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‘I don’t think that you have anything to worry about. Now if you’d caught them in a clinch that would’ve been a different matter,’ Bee offered quietly. ‘But you didn’t. Don’t let that colourful imagination of yours take over, Tawny. Be sensible about this. I think all you witnessed was a gorgeous drama queen demanding attention from a handsome man. I suspect that Tia is an old hand at that ruse and Navarre looked a little out of his depth. I also think that from now on he will be more careful with his boundaries when he’s around Tia Castelli. He’s no fool.’
Tawny struggled to take Bee’s advice fully on board while she and Navarre were conveyed to the airport. He chatted calmly about their day and she endeavoured to make appropriate responses but she could not deny that the joy of the day had been snuffed out for her the instant she saw Navarre comforting Tia. She felt overwhelmed by the competition. What woman could possibly compete with such a fascinating femme fatale? Tia Castelli was a hugely talented international star with a colossal number of fans, an extraordinary beauty who truly lived a gilded life that belonged only in the glossiest of magazines. And Navarre cared about Tia. Tawny had seen the expression on his face as he looked down at the tiny distressed woman and that glimpse had shaken her and wounded her for she would have given ten years of her life to have her bridegroom look at her like that even once. That, she thought painfully, was what really lay at the heart of her suffering. Seeing him with Tia had only underlined what Tawny did not have with him.
But she would still have to man up and handle it, Tawny told herself in an urgent pep talk while they flew to Paris on Navarre’s sleek private jet. She could not run away on the very first day of married life. She would only get one chance to make their marriage work so that they could give their son or daughter a proper loving home with a mother and a father. It was what she had always longed for and always lacked on her own account, but perhaps she had been naive as well not to face the truth that any relationship between two people would at times hurt her and demand that she compromise her ideals.
By the time they were in a limousine travelling to his home on Ile de France, several miles west of Paris, Navarre had borne the silence long enough. It was not a sulk—a sulk he could have dealt with. No, Tawny spoke when spoken to, even smiled when forced, but her vibrant spirit and quirky sense of fun were nowhere to be seen and it spooked him.
‘I don’t know you like this … what’s wrong?’ he asked, although it was a question that on principle he never, ever asked a woman, but now he was asking even though he feared that he already knew the answer.
Tawny shot him another fake smile. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. It’s been a very long day.’
‘D’accord. I constantly forget that you’re pregnant and I’m making no allowances for that,’ Navarre responded smoothly. ‘Of course you’re tired.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that it was their wedding night and she wasn’t that tired but that would have been like issuing an invitation and she no longer possessed the confidence to do that.
The awkward silence was broken by her gasp as she looked out of the window and saw that the car was travelling through elaborate gardens and heading straight for a multi-turreted chateau of such stupendous splendour that she could only stare. ‘Where on earth are we?’
‘This is my home in Paris.’
‘You’re sure it’s not a hotel?’ Tawny asked stupidly, aghast at the size and magnificence of the property.
‘It was for a while but it is now my private home. It’s within easy reach of my offices and I like green space around me at the end of the day.’
Yes, it was obvious to her that he liked an enormous amount of green space and even more obvious why he had not been unduly impressed by Strathmore Castle, the entirety of which might well have fitted into the front hall of his spectacular chateau. Tawny was gobsmacked by the dimensions of the place. Although they had flown from London in a private jet it had still not occurred to her that Navarre might live like royalty in France. Nor had not it crossed her mind until that very moment what a simply vast gulf divided them as people.
‘I feel like Cinderella,’ Tawny whispered weakly. ‘You live in a castle.’
He was frowning. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
They were greeted by a manservant in the echoing vastness of the hall and every surface seemed to be gilded or marbled or mirrored so that she could see far too many confusing reflections of her bewildered face. ‘It’s not really a castle, it’s more like a palace,’ she muttered when he informed her that refreshments awaited them upstairs.
She mounted the giant staircase. ‘So how long have you lived here?’
‘Several years. You know, you shouldn’t be wearing heels that high in your condition—’
‘Navarre?’ Tawny interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me what to wear. I’m not working for you any more.’
‘No, we’re married now.’
Tawny did not like the tone Navarre had employed to make that statement. She felt that he ought to be over the moon about being married to her, or at least capable of pretending to be. Instead he sounded like a guy who had got to bring the wrong woman home and that was not an idea that she liked at all, for it came all too close to matching her own worst fears.
‘I don’t want to have an argument with you on our wedding day,’ Navarre informed her without any expression at all.
‘Did I say that I wanted an argument?’ Tawny demanded a touch stridently as he thrust open a heavy door and she stalked into yet another vast room, a bedroom complete with sofas and tables and several exit doors. ‘It’s too big … it’s all too big and fancy for me!’
As her voice began to rise in volume Navarre cut in. ‘Then we’ll sell it and move—’
‘But then you wouldn’t be happy. This is what you’re used to!’
‘I grew up in a variety of slums,’ he reminded her levelly and somehow the way he looked at her made her feel like a child throwing a tantrum.
Tawny gritted her teeth on another foolish comment. Her brain was all over the place. It certainly wasn’t functioning as it should be. She kept on picturing Tia’s flawless face and her even more perfect and always immaculately clothed body. She was thinking of the frivolous, frothy, wedding night negligee she had purchased with such joy in her heart and feeling sick at the prospect of having to put the outfit on and appear in it for his benefit. Who was she kidding? It would not hide her overblown breasts or her even more swollen stomach.
‘You know …’ Tawny mumbled uneasily, succumbing to her sense of insecurity. ‘I’m not really in the right mood for a wedding night.’
‘Je sais ce que tu ressens … I know how you feel.’ Navarre stood there like a statue.
Tawny had expected him to argue with her, not agree with her. She wanted him to kiss her, persuade her, make everything magically all right again, but instead he just stood there, six feet plus of inert and unresponsive masculine toughness.
