by Morey, Trish
She hiccupped against his chest, her long braid a heavy snake over his arm. “I’m going to be more like Tara from now on. I’m going to stop being impulsive and I’m going to be sensible and I’m going to think about things.”
‘‘Maybe you needed to come here,” he offered, his thumb stroking her shoulder. “The big changes in our lives rarely take place with us just wanting them. Usually they come about because of some major defining event.”
“You think Travis was my major defining event?”
“Maybe.”
“But then I jumped head long into Bella’s.”
“You were desperate, that’s all. Look how long you had to think about my offer, and I thought that was a no brainer. So you see? You are being less impulsive already.”
“You think?”
“So long as you remember one thing.”
She sniffed and sighed, and he could feel her body relaxing into him, “What’s that?”
“Don’t try and be someone else, even if it’s your own sister. Don’t change who you are, Scarlett. I like you, just the way you are.”
After a little while, she said sleepily, “You sound a lot like my Aunt Margot.”
He kissed her hair. “I knew I liked the sound of her.” And as she fell into a doze against his chest he wondered where his words had come from. He’d met her barely two days ago—what did he care about her messy impulsive life that he needed to reassure her, even if it was the truth?
That was the bit that niggled at him the most.
Because he did like her.
A lot.
Broome was hot and humid and her jeans stuck to her legs but after bumping their way down through the clouds, Scarlett was too glad to be safely down on the ground to care. But it was exciting too. Broome was like no place she’d ever been before; even the airport felt tropical and exotic with its palm trees and light spaces and cane furniture. A private car met them and whisked them off to their resort on Cable Beach, the fourteen-mile ribbon of white sand that fringed the turquoise Indian Ocean.
“When do we meet the others?”
“Tonight before dinner. They’re all off on some excursion to a pearl farm today.”
The wind gusted and tore at the palm trees along the road. “Wind’s picking up,” he said.
“Bad news for the wedding?”
“From what Robbo was telling me, Kristelle is hoping for her wedding to be blessed with an appearance by the Staircase to the Moon. You can only see it at full moon between March and October and this weekend is the first for the year.” He looked up at the cloudy sky. “Don’t fancy her chances if this keeps up.” They pulled into the gates of a resort. “Looks like we’re here.”
Her eyes bugged. She climbed out of the car, taking in the long colonial building with its timber veranda decorated with Chinese artefacts and low-slung furniture, the gardens spilling with palms and brightly colored plants. “Oh my god,” she said, “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
The driver holding her door smiled. Mitch was smiling too. “Don’t mind her,” he said, “she doesn’t get out much.”
The driver laughed and tipped his hat. “A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, “enjoy your stay.”
“What was that all about?” she asked, as the car pulled away and Mitch took her hand.
“It means they’re too used to toffee noses around here.”
“Toffee noses?”
“Um, what would Americans say? Let’s think: Preppy types. Rich people.”
“Oh.”
“You’re like a breath of fresh air.”
She looked up at him quizzically and he added, “He liked you. Then again, maybe he’s just met Kristelle.”
“Hey.” She stopped and he had to stop too. “I know she’s your ex ’n’ all and you’re not sure of her motives, but that doesn’t mean she’s an awful person. It just means you two didn’t get on.”
He touched his finger to the tip of her nose and followed it with his lips. “I stand corrected. No more digs about Kristelle.”
“Good.”
She took a step but he mumbled something under his breath, and she just knew he was going for the last word. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
She shook her head. “That poor girl didn’t deserve you.”
“Finally,” he said, “something we can agree on.”
She pressed her nails into the back of his hand. “She and I are going to get on like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Right again. Are you going for the trifecta or something?”
She just looked at him. “Unbelievable. It’s a wonder she didn’t end up in therapy after you.”
He smiled and she just looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Like I said: unbelievable.”
Check-in was as smooth as silk, and in no time they were in their assigned villa. It was insanely luxurious, a private house more than a mere villa, with a massive king-sized bedroom plus separate lounge and dining rooms and, to top it all off, a private courtyard with plunge pool.
She eyed it with intent and a certain amount of satisfaction. Take that, Travis.
“I’m hopping in the shower to freshen up before drinks,” Mitch said from inside. “Coming?”
“Sure. Give me a minute, I just need to hang something up.” With a bit of luck the closet was so big, he might not even notice it.
“Don’t be long.”
She smiled. “Not a chance.”
A minute later she joined him in the enormous shower. “You know, you were right,” he said, reaching for her. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“You’re supposed to be saving that for when we’re in front of the others,” she said, but she wasn’t exactly chiding him. Not when her breath hissed through her teeth at his touch. He looked damned fine dry to be sure. But he looked even better dripping wet.
And what he did to her with that bath gel was amazing.
She was just drying off when she heard him yell, “What the hell is that?”
Darn. She had a fair idea where he was and what he’d found and realized that maybe the gown hadn’t been quite as well hidden as she’d hoped. After all, there was at least a hundred yards of tulle in the skirt. But there were at least a dozen yards of closet too. Did he have to go opening that particular one?
Anyhow, no point admitting anything just yet. He was a man after all. Maybe he’d just found the ironing board.
“What’s what?” she asked innocently, padding barefoot into the room.
“This thing. This—frothy- white—thing.”
She peeked over his shoulder. “Oh, so you found it?”
“How the hell was I not supposed to find it? It takes up half the bloody wardrobe. What the hell is it?”
“A mistake. You know how I told you I was impulsive—“
“Hell, Scarlett, I told you I’m not looking for commitment!”
“What? You think I’m planning on marrying you?” She laughed out loud but somehow he didn’t share the joke.
“What’s so funny about that?”
She laughed even more. “You’re funny! First of all you’re outraged at the thought I might be secretly planning on marrying you, and then you sound insulted when I tell you I’m not. It’s the gown I was going to wear to marry Travis. I brought it all the way from Marietta, Montana to marry that jerkball of a cheating husband in.”
If he was relieved, he didn’t let it show. “So what’s it doing here?”
“It has to hang to get out the creases.”
“No.” He sighed. “Not here in the wardrobe. Here in Broome?”
“Well, I could hardly leave it in Perth.”
“Why not? Why take the damned thing anywhere? Why didn’t you throw it away? Burn it. Do whatever pissed off brides do when they’ve been dumped?”
“Because I need the money! It’s a two thousand dollar Vera Wang gown, and maybe I bought it on sale for way less than that, but I reckon I should be able to get at
least a grand for it.”
“So sell it then.”
“I am. I’m trying. I’ve got it listed on eBay. ‘New. With Tags. Never worn’,” she quoted, “only that’s a bit of a fib because some poor woman before me got stood up almost at the altar in the damn thing, but I could hardly say that.”
He shook his head and headed back to the bedroom. He’d never understand women. He hadn’t understood a word of what she’d just said.
What he had understood, though, was that she’d thought the concept of marrying him hysterically funny.
Oh yeah, he’d understood that bit perfectly.
And didn’t it grate?
“Are you ready? We’re due at the bar ten minutes ago.”
“You go ahead,” she called from the bathroom, “this humidity is turning my hair into seaweed. I’ll find you.”
Mitch went off smiling, his mind suddenly busy imagining pictures of Scarlett as a mermaid, on a rock, her scarlet hair wending like rivulets over her breasts. Oh yeah, he could see that. That would work. The bar was still only half full and the wedding party no trouble to spot: Robbo and his parents and another couple who must be Kristelle’s, plus the bridesmaid he presumed. He scanned the area. No Kristelle. Bonus. He had time to have a word with his mate first.
“Mitch,” Robbo called out, as he pulled Mitch into a man hug, clapping him on the back. “It’s good you could come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Robbo peered around his shoulder. “And the friend you were bringing?”
“She’s still messing with her hair.”
“Oh,” he rolled his eyes, “the humidity, tell me about it. Kristelle’s been banging on about nothing else but. I told her March would be dodgy up here but she did insist.” He laughed, a little uncertainly, and Mitch wondered if all was well in the lovers’ nest. “Well, you know what she’s like.”
He did but still he managed a smile as Robbo started with the introductions. His parents, Virginia and Andrew Farrant, he already knew, and then there were Rolf and Alice Svensson and a sparky brunette, Sharon, who was the bridesmaid. Someone put a beer in his hand and the party got underway before Robbo pulled him aside, an arm around his shoulder. It was a stretch for the shorter man.
“No hard feelings, eh?” he said, squeezing his shoulder. “About me marrying Kristelle? I’d hate for this to come between us.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Mitch said.
“Only I know how hard it must have been when she said no to you.”
His head whipped around. “What?”
“When she turned you down. I know you took it rough. I understand it would have been a blow.”
Oh good grief, so that was the story she’d spun. “Look Robbo—” He hesitated. His mate was getting married in less than twenty-four hours and he might not get another chance. Besides, he was sure he hadn’t imagined the tightness around his friend’s features when he talked about the woman he was lining up to marry. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“What do you mean?”
“About marrying Kristelle. It is what you want, isn’t it?”
The hand around his shoulders fell away. “So it’s like that is it? You’re still sore. Well, let me tell you,” Robbo said, poking him in the chest with his finger, “you had your chance, Mitch. You blew it, big time. So suck it up, princess.”
Mitch sighed. “Robbo, mate, listen a minute.”
“No. Tomorrow Kristelle is marrying me and you are just going to have to learn to live with it.”
“All right, I’ll live with it,” he said, holding up a hand in surrender, when what he would have really liked to do was give his friend a good smack about the head with it and see if that knocked some sense into him.
“Excellent,” the smaller man said, flexing his shoulders like he’d just gone ten rounds and come out a champion. “Mates again then?”
“Yeah, mates,” he said, and reached for another beer.
He was catching up with Robbo’s parents a couple of minutes later when he heard her voice. “Robert, darling, I’m so sorry...”
Mitch stiffened and stood up straight at the bar and he had a sudden insight into why someone had invented the phrase, ‘girding your loins’, because girding was exactly what his loins were doing right now. “Oh, Mitch,” she said, her voice as heavy and sultry as the air, “I didn’t know you’d arrived. How lovely to see you.”
She did all the moving. She practically glided towards him like a ship on the sea. A warship. A destroyer.
She had the capability, that’s for sure. She looked amazing, better maybe than he remembered, with her Nordic good looks and blonde hair swept up, her perfectly tweaked and preened body clad in clever layers of silk that shifted as she walked, revealing a glimpse of leg here, a slice of toned belly there.
And a warning inside his head sounded out. Prepare to repel boarders.
“How are you, Kristelle?”
She smiled and kept right on coming and reached her hands to his shoulders and pressed herself close. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” She pushed herself high—blow it if he was going to make it easy for her by bending—and pressed her lips to his mouth, lingering there a moment too long. Mitch cleared his throat and reached along the bar for his beer, feeling Robbo’s eyes on him the whole time.
“All ready for the big day?”
She pouted a little as she leaned away, as if she was disappointed with his response, but if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a challenge in her eyes too.
“I am. We are. If only this wretched weather would behave.” Then she frowned a little, checking who was there. “Robert mentioned you were bringing a friend.” She looked delighted when she couldn’t find a likely suspect and the challenge in her eyes became an invitation. Nope, he was right not to trust her an inch. “Did you change your mind?”
He took a swig of his beer. “Nope, she’ll be along. She’s fixing her hair.”
“Mean of you to make her arrive by herself. It’d be daunting to have to turn up to a party all on your own.”
He thought about Scarlett and grinned. “I doubt it.”
In the end Scarlett gave up wrangling with the question of what to do with her hair, and tied it into a simple sideways braid, took a last look in the mirror to check that she looked presentable in the simple little sundress and sandals she’d chosen in deference to the heat and in the hopes of making a good impression for Mitch’s sake, and headed for the bar. She was looking forward to meeting everyone, Kristelle especially. She was probably nothing like Mitch had made out. They’d probably end up being best of friends. Ha, wouldn’t he just hate that!
The bar was as beautifully decked out as the rest of the resort with white clothed tables topped with crystal glasses, and high-backed cane chairs spilling outside onto a wide deck overlooking the beach. It was glorious. Even with the cloud scudded sky and wind whipping at the palms that lined the shore, Scarlett was seriously loving this place.
She spotted Mitch at the bar, tall and gorgeous and her heart did a little lurch thinking back to that episode in the shower and at the fact that he was all hers for the next two days. He was leaning on the bar, talking with a pair of middle aged couples, the parents she presumed, and there was a younger couple, a man shorter than Mitch with the beginnings of a pot and who looked like he spent a lot of time behind a desk—it had to be Robbo—talking to a younger woman with curly dark hair and a nice smile; if that was Kristelle, she was sure they were going to get along just fine. She was just making their way over to greet them when another woman glided into focus. Tall, svelte and cool as an iceberg in the humid air, she said something to the shorter man before she spotted Mitch, and something about the way his jaw set as he straightened told her she’d been wrong. The brunette must be the bridesmaid. This supermodel-slash-ice queen had to be Kristelle.
She watched as Kristelle seemed to float toward him, her dress like a cloud of liquid silk, watched as she flo
ated right up to Mitch and stretched herself up high like a cat upon his chest to kiss him. And lingered.
Scarlett’s blood started to boil.
Nuh-uh, that was so not happening. Not on her watch.
And she looked down at her cotton sundress and simple sandals and headed straight back to the villa. It was time to bring out the heavy artillery.
Mitch checked his watch. They’d be heading for their table soon and there was still no sign of Scarlett. Kristelle was still standing there, talking away, making out like they were best of friends, while the parents had formed their own private collective and Robbo—who had practically warned him off his wife-to-be—was deep in conversation with the bridesmaid. How did that work?
And meanwhile he stuck here getting a blow-by-blow description of the wedding plans, right down to the gazebo and the lily pond and what was on the menu.
Maybe Robbo could hear the conversation and thought there was nothing going on, but it wasn’t about the setting or the arrangements at all. It was about Kristelle being oblivious to his signals to give it up and making pretty eyes, come hither smiles and forever moving a hand there, a gesture here, the flick of a bit of invisible lint from his shirt.
He’d just about had a gut-full of it.
“Hey, sugar.” The voice was right but the accent was wrong, and he looked around, confused. He was more confused by what he saw. He seemed to remember Scarlett had been wearing something else when he’d left because he sure as hell would have remembered if she’d been wearing this. She was dressed, if you could call it that, in a teensy tiny denim skirt with a teensy tiny white tank with fringing and spangles along the neckline. Not that, he noted, it ventured anywhere remotely near her neck. And if he wasn’t mistaken, on her feet were the same pink spangly boots she’d been wearing at Bella’s.
