The Spaniard's Blackmailed Bride. Trish MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
to believe in the whole sorry fairy tale.
‘Fairy tale romance’, my eye, Briar thought, reflecting on the latest headline as she snapped the blusher compact closed. But even the business pages hadn’t been immune to the press bombardment.
‘Marriage Merger’ had been their angle—‘a blending of new money with old, the brash success of the young entrepreneur merged with the proven track record of the establishment’.
How the papers would lap it up if she came clean with her own version of the headline—‘Blackmail Bride—sold to save her family from financial ruin’. But that story would never come out, no matter how true.
‘You could do with more colour than that,’ her mother protested, as Briar dropped the blusher back into a drawer. ‘You look so pale tonight—I knew we should have got your make-up done professionally. Are you feeling nervous?’
‘Not really.’ Feeling sick, more like it. Briar looked briefly back in the mirror to check—even against the white silk of her simple toga-inspired gown she looked pale—but then, what make-up was going to be a match for her mood? There was only so much you could do with powder and paint.
‘Never mind,’ her mother said, when it was clear her daughter was going to make no attempt to redress the issue. ‘I’m sure a glass of champagne will soon put some colour in your cheeks.’
Briar’s stomach clamped down in rebellion. Champagne was the last thing she needed. After all, tonight was hardly a celebration.
‘Come on, then,’ her mother urged. ‘Diablo’s waiting for you downstairs. Just wait till you see him; he looks so dashing tonight.’
‘That’s nice,’ she responded absently, slipping her feet into heels. Who cared what he looked like? He could be the most handsome man in the world, but it would still be the devil in disguise waiting for her. And frankly, he could just keep on waiting. Just because she’d agreed to marry him didn’t mean that she’d be dancing to his tune any time soon.
She’d done a lot of thinking over the last two weeks and she’d worked out her own musical score for this marriage. Diablo craved respectability and an entrée to Sydney society. He didn’t care about her and he almost certainly didn’t even like her. Given that the feeling was mutual, it shouldn’t take much to convince him that the best way to make this marriage work was for them both to lead separate lives. At least until he tired of her and agreed to a divorce. That way life might be bearable. She could put up with a year or two of inconvenience if she knew that at the other side of it she’d be free.
‘Oh, hasn’t Carlos done such a wonderful job with your hair?’ her mother exclaimed with delight. ‘It suits that gown perfectly. Although I still don’t understand why you wanted to wear that old thing. It is a special occasion, after all.’
Not that special. And this ‘old thing’ was barely twelve months old and only worn once as it was. But still, she turned and smiled at her mother’s never-ending enthusiasm. Someone had to be enthusiastic about this wedding and who better than her mother? Already she looked so much better than she had just two short weeks ago when this crazy marriage plan had been unleashed, her features less drawn, her frown vanquished. It wasn’t just that their financial situation had taken a turn for the better, she knew, but because her mother genuinely seemed to want this marriage to work out.
‘I’m just saving my splurge for the big event,’ she told her, with a passion she didn’t feel, taking her mother’s arm and pulling her in close. ‘Come on, let’s go meet these guests.’
The champagne flowed so freely it seemed the huge ballroom was awash with it. Champagne, old money and the celebrity A-List blended together in the Blaxlea ballroom, which fairly gleamed since the team of cleaners Diablo had organised to go over the place had done their bit. Huge arrangements of flowers were doubled in the enormous mirrors, their colours reflected in the crystal chandeliers, while a full wall of feature windows welcomed in the diamond lights of Sydney Harbour at night.
It was some place all right and it could have been his outright—indeed it had been, for just one night. But he was happy with his deal—they could keep the title to the house. Tonight he would gain himself something much more important than just bricks and mortar and a few hundred feet of prime Sydney Harbour frontage. Tonight he’d cement his place and his future with the society that had resisted him for so long.
Already he could sense the change in the way he was perceived, by the constant string of congratulations he’d received from people who would have crossed the street to avoid him in the past, as he stood alongside Cameron Davenport waiting for the ladies to appear. In marrying Briar there was no way they could ignore his hold on the Sydney property industry any more. Now he had the Davenport seal of approval. Now there would be no stopping him.
How fortunate that a man so unskilled in the ways of his business should have had such a suitable daughter. For there was no one he’d rather cement his future with than Briar Davenport. She would make the perfect wife. The bonus was she would also make a pleasant bed-warmer. Siring children with her would be no hardship.
There was a stir amongst the crowd before everyone hushed and his eyes drifted upwards to where the two women stood at the top of the stairs, the older woman in plumage peacock-bold, the daughter so deathly pale as to render any other mere mortal invisible.
But not Briar. Her skin might be pale but her eyes shone like dream stones, amber and intense. And the dress might be colourless but it could not disguise the exquisitely feminine form beneath. A tiny waist that only accentuated the lushness of her breasts and hips, and legs that went forever and then some.
Briar. Like the rose that grew wild, spreading branches rambling, soon she would be clambering all over him. Already he could feel those long limbs wrapped around him, clinging to him, supported by him. Already he could hear her crying out, begging him for release. His body stirred in anticipation as the women slowly descended the wide staircase.
Oh, no, siring children with her would be no hardship at all.
The women reached the foot of the stairs. Carolyn took her husband’s arm. Diablo held out his hand for Briar and for the first time she looked at him.
Something jolted through her as their eyes connected, a prelude for the bolt of electricity that was unleashed when their hands touched. His dark eyes narrowed and regarded her strangely.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Like a virgin sacrifice about to be tossed to the lions.’
How appropriate, she thought, though hardly willing to buy into that particular discussion. ‘And you,’ she replied, ‘look like the proverbial cat that got the cream.’
He drew her hand closer, pressing his mouth, warm and moist, to her skin while his eyes held hers. ‘Not yet; so far I only have the unopened package. But, I must confess, I’m looking forward to opening it up and then—’ his eyes narrowed and focused like dark torchlight ‘—and then sampling the treasure within.’
She dragged in air and turned her head away, suddenly too uncomfortable, too giddy, too hot. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her that there was plenty of colour in her cheeks now. Diablo’s words had achieved in an instant what the finest cosmetics in the world had failed to do.
Yet it wasn’t just his words heating her body. Her mother hadn’t been exaggerating. Tonight he looked magnificent in clothes that would have made a lesser man look ridiculous and yet on Diablo merely accentuated his masculine power. A snow-white shirt contrasted with his smooth olive skin and black fitted trousers that finished above hand-stitched leather boots. Over it all he wore a long black jacket with a Nehru collar that emphasized his long, lean length. With his hair tied back, all he needed was a gold hoop in his earlobe and he could have been a pirate out on the town celebrating his latest conquest.
And, if that wasn’t enough, just breathing the same air, laced with the heady tang of his aftershave, was like getting a shot of testosterone.
And damn him but somehow that scent was like a lure, snagging on