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Candy remained standing where she was for a good minute as she struggled to take in that her new husband—her brand-new husband—had abandoned her on their wedding night.
Then she walked over to the bed—a huge four-poster— and threw herself down on the antique lace coverlet and had a good cry. It helped—a little; at least it enabled her to strip off the erotic underwear with bitter mutterings along the lines of. 'It's his loss, the rat,' and no more tears.
She padded into the en suite stark naked and found an amazing bathroom that would make even the most hard-boiled movie star sit up and take notice. All marble and mirrors and concealed lighting.
Candy spent some moments examining herself from all angles in the mirrored walls and ceilings. Okay, so she wasn't one of those stick insects that were in all the fashion magazines these days, but neither was she grossly fat either, she reassured the pink-eyed reflection dismally. She had had guys coming on to her from when she was barely in her teens, so she couldn't be that bad, could she?
She ran herself a bath in the sort of super-tub that would easily have accommodated a team of rugby players and flicked the switch to Jacuzzi mode, refusing to allow her mind to play on how different it could have been if Quinn were here at the side of her.
She hated him! She did, she loathed him, she told herself savagely. She wouldn't allow him within ten feet of her if he went down on his knees and begged! How she could have imagined she loved him she just didn't know; she must have been having some sort of brainstorm. But she was in her right senses now and she could be every inch as cool and controlled as he was.
He had said she could take all the time she needed to make their relationship a physical one and she would certainly do that all right. He would still be waiting when he was an old man with grey hair! He had shown her the matter was incidental as far as he was concerned, so there was no problem, was there? No problem at all.
This chain of thought was threatening to bring on the tears again, and so she determined to suppress all thoughts of Quinn and let the silky bubbles ease her stiff limbs and tense muscles.
She stayed in the water for over an hour—she would turn into a dried-out wrinkly prune and that would show Quinn, she thought with total irrationality—and then dried herself slowly, wrapping the huge fluffy bath sheet round her sarong-style before walking back into the bedroom. Its emptiness mocked her as she dried he
r hair and smoothed moisturiser into her face and body, but it was when she walked over to the luggage and realised there were only her two suitcases standing there that the tears surfaced again.
He really didn't want her. She sank down on the bed and gazed round the fabulous room vacantly. Or not enough, at least. Where was she going to find the strength to change things? Could she change things?
She suddenly felt very small and very alone—and unloved. Unloved and unlovable. It wasn't a new feeling; it had reared its head all through her somewhat isolated childhood in spite of Xavier's efforts to be all the family she needed. But tonight the feeling was overwhelming, and it emphasised her utter presumptuousness in imagining she could make Quinn Ellington fall in love with her. She must have been mad! She was mad—stark, staring crazy.
She rolled into a tight little ball under the crisp cotton covers and cried herself to sleep.
When Candy awoke the next morning it was out of a deep, dreamless sleep of mental, emotional and physical exhaustion. She surfaced slowly, layer upon layer of thick cottonwool heaviness anchoring her to the bed, but then it dawned on her somnolent senses what had roused her. Someone had drawn back the thick violet-blue drapes and opened the windows, letting fresh golden sunlight spill into the room.
She opened her eyes to stare straight into Quinn's glittering black gaze.
'Come on, sleepyhead,' he said lazily, his dark eyes washing over her tumbled red hair and creamy skin as Candy instinctively pulled the bedclothes more closely around her. 'It's ten o'clock on a beautiful summer Sunday and we're going to explore Matt's magnificent grounds. I've packed a picnic lunch already, so once you've eaten your toast and drunk at least two cups of coffee we'll be off.' He indicated the breakfast tray he had placed on the small table at the side of the bed with a smile.
'You've got breakfast?' She remained exactly where she was, half snuggled under the covers, because she remembered she had been too miserable last night to search her suitcases for a nightie and had slept nude.
'It didn't need much getting,' he returned dryly, glancing at the tray containing a glass of fresh orange juice, three slices of buttered toast and a tiny pot of blackcurrant preserve, a jug of steaming coffee, sugar and milk, along with a china mug gaily painted with poppies. 'I'll give you half an hour, okay?'
'Okay.' She nodded obediently, silky tendrils of hair falling about her face and the blue of her eyes still smudged with sleep. She just wanted him to go! He looked gorgeous—freshly shaved, black hair still damp from the shower and dressed with immaculate casualness in an open-necked charcoal silk shirt and black jeans—whereas she must look a fright.
And then, almost as though he had read her mind, he bent down and took her flushed face in his hands, planting a swift kiss on her surprised lips before straightening again. 'I knew you'd look good enough to eat in the mornings,' he said over his shoulder as he strolled over to the half-open door. 'Half an hour, and don't keep me waiting.'
He knew she'd look good enough to eat? If he hadn't closed the door he would have got the tray aimed straight at the back of his arrogant head, coffee and all, Candy told herself furiously as she jerked into a sitting position. Talk about blowing hot and cold!
All these months of touch-me-not culminating in the fiasco of last night and he dared to imply— What, exactly? What had he implied? She sat there, her glorious hair spilling about her slender shoulders and her brow creased in a frown. That he fancied her? That he wanted her? But he might not have meant that, might he?
She glanced at the breakfast tray and sighed, loudly and irritably. Quinn Ellington was a law unto himself, that was the trouble, and if she was being absolutely honest she didn't have a clue what made the man tick.
The thick gold band next to her engagement ring felt alien and heavy on her hand as she reached for the breakfast tray and, after drinking the orange juice, nibbled at a slice of toast. She wasn't in the least bit hungry; she didn't feel as if she would ever be hungry again, she told herself miserably. And she had no one but herself to blame for this mess. Quinn hadn't forced her to marry him; she had gone into this with her eyes wide open. She just hadn't expected…
'Oh, quit griping!' She spoke the words out loud, her tone suddenly firm, and felt better for it. This was her first day as Mrs Quinn Ellington and she was blowed if she was going to spend it moping and whining. She was young, she was healthy, her career was about to take off in a big way and she was married to the man she loved. Admittedly he didn't love her, but who said life was ever perfect? She grimaced derisively to herself, finishing the slice of toast in two bites, and threw back the covers determinedly.
A picnic, he'd said. And exploring the grounds. She ought to wear something very practical, like jeans and a top, or shorts, maybe, but this wasn't a time for practicality. This was a time for making Quinn Ellington squirm! He was a man with a very healthy libido and she would make him pant on the leash if it was the last thing she did. And then she would—very politely but firmly—remind him of all he'd said and make him pant some more.
It took an extra ten minutes over the allotted half an hour to get ready, but when Candy stood surveying herself in the full-length bedroom mirror she told herself it was worth it. The white, full-skirted, sleeveless dress in fine broderie anglaise was ethereally lovely but subtly sexy too, with its plunging neckline and tightly fitting bodice ending in a deep V, and at least her white pumps were flat and easy to walk in. She closed her mind to the thought of grass stains and blessed the hot weather which had made everything tinder-dry.
She had curled her hair about her shoulders, where it hung in shining waves, and applied just enough eye makeup to turn her eyes into deep pools of sapphire without it being obvious she had made herself up. Her skin was glowing and smelt delicious, thanks to the horribly expensive body lotion she had used with gay abandon, and her pale peach lipstick gave her lips a moistness that would make any red-blooded man want to taste them.
She caught herself at the thought, staring at the image in the mirror with eyes that suddenly widened. What on earth was she doing? she asked herself faintly. What had Quinn turned her into? This wasn't the shy, nervous girl who had firmly repulsed all suitors most of her life and only allowed Harper the briefest of intimacies. She was behaving as brazenly as Joanna!
Galvanised into action, she scrubbed at her lips with a tissue, but got no further before she heard Quinn call from beyond the bedroom door. She had no time to change now. She glanced at her reflection and grabbed a scrunchy from her cosmetics bag, looping her hair high in a ponytail with the elasticated band and standing back to survey the effect Better. Definitely not so come-hitherish.
