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She should have pulled away, but she didn’t want to let him know how much his nearness affected her. So she concentrated on remembering to breathe and making sure she didn’t fall flat on her face in her new heels.
‘I’ve not eaten all day and I’m half starved,’ he said casually. Too casually.
She couldn’t control the tremble of response. Why did she get the impression Daisy and Connor’s lavish reception buffet wasn’t the only thing he intended to devour?
The soft summer light gave the evening a golden glow as Mac’s flashy sports car turned into the chteau’s driveway behind a queue of other cars. Looking through the thicket of oak trees, Juno glimpsed the baroque French castle standing proud at the brow of the hill. Flowering vines hugged the turrets and balconies and accented a trio of tiered terraces linked by a sweeping staircase. As the powerful car inched closer the main terrace and the ballroom beyond came into view, the throng of guests being served by an army of blackclad waiters brandishing trays of canapÉs and champagne.
Not for the first time that day, Juno thought of palaces and princes and long-ago pageantry. Daisy and Connor had turned their wedding day into a magical event. She bit back the wistful sigh. Enough with the daydreaming. It definitely was not appropriate in her current circumstances.
She glanced across at the man beside her. In the twenty minutes it had taken them to get from the church to the reception, Mac Brody had been surprisingly subdued. There had been none of the teasing or taunts she’d expected. Probably because he’d been swamped by a crowd of people as soon as Daisy and Connor’s carriage had been waved out of sight.
She’d had no idea he was so famous! She rarely went to the cinema—never having had much time for make-believe—and she didn’t read the gossip mags either.
But more surprising than all the attention had been the way he’d reacted to it. He’d been patient and charming and remarkably gracious about all the requests for autographs and snapshots, but she’d still sensed how uncomfortable he was. Making her wonder what had become of the big bad movie star who had kissed her with such arrogance at Heathrow.
The tension had eased out of his shoulders once he’d ushered her into his sleek little rented Porsche. But as soon as the chteau had appeared across the valley his hands had fisted on the steering wheel. As if he were bracing himself for what lay ahead.
Why had he decided to come if this evening was going to be such an ordeal?
Juno’s pulse skittered as he reversed the car into a small space under one of the leafy oak trees. Perversely, the glimpse of vulnerability behind his super-confident faÇade had given her own confidence a nice little boost.
He wrenched up the handbrake. ‘We’ll have to walk it from here.’ His lips tilted as his gaze shifted to her feet. ‘You think you can handle all the pebbles in those shoes?’
He was probably used to women who could run a marathon in high heels, but the comment sounded amused not disparaging so she smiled back. ‘I should be able to manage twenty yards. If not I’ll take them off. You’ll have to promise not to tell Daisy though.’
‘Why’s that now?’ he asked, his deep Irish voice shimmering across her bare skin.
‘Daisy designed my maid of honour gown. It makes a statement, apparently, which includes the high heels. Without them she’ll accuse me of ruining the effect or something.’ The babble of information petered into silence. Why had she drawn attention to the frock? It was as if she were fishing for a compliment. Which she definitely wasn’t.
His eyes drifted over her figure and her heart skidded to a stop. ‘Daisy’s mighty talented,’ he said as his gaze met hers. ‘You look gorgeous.’
Heat pumped into her cheeks and her heart began beating double time as the impact of the softly growled compliment sizzled right down to her toes.
Way to go, Juno. Now you feel like you’re stark naked again.
Chapter Four
WHERE in God’s name had she gone?
Mac scoured the main ballroom of the seventeenth-century chteau for the five thousandth time and took another gulp of his lukewarm orange juice. He glanced at his watch. She’d shot off well over three hours ago as soon as they’d arrived with some excuse about changing her shoes. And he’d not seen hide nor hair of her since. He’d searched the damn chteau, checking out the two ballrooms—one with an orchestra playing big band music and golden oldies, the other with a famous pop group playing live music for the younger crowd—not once but about three times each. He’d also done several circuits of the outdoor terraces festooned with fairy lights and torches, the lavish banqueting hall where a cordon bleu buffet had been laid out, and wandered aimlessly through the labyrinth of smaller salons. The reception party was in full swing now and the close to two hundred guests were letting their hair down and enjoying themselves. All except for him. He hadn’t been this wound up since facing his first opening night on Broadway.
The place was heaving. How could one couple have so many friends and acquaintances? And not one of them seemed to be shy about approaching him and asking after his relationship to Connor. No one, that was, except the one woman he’d come all this way to see.
Pull yourself together, man.
He leaned back against the wall and reminded himself to relax. At least he’d finally got rid of the gaggle of teenage girls who had been stalking him for close to an hour but had been too tongue-tied to say anything.
As he watched the dancers twisting the night away with varying degrees of grace—and waited in vain to catch a glimpse of bronze satin and blonde curls—the question that had been bugging him all evening began to bug him some more.
What had possessed him to come here?
Yesterday evening he’d been at the London wrap party of his latest movie getting an offer he shouldn’t have been able to refuse from his beautiful co-star Imelda Jackson. But instead of taking Imelda up on her suggestion of a ‘quick, one-night liaison to let off steam’, he’d turned her down flat.
He scowled and drained the last of the juice. There was no doubting it any more. The blame for that bit of insanity and his mad decision to come to Connor’s wedding lay squarely at the dainty feet of the Invisible Miss Juno.
She’d cast a spell on him and lured him here against his will like some damn siren queen. Ever since she’d kissed him at Heathrow, he’d not been able to get her out of his thoughts. When he’d woken up this morning after yet another erotic fantasy in which she was the headline attraction, he’d known it was past time to take affirmative action.
He didn’t obsess about sex and he certainly didn’t let women he barely knew invade his dreams. So he’d taken the last in a long line of cold showers, dug out the wedding invite—which he’d somehow forgotten to toss—cancelled his first-class flight to LA that evening and booked a mid-morning one to Nice.
