‘Do you mean “work” as in am I still employed by your company?’ she asked.
He nodded.
So she did. ‘I’m due back in the office three weeks on Monday.’
‘Then stop arguing with your boss,’ he commanded.
‘I’m on holiday,’ she reminded him.
The way he reached across the table to grab hold of her hand was so unexpected that she jumped in surprise. ‘You’re on honeymoon,’ he corrected, with softly taunting emphasis. He watched her go pale at the reminder and knew she was thinking of Piers, not of him. He dropped her hand again. ‘And don’t flinch every time I touch you,’ he added, in yet another harsh reprimand.
‘I’m—sorry,’ she murmured, every hint of new-found spirit draining right out of her.
Rafe let out a heavy sigh of irritation. It was odd, really, but she had a feeling it was aimed at himself rather than her.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said grimly.
It should have been a relief to get back to their suite, but it wasn’t. She was in desperate need of some space on her own, without the threat of Rafe Danvers invading it, but he wasn’t having that.
He made her hang up all her new things. He made her sit down with him in the sitting room and share a pot of coffee. He made her watch CNN news with him on the TV. And every time her eyes started to close he made them open with some remark that required concentration and an answer.
Did the man never need to relax himself? she wondered crossly when, at last, she was allowed to escape to the relative privacy of the bathroom while she showered and got changed for dinner.
Dinner! Out to dinner! With other people—strange people!
As if she hadn’t been through enough today to make her want to sit down and weep at the stress of it all, they were going out to dinner with a large group of his business colleagues!
‘Oh—damn you to hell, Rafe Danvers,’ she muttered as she fought with hair that did not want to go up in the neat bun she was trying to pin it into. It took a good half-dozen pins to eventually secure it—a half-dozen too many pins, judging by the way her scalp was protesting.
Half-dead on her feet with jet lag, face flushed with impatience at her hair, and literally dancing inside with the state Rafe had put her nerves in, she stood and stared at herself in the full-length mirror.
The dress she was wearing was a strapless short black silk and tulle cocktail dress, which tightly moulded her slender figure from gently thrusting breasts to the very apex of her thighs, where it flared out in a mid-thigh-length skirt of rustling black tulle and left too much of her long black-stockinged legs on show for her liking.
But Rafe himself had chosen it—of course—only this afternoon. He’d forced her to try it on for him, then further discomfited her by allowing his eyes to linger on her much longer than they should have done before he’d said, ‘Wear that for me tonight,’ in a roughened tone that had set the muscles in her stomach tingling—because the tone had matched the expression in his eyes, and she hadn’t liked that either.
The knock sounding at the outer-suite door made her jump in alarm—another indication of how strung out she was, she realised tensely as she listened to Rafe’s long stride as he went to answer it.
Then she stood, staring blankly at her own face without seeing the vulnerable tilt to her soft ruby-painted mouth, or the way her beautiful black eyes revealed how utterly defenceless she felt. She only saw how exhaustion was hollowing out her cheeks, and how she’d had to do a careful bit of covering up to hide the dark circles around her eyes.
Did the straight line of this bodice sit too low on the creamy slopes of her breasts? she wondered anxiously. And the skirt was definitely too short, she decided, biting pensively down on her full bottom lip as she gave an experimental swing of her hips and watched in the mirror the way the fluffy skirt billowed out to show even more leg.
‘Very nice,’ a deep voice murmured huskily from behind her, and she almost cried out in alarm because she hadn’t heard him come into the room. Now her wary gaze flickered upwards to clash with his in the mirror.
‘I—’ That was all she managed; she was suddenly struck breathless and dumb by the height of him, the width of him, the powerful attraction in that dark, tough, aggressively handsome face looking back at her over the top of her own dark head.
Having to fight with herself to do it, she dragged her eyes back to her own reflection and glared at the dress. ‘It’s too short,’ she complained. ‘And too tight.’
‘Rubbish,’ he dismissed. ‘It’s perfect.’ Then in a dusky voice that set her nerve-ends tingling, ‘You’re perfect. Or you will be when we’ve added this…’
He stepped to one side, moving out of the mirror’s range and directly into her full, unprotected view as he came to stand in front of her.
And her heart gave a quivering flutter.
He was wearing black, like herself—a conventional black dinner suit and a slender black bow-tie tied neatly around the collar of a snowy white dress shirt that did nothing to hide the expanse of solid flesh bulging beneath it. He smelled different too—of something warm and spicy, sensual, very alluring—and she found herself suddenly overwhelmed by the sense of his dark presence—by the sheer maleness of the man.
By the power of his sexuality.
Oh, God.
‘Here,’ he said, bringing her eyes into focus on the small high-domed box he was holding in his hand. And she went perfectly still, her blood running cold as she recognised the box for exactly what it was.
No, she begged silently. Please, no.
But even as she made the aching plea Rafe sent the lid flicking upwards, and her heart quivered, then fell like a stone to her stomach as she stared at the contents.
An engagement ring—it just could not be anything else—sitting in the centre of a black velvet cushion. Even her novice eyes recognised the quality of the big oval ruby nestling in its circle of bright, sparkling diamonds.
‘Your hand, please, Shaan,’ Rafe requested quietly, with no idea of the horror she was feeling inside as he lifted the ring from its velvet bed.
As things stood between them now, they merely had a bargain, drawn up on practical grounds with a simple gold band to seal the civil contract they had both signed. But this—this beautiful ring of dancing fire suggested so much more!
Too much more.
It suggested love, romance, a hot, sparkling passion. It made a glowing, unmistakable statement of ownership—possession in the most intimate sense of the word.
But it was a lie—such a dreadful lie! Like the beautiful diamond ring Piers had given her!
‘Shaan?’ Rafe prompted when she made no effort to lift her hand.
She shuddered, feeling sick, compelled to look at him simply because she had become conditioned over the days to responding to that tone in his voice. But her eyes were dark pools of anguish when she lifted them to his, her soft mouth trembling in wretched appeal.
‘Please, Rafe,’ she whispered, ‘don’t make me wear it.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded in frowning surprise. ‘You’re my wife. It is expected that you wear my ring.’
‘Yes,’ she conceded. ‘But…’ She sucked in a tight breath of air, trembling so badly now that even her breasts quivered. ‘But it means nothing, does it?’ she burst out painfully, her eyes willing him—begging him—to understand what she was trying to say here. ‘I just can’t wear something as s-special as that when it means nothing!’
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes holding that pained appeal in her eyes until she thought she might pass out as the cruel clutch of emotion she was experiencing made her ribcage ache at the tight band of tension wrapping around it.
Then, quite ruthlessly, he said, ‘You wore my brother’s ring and that meant nothing.’
Shaan closed her eyes, almost swaying as that particularly cruel thrust hit home. ‘But I didn’t know it was worthless when I accepted it,’ she whispered thickly.
‘Which is not the case with this one,’ he brutally pointed out. ‘So give me your hand.’
A heavy sigh shivered from her. He was so immovable, so damned intractable! About as sensitive to her feelings as a wall of solid rock!
‘Shaan.’
Damn.
Her hand lifted. His fingers were warm and smooth against her own, steady where hers trembled, as he slid the lovely ring home. Mutely, she stared down at it. The dark stone flashed in what felt like mockery where it settled against her plain gold wedding band. The air around them began to throb with something that brought tears springing into her eyes, though she was bewildered as to what that something was.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and stepped around her, leaving her standing there, frowning, wondering if she had misheard that new, roughened note in his voice.
* * *
It was a nightmare. The whole wretched evening was just another waking nightmare. A long, exhausting round of warm congratulations and smiling thanks and, worse, the curious looks which made it clear that everyone present here tonight knew that Rafe had married his brother’s bride.
And, on top of all of that, from the moment they all met up in the elegant foyer of one of Hong Kong’s top restaurants, Shaan knew she was way, way out of her depth with these people.
There were four couples, including themselves. Not Chinese, but British. British expats who had made their homes in Hong Kong. And all of them were of Rafe’s ilk, which placed a whole generation between herself and the quick-witted, sophisticated conversation that flashed from one to the other, leaving her feeling like a bemused spectator standing on the very perimeter of it all.
The men were slick, smooth operators, with an air of power and success about them that was clearly stamped into their female counterparts too. They were beautiful women, expensive women, with unimpeachable class and style, sleek smiles, and a sharp eye for what was going on around them.
It was no wonder Rafe had wanted her to look good. Next to these women she must appear very young and very gauche—not that they went out of their way to make her feel like that, she had to acknowledge. If anything, they tried their best to make her feel one of them, their smiles warm and genuine—like the questions they put to her in an effort to draw her into their sophisticated circle.
But she felt too awkward, too self-conscious and shy to respond with any ease. And it didn’t help that she found no consolation in Rafe’s solid presence, because he was as much a stranger to ber as the rest of them were.
Yet the way he kept her clamped to his side, with an arm at a supportive angle across her back and his fingers resting in the trim curve of her waist, as they stood in a group sipping pre-dinner drinks, made a statement to the contrary.
As did the warm smiles he kept sending her—and what he did when their first drink arrived and everyone lifted their glasses to them in a congratulatory toast He brought her to stand right in front of him, held her shy gaze with a dark intimacy that set her senses flurrying, touched his glass to hers, watched while she sipped selfconsciously at her simple dry vermouth—then bent his head and kissed her.
The feel of his mouth, warm and smooth against her vermouth-moistened lips, made her quiver in surprise. It was just an act; she knew that as she struggled not to show how unfamiliar those lips were to her. Rafe was simply acting out his role as loving bridegroom while she—she was left feeling troubled and confused by the brief burst of pleasure she experienced.
Jet lag; she blamed the unexpected response on it as she stood, eyes lowered, so no one could read what was going on inside her. It was simply jet lag that was making her legs feel unsteady and her insides curl up with some unfamiliar tension.
But, no, she had experienced this odd feeling before, she recalled. On the day when she’d been presented to him as his brother’s future wife. It had felt then as though she’d received a high-voltage electric shock, a feeling overlaid with a sudden burst of dread that had held her white-faced and still and sent her shifting closer to the protection of Piers’ comforting presence.
Yet Piers had not been the protector she’d believed him to be, she reminded herself dully. And the flash of angry contempt she had seen in Rafe’s eyes then had not been aimed at her personally, but at the disastrous situation he must have seen looming up on the horizon because of what his brother was doing.
And Piers. Piers had been so triumphant, so—smug in the way he had introduced her to Rafe. And it was only now, as she allowed herself to replay that scene knowing what she now knew, that she realised he had not been like that because he was proud to present her, but because of some secret little battle he’d been having with his brother which had revolved around Madeleine and what Rafe knew about Piers and the other woman.
‘Shaan.’
She glanced up, pain and contempt for Piers showing in her dark, dark eyes. Rafe saw it, and his fingers flexed against her waist, his eyes flashing silver murder at her just before the fingers dug in painfully to pull her angrily against him and his mouth swooped in another brief but punishing kiss that totally silenced their small group of onlookers.
‘Forget him,’ he muttered as he slid his mouth to the sensitive hollow of her ear. ‘Piers is no longer yours to dream about!’
Blushing fiercely, and totally disconcerted by his sudden attack, she gasped. ‘But I wasn’t—’
‘I think we should feed these two quickly and let them go,’ one of their guests murmured teasingly.
Rafe managed a laugh, his moment’s anger smoothly hidden by a cloak of rueful humour Shaan wished she possessed too. ‘It is, after all, technically still our wedding day,’ he drawled. ‘Though goodness knows,’ he added on a sigh, ‘it has to be the longest one on record!’
Still? Shaan repeated to herself as everyone’s amused laughter wafted around her. It couldn’t really be this morning that they’d married in that little civil ceremony which was such a hazy memory to her that she could barely recall it?
It was a relief that the waiter came to show them to their table then; she was beginning to feel so stressed out that she needed to sit down or she had a feeling her legs would give up on her.
But the meal was interminable, course after course of exquisitely presented Chinese dishes appearing in front of her for her to pick at, while the conversation seemed to eddy to and fro with her barely registering most of it.
She felt lost and marooned, so totally out of her depth that it took all she had in her to smile, to concentrate on the questions put directly to her and answer them with at least some hint of intelligence.
No one was cruel or uncaring, yet she felt battered and bruised by the easy camaraderie she just could not join in with. If Rafe noticed—and she was sure he must have—he said nothing. But each time she happened to glance at him his eyes were on her, utterly inscrutable but on her, and she felt even more uncomfortable because she knew he must be seeing how totally inadequate she was for this.
‘Come and dance.’
The light clasp of his hand on her arm as he propelled her to her feet was a sheer relief. Dance, he’d said, and she was ready to do anything just to get away from the ordeal she was wallowing in.
The music was slow and easy, the dance floor a small circle of polished wood set in the centre of the cluster of dining tables.
Rafe drew her into his arms, pulling her close so her chin brushed against the lapel of his jacket, and urged her into a slow, swaying movement, one hand resting lightly on her waist, the other lightly clasping one of hers close to his heart. She could feel his breath disturbing the fine hairs at her temple, warm and faintly scented with the dark red wine they had been drinking. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, low down where the muscle curved towards a bulging breastplate.
‘Now you can relax,’ he suggested, making her heavily aware that the tension she was suffering must have been very noticeable.
‘I’m sorry,’ she felt constrained to say. ‘I know I’m not making a very good impression for you wit
h your friends.’
‘You’re not here to impress my friends,’ he responded. ‘You’re here because it’s where I want you to be. And, anyway,’ he added softly, ‘they are utterly enchanted with you, so stop fishing for compliments.’
‘I was not!’ she denied, flashing a protesting glance up at him, only to sigh ruefully when she saw his teasing expression. But she still felt compelled to add, ‘I still think that they think you’ve gone a little mad, marrying someone so obviously out of their league as I am.’
‘And you think I care what they think?’ he countered.
No, she accepted, on another small sigh. This man did not care a jot what anyone thought of him—or he wouldn’t have married his brother’s jilted fiancée in the first place, would he?
‘You all seem to know each other very well,’ she remarked.
‘That’s because I used to live here,’ he murmured, smiling briefly at her look of surprise. ‘I returned to London to run the company after my father died. But I’ve been commuting here on a fairly regular basis ever since. And we all tend to meet up at least once for dinner like this while I’m here.’
She frowned. ‘But I thought you said this was a business dinner.’ Not that she’d heard much business mentioned during dinner, she realised.
‘It is in a way,’ he confirmed. ‘They are all business colleagues as well as friends. That’s how it works, I’m afraid,’ he added rather ruefully. ‘Business and friendship tend to melt into one at our level. Which is why I couldn’t afford to offend them when they offered us this—a wedding celebration dinner tonight.’
Was that what it was? Shaan suddenly felt even more guilty for not managing to rise to the occasion.
‘I’m sorry if it’s all been a bit too much for you.’
‘It hasn’t,’ she quickly denied, knowing it was a lie even as she said it. ‘They all seem very nice people. It’s just that I’m so—tired,’ she finished lamely.
‘Well, a few more minutes of this,’ he murmured as he drew her even closer to the solid warmth of his body, ‘and I think we can leave without offending anyone.’
Marriage on the Rebound Page 8
