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d to go out of her way to hide that. In the office, she wore sensible suits and kept her hair restrained to within an inch of its life. He’d wondered if she’d be different in her personal life but so far, he couldn’t say so with any confidence. Her dress was a simple black slip, revealing her creamy shoulders and a hint of cleavage, falling to her knees. He watched as she reached to the right and grabbed a bright red necklace made of chunky beads, which she strung around her neck.
Interesting.
He would have pegged her as more of a pearls kind of woman.
“Ready?” He prompted, offering her the encouraging smile he knew she badly needed.
“No.” It was a plaintive wail. “This is crazy. They’re never going to believe we’re a couple. Everyone’s going to see through this.”
Frustration zipped inside him. “No, they’re not.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because.” He took her hands and clasped them, pressing them to his chest. “This is going to be fine. Remember that it’s just a few nights, okay?”
She nodded but he could see the panic in her eyes. “You’ll be fine. Tell me about your family?”
It seemed to relax her. She moved into the bedroom while describing her father, sliding her feet into heels that had him stopping in his tracks. This he definitely hadn’t expected. He tried to rack his brain to think what footwear she usually wore in the office – and the answer was: nothing like this. These were vixen shoes, plain and simple. At least four-inch spikes with pointed toes and red soles, he stared at them, transfixed by the image of her slender, creamy-white legs pressed into these weapons of mass destruction and felt a lurch of something dangerously like interest.
Interest was not okay. In fact, it was completely unwelcome. But the idea of sensible Bronte Hill sitting at home on a Saturday night reading Greek tragedies was fading from his mind. These shoes were made for – no. He’d better not go there.
“I like shoes,” she explained, her smile lopsided as she reached for her clutch purse – black with a silver clasp.
“They suit you.” He held his hand out, trying not to think about her shoes, and she stared at him suspiciously.
“It’s my hand, Bronte, not an offer of sex.”
Her laugh was brittle, as though she was trying to pretend that hadn’t thrown her, but her cheeks filled with a pale pink, and she turned away from him quickly.
“This won’t work if you act like that any time I go to touch you.”
“Don’t touch me,” she said with a shake of her head. “I can’t –,”
He expelled a gentle sigh. “Do you want to do this or not?”
She looked up at him, anguished and lost, and he wondered about the guy who could have made her feel like this, and why the hell her family had invited him – and his new girlfriend – to this wedding. Families, though, were strange, and all had their quirks.
“I – yes.” Her eyes batted downwards. “I do.”
It was a strange juxtaposition, witnessing Bronte as though the rug had been pulled from under her. In the office, nothing was beyond her control. She could have his jet fuelled at a few minutes’ notice, organise dinner parties for fifty people without breaking a sweat, anything they threw at her was within her skillset.
Out of a desire to reassure her, he reached across, lifting her chin so she was facing him. “Let’s go do this then.”
She offered him one of her sweetly apologetic smiles, her long lashes fanning her cheeks as she moved closer and then, after only a few seconds’ hesitation, put her hand in his. It was tiny! How come he hadn’t realised before how petite she was?
Because he’d never really looked at her except to ask for files or bark scheduling inquiries. She was far from his usual type, and he never mixed business and pleasure. Naturally he’d never noticed her as a woman– and he wouldn’t notice her now. It wasn’t appropriate.
“Tonight is just a cocktail party,” she explained, as they left the room. “A chance for guests to mingle, and get to know one another.”
They stepped into the corridor with its black and white tiled floors and old portraits lining the walls. English wildflowers had been picked and placed in delicate crystal vases which sat on occasional tables as they walked past, the fragrance sweet.
“Tomorrow night there’s more of a formal dinner. Then the wedding on Saturday, and the celebration on Sunday – that’s smaller, extended family. There’s a lot.” Her tone held an apology.
He squeezed her hand. “I offered to do this. Stop saying sorry.”
“I didn’t say sorry.”
“Your voice did.”
