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

by Susan Stephens

  "Let me save you the trouble," she blurted. "There isn't an asking price, because the house isn't for sale."

  So much for handling things calmly! Where the house was concerned, it seemed that emotion would always get in her way.

  "Try to see things from my point of view," Jack said mildly. "This house is in the middle of the land I own. It makes sense for me to buy it."

  "Not to me, it doesn't," she argued, glancing at the door. "So that wasn't an exciting ride you took me on the today. You were just touring your estate."

  "I know it must hurt you to think of some stranger owning the property where you grew up—"

  "You have no idea."

  "I know it's all you've got," Jack said bluntly.

  "You don't know anything about me."

  "Maybe not," he agreed, "but I'd like to."

  "Why? So you can soften me up and get me to sell?"

  Jack's laugh made heat shoot through her veins. "You underestimate me, Bella. I have far more interest in you than that."

  "You can't," she protested, sure that Jack Castle was mocking her.

  "After what I've seen today?" Jack shrugged. "I have a lot more interest in you than the house."

  "Back to discussing the house," she said firmly. "There isn't going to be a deal, because it's not for sale. This is my home—the only home I've ever known. It's been in my family for generations, and in my family it will stay."

  Jack's eyes flared with amusement. "I have to admit you are one stubborn lady, and a complication I hadn't factored into my calculations."

  "I bet you hadn't," she agreed.

  She was so heated she was unprepared for Jack cupping her face between his big, rough hands, and demanding, "Why the fuck do you put up with this?"

  "I beg your pardon?" She reeled back, and then rallied. "I don't see much difference between you and Harold. You both think you can put one over on me."

  Jack's only response was a lift of his brow.

  And then the worst possible thing happened. Her eyes filled with tears. The house meant so much to her. She hated herself for the weakness—hated the way Jack seemed to make her weaker still. She even hated her desperation to hang on to what was basically a pile of bricks and mortar.

  Yes. But it was filled with generations of memories.

  "I'm not talking about the house," Jack insisted. "I'm more concerned about the way Harold treats you. But we can discuss the house too, if you want?"

  "Stop it," she warned. She would not be charmed by that slanting smile. He'd be gone soon. "We have nothing to discuss where the house is concerned."

  She moved away as the kitchen door slammed, heralding Harold's approach. Jack had no idea. He thought everything was black and white here, when nothing in life was that simple; it was all shades of grey.

  "I'm not happy leaving you with that man," he said, frowning.

  "That man is my husband," she said pointedly.

  Jack raked his hair as if she hadn't spoken. "Come back to the hotel with me," he said. "Then at least I can know you're safe. I'd be happy to book you a room—"

  "Stop it," she hissed as Harold's footsteps approached. "Harold has never harmed me."

  "Not so anyone can see," Jack said shrewdly. "He pushed you to the floor right in front of me. What would he do if I wasn't here?"

  "That's just the drink talking," she said.

  Jack shook his head.

  The fact that Jack cared when they hardly knew each other, shocked her. "I'd better get back to the kitchen to see to the meal—"

  "Yes, you should," Harold agreed as he walked into the room.

  Having found Bella, he was worried about her, and now he was forced to endure the rest of the evening trying to read Harold's face. He wanted to try and work out if Bella was in imminent danger, or if it was safe to leave her here when he left.

  She had prepared a delicious meal. Bella was delicious too, but she didn't look at him once. The house wasn't discussed, either. The fact that Harold didn't bring it up worried him. Jack would leave it to the lawyers to sort out. If Bella wouldn't sign, he wouldn't force her. He had to hope Harold wouldn't try to do that, either.

  Bella remained quiet and withdrawn, and towards the end of the evening, when Harold was slumped snoring in his chair after having consumed the best part of a bottle of whisky, as well as a couple of bottles of red wine, he stared straight at her.

  "See? He's harmless," she whispered. "So, if you want to do something useful, stop scowling like that, and help me clear up instead."

  "Am I so obvious?"

  "Yes, you are," she said.

  "Does he do a lot of this?" he asked her in the kitchen.

  "Sleep it off, do you mean?" She huffed a laugh. "What do you think?"

  What he thought was unprintable.

  "So, what happens next?" he pressed, thinking about Bella once Harold woke up.

  She shrugged. "I do what I always do—wait until he can make it upstairs, and then I help him. If he can't climb the stairs, I'll steer him to the sofa. I cover him up and leave him 'til morning. He's always made it to the sofa so far," she said with another shrug.

  "And that's your life?"

  "Why are you judging me, Jack Castle?"

  "I'm not. I'm concerned about you."

  "Then don't be."

  "It isn't much of a life, though, is it?"

  It was no life, the brief unguarded look in her eyes said.

  "How old are you, Bella?" he asked.

  "Thirty–three. Why?" she demanded, putting some much–needed space between them. "Is that significant?"

  "And you've been married to Harold for how long?"

  "Since I was eighteen," she told him defensively. "Not that it's any of your business."

  Maybe not, but this was one mixed–up situation, and he was right in the middle of it. He had a bad feeling about leaving her. It didn't feel right. This was a unique situation for him. He'd only known Bella five minutes, and yet he cared about her. "Fifteen years is a long time to live with someone like Harold."

  "And you've known us how long?" she challenged.

  Fair enough. Her loyalty to Harold was commendable, though misplaced in his opinion.

  He was taking far too much for granted. He didn't know a thing about Bella's home life beyond what he'd seen here tonight. It was a male jealousy thing, he concluded. She'd had an adventure and he had kissed her and felt her soften in his arms. It was no more than that.

  He glanced behind them through the kitchen door to Harold snuffling at the table in the room opposite. He couldn't reconcile Bella's concern for a man who belittled her at every possible opportunity, and who would happily sell the house they lived in over her head, with the woman standing in front of him. "Is Harold loyal to you?"

  The way her cheeks fired red suggested not. So, the charming Harold was unfaithful, and an all–around good–for–nothing piece of crap.

  "I really think you should come back to the hotel with me." His sense of unease was growing.

  "I think you'd better go." Firming her jaw, Bella stared at him defiantly. She wanted him gone. She wanted him gone before Harold woke up. "Leave the gates," she instructed. "I'll close them."

  He ground his jaw with frustration. He was used to his word being law, but he was powerless in this instance. Bella was a strong woman in an impossible situation, and she was stubbornly determined to make the best of it.

  "I won't leave it here," he promised grimly.

  "I didn't think you would," she said, but there was no reprieve in her eyes.

  He was driving like a bat out of hell, and halfway to his destination, when he remembered the contract sitting on the table. He'd have to go back and get it. Hell, he wanted to go back and get it. For one thing, he didn't want Bella pouring over it and worrying herself sick. She had looked exhausted before Harold pushed her, and goodness knows what else she had to put up with.

  He knew he shouldn't care. He knew he should know better than to get involved w
ith a woman he hardly knew, but that didn't stop him from testing the Lamborghini to its limits as he drove back the way he'd come. Bella had made this more than business, a lot more. He could build a house somewhere else on the estate, but the Old Hall was all she had.

  He slowed at the gates. They were still open. Bella had said she would close them. It was such a small thing that he knew he should put it out of his mind, but for some reason, he couldn't do that.

  Chapter Five

  She took a bath when Jack left, reasoning that she could close the gates later. It was just such a luxury to fill the bath full, knowing Harold was snoring downstairs, that she had to take the chance and do it now. The bruise on her side was worse than she'd thought, and the warm water seemed to help.

  She had just leaned back in the sudsy water when the door flew open.

  "Harold!" She swished foam urgently over her pink, exposed flesh. Harold had sobered up, and he was mad.

  "You fat, ugly cow," he spat out, standing braced against the door. "What the fuck were you doing downstairs?"

  "I was doing everything you asked," she placated, in no position to fight him while she was lying naked in the bath.

  "Everything?" Harold queried in a tone that made a shiver of apprehension run down her spine. "You were doing nothing for me. What you did was all for yourself. Coming on to the billionaire like that, you should be ashamed of yourself!"

  Harold made billionaire sound like some sort of disease, she thought as she sank deeper beneath the concealing foam.

  Her action drew Harold's attention to the bath. "You use more water than anyone I know! Far more than me," he sneered as he stared down at her.

  She was fed up with being a doormat for the heel of Harold's boot. "How can that be?" she asked mildly. "If I'm as fat as you say I am, the water I displace must mean I can't possibly use as much water as you."

  "What... Did...You... Say?"

  She'd made him so angry that spittle had collected at the corners of his mouth.

  "You sad old cow!" he yelled. "Do you think you're being clever? Do you? Do you really think Jack Castle is going to save you? Let me tell you something, you fat old lump of lard. Jack Castle looks after number one." Harold thumped his chest for emphasis. "He'd sleep with his own grandmother if he thought she'd sell him this house. You're pathetic!"

  Arabella shrieked as the toothbrush mug Harold had snatched up hit her in the face. Blood oozed through her fingers. "Where are you going?"

  "Out!" he flung back at her.

  "You can't! Harold! Please—don't drive! You've had far too much to drink."

  She froze as the front door slammed shut.

  He had almost reached the gates of the drive when he saw headlights leaving. Pulling onto the side of the road, he switched off his lights and sat waiting until Harold's car roared past. Relief that he'd come back for the contract flooded through him. He could only hope he was in time to save Bella.

  He drew up outside the house, got out, and ran up the steps to hammer on the front door. "Bella! Bella!" He called out repeatedly, and with increasing urgency, as the ice in the pit of his stomach said this was bad. He tried again, but there was no reply. He hammered on the window. He cupped his face to look inside, but the house appeared to be in darkness. He stood back and saw a couple of lights on upstairs. Going around to the back of the house, he employed a skill he hadn't used in years. Pulling his sweater down over his fist, he cracked the window and removed the glass. Reaching in, he found the key and turned it.

  "Bella!"

  He kept on calling her name as he scouted the ground floor. He didn't want to frighten her by suddenly turning up. He dodged into the library to pick up the contract, and then out into the hall again where something made him look up. Above him on the landing, a wraith had just appeared from the shadows.

  "Jack...?"

  He was up the stairs and at her side in a moment. "Bella? What the hell?" She was clutching a towel to her face. Blood was seeping through the towel.

  "It's nothing," she said.

  He ground his jaw with murder in his heart "Who did this to you?"

  He already knew the answer. Bella remained stubbornly silent.

  "Let me see..." He took the towel away. Nothing? The flesh around her eyes was red and swollen, and though he doubted the eye with the bruise all around it would close, there was a nasty cut above it. "I'm taking you to the ER—"

  "No!" She pushed him away. "I'm alright. I don't need stitches. You can clean it up."

  "Me? This needs a doctor to look at it—"

  "No!"

  "Bella?"

  "My friend works at the hospital," she admitted quietly. "Miranda's an emergency room doctor, and I happen to know she's on duty tonight, because it's her party tomorrow, which I'm supposed to be organizing for her. If I go to the hospital—apart from scaring the living daylights out of Miranda, it will spoil her night. She'll worry about me instead of thinking about herself. She'll probably forbid me to do anything, and then I've ruined everything for her."

  "You haven't ruined anything," Jack insisted with a frown.

  "Well, I won't go to the hospital," she repeated stubbornly.

  "I disagree."

  "You can't make me." She frowned as she stared at him. "Are you a bully too, Jack?"

  "Don't," he murmured tensely. "I know you're upset—but please, just don't. Okay?"

  Putting his arm around her, he led her towards the one room with lights on, which turned out to be Bella's bedroom. "Do you have a first aid kit up here?"

  Jack bathed the wound and dressed it. She couldn't have imagined such a big man could be so gentle, or so thorough.

  "There," he said. Satisfied with his handiwork, he sat back.

  "Thank you."

  "Will you come to the hotel with me now? You only have to put some clothes on, and pack an overnight bag, and I'll drive you there."

  Jack must know he was wasting his time. She sat cross–legged on the bed facing him, swathed in towels, and with her long red hair still hanging wet in straggles from the bath. Her face stung a lot, but at least it had stopped bleeding, thanks to him, and now she owed him the truth, if nothing else.

  "The one thing I've promised myself is that I'll never run away, and I won't."

  "But you can't pretend that you're still loyal to Harold after this?" Jack protested, raking his hair with frustration. "He's battered your ribs, and now your eye? What comes next?"

  She shrugged it off. "I fell—I made him angry." She took a breath. "Whether I like it or not, Harold is still entitled to half this house, but while I've still got breath in my body, I'm hanging on to my half, and whatever he does I won't change my mind."

  He felt wretched for her, and putting his arms around her, he drew her close. Resting his brow against hers, he murmured, "I don't agree with that decision, either."

  "Then we'll have to agree to disagree," Arabella said briskly, pulling away.

  Grinding his jaw, he looked around. "Are you going to be alright here?"

  "It's my home," she said as if that made everything alright. "I doubt Harold will be back tonight, and if he does come back, I doubt he'll have the energy to hurt me."

  "And for that you must be grateful?"

  She ignored his comment. "First thing tomorrow, I'll be down at the club getting everything ready for Miranda's party. You can go home, Jack. You don't have anything to do here, and you definitely don't have to feel responsible for me."

  "But I do feel responsible for you."

  "Well, that's very nice, but not necessary."

  Leaning forward, he brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her brow, and then her lips, light and slow.

  Oh, Jack, please don't do that, she thought as hunger and pleasure consumed her. Those feelings were marred by her need for caution, and her long–held loyalty to the tatters of her marriage. She wanted nothing more than to respond to Jack, but if she did that she'd be lost. The only way to get through this—to get past
everything that had happened, was to cut herself off from emotion.

  Sitting back, Jack stared at her. "Maybe I'll see you at the party tomorrow night?"

  "Maybe you will," she agreed. It was open house. Anyone could come. Miranda and her sexy cowboy weren't great fans of formality. "You'll be welcome, I'm sure."

  Work was a great healer, and having immersed herself in preparations for the party, she told herself that she could forget Jack—and she could also forget Harold's violence was increasing day by day. She couldn't do anything about that, but she could do something here, and she was thrilled with the effect she had created. She was working to a Western theme in Randy's honor. She guessed he'd love it. Miranda would too. It was corny, but it was fun. She'd booked one of the best country and western bands around, and there had been just enough funds left in the Ladies Club kitty to hire a top DJ, so the evening promised to be perfect. The other women from the Ladies Club were coming over later, though Tracey, who was also a close friend of Miranda's, had said she would come earlier in case there were any last minute hitches.

  There weren't any, and Arabella couldn't wait for the other members of the Ladies Club to see the decorations. There were fresh flowers on every table, and food she'd prepared herself.

  Straightening up, she smiled at the thought of a great night ahead. She was already dressed in costume—checkered shirt and blue jeans, with cowboy boots. She'd put the hat on later, with the brim pulled down to hide the bruising around her eye. She was determined that nothing would spoil Miranda's party.

  "Delivery for Lady Frost?"

  "Sorry—I think..." She was about to say the delivery guy must have made a mistake, but he was clearly in a hurry and she wanted to help. She'd left the club door open to get some air in the place, and he'd walked straight in.

  She looked at the big brown box he was holding out to her. She checked the label. There was no mistake. It was addressed to her:

  Lady Frost: The Golf Club. Please deliver between midday and four p.m.