Tomorrow's Bride

by Alexandra Scott

  'That was in a different life, Patrick, and we've both changed.'

  'You're probably right.' Patrick's voice mellowed, and there was a note of reflection which held Leigh spellbound. 'But I hope you don't get the impression that I consider all the changes in you are for the worse...'

  Leigh hardly dared to move.

  'No, you have changed into a stunningly beautiful woman, and I don't think there's a man living who wouldn't want to make love to you...'

  Alexandra Scott was born in Scotland and lived there until she met her husband, who was serving in the British army, and there followed twenty-five years of travel in the Far East and Western Europe. They then settled in North Yorkshire, and, encouraged—forcefully—by her husband, she began writing the first of some fifty romantic novels which were to be published. Her other interests include gardening and embroidery, and she enjoys the company of her family.

  Recent titles by the same author: HOLLOW VOWS

  TOMORROW'S BRIDE

  BY

  ALEXANDRA SCOTT

  MILLS &-BOON

  DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

  If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported

  unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the Author nor the publisher

  has received any payment for this book.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  MILLS & BOON and the Rose Device are trademarks of the publisher. Harlequin Mills &. Boon Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW91SR

  This edition published by arrangement with

  Harlequin Enterprises B.V.

  © Alexandra Scott 1995 ISBN 0263 79271 4

  Set in Times Roman 11*A on 12 pt. 01-9511-51960 Cl

  Made and printed in Great Britain

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE shadowy eyelids flickered briefly, revealing a mere hint of intense violet, drifting closed as she sighed, generous mouth parted on a shudder of sheer anticipation, while at the same time her head moved in what could easily have been a gesture of denial. But it was the teasing, age-old audacity of the born temptress, if the curve of lip or embracing gesture of one slender outflung arm was anything to judge by.

  Light curtains stirred at the open window, sending a golden light across the room, gleaming briefly on silky strands of dark hair spilling over the pillow, touching the fringe of dense eyelashes so that she turned from the disturbance in protest, reaching out for a spare pillow, cradling it into the curve of her body as if for protection...

  It was a dream she was used to, one she welcomed, had yearned for as it became increasingly elusive. But it had always, as now, come in the mornings, because—and she never doubted it— because it had been their special time. The time when, rested but drowsy, they had taken and given, each to the other, such delight.

  Above her she sensed his shape, blotting out that intrusive sliver of light, and she reached for him eagerly, stretching her arms to link them about his neck, offering up her mouth and all the while knowing, with that potent little throb at the pit of her stomach, knowing that in a moment their eyes would meet, would sparkle at each other in such perfect love and understanding, and from time to time with even a hint of amusement and wonder. Yes, always, always wonder.

  But the stab of nostalgia was thrust aside; it had been such fun, as well as all those other superlatives which didn't go halfway towards describing then- feelings for each other. Such fun and... Another sigh, throbbing and deep, and then, playing by the rules of the game, which didn't always work, she allowed her eyelids to drift apart, and then...

  Damn. Damn. Damn. A hand went up to cover her eyes and, unable to hide the twist of pain about her mouth, she took a moment or two to regain control. She lay back, eyes closed, expression deliberately blank. You fool, she admonished herself, reverting weakly, when you had so nearly got your life back together again. And all because yesterday you glimpsed someone who reminded you—not even a figure, just the back of a head disappearing into an office. Something about the way the hair lay against the skull, the set of the broad shoulders... for that you suddenly flip your lid, go off on a trip like a junkie in need of a fix.

  So what? With one lithe, determined move she left her bed, pausing for a moment to adjust the curtains and fix the window. Gradually over the years she had learned a painful lesson—that self-indulgence was a futile exercise. If she allowed herself to stray along that path, she would never break free, would be permanently inhibited in her dealings with men and-----

  And quite apart from anything else, she determined to jerk herself back to her usual hard-headed outlook. If she didn't wake up her ideas she would never be fit for what promised to be an excessively busy day, even by her own demanding standards. Even when the work was over, this evening she was expected to attend the reception—the annual shindig organised for so many of those who were employed by the European Parliament here in Strasbourg. Funny, she had been looking forward to it... only, suddenly, she wasn't so sure. But right now a shower was needed, something to bring her back to her senses, perhaps even a cold one. She shivered, pushed open the bathroom door and reached bravely for the tap.

  Beauty, opulence, unbelievable luxury—those were her first and continuing impressions as she climbed the sweeping staircase, Kyle's hand protectively on her elbow, her mind clicking like a camera recording detail. Glittering chandeliers, gilded balustrades. She was aware of intense appreciation as her eye lingered on classical statues in their shadowy niches, then shock, followed by private amusement, when she identified the glamorous creature approaching from the mirrored alcove.

  The effect of fine feathers was amazing. She wrenched her eyes away, though the image lingered, and for the first time she excused her wild extravagance in buying the dress. After all, it would have been impossible to venture into such a fairy-tale world in something she had picked up in a chain-store while at Celine's...

  The saleswoman had been right to persuade her; the colour was perfect, the deep blue shades of the Thai silk did enhance the already striking violet of her eyes, while the tiny velvet bolero jacket studded with beads and bugles competed successfully with the glitter of jewels worn by so many of the more affluent women.

  It was the new hairstyle which had caused her more reservations, but here, in such an ultra-glamorous location, it looked sensational rather than extreme, which her good sense told her it was verging towards. Certainly, it was wildly at odds with her usual simple styles. But now, approaching the double doors of the reception-rooms, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin as if challenging anyone to remark that the riot of ebony curls was other than madly attractive.

  As they made their way through the room she sensed one or two raised eyebrows. Her antennae picked up approval—even Sir Alan Barclay, always regarded as something of a cold fish, allowed himself a tiny admiring smi
le, to which she found herself beginning to respond.

  That was when Kyle diverted her. The smile was still about her mouth, sparkling mischievously in the wide, brilliant eyes, when she turned, and was instantly stricken to the heart by that dark face, those penetrating... smoky and penetrating eyes and... Reality began to drift away from her, reason to desert her. She was back in her dream; she must be. What other explanation could...?

  'Leigh, I don't think you've met Patrick Cavour. He's been here for.. .what is it, Patrick? About a week?'

  'Less than that.' For the first time in years she was hearing that deep voice. Deep and immensely attractive, with the faintest brush of an Irish brogue, it was a voice that from the first had brought weakness to her knees, shivers of sheer delight to the length of her spine and.. .nothing had changed. Nothing at all. That throb low in her diaphragm, the pressure in her chest were as potent as ever. 'Here in Strasbourg, just three days.'

  'Leigh Gregory.' As he spoke Kyle draped a casual arm about her shoulder. "The most efficient PA in Strasbourg.'

  She felt humiliated by the other man's raised eyebrow, curled mouth, that same sensitive mouth which had-----Angrily she caught at her treacherous thoughts, allowing herself to grow increasingly irritated with Kyle, wishing he wouldn't lay it on so thickly. But then she realised it was of Anna he was speaking, introducing her as his secretary.

  His secretary? Silently she queried that statement, latching desperately on to something to absorb her irritation. Until that very moment she had considered Anna to be her secretary, but possibly, in a manner of speaking...

  No matter. A moment later—and she couldn't understand how it had come about—she and Patrick were on their own, eyes cagily assessing over the rims of glasses. At least, hers were; his were quite blatant in their scrutiny. Almost immediately he spoke, in that soft, tender way that was so... Irish. 'So... Leigh. How well you look.' The words were spoken in that beguiling lilt so vividly recalled.

  ‘Thank you.' Smile and manner were both brittle as she forced herself to remember to be on her guard. Once before this man had-----'And you too.' Which was the simple truth as well as a cause for considerable regret, she told herself, in an attempt to damp down her responses. It would have been easier if he hadn't looked just about twice as devastating as her memory of him...

  It was all too easy for people like her, ordinary people, to be captivated, even to be intimidated, by people like Patrick Cavour. Those who came from backgrounds where casual privilege was taken for granted, from large, close families with servants who were almost invariably devoted— they enjoyed so many niceties which everyone else could only read about.

  There was comfort in allowing her dyspeptic recollections full rein, in remembering how the Cavour home had appeared at the end of a long drive, like something out of Gone with the Wind. Inside all had been discreet, tasteful luxury, and then there had been the horses, the dogs with names like Bran and Luath and-----

  'It's been a long time-----' Seeing his lips begin to curve, again she was consumed with fear at her own weakness. Besides, a little shame at such mean thoughts of people who had shown her only kindness had brought colour to her cheeks.

  'Yes.' Quite abruptly she cut him off, allowed her attention to roam over the room, coming to rest with some longing on the group where Kyle was entertaining a gaggle of secretaries, Anna among them, with one of his much honed stories. 'Yes.' At last she was able to raise a smile, cool, falsely detached, and with it a carefully judged frown. 'It was at Oxford, wasn't it?' Her heart was thumping at her own hypocrisy. "That we met, I mean?'

  From his instantly changed expression she saw that she had caught him on the raw, was perversely filled with regret as she encountered the narrow dark look, the tightened lips, and when he didn't answer she looked about her in an agony of discomfort, though even with her head averted she could feel the cold stare.

  'You must forgive me.' Even when he was icily angry, as she had no doubt that he was, there was still this cadence in his voice, and also... She couldn't say what, except that it struck at her most precious and private memories, nudging at secrets which she had determined to keep hidden.

  'Forgive?' Her raised eyebrow was mocking, though something in his expression close to disdain made her quail. 'You?' Nervously she looked down into her glass, then flicked back her long lashes, determined to continue her challenge.

  'Forgive me, I was staring.' There again, a reminiscence which brought a flutter down her backbone, a surge to her nerve-endings, that voice with all its hints of intimacies shared. 'You remind me so strongly of someone I used to know... rather well.'

  All her control was slipping now, her cheeks were aflame, and in a way she was glad he had been insensitive enough to remind her of all the times they had-----

  Her fingernails cut into the palm of her left hand; it took a superhuman effort to summon a smile and she inclined her head faintly, for all the world like a duchess dismissing a footman, but in the second before she turned away she knew a glow of triumph.

  None the less, for the rest of what turned out to be an interminable evening, it was impossible to avoid him. Perhaps, she tried to justify things, it was merely that he was so tall. Whenever she raised her head, there he was. And always he was making the evening for the bevy of women clustered round him, and it was an inexplicably melancholy fact that each one might easily have been a top model in a glossy magazine. There they all were, signalling interest so madly that if he had ever had any doubts about himself—an unlikely enough possibility—they would have been instantly dispelled and his own high opinion of Patrick Cavour reinforced.

  She sipped at her drink rather desperately, longing to be detached but finding it impossible. Of. course he was, and always had been, something to look at. At six feet two or three, he was easily the tallest man in the room, and by a margin of light-years the most striking. He had olive skin and dark, almost black eyes, but for that curious little ring of iridescence round the iris, slightly tilted at the outer corners as if, somewhere way back in his ancestry, a bit of the Oriental had slipped in. Well, not that exactly, as she had found out that weekend she had spent with his family in County Wicklow, but there was some romantic nonsense about an ancestor having come ashore when the Armada was scattered.

  He had quite the most attractive smile. Stomach-churning. Afraid of that powerful urge deep in her inside, she watched him laugh at something Ines da Silva had said, saw how the dark throat rose from the white collar, noted the appreciative way he was approving her flamboyant looks, and...

  Leigh slid the tip of her tongue over dry lips, tried to pretend that the surging beat of her heart had something to do with the heat in the room. Certainly it had nothing to do with jealousy.

  But it was undeniable that things took on a still more difficult aspect when she found herself sitting in the passenger seat of his car, being driven back to her flat. Coming downstairs with Anna, she had found Kyle in a flap because their official car had been delayed, and the chances of a taxi were non-existent. That was when someone who lived near had offered a lift to him and Anna.

  'Don't worry about me, Kyle,' Leigh had said. 'I'll pick up the first available cab—there's bound to be one along sooner or later.'

  'We're not going to abandon you here on your own, Leigh; I'm sure I can make some arrangement ...' And a moment later she had heard him asking Patrick Cavour if he would be kind enough to see her back to her flat, oblivious, or so it had seemed, to her protesting asides and her simmering resentment.

  ‘Thank you.' When they drew up at the block of flats where she lived he opened the door, patient as she dealt with layers of skirt and petticoats, though she would have seen that his eyes were sardonic if she had chosen to observe them in the pale light of street-lamps. 'I'm perfectly all right now.'

  'Nevertheless, I should prefer to see you safely inside.'

  Her heels tapped angrily, and even the stir and rustle of silk should have been giving him a message as she s
wept towards the lift, her mind frantic with one question. Must she ask...? At her door they paused, he intent as ever as he watched her slide the key into the lock, and she decided that she must. 'If you would like some coffee...?' Instantly she was shamed by the grudging tone, which he was bound to pick up.

  'What?' Mocking disdain. 'Do you mean there's a cafe on the corner?' It was so apt, so disingenuous that she flushed guiltily, tried to make amends.

  'What I was going to say was that it would take only a few minutes, if you-----'

  'Is that what you were going to say?' The gleam of white teeth was a mark of lofty disbelief, but at the same time the spark of anger was unmistakable. 'Only-----' he pushed back his cuff '—time is getting on, and I hope you won't be too disappointed if I refuse. You see, I'm catching a flight for New York in about two hours, and have just enough time to go back to my hotel and change. But-----' his faint bow was blatantly derisive '—I want you to know how much I appreciate your offer.' His arm came out, the hand resting on the wall above her head, and he loomed over her in that predatory way men had so that she knew he was going to kiss her.

  So what? It happened all the time and meant exactly nothing. She had long ago learned to switch off; she and romance were so mutually estranged that it was easy, and just because he was the one who had taught her all she knew on the subject, it didn't mean she would succumb. In fact she almost welcomed the opportunity to let him know how little she felt, how totally outside his power she-----

  'Goodnight, Miss Gregory.' He straightened up suddenly—so suddenly that for a moment she wondered, quite seriously, if he had been reading her mind, so unexpectedly that she felt a moment's resentment that he should take such an unfair advantage.

  'Wh-what?'

  'Goodnight. I must be going, so don't try to detain me...' There he was again, trying to have the last word...