. Pirate...she preferred pirates to Regency rakes...

  She quivered into full awareness as he joined her behind the bar. Just being close to him again made her super–aware of her body, which she never was, except to be embarrassed about it. He made her feel warm inside, as well as unusually safe and comforted. He also made her feel emotional for some reason.

  She had to get over that fast. If Jack was a friend of Harold's he was no friend of hers.

  "That's okay. I can manage, thank you." She glanced over her shoulder to see Harold was already pouring himself another drink.

  "I insist," Jack murmured, dipping his head so his mouth was very close to her ear. "What would you like to drink, Lady Frost?"

  "Bella," she said, staring up into his eyes with the tiniest glint of humor tugging at the corner of her mouth. "And I don't drink."

  "Not even champagne?" Jack queried.

  "Not even champagne," she confirmed. She'd seen enough alcohol in this house to last her a lifetime.

  Something about Jack made it hard to move away. He was everything that was missing from her life—from her fantasy life, anyway. Men like him just didn't come riding to the rescue on their Harley every day of the week.

  "Shall I get you some sparkling water?" he suggested, still holding her gaze in a way that made her heart go crazy. He was standing far too close—so close, in fact, that the side of her body touching his had started tingling. She didn't move. She liked the sensation. Being close to Jack felt good.

  She would have done better to recognize the danger.

  Chapter Four

  The danger Arabella had sensed didn't take long to show itself. She was so fascinated by Jack that she didn't see Harold coming.

  "You sad old cow!"

  Before she could respond, Harold had barged her out of the way—quite a feat in itself, as she was twice his size. Grabbing her chest as her ribs collided with the metal corner of the bar stool, she w
ould have crashed to the floor if Jack hadn't caught hold of her in time.

  "You clumsy old bag," Harold jeered as Jack brought her close.

  "Are you okay?" Jack murmured as she tried to suck in a breath and groaned.

  "Stupid me." She forced out a laugh, but it was hard to pretend nothing had happened when she was grimacing with pain.

  Jack didn't hang around. Loading her into his arms, he strode with her to the sofa, where he laid her down with the utmost care.

  "Let me get you that glass of water," he insisted after propping her up on some cushions.

  Harold, meanwhile, had lit up a cigarette, and was watching her through a cloud of smoke.

  "She doesn't need fussing over," he snapped. "I can't believe she came on to you like that—a man like Jack Castle? How embarrassing. Don't women let you down? Eh, Jack?"

  She dragged in a painful breath as Jack winked at her and straightened up. Putting his arm around Harold's shoulders, he led him towards the door.

  "We both know your wife is crucial to our discussions tonight. Why don't you get her a bottle of sparkling water from the kitchen? I can't see any here, and as I don't know my way around, it will be faster if you do it."

  She could hardly believe her eyes when Harold wobbled obediently to the door. He had never gone to fetch anything for her before.

  Once the door had closed behind him, she challenged Jack. "So you're here to buy the house."

  Jack stared at her shrewdly. "It's for sale, according to your husband. I brought a draft contract with me for you to look over."

  Arabella's heart lurched. "You don't waste any time."

  "You do know that your husband has been telling people he's keen to sell? I'm happy to meet the asking price."

  Harold was keen to sell so he could spend every last penny—if there was anything left after they paid off their debts, which she doubted.