gently brushed the back of his hand along the edge of her fine-boned jaw. ‘Now you’d better go stop him from coming up and spoiling any of your surprises.’
As Aurelie left the room Victoria sat in a swelter of confusion and defiance and embarrassment.
‘You thought I was Aurelie’s fiancé?’ Liam walked back towards her, his smile had widened yet he managed to look less friendly.
Could he blame her when Aurelie had said ‘he’d’ arrived and then Liam had walked in as if he owned the place?
‘You thought I was marrying her?’ He stepped closer, suddenly very tall and a lot like a roadblock. ‘And playing you?’
Victoria tried to glance behind him but it was impossible. He was fully in her face and expecting an answer with his eagle eyes. The only thing to do was play it cool. Frigidly cool. ‘Do you blame me for thinking that?’ She arched her brows as if that could make her taller. ‘You have form.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I could spend some time arguing that, but why bother?’ He stayed in place, right in her space. ‘Just as I was five years ago, Victoria, I’m here as a guest.’
A guest. He truly wasn’t Aurelie’s fiancé.
For a second relief flooded her. But then mortification screamed back. Her cheeks burned under his mocking scrutiny.
Of course she’d thought he was the groom. In the rare moments she’d ever let herself think of him in the last five years, he’d always been the groom. The guy she’d never said yes to and refused to ever regret.
‘Your name wasn’t on the guest cards,’ she said defensively.
‘I didn’t think I was going to be able to make the wedding,’ he explained. ‘That’s why I’m one of the late additions.’ He pointed to the sheet of paper Aurelie had put on the desk.
He hadn’t made it to Victoria’s wedding. She wasn’t sure he’d even been invited. Not after what had happened. It was the only time she’d seen Oliver uncontrollably angry. She’d gone upstairs and the rest of the family had retired to change for lunch. Oliver and Liam had gone outside. Victoria had pressed close to her bedroom wall, secretly peering out of the window.
Liam had taken the blow without putting up any physical defence. The spot on his jaw had reddened, but all the while he’d quietly insisted to Oliver that nothing had happened. That she’d done nothing. That his interruption wasn’t her fault. It had been his mistake alone.
He’d been facing the house. He’d glanced up, seen her. Their eyes connected for one split second.
Withdrawing. Apologising. Leaving.
He’d never looked at her again. Until today.
But had she done nothing? Really? Who had made the bigger mistake? Whose fault was it really? She’d been scared. She’d never had the strength to stand up to any of them—her parents, Oliver. Even Liam. She’d always done as they bid because she’d needed their approval. And all of them had steamrollered over her. But she’d let them—she’d helped them. That wasn’t happening again. Only now she did look at the list Aurelie had handed to her. The third name down?
Liam Wilson.
‘Oh.’ She faked a bright smile. ‘I thought—’
‘I know what you thought,’ he said, easing back into position against the desk. ‘You never thought much of me, did you?’
That wasn’t true but she couldn’t reveal what she’d thought of him all those years ago. She couldn’t admit it then, she couldn’t now.
There were five names on that list: three men, two women—one of whom had the same surname as another of the guests. The other woman’s name was written last, beneath another man’s name. Liam’s name stood alone in the middle there. Was he coming to the wedding without a partner?
She didn’t need to know. She really didn’t. Because it didn’t matter.
That didn’t stop her glancing at his hands—his fisted fingers. Bare knuckles didn’t mean anything for men. Many guys didn’t wear wedding rings or, if they did, only when convenient. And even if they did wear them?
Victoria knew all too well how a wedding ring wasn’t necessarily an obstacle as far as another woman was concerned. Or for a husband who was no longer satisfied in his marriage. Liam’s lack of ring meant nothing. Nor did his lack of date.
But still that unwanted excitement heated her blood and anticipation zinged through her veins. What was she, some teen girl going to meet her fave ever boyband?
But he might be free. And now? So was she. There was nothing to stop them from finally exploring this thing…
Only the ten tonnes of baggage she was constantly pushing in front of her. And the baggage he’d worked into some kind of bullet-proof vest that he wore beneath that easy-come, easy-go attitude.
‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up at him. For today, for all those years ago. For what could never have been and never could be. She’d moved on; she didn’t want to go back to the doormat she’d been. She had plans and they didn’t involve anyone else. Not him. Not any man.
Liam looked right back at her, his mouth curved in that slight, sexy smile. Time shifted—five years disappeared in that unspoken communication. She was drawn right back into those feelings that should have been forgotten—warmth, want, desire.
And she had to get out of there before she did something really dumb.
He wrapped his fingers right round her wrist—halting her just as she moved. ‘I’m not anyone’s fiancé.’ His grip was sure and warm. ‘That means I’m free to flirt with whoever I want,’ he added.
‘Not with me,’ she said huskily, swallowing to ease the dryness in her throat. She didn’t want to flirt with anyone.
‘Yes, you.’ His smile was oddly gentle. ‘You’re not anyone’s fiancée either, or wife.’
So he knew her marriage had ended.
‘I can’t believe you still blush like this—’
‘I’m not here to flirt,’ she interrupted him quickly. ‘I’m here to work.’ The emphasis was for herself as much as for him. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by this quirk of fate.
His gaze rested on her for a long moment, as if he were weighing the truth of her words. His grip remained firm— could he feel her pulse accelerating?
He let her go. ‘Then let’s see you in action.’ He handed back her pen.
As if.
‘I can’t do this with you watching.’ Her palms were damp; she’d already smudged ink everywhere just from hearing his voice. She’d be less competent than a two-year-old with a pack of finger-paints right now.
‘You always had a problem with me watching.’
She tensed, hoping to stop him from seeing her all-over tremble. She had always been aware of the way he watched her. ‘It’s not you,’ she lied sassily. ‘I don’t like anyone watching me work.’
‘In case you make a mistake?’
‘Not at all.’ She lied yet again. ‘I’m not afraid to make mistakes. I’ve made many.’ Too, too many.
‘Then you’re fine to write in front of me. Write my name.’
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to make more mistakes. She had to focus now.
‘You’re still a chicken,’ he jeered.
‘You’re confusing cowardice with being sensible.’ She had always tried to do the sensible thing. No shame in that, right? ‘And with these smudges?’ She held up her fingers. ‘Why would I waste my time and resources?’
He