still in her wedding dress, but with her hand in that of a totally different man—the man who, in the eyes of the law, if not in her heart, was actually her true husband.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind! It’s too late for that.’
For a moment, Amber didn’t realise where the words had come from. She only registered the cold fury in them, the way they were hissed at her in a dark undertone from behind, making her jump like a nervous cat. But even as she spun round she recognised the voice with a sinking heart. ‘Mother…’
But Pamela Wellesley wasn’t listening. Instead, her face drawn into a pale, tight mask of cold fury, she waved an elegantly manicured hand in the direction of the scene beyond the glass door.
‘Have you seen them all in there? Well, have you? That’s where we could be—where we should be, if you hadn’t lost the little sense you had inside your stupid head! They wouldn’t let me in and it’s all your fault.’
‘But I…’ Amber began but before she could get the words out Guido had taken a step forward. Just a single step but it brought Pamela’s gaze to him, her eyes widening as she looked up into his stern, unyielding face. Amber could have sworn that her mother had actually been unaware of his presence just for a moment because she had been so intent on spilling out her fury at the way she believed her daughter had ruined all her plans.
‘If you want to blame anyone, then I suggest you blame me.’
‘You!’ Pamela choked now.
‘Me,’ Guido confirmed with an easy calm, one that was belied by the tightness Amber could see in his strong jaw, the way his eyes were narrowed as they focused on the older woman’s face.
‘You’re here!’
‘Of course.’
He kept his tone soft and almost pleasant. But it only needed that to give the game away. Hearing it made Amber shiver faintly in recognition of just what he was holding back and what, she recognised with slightly stunned disbelief, kept even her mother quiet as their eyes clashed in silent confrontation.
‘Where else would I be but at my wife’s side?’
‘Your…’ Pamela began then spluttered to a halt. ‘It’s true then. You’re married…’
‘We’re married. And you might as well know—because you’ll read it in the papers tonight—that we’ve decided to try again. Have another go at making our marriage work. That means we’re a couple—and so anything you have to say to Amber, you say to me as well.’
There was no threat in the words, no aggression. There was only a cold, hard certainty that sliced through her mother’s assurance, making her gaze falter, her eyes flicker in uncertainty as they went to her daughter’s face.
‘Is this true?’
Amber didn’t need the small warning squeeze of her hand to remind her of the bargain they had made; the way that she had agreed to let the world think that they were back together.
‘Perfectly true.’ She was surprised at the depth of confidence she managed to inject into her voice. ‘Guido and I are together. My future is with him.’
It sounded so good. It sounded so real—when all the time it was nothing but a lie. It sounded so much like her dream of a year before that it tore at her heart, making her eyes burn, her throat close so that she couldn’t have said another word.
She didn’t have to. Already her mother was backing down, backing away. Her angry gaze took in the two of them then obviously decided against taking any risks.
‘I wish you joy of each other,’ she snapped, turning on her heel. ‘But don’t come running to me when it all goes wrong.’
‘Oh, I won’t.’ Amber didn’t care if she was heard or not. She needed to say it for herself. ‘I won’t…’ she repeated as she watched her mother disappear down the corridor.
It was only when Pamela turned a corner out of sight that she drew in a long, uneven breath and squared her shoulders.
‘So now what?’
‘One down, one to go.’ He indicated the door and the party beyond. ‘Ready?’
Guido could feel the tension in Amber’s body just through the link of their joined hands. He’d have to be totally insensitive not to be aware of the way that it had been growing stronger with each step they took towards the ballroom reception. And the confrontation with her witch of a mother had been the last straw. So now a swift glance down at her face showed the way that she had lost every last trace of colour, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her sharp white teeth were worrying at the softness of her bottom lip, digging in so hard that he almost expected to see bright pearls of blood spring to the surface at any moment.
‘Don’t!’
Concern made the word sharper than he’d intended, bring her brilliant emerald gaze up in a rush.
‘Amber—no…’
His tone was one of reproach but his touch was gentle as he reached out to place his fingers over her mouth to stop her from inflicting the small, unthinking damage on herself.
‘No, cara,’ he said again, more softly this time, and saw her eyes widen even more in disbelief and shock.
He didn’t blame her. She must be wondering what had happened to the coldly blazing fury of just minutes before. The rage that had erupted when he had been forced to face just how little her wedding to him had meant; how much she regretted ever having married him. She had flung those facts in his face with the deliberate intention of provoking him, and, like a fool, he’d let his reaction show.
But now, suddenly, all that heat, all that anger had gone. And the truth was that he didn’t know where or how it had seeped away. But he sure as hell knew why.
It had started in the moment that she had stood up to her mother by declaring them a couple, but more than that, it was touching her that had been his downfall.
At the moment that his fingers had touched the lush, yielding softness of her mouth, it had been as if someone had yanked out a plug somewhere so that all the stored-up anger and bitterness inside him had drained away, leaving only room for the intense jag of sensuality that arced through his body, pooling low down in his groin.
Having touched her, so very softly, he now found that he just couldn’t pull away again. His fingers stayed on her mouth, his thumb tracing the sweet shape of it, stroking over the fresh rose swell of her slightly parted lips, sliding between them.
On his hand he felt the cooler air of her snatched-in breath, the warm moistness of her inner mouth. And he could have sworn that, just for a split second, her tongue slipped up and out, to taste his skin as it rested against hers.
He had vowed to himself that he would drag her, kicking and screaming, into that room if he had to. That he would make her face Rafe St Clair with him, as his wife, even if he had to force her every step of the way. But suddenly that resolution escaped from him in a rush, like air from a pricked balloon.
‘Are you OK?’
Her expression showed that it had shocked her almost as much—no, more—to hear the question as he had shocked himself by asking. Clearly she had read his intent in his face and now she couldn’t believe that he was actually concerned about the way she felt.
‘I…’ she began but then the words failed her and he couldn’t tell if it was because she wasn’t OK, or if the movement of her mouth on the words had brought her lips and tongue into contact with the skin of his thumb again, and the sensation was what had driven the words from her mind, made the words die in her throat.
Her pupils had widened, seeming to fill the whole of her irises so that there was only the smallest rim of green around the edges, and under his restraining fingers the pulse at her wrist kicked up suddenly, fast and erratic, making her breath catch unevenly.