The Bride Wore Scarlet

And then she saw him. The back view of his tall, elegantly made figure slipping out through the French windows that someone must have opened for overdue ventilation.

She put her empty glass down on the small table she seemed to have spent the whole evening with and began to weave her way through the crowded room, accidentally bumping into a pin-thin woman wearing black silk crepe, pearls and a frosty expression.

Annie, smiling seraphically, apologised profusely and wove on her way, only one thing on her mind; to find Rupert and say sorry for the vile names she’d called him last night. He surely didn’t mean to try to change her, turn her into someone alien—hadn’t he said he loved her just as she was?

Perhaps if she could persuade him that his constant fault-finding was ruining their relationship they could get comfortably back on track again. Annie liked the feeling of being loved and wanted; she’d had precious little of it during her growing-up years.

It was past time, she thought as she slid through the French windows, that they tried to recapture what they seemed to have lost in their relationship just lately.

There was a paved terrace. He was standing at the far end; she could just make out his darker outline against the dark December night. It was cold, starless—too cold to stand around suddenly, unexpectedly assailed by second thoughts.

She drew in a deep breath and, scarlet skirts flying, ran across the terrace and flung herself into his arms.

Daniel Faber slipped through the open French windows, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his narrow-fitting trousers and walked to the far end of the terrace.

He needed out of that room. Elegant as it undoubtedly was, it was also stuffy and overcrowded. The sharp December night air was just what he needed.

He drew a litre or two into his grateful lungs and flexed his wide shoulders beneath the smooth silk and alpaca of his superbly tailored dinner jacket. He felt himself begin to relax.

Besides, with him out of the way the others might start to have fun. It couldn’t be easy to relax when their chief executive was around. Especially when opinions and betting odds couldn’t be openly bandied around in his presence. Everyone was eager to know who would be promoted to the vacant position of Head of Futures when Edward Ker finally retired early in the New Year.

The only two viable contenders were Rupert Glover and Andrew Makepeace. Glover, he felt, had the surer instinct, and an impeccable track record within the bank. Makepeace, though, was steadier, committed to his work and, just as importantly, committed to that pleasant, round-faced wife of his and their two small children. Committed family men made sound employees.

Glover was a horse of a different colour. Until fairly recently he’d been known as a womaniser—an endless procession of empty-headed bimbos going through his bedroom, apparently.

But a few months ago he’d announced his engagement, surprising everyone. Daniel’s PA had passed the information on—Daniel insisted on keeping abreast of internal gossip, keeping his finger on the collective pulse of his staff.

He’d taken his PA’s comments on board—the addendum that the token of an engagement ring was probably the only way the bank’s Lothario could get the woman in question between the sheets and that the engagement would be lucky to last the week out

But it had lasted three months. It looked as if Glover had finally decided he’d sown enough wild oats. And, seeing the fiancée in question tonight, Daniel could understand why.

Glover hadn’t introduced her, but Daniel had asked around and discovered that the startlingly gorgeous figure in red—standing out like a vibrant oriental poppy amidst the svelte and understated sober colours of the other women—was the fabled fiancée. He could understand why the younger man had kept her under wraps.

That glorious hair—a pity she’d tried, unsuccessfully as it happened, to squash it flat against her shapely head—those pouting scarlet lips and come-to-bed pansy-purple eyes, the voluptuous figure flaunted by that outrageously sexy dress. A combination tailor-made to make any red-blooded male think of steamy nights of passion and a nursery full of babies.

He grinned ruefully at his own lusting thoughts, strong, even teeth gleaming in the darkness. With such a woman for a wife Glover would keep to the straight and narrow, his nose rammed tight against the grindstone. So the odds on his promotion were growing shorter.

And maybe it was time Daniel followed his own rules, settled down to raise a family. He was thirty-six already—time, perhaps. It would certainly make his parents happy. Trouble was, he’d yet to meet the woman he could bear to spend the rest of his life with.

The cold air was seeping through his clothing, cooling his skin. He’d give Ker’s thrash another twenty minutes then take his leave. And if he could get to the fabled fiancée without being waylaid by sycophants, he’d introduce himself, discover if her voice was as sultry and exciting as her appearance.

He turned to head back in, then his feet froze to the paving slabs. Talk of the devil!

Briefly illuminated in the light from the French windows the Fabled Fiancée paused, the freshening wind catching the gossamer-fine short skirt of her dress, whisking it upwards in a swirl of scarlet, displaying more of those endless, shapely legs, a tantalisingly brief glimpse of scarlet panties.

Desire kicked fiercely deep in his abdomen. He controlled it. High time he settled down, he mocked himself, if he got horny at the sight of a pair of nicely rounded thighs separated by an intriguing scarlet triangle.

Red for danger.

Just how dangerous he was to discover, as flying feet on impossibly high heels propelled that curvy body right up to him and into his arms.

His nemesis exploded from the dark night in a rusde of silk, a cloud of some heady, musky perfume, a halo of wild tumbling golden hair and a sweetly soft body pressed close to his—a delightful, insistent closeness that rocked him back on his heels, making his arms go out to fold tightly about her, making his head spin, his senses reel.

He could feel the pulsing beat of her heart beneath the seductive, pouting breasts that were so voluptuously pressed against the unyielding rock-hardness of his chest, could feel the warmth of her belly as she wriggled against his pelvis, feel himself harden with startling immediacy, feel his control do a runner as her arms curled up around his neck, pulling his head down to hers.

He didn’t need any urging. As his mouth homed in unerringly on the moist pout of her lips instinct slammed the door of his mind on the harsh reminder that this was Glover’s woman.

The kiss—the fevered stroke and counter-stroke, the delving, subtle exploration, the moist, receptive sweetness of her, the small slender hands curving now to shape his skull, his own hands moving instinctively to take what he craved; the glorious weight and urgent softness of the breasts that literally peaked into the seeking palms of his hands—made his mind explode in wild psychedelic patterns of light.

This was elemental, untamed woman. And he wanted her—wanted her here, now, again and again.

The sinuous movement of her body against his made him shake with the fiery desperation of his need. Then the small cry she gave, almost of shock, handed him back enough control to still the caressing movements of his hands, to control the urgency of his need to uncover those desire-swollen globes and suckle her.

The small hands were pushing determinedly at his chest, and a slow gleam of brightness as the moon broke through the cloud cover showed him wide dark eyes drenched with shocked understanding.

For a moment her body quivered in his arms, and then she turned and sped away as quickly as she’d come to him, leaving him to spend the next ten minutes getting himself back in control, castigating himself bitterly for being such a goddammed fool.

Thirty-six years old and he’d reacted to her initial embrace like a sixteen-year-old adolescent overdosed on testosterone. Wryly, he guessed his body was trying to tell him something—like it was high time he entered a long-term relationship, preferably marriage?

And far from envying young Glover his choice of a future wife, he pitied him now. What the hell had she thought she was doing? Offering him partial use of her admittedly gorgeous body in the hope that having had a taster he’d promote her fiancé to head of department in the confident expectation of getting payment in full on delivery?

The unmistakable look of shock in those lovely eyes must have been brought on by the knowledge that they were both reaching the point of no return. That she’d been good and ready for him he had no doubt. His experience wasn’t vast, but deep enough to know the signs. Had Rupert Glover’s future wife been afraid she might deliver the goods before he’d been teased enough, been driven wild enough by contemplating the pay-off to promote her future husband over his rival?

He felt sorry for the poor devil!

CHAPTER ONE

UNTIL they left the motorway at Swindon, heading roughly north-west for Herefordshire, Annie had been feeling fine, enjoying the trip, the early warmth of the summer sun.

Mark Redway, her boss, drove the open-top MG Sports superlatively well, and he’d picked her up from her flat almost at the crack of dawn to beat the inevitable build-up of traffic at the start of the Bank Holiday weekend.

She loved the feel of the breeze in her hair, tossing it into a crinkly mane, loved the warm touch of the late-August sun on her arms and face.

But.

‘I’m beginning to get cold feet.’

‘You? Never!’ Mark smiled his very white smile, gave her a glancing look from dancing hazel eyes. ‘Anyway, you agreed. And they’re all expecting you and looking forward to meeting you.’

“That’s not true, for a start,’ she objected, wondering what madness had induced her to go along with his hare-brained plan. ‘The looking forward to meeting me bit. Your poor parents will be dreading having to put up with me for the best part of three days and will hate me on sight—see me as a threat to their plans to get you to walk up to the altar with poor Enid. And she, poor girl, will feel absolutely gutted.’

‘And don’t forget my big brother in your list of all the “poor” people who will get mental indigestion at the sight of your gorgeous self!’ He was openly laughing at her now. ‘It is the object of the exercise, don’t forget.’

As if she could! Trouble was, Mark was too persuasive for her own good! ‘Pack plenty of stunning clothes,’ he’d said. So she had. She adored lovely clothes, and could wear what she wanted to now, because Rupert was no longer around to wither her with his disapproval.

For the journey she’d chosen a nifty pair of peacock-blue silk very short shorts, with a matching sleeveless shirt arrowing down to her deep cleavage and tied in a knot just beneath her breasts. And she loved her new high-wedge sandals and big owly sunglasses...

She sighed, sounding stricken, and Mark pulled onto the forecourt of an old, ivy-covered roadside inn and stated, ‘Breakfast. It will help calm you down. And then, if you’ve still got cold feet, I’ll drive you straight back to London.’