Be My Bride: The Right Mr Wrong / A Most Suitable Wife / Betrothed for the Baby. Natalie Anderson
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He tapped the screen a few more times, then walked closer, stretching out his arm to hand her the phone but staying well out of touch zone.
She took it, watching his face but unable to determine a thing.
He looked back at her. With a small sigh he took one step closer and ran a finger along her lower lip. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Okay.’ Victoria tossed the phone onto the bed before she dropped it from her trembling fingers. How was she supposed to work now? How could she possibly hold her pen with a steady hand? She clenched her fists.
He’d gone already. The door banged, she could vaguely hear the thuds as he headed down the kazillion steps. And what was she doing sitting here like a lemming?
All she’d been able to say was okay. Okay, okay, okay.
She punched the jelly feeling from her legs and stood. She was as pathetic as she’d been all those years before. So meekly acquiescent. All her progress had been obliterated in less than a minute. From what—some kissing? To just swoon in his arms and say okay? It was beyond pathetic.
Why hadn’t she shoved him away and said enough? Or, given she’d really wanted it, why not haul him close and have him completely? What was with the passivity? Why had she let him make the decision for her?
She wasn’t the malleable, eager-to-please girl she’d once been. She couldn’t revert to that type. She had more focus and strength than that now. But that weak part of her whimpered—so good. It had been so good.
Fantasy, she told herself. Just fantasy. Even though she’d blocked him from the forefront of her brain, she’d built him up. Finally being in his arms, it was sensory overload. Anyway, it had been so long since she kissed a man. Over a year. Maybe it wasn’t him; maybe it was hormones? Her body saying she needed to get out more, score herself something of a social life?
Or just score.
She closed her eyes and pulled on some strength. She’d work. She’d fake it. That was what she did these days. She’d get this work done. Then she’d find a love life.
And she’d never see Liam Wilson again.
Cold showers. Many, many, cold showers. Showers to wake her up, showers to keep her awake and—most importantly—cool her down and keep her thoughts from straying into the forbidden hot zone. But that part of her feeling socially deprived needed some happy thoughts, so she mentally planned, listing the nightclubs she’d go to once the job was done. She’d head out on Saturday night when Liam was at that wedding. There’d be hotter looking guys than him at those clubs.
Liam.
Damn, she was thinking about him again. She bent closer to the huge sheet of card in front of her, narrowing her eyes as she prepared to write the next, the forty-fifth, name on the seating plan. She almost had the nib down when her phone rang.
Surprised, she lifted her pen quickly and checked. No blot or mark. Good. She scooped up her phone and put on her ‘professional’ voice.
‘Victoria Rutherford Design.’
‘How many have you done?’
She squeezed the phone hard so it wouldn’t slip from her fingers. Her heart squeezed harder. He’d always been an early riser and even over the scratchy connection she could hear his smile. ‘Pardon?’
‘Names on the table plan. How many?’
‘A few.’ Not enough.
‘How many?’
‘Who do you think you are?’ she said, trying to recapture some smarts. ‘I don’t have to report to you.’
He chuckled. ‘You never used to argue back. I remember you used to do everything anyone asked of you. Obedient and unquestioning. Eager to please.’
Victoria braced herself against the subtle suggestion in his last sentence. She hadn’t done what he’d asked her to. But she was hardly going to remind him of that. ‘Yeah, well, I’ve grown up a bit since then.’
She only did what others asked of her now if she wanted to. Like this work for Aurelie. Ultimately it was Victoria’s choice. But she knew part of her was still eager to please. She’d been so weak in Liam’s arms last night. If he’d asked she’d have done everything, and let him do anything. She’d wanted to please—and be pleased.
Not going to happen. Not with him. Not at this time. She straightened up from bending over her desk and twisted from side to side to ease the kinks and literally strengthen her spine.
‘Do some stretches,’ he instructed.
She froze. ‘Pardon?’
‘You’ll get stiff if you don’t take regular breaks. Walk around the room while you’re talking to me.’
She immediately bent back over her desk. ‘I just told you I don’t do everything anyone asks of me now.’
‘But this is for your own good.’ His amusement sounded louder. ‘Don’t take the independence thing too far. Just because it’s not you but someone else who suggests something doesn’t automatically make it a bad idea.’
Victoria tried to stiffen, to resist the sound of his smile. Him calling her like this was not good for her. ‘You don’t need to do this, you know.’
‘Do what?’
‘Act like you’re interested.’
‘Victoria,’ he chuckled. ‘It’s no act.’
Yeah, but it was only the one thing he was interested in. One thing, one night. He couldn’t have made it clearer. ‘Well—’ she gritted her teeth ‘—I’m only interested in finishing my job. And I need to get back to it now.’
She ended the call, afraid that if she didn’t she’d say something she shouldn’t. She drew in a deep breath and pushed it out in a sharp, frustrated sigh. She didn’t want him to phone and distract her. Yet part of her was glad he had. That part of her wanted him to think of her. To want her.
Because she still wanted him.
Fool.
She mocked herself. She wasn’t going to act on it. Instead she looked at the board.
One letter at a time.
Three hours later her phone rang again.
‘Time for another break,’ he said before she’d finished giving her name.
She pressed a fist to her chest, as if the pressure could settle her skipping heart. ‘What makes you think I haven’t been taking regular breaks already?’
‘I know the lengths you’ll go to, to keep someone happy. I remember you staying up almost the whole night to make enough streamers for Oliver’s mother to hang in the hallway.’
Oh, Lord. Victoria chuckled. She remembered that. The endless rolls of crêpe paper had nearly killed her. In the end Liam had come and helped her. He and Oliver and the others had gone down to the local pub for a few. Victoria had opted to stay and help. She’d needed some space from the stranger who made her feel so self-conscious with the way he watched her, teased her, tempted her.
The boys had got home late. Oliver had staggered straight up the stairs to his bed, drunk. Liam hadn’t. He hadn’t been drunk. He hadn’t left.
Victoria had determinedly kept on going with the darn decorations, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. But Liam hadn’t let her. He’d chatted—easily maintaining a one-sided conversation for the first fifteen minutes, until she’d got over herself and actually giggled. Then it had been a fun tease.
Until she’d tried to move out of the chair. She’d not realised how stiff she’d got sitting still so long,