Redeemed By Her Innocence (HQR Presents)

by Bella Frances

  ‘I don’t know what your parents were thinking disappearing off to the south of Spain, leaving you in charge here, after what happened. No wonder the place has run into difficulties.’

  ‘Mum’s rheumatics are what’s taken them to Spain,’ said Jacquelyn, ‘and the last thing they need is worrying that they need to come back here. If you’ll excuse me a moment...’

  She stood up, scooped up the debris from the flowers and tossed it into the bin, then kept walking through into her studio, standing in the vale of light that flooded the space, desperate for a moment of calm.

  But there was no escape, because right in front of her, spread out on her work desk, were the sketches she’d been poring over for the past two days. She swept them up, bundled them into a pile and bashed them off the top of the desk. They were rubbish. She knew they were, but she had lost all feel for designing fairy-tale dresses. She had lost her feel for fairy tales too. She needed practical things—like money—to hire someone who did.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry on that account,’ called Barbara from the kitchen. ‘I never mention a word about Ariana when I call. We keep it strictly social now. So much goes on in Lower Linton for such a tiny little town.’

  And is regurgitated every Sunday on calls to Mum, thought Jacquelyn. Nothing went unnoticed or unreported. Nothing.

  She looked up and saw Barbara position herself at the doorway.

  ‘Barbara, it was lovely of you to drop by, but don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’ve got loads to do tonight.’

  ‘Yes, I am rather busy,’ said Barbara, narrowing her critical eyes as she wandered round the studio, like a detective in some third-rate TV show.

  Jacquelyn wondered what clues she had left out and too late saw the piles of dirty teacups and balled-up handkerchiefs. Clues that might even find their way muttered into the hors-d’oeuvres of wherever Barbara dined tonight.

  ‘Well, I hope you show that Tim Brinley what he’s missing.’

  Jacquelyn did her best to smile and tidied the scattered sketches into a pile. The inky sharp-limbed figure on top seemed to flinch as she was set down and Jacquelyn cursed the stress that was flowing through her, stress that was making it harder and harder to get these sketches right. And she had to get them right. She absolutely had to.

  ‘I bet Nikos Karellis would happily help out. He’s definitely got an eye for the ladies. If all else fails...’ Barbara’s voice trailed off as she raised a pencilled eyebrow and stared directly at Jacquelyn’s figure.

  ‘If “all else fails” what, Barbara? What are you trying to suggest? That I throw myself at a total stranger? Do you really think that’s my style?’

  Behind her, the row of mannequins looked on like a jury of headless Greek goddesses. She’d been baited and caught, exposing herself as easily as if she’d taken out an ad in the front page of the Lower Linton Chronicle.

  ‘Darling, if it was your style you wouldn’t be in this mess,’ said Barbara as she lifted her clutch and re-formed her perfectly engineered face. ‘And if I were you I’d start getting ready now. You’re looking a bit puffy around the eyes. I’ll see myself out.’

  And she did, sailing past in a haze of sickly sweet scent, on through the studio to the hallway, heels clicking on the stone steps and then out into the courtyard where they faded and were finally silenced by the dull thud of the wooden door.

  Jacquelyn stood tight and tense until she finally heard the car roar off, then she let out a huge sigh and felt her eyes burn—again.

  ‘Stop it, stop it. Pull yourself together!’ she hissed through the hot self-pitying tears that had formed.

  You knew this moment would come. Five years in charge and you let it all trickle through your fingers. Well, now it’s happened. And you’ve got one chance left to stop this before it’s too late.

  She’d taken the once thriving family business and run it into the ground and had no one but herself to blame. She’d taken her eye off the ball, worried herself sick about things that turned out not to have been worth worrying about at all. Like a man. Like that stupid, stupid break-up, with that stupid, weak-willed man.

  She sat down again, propped her elbows on the table and bowed her head.

  Before her, the blank-faced sketches said nothing. She spread them out and stared at them. Any fool could see that there was something missing, something wrong. But she just didn’t seem to know how to get them right. She’d whittled it down from twenty to twelve to this final bundle of six.

  When she’d showed them to Victor, the pattern cutter, he’d been gracious and complimentary, but she’d known he’d been faking it. She’d seen the confusion in his eyes. Another dud collection. Again?

  Around the studio, light was sinking into a pale mauve sunset. Through the window she could see traffic on the main road out of town that led to London. Just two miles east sat Maybury Hall, where the Wedding Awards were being held tonight.

  She was running out of time. She had to get going. Everyone else could gush over Nikos Karellis, but it was Dad’s friend Martin Lopez and his millions that she needed to see. She was going to approach him tonight and ask him to finance the business. She’d offer five per cent. Twenty per cent. Whatever it took.

  Outside she heard a car prowl along the lane. Surely Barbara wasn’t back again...?

  She jumped up and ran out through the studio and down the stairs, then burst out into the courtyard. She slid the bolt across the wooden door and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh. But there was no knock, no screeching voice, just the quiet sounds and sights of a summer evening: water bubbling over the giggling cherubs in the fountain and the sun-dappled flower beds, sleepy and still.

  Peace. If only she could stand still and enjoy it—but that was half her problem. Instead of busying herself out in the world, she had shut herself away, hiding in the familiar silks and satins, and beads and crystals that hung in the boutique.

  She looked through the French doors of the shop.

  Fairy tales were made real in there. Women were made into princesses. Dreams came true.

  Once upon a time she’d believed that. She absolutely had. Happy ever after was the only ever after there was.

  How wrong she’d been. Happy ever after didn’t exist.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACQUELYN STRETCHED HER SMILE and lifted a glass of champagne. She wouldn’t drink it but it was the perfect accessory, and gave her something to do with her hands.

  She might be feeling as if she were dying but she knew how to put on a show. Her dress was a fairy tale. How could it possibly be anything else? Her blonde hair was tousled, in a knot held up with beads of fine crystals, silken and soft and sparkling.

  Her gown was cerulean-blue satin. The chiffon bodice crossed over her chest and the skirt billowed out in the signature ‘Jones’ cut that flattered and flowed to the floor. Her long neck and elegant shoulders were shown to perfection with a single pearl droplet on a fine chain. Her make-up was just the perfect blend of colours and tones to hide and highlight, and her lips were glossily, naturally, plump and soft.

  All in all she was a walking miracle, she thought to herself. It was amazing what a few tricks of the trade could do. But if she, with her know-how and connections, couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear tonight, who could?

  She pulled her lips into a superhappy smile as a camera flashed a photo of the table, and all the while she surreptitiously scanned the crowd. She would not crack an inch in front of anyone, in case it got back to Mum and Dad. She was on show, wearing the most flattering cut and colour of dress.

  ‘The best model you have is yourself,’ as Dad always said.

  ‘Don’t you get too big for your boots,’ said Mum.

  Jacquelyn tried to straighten her shoulders, but they didn’t need straightening. She twisted her head a tiny bit to the left, to see if Martin was here yet, but not so
much as to be too obvious. Not that it mattered. They’d all think she was showing off to Tim Brinley or, worse, pitching for Nikos Karellis. As if.

  She had been flippant, blasé, when Dad had phoned her about the awards.

  Of course she’d be fine with Tim being there. Life moved on. And she would have a chat with Nikos Karellis if she got the chance, and, yes, she remembered his friend Martin Lopez. She promised she’d make a point of saying hello to him. She could give him a cast-iron guarantee on that front.

  She felt the smile slip from her face and tension creep across her brow, and checked herself, taking a tiny sip of champagne and putting the glass down as if she were having the most marvellous evening, chatting and gossiping with the people at her table.

  ‘I hear Nikos Karellis has arrived.’

  ‘Made quite a splash already. In the bridal suite but with no bride, of course.’

  ‘Ha-ha. I wonder who’ll be the second Mrs Karellis.’

  ‘I only just found out he was married to Maria Lopez. She was old enough to be his mother!’

  ‘I don’t think he’s looking for a mother now!’

  ‘I’d never heard of her before...’

  ‘Where have you been? I thought everyone knew that story!’

  Jacquelyn knew. She’d known the story for years, since the morning at breakfast her father had put the newspaper down with a, ‘Good grief, you’ll never guess who’s died,’ and then proceeded to tell them the story of his friend Martin Lopez and his beautiful sister, who’d married a man fifteen years younger. Photographs of him carrying her coffin, grief painted onto such a handsome face, had filled the nation’s need for gossip for a day or so.

  ‘Poor man,’ her mother sighed, lifting the paper from her father’s hands.

  ‘Poor man, nothing. Rich man. He’s worth a fortune now,’ said her father.

  ‘He’s just lost his wife,’ her mother chided. ‘Money can’t take away that pain, no matter what you say. He must have really loved her. Just look at him.’

  Jacquelyn sipped her tea. She knew what love was. Every fibre of her being pulsed with it for Tim, her childhood sweetheart. Love was going to school with him, listening to music. He was her best friend, boyfriend and soon-to-be husband.

  Love was them agreeing to save themselves for their wedding night, no matter how tempting, because there was nothing more important than that. Their secret pact, their complicit agreement. Their bond of trust.

  There was no other option. Because that was what good girls did. Although it was never shown in public, Nonna Ariana was sniffy about the girls who wore white when they should be wearing ivory.

  ‘If this is the most important day of their life, then they should act like it. It isn’t just a fancy dress, it’s real. They should know better, bringing shame on their families!’

  So Jacquelyn was steadfast. She was determined. And Tim was too, because it was all going to be worth it. It was all leading to a rosy future. It was the rest of their lives. What did a few more months matter?

  So no, Nikos Karellis had meant nothing to her then.

  And unlike every other woman here, he meant nothing to her now. She wouldn’t waste a moment talking to someone whose interest in women was superficial.

  It was Martin Lopez she needed to find, and fast. She couldn’t bear it if this whole night passed without a chance to give him her pitch.

  ‘It’s him. Here he is.’

  She started, like a deer at the burst of a gun, but it was just the hotshot Australian that had entered.

  ‘Wow, isn’t he amazing?’

  Despite herself, her head swivelled to the front of the stage to see.

  Well, physically—there was no doubt about that. Was it the height of him, the breadth of his shoulders, or the gleaming white shirt and midnight-blue tux? Was it the short-cropped dark hair and dark stubble, the trademark tattoo that snaked from below his left ear and disappeared under the shirt collar?

  Whatever, he was devilishly dark and handsome, and like every other woman in the room she found herself unable to stop staring. One by one, people crossed over to say hello, gushing and scraping before him—people that Jacquelyn knew to be supremely confident in business, acting star-struck and silly.

  ‘Are you coming over to meet him?’ said the woman next to her.

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t want to be caught in the crush of groupies,’ she said, a little unkindly.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said her companion, and stood up.

  Jacquelyn turned to watch her shimmy her way across the floor, still trying desperately to catch a glimpse of Martin, but the crowd around Nikos Karellis was thick now and totally obscured the table.

  And then she saw him seated beside Nikos. He was older than she remembered. Streaks of silver in his dark hair, but still a handsome man, and, she hoped, still a gentleman.

  Her stomach turned a somersault and her hands dampened. She tried to wipe them on the tablecloth discreetly as she stood up.

  Please, please, please remember me, she thought, and began to make her way across the floor towards him.

  * * *

  Nikos’s patience had almost completely run dry. His smile was still fixed in place but he’d chatted and shaken hands with people all evening, in the bar and now here at the table. He hated the side effects of fame. The people who wanted to say hello were nice enough but they had no idea who he was—or where he’d come from. They were only seeing some airbrushed version of reality, as fake as the whole wedding industry itself.

  He glanced down at Martin with a raised brow.

  ‘How much more of this?’ he said, leaning over.

  Martin shrugged and smiled.

  ‘The awards start in five minutes. After that we’ll disappear off to my suite and talk properly.’

  Nikos nodded and straightened up, trying to remember the name of the woman to his right who’d just introduced herself, but when he turned around, it wasn’t a plump old lady who was right in front of him, it was a beautiful young woman.

  She was tall, toned and blonde, and with a practised sweep he took her all in—from the stunning cerulean-blue floor-length gown that held her feminine curves to perfection, and all the way up past the graceful curve of her shoulders, to the top of her elegant topknot.

  She wasn’t overtly sexual, but something about the shape of her hips and the neat swell of her breasts made his body react violently. And he noted with some pleasure that he hadn’t felt such a reaction for a long time.

  Suddenly the night was looking up, and even as he reached out his hand to shake hers, he made a mental calculation of how long he would be occupied with Martin before he could properly get to know her.

  But she didn’t take his hand.

  She didn’t even look in his direction. Instead she sailed right past him and stopped, as Martin looked up and got to his feet.

  ‘Jacquelyn. It is you! I saw you coming across the floor and I wondered if it was. I thought I might see you tonight.’

  Jacquelyn? Nikos quickly noted her name and watched, wondering how this exchange was going to play out. By the warmth in the way Martin was leaning towards her, lingering as he kissed each proffered cheek, he was clearly fond of her. But he had to be at least twice her age...

  And the way she was holding herself was interesting: she was transmitting anxiety, with her spine so rigid, shoulders tense; and that smile, beaming a bit too bright.

  ‘And this is my brother-in-law, Nikos Karellis. Nikos, Jacquelyn Jones—owner of Ariana Bridal. Her father Joseph and I were at school together.’

  So, Martin really was old enough to be her father. That was helpful.

  She turned her flawless face and keen blue eyes to Nikos. The smile she’d given Martin slipped slightly, he noted, and her spine tightened a notch more too. She blinked and with a long stretch of her arm she permit
ted her hand to be shaken.

  Which he did and he read in that tense-fingered, quickly retracted handshake that he’d just been judged and dismissed. She didn’t like him.

  Well, it did happen. Not often, but he wasn’t every woman’s cup of tea. Particularly the ones who thought they were a bit above him. Even with all his money, he never forgot where he’d come from. And nor, it seemed, did they.

  He knew the type. They saw his tattoos, his warpaint as his mother called it. The sensual ones saw brutality and found it fascinating. The repressed ones didn’t get him. They saw brutality and found it disgusting.

  The truth, of course, was that he had left brutal back in Sydney at the side of the road. Bikers were brutal; his dad was brutal. His entire childhood had been brutalised beyond what any of these lovely people could understand. They had no idea that his mother suffered brain injury as a result of a beating from his father. Or that he had run drugs for him as an after-school chore.

  The fact was that he’d made it his life’s work to be free of every trace of violence and aggression. He’d severed ties with everyone except his mother, and poured millions into projects for delinquent kids.

  So to be judged as ‘less than’ pressed his buttons, just a little.

  He stood tall, squared his shoulders, one hand on his hip, in a gesture that called out her condescension.

  ‘Former brother-in-law. My wife passed away five years ago.’

  She dropped her gaze completely, and when she swept her perfectly oval lids open again there was a tiny flash of recognition.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I never met her but my father spoke about Maria. And you.’

  Did he now? thought Nikos, his mind conjuring up an image of her baby blues widening over some story or other. Maria’s high jinks were always being reported on some media space. And the look on her face told him that she was remembering something of that sort right now.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate your kind words. And I’m very pleased to meet you. Are you up for an award tonight?’