by Lucy Gordon;Sarah Morgan;Robyn Donald;Lucy Monroe;Lee Wilkinson;Kate Walker
In the meantime, Salvatore brought her flowers, bought her beautiful jewelry, wrote her poetry that was terrible, but she would never tell him so, and refused to share their bed until after the wedding. She’d complained, saying he already considered her his wife, but he had remained firm.
She deserved a courtship and she would get it.
Their wedding was as big and loud as any Sicilian family could make it. It wasn’t until they boarded his private jet to take off for their real honeymoon that they were alone.
She snuggled into his lap, her over-the-top, gorgeous wedding dress flowing around both of them. “You belong to me now.”
“As you belong to me.” And he meant it. The acceptance she had craved her whole life, the legitimate place in the life of another, were hers with Salvatore. He adored her and wanted to be with her all the time. He needed her and had shown her in so many ways how real that need was, but nothing more so than the year he spent trying to get her back when she had walked away from the pain of her loss and left him behind.
“I love you.” She kissed his throat right above the shirt points of his tux.
His arms tightened around her and his lips sought hers for a kiss that left her smiling and loopy with joy. “I love you, amore, always and forever. Never doubt it.”
“How can I? I can feel it with every breath you take, every glance, every touch. Our love is like a living bond between us.”
“Sì.” He pressed his hand over her womb. “Very alive.”
Epilogue
A YEAR later Elisa led Salvatore across the threshold of a small cottage in the hills of Tuscany.
“So this is where you hid from me so well I could not find you.”
She smiled and nodded. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
It was a simple one-room abode with a bathroom, but the surrounding country was gorgeous.
“Sì, but not as beautiful as my two best girls.” He looked down with adoration at the tiny baby in his arms. “She is so precious, dolcezza. Perfect.”
“You’re prejudiced.”
His head came up and chocolate-dark eyes mocked her. “And you are not?”
She laughed rather than answer. He knew how besotted she was, with both her husband and her four-month-old baby daughter.
“So, who does this place belong to?”
“Me. Papa’s mother gave it to me the year before she died. She said it was my place in this world, where I belonged without any stipulations or limitations.”
He came to her then and put his arm around her, making a perfect circle of their small family. “Now I am that place for you, no?”
“Oh, yes. Now you are that place.”
And would always be. Love had given her a place in his heart and his life that no one could ever take away.
She belonged.
Substitute Fiancée
Lee Wilkinson
Lee Wilkinson lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travelling and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going round the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.
Lee Wilkinson’s latest Modern™ romance Claiming His Wedding Night is available now!
Chapter One
FRANCESCA HOLT, making her way through the Friday afternoon press of people and luggage-piled trolleys, paused to glance up at the airport’s flight monitors.
The plane from Amsterdam had just landed. She breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Really it’s a damned nuisance having to go away just now,’ Kirk had said. ‘But this trip is far too important to cancel.’
He’d kissed her and picked up his bag and briefcase. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow without fail. Meet me by the main reception desk. There’s only twenty minutes or so between our planes, so you won’t have long to wait.’ With a teasing smile, he’d added, ‘Just keep a tight hold on your handbag until I join you.’
Taking up a position within sight of the reception desk, she waited quietly.
She was a slim, graceful woman, of above medium height, with silky ash-brown hair, which had a slight tendency to curl, twisted into a knot on top of her head.
She was dressed nicely, if unadventurously, in a silky oatmeal-coloured dress with self-buttons, and a short, collarless jacket. A flimsy flowered scarf around her throat added a touch of colour. She carried a small weekend case and a handbag.
Unexceptional, the man watching her thought, apart from a lovely figure and a certain quality of stillness that made her stand out from the crowd.
Serenely unaware that she was under surveillance, Fran lifted her left hand and glanced at the small diamond solitaire she wore. Kirk had slipped it on to her finger just a couple of nights ago, when he’d taken her out to dinner.
‘This is only temporary,’ he’d told her. ‘You can choose something bigger and better when this coming weekend’s over.’
But she didn’t need anything bigger and better. Engaged to the blue-eyed, golden-haired Mr Wonderful of most women’s fantasies, she had everything she wanted.
As well as film star good looks, Kirk had a quick intelligence and loads of charm, a ‘way with him’ that was irresistible.
When she had moved to the Midlands to take up a post as designer for Christopher Varley—a reputable and longestablished Manchester firm of goldsmiths and jewellers—Kirk Varley, son of the late owner, had treated her with the same casual friendliness he reserved for all his other employees.
Even after almost a year, and growing success as several of her imaginative designs had attracted a good deal of attention, he had shown no sign of interest.
Then a commission to redesign an antique necklace had worked the miracle.
Kirk had been approached by Edward Balantyne, a multi-millionaire businessman and owner of Balantyne Hall, who’d wanted his bride to wear the necklace at their wedding.
Made up of eighteen large, perfectly matched rubies, it was reputed to have been given to Elizabeth Balantyne, a noted beauty, by an Indian maharaja in the early days of the Raj.
Since then a Balantyne family tradition had grown up, so that with each generation the necklace was passed on to the eldest son’s bride.
But this time, unimpressed by its history and disliking its heavy, old-fashioned appearance, the American bride-to-be, having seen and admired Francesca’s work, wanted the priceless gems put into a lighter, modern setting.
Needing to be in the States for the few weeks prior to his wedding, the multi-millionaire, apparently with some reluctance, had finally agreed to allow his fiancée a free hand in choosing the new design.
Before leaving, and after reaching an agreement with Kirk, Edward Balantyne had made arrangements for the necklace to be taken by special security from his London bank to the jewellers.
It would arrive just twenty-four hours before William Bailey, the firm’s craftsman, was due to reset the rubies, and Varleys would be responsible for handing it back safely.
There had been one stipulation. Having in the past been hounded by the media on both sides of the Atlantic, Edward Balantyne had insisted that the whole thing, including his forthcoming marriage, which was to take place in London shortly after his return from the States, should remain a closely guarded secret.
‘I can understand why,’ Kirk had said. ‘Apart from the security angle, he’s marrying Melinda, the daughter of Gideon Ross. If the press found out, they’d have a field-day.
‘Ross was recently mixed up in some Wall Street embezzlement scandal that made front page news even in England. He ended up disgraced and penniless, and was lucky to escape prison.’
Determined to take no chances on Edward Balantyne’s secret getting out, Kirk had arranged for Melinda Ross, a gorgeous blonde, to meet Fran and himself at a quiet Manc
hester hotel, rather than his business premises.
That first discussion, with a life-sized photograph of the necklace and precise measurements, had been followed by a series of lunchtime meetings, during which the bride-to-be had looked at several of Fran’s designs and chosen the one she liked best.
Listening to Fran’s ideas, and getting to know her as a woman, rather than simply an employee, had sparked Kirk’s interest, and he had started to wine and dine her.
Now, only a short time later, he had suggested she move in with him while they made preparations for a spring wedding.
In love, and reassured by the word wedding, she had—for the first time since Blaze—let down her defences and agreed.
Kirk, his blond good looks the antithesis of Blaze’s darkly handsome face—a face she still couldn’t think of without her heart turning over—had looked both pleased and relieved.
He had helped her transport her few personal possessions to his sumptuous apartment just before she’d seen him off at the airport.
‘It’s your home now,’ he’d said, smiling. ‘You can move in as soon as you like.’
But, unwilling to actually take up residence before his return, Fran had refused a key and stayed where she was, only handing in the keys of her own rented flat that morning.
Now she warmed herself with the thought that when the weekend was over she and Kirk would be going home together, and a new and happier phase in her life would be starting…
A slight smile hanging on her lips, she glanced up and met the eyes of a thin, sharp-faced man with sandy hair, who appeared to be watching her.
Without conscious volition Fran’s hand went to her throat, but already the man was turning away.
Though he looked ordinary enough there was something vaguely familiar about the stooped shoulders, the creased suit and, rather incongruously, the mac over his arm.
Surely he’d been on the same Manchester to London plane as herself?
Seeing him wander in the direction of the flight monitors, she relaxed. Like herself, he was probably waiting for someone.
A glance at her watch confirmed that Kirk should be with her any minute, and she breathed a sign of relief. She would be glad when they reached Balantyne Hall and this whole thing was over.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he’d said briefly, when she’d first baulked at his idea. ‘As we’re going to the Hall, it’s the perfect solution.’
‘Surely it would be safer to let the security firm deliver it?’ she pleaded.
‘Not necessarily.’
Seeing she wasn’t convinced, he admitted, ‘And there’s another consideration. Trade hasn’t been up to much for the past year or so, and special security costs a great deal of money, which would have to come out of our profits.’
But she considered it too big a responsibility to be part of such a plan, and said so. ‘After all I’m only an employee…’
‘My darling girl…’ He drew her into his arms. ‘You must know that I don’t think of you as a mere employee. In fact I was about to ask you to become part of the firm.’
As she stared at him, wondering if she’d misunderstood, he smiled. ‘Yes, I really do mean marry me…’
After an interval of kisses and whispered endearments, he added purposefully, ‘As for the necklace; I can assure you there’s absolutely no risk involved.’
‘But if Mr Balantyne’s expecting it to be delivered by Rayburns won’t he—?’
A shade impatiently, Kirk broke in, ‘So long as it’s returned safely, it’s up to us. Look, if I think there’s likely to be a problem, I’ll clear it with him. But really it makes a lot of sense to do it this way.
‘The whole thing’s been worked with such secrecy that apart from William Bailey—and he’s as safe as houses—there’s not a soul knows we’ve ever had the necklace in our possession.
‘Now, don’t worry any more. For one thing, Balantyne is sure to have it insured up to the hilt…You just meet me at the airport and we’ll be home and dry. Nothing can go wrong.
‘A taxi should get us to Balantyne Hall by late afternoon. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to our host and hostess and get business over before dinner.
‘So far as I know, there’ll only be the four of us on Friday night; the actual party isn’t until Saturday…’
To coincide with the delivery of the necklace, Edward Balantyne was planning to hold an engagement party to introduce his bride-to-be to his family and a few close friends.
The invitation to Kirk and herself to attend the party and spend the weekend at his ancestral home had come as a surprise.
To Fran’s way of thinking, it was not a particularly pleasant one. Neither of them had actually met Edward Balantyne, and what she’d heard about him from Melinda Ross hadn’t made a good impression.
Still, Kirk had seemed pleased and oddly excited by the invitation…
But where on earth was Kirk? Surely he should be here by now?
‘Will Miss Holt, meeting Mr Varley, please go to the reception desk…?’ The disembodied voice broke into her thoughts.
Feeling a quiver of apprehension, Fran crossed to the desk and identified herself.
‘There’s a message for you, Miss Holt.’ The woman behind the desk was briskly efficient and impersonal. ‘Mr Varley has been unavoidably delayed. He wants you to proceed to the Hall, where he’ll join you as soon as possible.’
‘He didn’t have any idea how long he’d be?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Thank you.’ Clutching her case and shoulder-bag, Fran turned away, beset by a sudden surge of something close to panic.
Taking a deep breath, she told herself not to be a fool. Apart from the fact that she would have to make the journey to Balantyne Hall alone, nothing had really altered.
All she had to do was get a taxi.
Avoiding a milling crowd of pink and peeling holidaymakers, struggling with bags and packages and recalcitrant children, she made her way to the exit.
Outside, the September heat, trapped between the buildings, was sweltering, and the air seemed curiously heavy and stale.
The pavement was crowded with people and trolleys, the roadway noisy with cars and vehicles picking up passengers and loading luggage.
A straggling queue of people waited at the taxi rank. Several taxis appeared together, and the queue in front of her diminished, leaving Fran at the head.
Another taxi pulled into the kerb. As she stepped forward to open the door her handbag was snatched from her, and a violent sideways push sent her sprawling.
Shocked and dazed, she struggled to her knees, and a moment later was being helped to her feet by a silver-haired man standing behind her in the queue.
The whole thing had been over in a split second, most of the crowd seeming unaware of what had happened.
‘Are you all right?’ The man, who with his neatly trimmed moustache and a military air looked like a retired colonel, stooped to pick up her case.
A hand to her throat, she croaked, ‘I’m fine. Just a bit shaken.’ Recognising him as a fellow passenger on the Manchester flight, she managed a smile.
‘Would you like me to call Airport Security?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Fran refused hastily. ‘I need to get on.’ The last thing she wanted was to be held up for ages.
‘You really should tell the police,’ the ‘colonel’ insisted.
‘I’m sure you’re right. I’ll report it later.’ Taking her case, she thanked him and scrambled into the taxi.
By the time she’d given the driver the address, shock had set in and she was trembling in every limb.
Gritting her teeth, she made an effort to pull herself together while she inspected the damage. A grazed palm and bleeding knees, torn tights, smears of dust on her dress and jacket and scuffed shoes seemed to be all.
No doubt there would be bruises later, but, taking everything into consideration, she had got off lightly.
The big question in
her mind was, why had the thief picked on her? Could he have known who she was, or had any inkling of Kirk’s plan?
No, surely not. This was small-time theft. There were dozens of such crimes each day. It must be sheer coincidence that she had been a target.
A strange and bizarre coincidence, nevertheless…
Fran shivered. Then, shrugging off a feeling of nameless apprehension, she brought her mind back to the present and glanced out of the window.
After leaving the airport environs behind them they had reached leafy country roads which carried comparatively little traffic.
In a mile or so, shortly after passing a pleasantly rustic hotel, they turned left, past a magnificent stand of beeches just starting to turn gold, and began to follow an old lichen-covered stone wall.
Before long they came to a pair of black ornamental wrought-iron gates, flanked by stone pillars.
‘This is Balantyne Hall,’ the taxi driver advised her, drawing to a halt.
Looking at the gates, which didn’t appear to open, she asked, ‘Are you sure this is the right entrance?’
‘We can use this one, though it’s not the main entrance. That’s about a mile further on and has a manned gatehouse. As it happens I’ve been here before…There’s a sort of intercom system on all the gates, if you’d like to tell me your name?’
She told him.
Leaving the engine running, he went over to a panel in the gates and, having pressed a button, spoke into a small grille.
Lifting her eyes, Fran noticed a high-up security camera scanning the entrance. It seemed Edward Balantyne didn’t take any chances.
The driver climbed back into the cab and the gates slid aside to allow them entry, before closing silently after them.
They followed the well-kept drive, which was bordered by flowering plants and shrubs, until they rounded the curve of a low hill and the house came into view.
