The Spaniard's Blackmailed Bride. Trish Morey
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a toast and the room erupted into applause and congratulations. Briar made out not a word of it as she scanned the crowded ballroom without taking in a thing. She was too busy working out what to do next. They would have to talk—privately—and soon. Diablo had to be made to see under what terms she was prepared to marry him and that those terms in no way included him sampling anything!
‘Darling? Briar?’
It was hearing her name that brought her back and she turned to him, ready to protest that she was hardly his darling, but something in his eyes stopped her in her tracks.
‘Didn’t you hear the guests? They’re waiting for us to seal our betrothal with a kiss.’
And, before she could protest this latest indignity, that there was no way she would kiss him, least of all in front of two hundred people, his mouth was on hers and any protest was muffled, melted, by the sheer impact of his lips.
They were soft, she realised with surprise—soft but sure. He looked so powerful dressed as he was all in black, hard and unyielding, and yet his lips moved over hers with an elegance of movement and a grace that was as surprising as it was intoxicating.
Heat rolled through her in waves, a surging tide of warmth that crashed and foamed into her extremities and set her flesh to tingling and her protests all but forgotten. The room shrank around them until there was just this kiss, these sensations, this mouth, weaving magic on hers.
And then he lifted his mouth from hers and sounds and colour and people invaded her numbed senses once more. She blinked as the crowd cheered; she blinked as her state of daze sloughed away; she blinked as Diablo smiled back at her, success lining that passionate slash of mouth, as she realised what she’d done.
Dear God! She’d let Diablo Barrentes kiss her, in public. And his expression told her he was gloating about it. She lifted one hand, touched the back of it to lips that still hummed from his touch, but he stilled the movement, pulling her hand down within his.
‘You don’t wipe me away that easily.’
She didn’t doubt it, her mouth still full of the taste of him.
‘We have to talk,’ she croaked as her parents were absorbed into a circle of guests and a buzz of conversation went up all around them. ‘Tonight. In private.’
The spark in his eyes flared, one dark eyebrow lifted in surprise. ‘I did not expect you to be so accommodating quite so readily.’
Already rattled by his kiss, she was in no mood for his easy confidence.
‘We have to talk! We need to set down some ground rules for this arrangement.’
He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, handing her one. ‘Oh? That sounds very important.’ He took a bored sip of his wine that told her he thought it sounded anything but. ‘In that case we will talk. But later.’ He took her free hand, surrounding it in his warmth, and headed into the ballroom. ‘First the happy couple must mingle with our guests seeing they’ve come especially to wish us well.’
‘You mean they’ve come to knit at my execution. They’re nothing but ghouls, wanting to witness the ultimate degradation of one of their own.’
He stopped dead and lowered his head to hers, his body close, his voice a clipped whisper in her ear. ‘You had a choice. You did not have to agree to this.’
‘I had no choice, and you know it. You left me without any choice at all.’
‘Wrong,’ he hit back. ‘You could have walked away from me and—’ he swept his champagne-bearing hand around the room ‘—and all of this.’
‘I couldn’t—’
‘No! You could have, but you didn’t—for whatever reasons you had, you chose not to! And, having made your decision, I expect you to live with it. Now, I suggest we meet some of our guests.’
It was many hours and many more cases of champagne later that the party wound down, leaving only a few of Cameron’s colleagues, who seemed all too content to settle in for brandy and cigars in the library. Carolyn had excused herself an hour ago, pleading too much excitement, and Briar sympathised.
It had seemed an endless night, moving on from one group of people to the next, filling the time with the same small talk, trying to instil the right measure of excitement into her voice. She could see the doubts, she could see the cynical way half the attendees accepted the marriage, the questions they asked, aimed to find any chink in the story, seeking out the truth they knew was there if they just dug in the right place.
She could even see the looks of envy that were fired her way from women who obviously thought Diablo was some kind of catch. Just because he hadn’t been embraced by Sydney society didn’t mean there wasn’t a queue of women lining up to be photographed on his arm.
Diablo had carried himself through the night like a consummate professional, letting his answers trip from his tongue—their attraction had surprised them both but now they couldn’t wait to be married, and the icing on the cake was his father-in-law-to-be’s sudden change in fortunes.
And all the while he’d bluffed his way through the potential minefield of the evening, he’d never let her stray more than inches away, his arm proprietorialy looped over her shoulders or around her waist, or just reaching out to stroke her arm, or tuck a strand of hair away from her face. Briar, on the other hand, had smiled through gritted teeth at the pointed questions and gentle caresses and wished the whole evening over. After what felt like an eternity, thankfully, it nearly was.
‘Now, you wanted to talk.’
They had just bid farewell to the last of the departing guests at the front door. She shook her head, revelling in being able to put some distance between them at last. At last the pretence was over. But the strain of deflecting their barbed queries coupled with Diablo’s constant presence at her side had left her with such a thundering tension headache that all she wanted to do now was to go to bed. The last thing she wanted to face was an all too revealing statement of how she saw their marriage working.
‘It can wait,’ she conceded, rubbing her temples. ‘I’m just glad this farce of an evening is over.’
But Diablo was talking to a passing waiter and she didn’t think he’d heard her.
‘Why do you call it that?’ he said, turning back to her a moment later and proving her assumption wrong. ‘Our engagement is no farce, nor will our marriage be.’
‘You know it’s a farce! And having to pretend that this relationship is anything other than the business transaction it is, it’s just impossible.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You think this marriage is merely a business transaction?’
‘Isn’t it? It’s hardly a love match.’
He ushered her into a small sitting room opposite the ballroom just as the waiter returned, bearing a tray with two glasses, one a tumbler of what looked like Scotch, the other a tall frosty glass, its contents sparkling. He lifted them both from the tray and held out the tall glass as the waiter exited, closing the door behind them.
‘What is it?’ she said, not taking it.
‘Drink it. It’s an old Spanish headache remedy. It will make you feel better.’
Briar eyed the glass suspiciously. There was no telling what ingredients might go into making an ‘old Spanish headache remedy’. ‘And you care how I feel? I don’t think so.’
He shrugged, still holding the glass even as he took a sip from his own. ‘You would rather keep your headache?’
She murmured her thanks as she took the glass, aware she was being churlish, wondering at his ability to rub her up the wrong way. She sniffed tentatively at the glass, took a sip and, with surprise, instantly recognised the slightly bitter taste of paracetamol. ‘Old Spanish headache remedy’ indeed. She lifted her eyes to meet his and found