Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride. Lee Wilkinson
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‘And you shall—but you must eat your dinner up first,’ said Sorcha. ‘Just stay with me until we’re in the marquee, so we don’t get lost—because we’re all sitting at a big, special table with the bride and groom.’
‘Bride and gloom, Daddy always says,’ offered the more precocious of the pageboys.
‘Very funny, Alex,’ said Sorcha, but the smile on her face died as she saw Cesare climbing out of a low silver sports car, then opening the door for the brunette.
Sorcha stared at her in disgust—the woman’s dress had ridden so far up her thighs that, as she swung her legs out of the car—she was practically showing her underwear. Didn’t she know that there were graceful ways to get out of a car without showing the world what you’d had for breakfast?
And why should you care?
But if she didn’t care—which she didn’t—then why did Sorcha find it impossible to tear her eyes away from him? Because Cesare could have been hers, and now she would never know what it would have been like—was that it? Somehow it didn’t matter how many times you told yourself that you had made the right choice—you couldn’t stop the occasional regret. And regret was a terrible emotion to live with.
The brunette was laughing up at him, her fleshy lips gleaming provocatively—with sensual promise written on every atom of her being.
‘Come along, children,’ Sorcha said quickly, before he caught her studying him like some sort of crazed stalker.
But Cesare saw Sorcha bend and tie a bow in a little cherub’s curls and giggle at something the little one said and his mouth twisted. He knew that women sometimes used children as a prop when men were watching them—a silent demonstration of what wonderful mothers they would eventually make. Was that pretty little tableau all for his benefit, he thought sourly, to show him what he’d missed? Oh, but he was going to enjoy her reaction when she discovered what was coming to her! Abruptly, he turned away to toss his car keys to a valet.
Sorcha led the clutch of children around to the marquee, feeling a bit like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, but the presence of Cesare was like a dark spectre lurking in the background.
How the hell was she going to react to him for the rest of the afternoon and evening, if the mere sight of him unsettled her enough to set her pulse racing and set off all kinds of feelings churning around inside her?
She walked into the marquee, which looked as if it was competing for inclusion in the Chelsea Flower Show, and for a moment her dark mood evaporated. She forgot all about Cesare and all worries about the business and just enjoyed the spectacle of her sister’s wedding reception instead.
There were blooms everywhere—tumbling and filling and falling over in tall urns dotted around the sides of the tented room—and ivy wreathed around the pillars. Roses were crammed into copper pots on each table, reflected back in the gleaming crystal and golden cutlery, so that the whole room looked a mass of glorious, vibrant colour.
Maybe they could hire the house out as a wedding venue on a professional basis? she found herself thinking. Wouldn’t that help the current cashflow situation?
She reunited her young charges with their parents until the meal began, showed an elderly aunt to her seat, and then dashed to the loo to reapply her lipstick. But when eventually she couldn’t put it off any longer, she began to walk towards the top table—and her heart sank with a dull dread when she saw who was dominating it, perfectly at ease, with the lazy kind of grace which seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing.
She could see her mother at the far end in her huge hat, shrugging her shoulders in a don’t-ask-me kind of way. But even more annoying was that Cesare appeared to have captured the attention of the entire room—and it was supposed to be the bride’s day!
His ruggedly handsome and impeccably dressed figure was exciting jealous glances from men as well as greedy ones from women, and as she grew closer Sorcha could hear people on the adjoining tables.
‘Who is he?’
‘A rich Italian, apparently!’
‘Available?
‘Let’s hope so!’
But Cesare wasn’t reacting to the interest buzzing around him—his black eyes were trained on only her, so that by the time she reached him Sorcha felt as jittery as if she had just walked the plank and was about to jump.
She stared at the thick black hair which once she had had the freedom to run her hands through, and those slanting, aristocratic cheekbones along which she had wonderingly traced a trembling fingertip as if unable to believe that he was real and in her arms. ‘You,’ she said, and was appalled to hear her voice tremble.
‘Me,’ he agreed, his eyes glittering with satisfaction as he saw the look of consternation on her face.
She gripped the back of her seat. ‘Is this some kind of bad joke?’
‘If it is then I must have missed the punchline,’ he answered silkily. ‘Am I making you feel weak at the knees, cara? You seem a little unsteady on your feet. Why don’t you sit down?’
He pulled the chair out for her and she sank into it, too shaky to defy his commanding manner and wondering if she had imagined the feather-light touch of his hand across her bare shoulder. ‘How have you managed to get yourself seated on the top table? And next to me? Did you change the placement?’ she questioned suspiciously.
He thought how she had grown in confidence over the ensuing years, how the shy young girl had gone for ever, and his blood heated. Oh, yes, this time he would enjoy her without compunction.
‘No, I did not change the placement,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps they felt sorry for you, being on your own. I take it you are on your own, Sorcha?’
Oh, how she wished that she had managed to sustain some of those random dates she’d had into something approaching a proper relationship. How she would have loved to rub Cesare di Arcangelo’s smug and arrogant face in it if she could have airily produced some unbelievably gorgeous and eligible hunk and said, in that way that women did, I’m-not-trying-to-be-smug-or-anything-but-this-is-my-boyfriend!
But how could she have done, even if such a figure had really existed? Whoever she lined up—however rich and however eligible—would fade into humdrum insignificance beside the luminous sex appeal of Cesare.
‘Yes, I am on my own,’ she said coolly, because she had learnt that being defensive about it only made people probe even more. ‘I don’t need a man to define me.’
‘Well, that’s lucky, isn’t it?’ he mocked.
‘Why are you bothering to sit next to me if all you want to do is insult me?’ she hissed.
‘Oh, but that isn’t all I want to do, cara mia.’ The black eyes roamed over her with breathtaking arrogance, lingering on the lush swell of her breasts, and very deliberately he ran the tip of his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘There are plenty of other things I’d like to do to you which are far more appealing.’
Sorcha turned her head, desperately hoping that someone might come to her rescue, swoop down on her and whisk her away from him. But no one came, and no one was likely to interrupt them—since the don’t disturb us vibes which were shimmering off Cesare’s powerful frame were almost tangible.
Maybe they needed to have this conversation. She hadn’t seen him since that day when he’d packed his bags and managed—she’d never been quite sure how—to get a helicopter with a stunning woman pilot to land on the front lawn and whisk him away.
And after today she wasn’t likely to see him again. So maybe this really would help her to move on—to eliminate his legacy of being the man whom no other could possibly live up to. Maybe she needed to accept that by settling for someone who didn’t have his dynamism and sex