And it was four p.m. on the dot.
"Thank you." She signed his docket, and he handed over the box.
It was big and flat, but it wasn't very heavy. She closed the door behind him and slipped the latch. Deep down, there was part of her worrying that Harold had sent something unpleasant. Telling herself not to be so stupid, she took it to the bar, laid it flat, and opened it up. Lifting the lid gingerly, she found a mound of tissue paper covering...the red dress! It was the same dress she had seen in the boutique window—the dress she couldn't afford. The dress that probably wouldn't fit, she amended sensibly, but it was even more gorgeous close–up. The color was so vibrant and the fabric shrieked 'stroke me'. She touched it reverently, and then lifted it out of the box. For a good few moments all she could do was look at it, but then she thought, to hell with it! She was going to try it on...
But first... Surely there had to be a note with it... She rifled through the tissue paper, but found nothing. Could it be Miranda—maybe sending a rather extravagant thank you gift? She ruled that out right away, because Miranda was as short of cash as she was. Whoever had sent the dress was a mystery, and this was one mystery she was going to enjoy.
She stripped off at the bar, knowing no one could see her. She would ring the boutique tomorrow to find out who'd sent it. She checked out her reflection in the mirror. Her eye didn't look so bad. Makeup was covering the bruising.
And the dress?
It slithered over her curves without a hitch, clinging to every contour she possessed, but in a way that flattered her, rather than made her look fat. It was a dream of a dress, just as she had first thought when she saw it, but it was a gift she couldn't possibly accept. It was going straight back to the shop.
Jumping at the sound of a knock on the door, she glanced at her watch. Was it that time already? It must be Tracey arriving early to help.
It wasn't Tracey. It was Harold. And he wasn't alone. He had a hard–faced girl on his arm, and a group of friends to back him up.
"Well?" he demanded. "Aren't you going to let us in?"
"Who are these people?" Arabella asked anxiously, wishing she hadn't put on the revealing dress.
"The punishment squad," Harold said as he barged past. "Did you really think I would let you get away with last night?"
Her heart thundered painfully as the rest of his friends followed him in.
"What are you doing?"
She ran frantically from one to the next, trying to stop them from tearing up the room. They pushed her aside—threw punches at her, which she ducked as her simple flowers went crashing to the floor. They trampled on them. Broken glass and drink was flying everywhere. She tried her best to stop them, but Harold got hold of her arm, and he laughed as his friends cleared the tables she had so carefully arranged, with violent swipes that sent all the food she'd prepared to join the growing mess on the floor.
"This is the end of your Ladies Club," Harold hissed in her ear. "There'll be no more parties for you. You'll have no friends. They'll never ask you to do anything for them ever again."
Deep down, she knew that wasn't true, but she felt sick as she looked around. How was she going to make this right for Miranda? After working a bruising shift at the hospital, this was supposed to be Miranda's special party with her friends, for Randy. But now...
She watched as the hay bales she'd used for decoration were ripped apart and scattered, and then convulsed in horror as one of Harold's cronies urinated on the stage where the band was due to set up. Her stricken gaze flew to the clock above the bar. She was already trying to work out how long she would need to clear it up.
Following her stare, Harold tightened his grip on her arm, and the look in his eyes chilled her. "Do you really think this is it?" he asked in a sickening tone. "Do you really think that I've finished with you?"
Chapter Six
The first few blows from Harold's fist hurt her enough to make her cry out. The next flurry of blows became a hum of pain in her head. It was behind her eyes and in her ears, and even her teeth were rattled. She had an all–over–body ache, but she told herself she could bear it and she wouldn't cry out, whatever they did to her.
"Don't mark her," Harold said when all his cronies joined in. "At least, don't hit her where anyone can see."
She was curled up tight in a ball on the floor, hugging her knees, thinking this was an odd thing to say, when Harold's boot had already caught her in the face.
The one thing she hadn't expected was that the girl Harold had come in with would produce a pair of scissors. At first she thought the girl was going to cut her hair off, and she started screaming and begging her not to, covering her head with her arms, but Harold wouldn't allow it—he said it was too obvious, and might lead to suspicion by the police. The girl looked disappointed, but then she had another idea, and start cutting up the dress. She tried to fight her off, but Harold sat on her while the girl snipped away.
"Eurgh!" the girl exclaimed when she got down to Arabella's underwear. "I didn't think people wore things like this. Aren't they meant to bag up grain or something?"
The men, who had all clustered around to spectate, burst out laughing.
"Leave them," Harold said, getting to his feet. "She'll need something to mop up the spills."
Arabella recoiled into a very small, dark part of herself. The smell. The sound. The sudden stream of wet, stinking effluent flowing over her, combined with the derision of the men, and the girl's screeching laugh, was like a soundtrack of a horror film in which she played no part, because she was outside herself, looking in. She reassured herself that she could take a bath—she could scrub herself clean. She could take anything and everything Harold had to throw at her.
Or so she thought.
His first kick into her ribs that were still bruised from his last punishing shove made her cry.
"Now you'll part with the house," he said, aiming a second kick. "You'll do anything I tell you to do—and you'll start by giving me a divorce."
Divorce. The word shimmered through the pain with all the promise of a healing salve. Freedom. That was her talisman. Thoughts of freedom allowed her to think beyond now, to then.
"I'll take the house as my divorce settlement," Harold informed her in a matter–of–fact tone. With every word he aimed a kick. "You'll sign it over to me. Do you understand what I've said?"
"I understand." She was one hundred percent in survival mode, and utterly determined that she would reach that promised land called freedom.
Satisfied with her humiliation, Harold assembled his troops and led them away. One hung back. Wondering why, Arabella looked up, which was the signal for the girl to clear her throat and spit in her face.
When they'd all left she gagged on an empty stomach. The relief when she heard their cars pull away was indescribable. She liked to be self–sufficient, and didn't like to bother anyone, but for once, she had to admit that she couldn't sort this out on her own.
She reached for her phone. It seemed to take an age to find it, and then another age to bring it to her ear with hands that were shaking uncontrollably. She speed–dialed Tracey. "Can you get here sooner?"
"Arabella...?" In the space of a breath, Arabella knew that Tracey would be assimilating information and making a quick and accurate judgment. "Is something wrong, Arabella?"
Collapsing back, she took a trial breath, and was relieved to find that it didn't hurt as much as she had expected. She doubted her ribs were broken. Harold was too clever to do her any real harm. It was enough for him to humiliate her in front of his friends.
By the time she lifted the phone to her ear again the line had cut. She was confident Tracey was on her way, and sank back with relief. The women in the Ladies Club hadn't just come together to try and liven up their lives, they understood each other, and they offered each other very real support.
Tracey wasn't alone when she arrived. She'd brought all the Ladies Club members, with the exception of Miranda who was still
on duty at the hospital. Tracey had worked as a paramedic at one time in her colorful career, and she checked Arabella over while the others cleared the room. Having pronounced the damage superficial, Tracey next turned to her phone.
"You're coming with me," she told Arabella when she'd finished making the calls.
"Just wait a minute," Arabella insisted. "There's something I have to do first." Picking up her phone, she dialed the police.
Tracey's idea of recovery for Arabella was a long, hot shower in Tracey's luxury mansion, followed by treatments from an army of beauticians, headed up by a drag queen, who, according to Tracey, gave the best massage in town.
"Honey, you look as if you draped yourself in the Jamaican flag," the masseuse called Pepper exclaimed when she pulled back the robe Arabella had put on after her shower. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you had visited a really talented tattoo artist, but one of the Jackson Pollock persuasion, rather than a realist, if you know what I mean?"
"Do you think you can ease up my back before it seizes up all on its own?" Arabella asked hopefully.
"Honey, there isn't anything I can't do with the human body—most of which you don't want to know about just now. Anymore questions I can help you with?"
"Just one," Arabella admitted. "Do I call you she, or he, when I talk about you to my friends, because you have a seriously amazing touch, and I'm definitely going to spread the word."
"Well, thank you, honey—and in answer to your question? When I put on my guy's clothes, I'm a guy. When I put on my gal's clothes, you refer to me as she, or as Pepper—whichever you prefer."
"Got it," Arabella murmured with a smile, sinking back into the couch.
"That's right, you relax," Pepper encouraged. "We need to get this heat down on your bruises. These ice packs? They're going to do that for you. That man did quite a number on you."
Arabella said nothing, though she gave Pepper a warm smile. She liked Pepper on sight, and would like to know her better. She wondered if one day Pepper might like to join the Ladies Club. She would definitely propose her.
"Don't you worry, honey. We're going to have you party–fine in no time," Pepper drawled.
He couldn't wait to see Bella. He couldn't wait to see Bella in the red dress, and could think of little else as he burned up the road to the party. He was late. He'd had a lot on, and there was hardly anywhere to park by the time he reached the venue. Every side street and lot was full of cars. It made him smile to think that Bella and her friends were so popular. He brought the Harley right up to the door and, dismounting, strolled in. A welcoming blast of country music enveloped him. The band was playing, people were dancing, and the place was packed. The smell of good food assailed his senses. There was a line of chefs manning a hot buffet down one side of the room, while a barbeque stand was attracting quite a crowd on the other. A bucking bronco had attracted a long line of would–be cowboys in a room garnished with hay bales and saddles. Bella had created a great atmosphere. Everyone seemed to agree, and the crowd was in top form, while noise levels were off the scale—but he had only one thing on his mind.
It didn't take him long to spot Bella at the bar, where she was dispensing drinks like a pro. Dressed in tight–fitting jeans and a casual shirt with a Stetson pulled low over her face, she looked great. He felt a twinge of regret that she had chosen not to wear the red dress he'd had delivered, but—she'd look great in a sack. He was cutting through the crowd to surprise her when a vision in what might as well have been painted–on jeans, with a matching fringed top plastered in rhinestone, stepped in front of him.
"Tracey," she said as she shifted her bottle of beer from one hand to the other to give him a surprisingly firm handshake. "Don't look so worried. I'm not accosting you hot stuff. I'm a friend of Bella's," she explained. "Jack Castle. Right? I recognize you from the description Bella gave me." Cocking her head to one side she observed, "Bella was right. You do stand out like a yak at a PTA meeting. I need to have a word with you, before you—"
"Before I what?' he challenged, turning away from her to look at Bella. He wasn't in the mood for delay. "Is Bella okay?"
"That's what I want to talk to you about," said Tracey.
"Jack!"
"Bella..." He'd cut through the throng to get to the front of the bar, and he wasn't waiting a moment longer. Reaching over the counter, he took her face between his hands and brought her close.
"Jack—"
"Don't stop me, Bella. I've waited too long for this."
The touch of her lips was like an electric bolt shooting through him. He vaulted the bar, and pressing her back gently into the shadows, he took her in his arms and kissed her again, tenderly, deeply—
"Jack, we can't—"
"We can do whatever you want to do," he argued quietly.
"Tracey told you what happened with Harold, didn't she? I saw you talking to her."
His answer was to lift the brim of her hat. He hissed in air through his teeth and let it drop.
"Can we go outside to discuss this?" she said, staring at him with big, wounded eyes.
"We can go anywhere you want—and I do mean anywhere," he emphasized.
"Paris?" she teased him, finding a glimmer of humor from goodness knew where.
He shrugged. "If that's what you want, I only have to place a call."
She looked at him steadily, and then she said, "Make the call."
This was insane! Jack had whisked her away on his private jet to a boutique hotel tucked away down a cobbled street in the center of Paris. And he'd taken the entire top floor. She fell in love immediately with their private suite, with its quaint wrought iron balconies and fabulous views over Paris and the iconic Eifel Tower. She was a little bit concerned that there only seemed to be one bedroom when the hotel manager showed them around.
"What?" Jack prompted, seeing the concern on her face.
Sinking down onto the bed, she admitted, "I'm not sure what I'm doing here, Jack. The last few days have all been such a whirl. I didn't even stop to think—"
"Sometimes the best decisions in life are made when we don't over–analyze. You didn't need to think, Bella. You only needed your passport," Jack teased her, curving a grin.
"I didn't even tell Harold I was going," she murmured.
"Like he deserved to know." Jack frowned. "And isn't he locked up now?"
"You have been speaking to Tracey."
"Yes, I have. Smart girl. Like you, Bella. Installing those cameras at the club certainly paid off."
"They weren't supposed to be for my protection. I had them installed to keep the staff safe."
"Well, they've paid for themselves twice over. And thank God you had the presence of mind to have them installed. This is one crime Harold Frost won't get away with.
"The first thing he'll do is ask for me," she predicted.
"And you won't be there," Jack said, hunkering down at her feet. "You've been propping him up long enough, Bella. You've done your duty by him ten times over. And just remember that he asked you for a divorce, so you've got nothing to feel guilty about. And I want you to enjoy this break. No one deserves it more than you. So no more talk of the past—okay?"
"Okay," she agreed, unconsciously touching the bruises on her face. And then she smiled. "You know—Tracey trusts you?"
"And?" Jack queried, springing to his feet.
"Tracey doesn't trust anyone—except her girlfriends. I can't imagine why she trusts you."
"Yes, you can," Jack said with a grin. Dropping onto the bed at her side, he brought her into his arms. Smoothing her hair back from her forehead, he kissed her brow, her cheeks, her ears, her eyelids, her neck—
"Jack, we can't—"
"Of course we can," he whispered.
"No. We really can't," Arabella insisted. "I don't even know you—"
"But you will."
She glanced around the room. "I don't even have a suitcase with me."
"You won't need many clothes."
Jack was already working on the buttons on her shirt.
"But I'll need some clothes."
"I'll buy you all the clothes you could possibly need."
"I can't take your money." That much was fact. The rest was swiftly becoming a blur of thrill and shock, and breath–stealing anticipation.
"You can pay me back," Jack insisted. "I'm quite happy to extract repayment in kind."
Her heart was going crazy, and then Jack's hand found her breast. She exclaimed with shocked excitement as his thumbnail found her nipple and gently abraded it. Raising himself on one elbow, he stared down at her and frowned. "Whatever happened to that gorgeous red dress I sent you?"
"It was you?"
"I hope there weren't any other suspects in the ring?"
"I thought it was a mistake," she admitted. "There wasn't a note to say who'd sent it, so I thought the store had got the wrong address."
"No you didn't," Jack argued, smiling his challenge into her eyes. "You just didn't want to believe it. I'm just glad it arrived."
"Oh, Jack. I feel terrible now. You must think me so ungrateful. It arrived just before Harold burst into the club. I'd tried it on by then, and was wearing it. It looked amazing," she said wistfully, thinking back.
"So, what happened to it?" Jack prompted.
She couldn't meet his eyes.
"What happened to the dress, Bella," he repeated mildly.
"Harold...and his friends—" Her anxious gaze flashed up to his. "They cut it off me."
Jack's face turned hard in a way she'd never seen before.
"But thanks to those cameras," she said quickly in an attempt to defuse the cold fury on his face, "Harold's been arrested along with his friends. Our town has a no–tolerance approach to domestic violence, and Tracey tells me the police are going to throw the book at them. I'll have to appear in court, but then..."
Jack was staring into the middle distance in a way that would put the fear of God into more of a man than Harold could ever be.
"Let the police handle it," she said quietly. "They know what they're doing. And you're right...let's not talk about it anymore."
The Bride Wore Red At The Ladies Club: Arabella's Story (Cosmic Hot Shorts Book 4) Page 5
