Second-Best Bride

Claire barely stifled a groan of dismay at the giveaway remark and the extraordinary change in his character. He’d never been curt or angry before. Never rude. But then she’d never known the real man, had she?

‘Face up to it, darling; she’s either highly reluctant, or she’s feeling ill. You can see she’s in no fit state,’ said Phoenix gently. ‘She wasn’t exactly galloping up the aisle.’

‘She was very pale——’ conceded Trader grimly.

‘You noticed? Even under all the layers of make-up? I’m afraid it’s possible she’s discovered your plans,’ said Phoenix, forgetting to whisper.

Of course, thought Claire. Phoenix would know everything. They’d been friends for so long. And last night Phoenix’s conscience had prompted her to hint that Trader was being deceitful, even though her loyalty meant she couldn’t openly betray him. Poor Phoenix—what a dilemma!

‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake!’ Trader growled irritably. ‘Leave this to me! I can bring her round better on my own. You can make amends by going to Brodie—Claire’s mother—and apologising on my behalf for ordering her out of here so rudely…say I was upset. Tell her Claire is fine. Make Brodie relax, or I’ll have your hide!’

‘Bully,’ said Phoenix amiably.

‘Fee, get the vicar to announce that Claire is recovering, ask everyone’s indulgence for ten minutes and get the organist to play something cheerful,’ Trader snapped, rapping out the orders like a man born to authority. Her father had ordered her mother around in a similar way, Claire remembered, appalled. ‘Now get out!’ Trader finished forcefully.

‘I don’t like what you’re doing——’ protested Phoenix.

Trader made a warning sound in his throat that apparently made Phoenix scurry out in fear, because there was the click of high heels tapping on a flagstone floor and then a heavy wooden door slamming.

The full horror of her situation finally hit Claire. She’d fallen hopelessly in love with Trader, but to him she was nothing more than a potential goldmine, to be exploited and plundered at will. And if his behaviour with Phoenix was anything to go by, he’d push her around, given half a chance, and treat her with contempt. She knew what that did to a woman. Knew what damage a dominating brute of a man could do. And she wasn’t suffering that kind of treatment.

‘Claire?’

The pulses in her wrist began to beat a fast tattoo. Trader was bending over her, she sensed that from the movement of air in front of her and the delicious shiver down her spine. She felt her veil being lifted back and his soft breath on her painfully composed face. Her own breathing deepened, lifting her breasts high, despite her efforts to remain unaffected.

‘Damn!’ He reached around her, bringing her forward, and to her astonishment his fingers closed around her zip tag!

She gasped, hearing—feeling—the movement of the zip and the lessening of the pressure of her tight bodice. Cool air met her upthrust breasts as they spilled luxuriantly from the dainty strapless basque, her lashes fluttered open in alarm and she found herself staring directly into a pair of glittering black eyes, as dark and as dangerous as a slick of tar.

‘Claire!’ he whispered softly, sensually.

Petrified, she lifted her arms to cross defensively over the luxurious material of her bodice and her hands came to rest on the sumptuously perfumed swell of her creamy breasts. Trader’s nostrils flared, his eyes lingering avidly on the rapid rise and fall of her delicately boned hands as they tried to slow her breathing by pressure alone.

‘No! Don’t touch me!’ she gasped, shrinking back into the chair and he jerked back as if from a blow, straightening up with a muttered curse.

‘Hell! What—?’

‘How dare you do that? How dare you take the first opportunity you had to…? Oh! You’re a brute! A despicable, disgusting brute!’ she whispered incoherently.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, his face pinched with anger. ‘You think…! Dammit, Claire—your dress was tight! I thought you needed air in your lungs, darling——’

‘Don’t darling me!’ she cried in fury.

‘Hey!’ He frowned and gave her a little shake. ‘Still groggy? This is me, Trader! How far did you think I was going to go? he demanded, sounding bitterly offended.

‘That’s what I want to know!’ she muttered defiantly, her eyes fixed miserably on his.

The muscles in Trader’s jaw tightened, the insult eating into every visible inch of him. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ he said tightly.

‘Confidence?’ she scathed. ‘I’m to have confidence in you?’

‘Ye gods! Where’s the shrewish tongue come from?’

She didn’t know. Claire flushed at the rebuke and frantically tried to lift her bodice back to cover the half-naked globes of her breasts. For a moment she thought she saw hunger flicker around his strained mouth, but it set back into hurt lines again and she knew he was going to deny any idea of assault.

‘Where are we?’ she asked frostily, hunting around for clues.

‘The church vestry.’ His wary eyes watched her as if she were a bomb that might go off at any minute. ‘You’ve got a few minutes’ grace to recover.’

‘If I do,’ she said wildly.

‘Of course you will,’ he soothed, a worrying edge to his voice.

She squirmed under the compelling glance, saw his gaze drop as if hypnotised by her quivering breasts and she froze. Beneath her fingers, she could feel the treacherous excitement firming each peak and knew that she was quivering from the frisson that always came when he was near.

There was a horrid silence between them as if they were adversaries in some ghastly Cold War. Desperately she tried to interpret his expression, to find something—anything—that told her he felt concern or a residue of love for her. But the dark, smoothly tanned face had become quite inscrutable. Her eyes glimmered with contempt. He didn’t want to lose her—or rather the money that came with her. He’d want to coax her back to the altar, wouldn’t he?

‘I’m sorry. You must have had an awful shock,’ he said with disarming gentleness. Almost disarming.

‘Terrible,’ she replied bluntly. ‘I would like some water, please.’

‘Of course. Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking,’ he said in stilted, courteous tones. He went to fill a glass from the small wash basin and she took the opportunity to struggle with the zip but her fingers made no headway. ‘Let me,’ he said politely, putting the glass on the table beside her.

‘No! Don’t touch me!’ she snapped hastily.

‘For God’s sake, Claire! What the hell’s got into you? I told you I was applying common sense and first aid! Do you think I’m an animal?’ he growled.

‘I don’t know!’ she wailed. Other than her father, what did she know of men? How they behaved?

‘God!’ he exploded angrily, balling his fists.

‘Don’t hit me!’ she warned unsteadily.

His eyes flickered with a lightning flash of rage. He sucked in his breath and slowly released it before allowing himself to launch into a chilling reply. ‘I’m not like your father,’ he said coldly. ‘I don’t hit women. The rough treatment your mother had to suffer——’

‘Don’t you dare to speak of my father like that!’ she flared defensively, shamed by his perception. ‘You know nothing about his marriage!’

Trader seemed to be making an effort to control himself. It was like damming a river in full spate, she thought nervously. ‘If you say so,’ he said tightly. ‘I regret the remark and I made it in temper. But I don’t hit women, Claire. Whatever the provocation. Now listen. This is a church vestry. There are one hundred and fifty-two people, a vicar and a dozen choirboys a few yards away. Even if you think I’m the sort to jump on you at any given opportunity,’ he continued sarcastically, ‘you surely can’t imagine that I’d choose this particular moment, when I’ve had ample opportunity before, on beaches, in cars and in secluded woods?’

Her face flamed at his listing of the times when she’d been achingly willing. ‘No. Of course not. I believe you. I felt…vulnerable. Muddled.’ She put a shaking hand to her head and looked at him in appeal. ‘I feel terrible that—I—I reacted without thinking,’ she said miserably, wishing her zip would come unstuck. ‘I’m sorry.’

He grunted and watched her ineffectual wriggling with ill-concealed impatience. ‘Why don’t you give in?’ he sighed. ‘You’ll never do that up on your own.’

‘I—all right. Thank you,’ she mumbled, wanting to cry.

‘My poor darling,’ he said huskily. ‘You must be feeling awful. I hate to see you upset.’

And she wanted to believe that. But the lies seemed to come too easily to his lips, the adoration flowed too freely from his drowsy eyes. She had been vain to imagine she could have captured his heart when he was so handsome, so unnervingly sophisticated and worldly.