Accidental Bride. Darcy Maguire
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yellow taxi pulled up in front of them and King opened the door for her with a flourish.
Clare stared at him. Her pulse thudded against her eardrums. Any second now he’d ask, or kiss her, or proposition her…
She slid onto the seat. ‘Are you sure? I make a mean coffee,’ she suggested, while her belly fought the meal. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t make her offer more obvious…
King closed the door of the taxi and smiled. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ He stepped back and gave her a short wave, and even had the nerve to smile at her, his grey eyes taunting her with an unfathomable look.
She lifted her hand and waved vaguely. What had she done wrong? She racked her brain for a hint of what might have tripped her up, warned him off and compromised her ploy. Nothing. She managed a smile for him, praying he was just teasing her, playing with her like a cat played with a mouse. Only she was no mouse.
King’s eyes wandered to the traffic on the busy street. He turned and sauntered back into the hotel.
Clare slumped into the seat. All that for nothing! He hadn’t even waited to overhear where she lived when she’d given the driver the address.
She swallowed the unpalatable truth. She’d failed. All the planning had meant nothing.
Clare watched the buildings blur as the taxi picked up speed. It was going to take more than a sexy dress to hook King. It was going to take all her brains, her body, and all the bravado she could muster. She just hoped it would be enough.
Clare let herself into her apartment and dropped the keys into a glass bowl on the hall table. Her shoulders fell in defeat. What had gone wrong? She’d been sure she had him hooked.
Clare moved into the kitchen and turned the light on, illuminating her Tasmanian oak kitchen. She never tired of the way the polished timbers looked, how her stainless steel oven gleamed, how it was all hers.
She ran a hand over the smooth surface and moved along the bench. She flicked the switch on the kettle and reached across to a row of jars against the tiled wall. She placed the lid of one of the jars quietly down and dived in. She pulled a chocolate chip cookie out and bit down on the sweet biscuit.
She was at a loss. She didn’t know what to do. Clare put the rest of the biscuit in her mouth and took another two from the jar. He wouldn’t be calling her. That was for sure. He didn’t even know her name.
She kicked off her heels and slumped over the bench.
‘Clare?’
The soft whisper of her little sister’s hopeful voice shook her from her mood. She straightened, looking across the open-plan lounge to her sister’s room.
‘How did it go?’ Fiona stood in the doorway, her hands wrapped around herself and her brow furrowed.
‘As you can see, honey, not so good.’ Clare waved a hand around the empty room, resting her eyes on Fiona.
There was no mistaking that they were sisters. They had the same hair, and the same shape face, but Clare had blue eyes, like her father’s, while Fiona had hazel ones. If King had realised who she was and made the connection…
Fiona had tied her hair back, her make-up was subtle, and her fawn linen trouser-suit would have been more at home at the office than in the apartment. Clare cringed. She was dressed and prepped to take Mark on. If he’d come home with her.
Although Clare’s home had the same rigid tidiness of her office, she allowed lavish colour. This year, her theme was Mexicana. She had cactus and desert grasses in glazed terracotta pots scattered over the polished timber floors, a vibrant crimson and yellow rug lying under her sand-coloured lounge suite, and a large Sombrero hanging from the blue-mottled walls.
‘He…he didn’t like you?’ There was a mixture of hope and fear in Fiona’s tone. She moved into the lounge room slowly. ‘Maybe he does care. Maybe he isn’t as bad as we thought he was. Maybe he just doesn’t know where to find me.’
Clare put what was left of her biscuit in her mouth and moved around the island bench. She opened her arms, wrapping her sister in comfort. She swallowed. ‘He didn’t return any of your calls. And he knows where you work, honey.’
She felt her sister’s body shake—and it hit her, sharply in the chest, just how much she hadn’t wanted to let her sister down. She’d take on a dozen jerks like King if it meant making Fiona happy.
Clare had spent more time looking after Fiona than her mother had. Mum had always been at work, and apart from Paul’s teasing all they’d had was each other. Aunty Rose, Paul’s mum, had been too upset with the loss of her husband to notice the living.
Clare held her sister tighter. She had to have done something to tip him off. But no matter how much she racked her brain she couldn’t fathom what it was that had warned him off. If she knew, she might have a chance to remedy the disaster tonight had become. As it was…she was helpless.
‘Look, you don’t need him. You can move on without him.’ She squeezed her sister, lightening her voice, hoping her optimism would be catching. ‘You have to do what’s best for you.’
‘Mum figured that, too.’ Fiona broke out of her embrace and faced Clare, hands folded tightly across her chest. ‘She did what was best for her. And look where that got her. And us.’
‘Here, honey. It got us here. We wouldn’t be who we are today if Dad hadn’t left like that.’ Clare touched her right eyebrow, tracing the line of her scar.
‘And where is that, exactly?’ Fiona bit out. ‘Sure, you have money, a place of your own, your independence—but there’s more to life than that, Clare. A lot more. And I want that. I want someone to share my life with.’
‘Fiona…’
‘No, I’m sick of you telling me what I should do. I know what I need to do. And I need him.’ She sagged into a chair and covered her face with her hands. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ She lifted her face. ‘Maybe I can’t have him. But I need to talk to him. Please. You have to do something.’
Clare wrenched the hairpins out of her hair, turning to a small occasional table she’d arranged with colourful maracas and string dolls. ‘It’ll be okay. I almost had him.’
‘Are you going to try again?’
‘Sure, honey.’ Clare ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. Though how she could make it work she had no idea. Tonight should have worked. It should all have been over and done with by now.
‘And what happens if he won’t come?’
‘I guess we’ll work it out—if that happens.’
Mark shook the hand of the last guest. It had been a memorable night. One of the best charity dinners he’d ever hosted. The donations had been varied, but on the whole he counted it as a success. Somewhere, some time, some poor soul would benefit from tonight, and a swell of satisfaction filled his chest.
He could have done better, and usually he’d be berating himself for lost opportunities or missed chances. But tonight it was Clare Harrison who still buzzed in his veins. She’d been a great time.
She was right. He was bored. And he was all for meeting her challenge and finding out everything about her.
It was late and he was slowing down, but the memory of her was as vivid and immediate for him as it had been when she’d been in his arms, at his table, taunting his mind. He rubbed his jaw. It annoyed him that he still couldn’t work out what her game was. Pre-empting people was what he did well, what he was good at, but he was at a loss here. What the hell was she up to?
‘Mark, I’m exhausted. Take me home.’ Sasha rubbed a hand up his arm and over his shoulder.
He offered her a soft smile. She’d been extremely tolerant of his behaviour. After Clare had left he had finally given her the introductions she’d