Книга - The Notting Hill Diaries: Ripped / Burned

The Notting Hill Diaries: Ripped / Burned
Sarah Morgan


Living in rom-com central hasn’t always helped the Miller sisters to be lucky in love.But all that could be about to change…Hayley didn’t think being a bridesmaid at her ex’s wedding could get any worse – until her hideous yellow dress ripped in the middle of the ceremony! Yet when sexy, best man Nico comes to her rescue, the wedding of her nightmares could turn into the love story of her dreams…Rosie takes pride in remaining composed when Hunter Black- her former lover- becomes her new boss. The one thing Rosie didn’t count on? The powerful chemistry they still share! Or that sometimes a blast from the past can be just what you need!Two fun, flirty stories from Sarah Morgan












The Notting Hill Diaries

Ripped & Burned

Sarah

Morgan







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


Cover (#u0c56361e-c38a-5484-8f3b-24310983466c)

Title Page (#u4140ebd7-df25-5c60-880e-16b9c19d3642)

Ripped

Praise for bestselling author

About the Author (#u4dae06da-424d-56fb-b28e-c8c54bf54443)

Dedication (#u34f24eb5-d3f9-5e93-a798-75651caba6be)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Burned

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)



Ripped (#ub55254ff-5326-5b86-9edf-c25fe35f4329)




Praise for bestselling author (#ub55254ff-5326-5b86-9edf-c25fe35f4329)

Sarah Morgan


‘Sarah Morgan puts the magic in Christmas’

—Now magazine

‘Full of romance and sparkle’

—Lovereading

‘I’ve found an author I adore—must hunt down everything she’s published.’

—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

‘Morgan is a magician with words.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Dear Ms Morgan, I’m always on the lookout for a new book by you …’

—Dear Author blog


SARAH MORGAN is the bestselling author of Sleigh Bells in the Snow. As a child Sarah dreamed of being a writer and, although she took a few interesting detours on the way, she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.

Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading, Sarah enjoys music, movies and any activity that takes her outdoors.

Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com (http://www.sarahmorgan.com). She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.


To Katie, with love.

Have fun and be fearless. Xxxx




Chapter One (#ub55254ff-5326-5b86-9edf-c25fe35f4329)


‘Dearly beloved,’ the priest droned, ‘we are gathered here today to witness—’

A mistake of massive proportions, I thought gloomily, holding my breath and sitting up straight in a bid to stop my bridesmaid dress splitting at the seams. Any moment now I was going to burst out of this pukey-yellow tube and the wedding would forever be remembered as the one where the bridesmaid exposed herself. Not that I was prudish. Far from it. I’d danced on plenty of tables in my time, but on an ideal day I’d prefer not to find myself revealing all Victoria’s secrets to Great-Uncle Henry.

Some girls went through their lives dreaming of being a bridesmaid. You heard people talking about it as if it were a life goal. I had a list of life goals. I wanted to build a robot, visit Peru (I’ve always had a thing about llamas), work for NASA. Bridesmaid? That was nowhere on my list.

My parents married when they were both twenty-one. They stood at the front of a church much like this one wearing ridiculous clothes they wouldn’t normally be seen dead in, made all the usual promises—have and hold, death us do part, blah, blah—and then divorced when I was eight. Which taught me one thing—that a wedding is just a party by another name.

Because my neck was the only part of me that could move without straining a seam, I turned my head and glanced sideways. Through a forest of fascinators and absurd hats that made me think of UFOs, I could see the door that led to a pretty private churchyard, now covered in a light dusting of snow. I was glad it was pretty because I was sure I was going to be there soon. Here lies Hayley, who exploded out of her dress at the most inconvenient moment of her short, very unsatisfactory life and promptly died of shame.

The tiny church was crammed with people and stuffed full of extravagant flower displays, the cloying scent of lilies thickening the air and mingling unpleasantly with the smell of perfume from the elderly aunts. My nose tickled and my head started to throb.

The priest was still droning on in a hypnotic voice that could have been recorded and sold for millions as a cure for insomnia. ‘If anyone knows any reason why these two may not be joined, speak now….’

Any reason?

Was he kidding?

I could have given him at least ten reasons without even revving up a brain cell.

Number one—the groom was a total bastard.

Number two—he’d slept with the bride’s sister and at least two of the bride’s friends.

Number three—it was three days until Christmas and who the hell was dumb enough to get married when they should have been rushing round buying last-minute presents?

Number four—it was far too cold to be wearing a strapless dress and at this rate I was going to be eating my Christmas dinner in hospital with a nasty bout of pneumonia.

Number five—

‘Hayley, are you OK?’ My sister Rosie nudged me in the ribs, increasing the strain on my dress.

Of course I wasn’t OK. We both knew I wasn’t fucking OK. That was why she’d agreed to come with me, but this was hardly the moment for sisterly bonding over margaritas. To be honest, if she’d passed me a margarita I wouldn’t have known whether to drink it or drown myself in it.

I was good at statistics and I could tell you right now there was a 99 percent chance this wedding was going to end in tears. Probably mine.

‘You should have said no when she asked you to be her bridesmaid,’ Rosie hissed. ‘It was a mean thing to do when everyone knows you used to date him.’

And there it was. Right there. Reason number five why the bride and groom shouldn’t get married. Because he’d once said he wanted to marry me.

I’d told him no. I didn’t want to get married. Ever. I’d never had ambitions to be a bridesmaid and I had even fewer to be a bride. I assumed if he loved me, it wouldn’t make a difference. I mean, what was the big deal about a wedding ceremony? It wasn’t as if it stopped people breaking up. All that mattered was being together, wasn’t it?

Apparently not.

Turned out Charles was very traditional. He was climbing the ladder in an investment bank in the city and needed a wife prepared to devote herself to the advancement of his career. I’ve always been crap on ladders. I tried explaining I was as excited about my own career as he was about his and his response had been to dump me. In a very public way, I might add, just so that no one was under any illusions as to who had done the dumping.

Admittedly it hurt to be dumped, but nowhere near as much as it hurt to admit I’d wasted ten months on a guy who wasn’t remotely interested in the real me.

I realized everyone in the church was looking at me accusingly, as if I’d come here on purpose to make things awkward. To somehow punish him for not choosing me.

Look again, I wanted to yell, and see which one of us is being punished.

What girl in her right mind would choose to turn up at her ex’s wedding dressed in the fashion equivalent of a giant condom?

Was it my fault the bride wanted to make a public declaration about which one of us the groom was marrying? And I knew I wasn’t exactly guilt-free in all this. I could have said no. But then everyone would have thought I was moping and broken-hearted and I had my pride.

That was the first thing Mum taught us—never let a man know you’re broken-hearted. Which might be why our dad didn’t stick around for long, but more on that later.

I could feel myself turn pink, which I knew had to look horrible against the pukey yellow. I think the fabric was officially described as ‘misty dawn’ but if I saw a dawn like that I wouldn’t put a foot out of bed.

Worst of all? He was looking at me. No, not Charlie—he hadn’t once glanced in my direction, the coward. The best man. Charlie’s friend from school, although they’d grown apart in recent years and the friend was now a super successful lawyer. To be honest I was a bit surprised he’d agreed to be best man, but Charlie had lost a lot of friends since he’d taken a job in the city and started only hanging out with people who were ‘useful’ to him.

The best man’s name was Niccolò Rossi and he was half Italian. And hot. Seriously hot. In the looks department this man had been gifted by the gods.

Unfortunately immediately after the gods had dished out super clever brain, dark good looks and an incredible body, they obviously decided too much of a good thing was a bad thing and withheld humour. Which was a shame because Nico had an amazing mouth. A perfect sensual curve that would probably look good in a smile. Only he never used it to smile. Never. And he wasn’t using it now as he looked at me. He clearly wasn’t amused to see me sitting there. I wasn’t amused either. It was probably the first time we’d felt the same way about anything. He lived in London. We’d met the same night I met Charlie and although we were always bumping into each other on the social circuit, we’d barely spoken. I knew he wasn’t my type. He disapproved of me and I was done with men who disapproved of me. Charlie hated the fact I was an engineer. He always wanted me to wear frilly dresses to compensate. No wonder we came unstuck.

Nico cast me an icy glance at the same moment I looked at him.

Bad timing.

Our eyes clashed. His were a dark, dangerous black and everything inside me turned to liquid.

I glared, taking my anger with myself out on him.

I hated that he made me feel this way. He didn’t like me. I didn’t like him. We were polar opposites. I was fun-loving, friendly and honest about my feelings. He was zipped up, ruthlessly contained and cold as the inside of my freezer. There had been moments over the past few years when I’d been tempted to leap on him with a blowtorch to see if I could thaw him out.

He’d given me a lift home in his car once when Charlie had been too drunk to walk, let alone drive. It was a night I’d tried to forget. We’d been celebrating my job, which for some reason had sent Charlie over the edge.

Nico drove a red Ferrari, just about the sexiest car on the planet, and he was ruthlessly tidy. There wasn’t a single screwed-up piece of paper in sight. No mess (although by the time he dropped me off there may have been traces of saliva where I’d drooled all over his car). His suits were Tom Ford, his shoes polished and his shirts a crisp, pristine white. But underneath that carefully polished appearance there was something raw and elemental that no amount of sophisticated tailoring could conceal.

I’d been wearing my favourite black dress that night and I remember he didn’t look at me once. Not even at my legs, which were definitely my best feature, especially when I dressed them up in four-inch stilettos (no pain no gain). He hadn’t bothered to hide his disapproval then and he wasn’t hiding it now.

His burning gaze lowered to my neckline and that sensual, unsmiling mouth tightened into a line of grim censure.

I wanted to stand up and point out that the dress wasn’t my choice. That it was yet another trick on the part of the bride to make sure I looked hideous. Quite honestly my breasts were too big for this dress and breasts generally weren’t on the guest list to a wedding. Mine were so big they could have qualified for separate invitations.

Nico Rossi obviously didn’t think they should have been invited at all.

Truth? I found him intimidating and I hated that.

I was a modern, independent woman. I’d never worn pink and I’d never had the urge to coo over strange babies in prams. My best subjects at school were Math, Physics and Technology. I was the only girl in the class and I always had better marks than the boys, which usually pissed them off, but I figured that was their problem not mine. I had a degree in aeronautical engineering and was working on a supersecret project to do with satellites. I couldn’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you and eat you and you didn’t need a degree in engineering to know there was no room in this dress for two people. I loved my job. It excited me more than any man I’d ever met. But that could have been because I constantly messed up my love life.

Every. Single. Time.

Honestly, how could an intelligent woman get it so badly wrong? I’d tried to apply data analysis methods to my dating history but failed to extract anything meaningful from the results except that getting it wrong hurt. I always seemed to end up compromising who I was, but that’s in the genes. Rosie and I watched our mum contort who she was for men who subsequently left her. As I said, we weren’t good at relationships, which was probably why I was sitting here single, watching my ex get married.

I breathed in the smell of this musty old church and thought about all the promises that had been made here only to be broken a few years down the line. And right there and then, I made a decision.

No more feelings.

Feelings just led to misery and I was done with misery.

Not that I’d ever been the sort of girl to wait by the phone, willing it to ring. God, no. If a guy played those games with me, I deleted him from my contacts. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be hurt. And frankly, what was the point?

‘I’ve made a New Year’s Resolution.’ I risked the dress and leaned closer to Rosie. ‘And I’m starting right now.’

‘You’re never wearing pukey-yellow again?’ She eyed my dress. ‘Good decision.’

I ignored her. ‘I’m sick of romantic relationships. Why bother? I can go to the movies with girlfriends. I can chat with girlfriends. I can laugh with girlfriends.’

‘That’s your New Year’s resolution?’

‘Everything I need in life I can get from girlfriends,’ I hissed, ‘apart from one thing—’

Rosie coughed. ‘Well, you can—’

‘No, I can’t. I need a man for that part. But only that part. From now on I’m using men for sex. Nothing else.’

‘Well, as resolutions go, I predict that one is going to be a lot more fun than giving up chocolate.’

I could always rely on my sister for support.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was it was a brilliant idea. ‘I should have thought of it before.’ I was talking out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to attract glares from the elderly aunts. ‘Instead of trying to find a man who can make me laugh and is actually interested in me, instead of wondering what I can do for his career, I look for one thing. Sex appeal.’

‘If all you’re interested in is sex appeal, you could start with Nico Rossi,’ Rosie whispered. ‘He is scorching hot.’

Not just me then.

The problem was, I didn’t want to find Nico sexy. I didn’t want to think of him naked or wonder how it would feel to be kissed by him. He didn’t like me. It disturbed my sense of order and fairness that I should find him attractive.

I looked away, but not for long.

I couldn’t help myself. I sneaked another look. It was some consolation that every other woman under ninety was staring, too. If ever there was such a thing as raw sex appeal, Nico had it. He was the sort of guy that made you think about sin in a big way, which wasn’t a good thing when you were sitting in church with your breasts half exposed.

I couldn’t wait to get to the bathroom so that I could unzip my dress and give my ribs the freedom they deserved.

When was this wedding going to end?

Enough already.

Just say I do and go and live your lives until your realize what you should have said was I don’t.

But now they were staring into each other’s eyes and reciting handwritten personalized messages.

I promise to love you forever and cherish you.

I promise never to cancel your subscription to the sports channel.

(OK I made that one up but you get the point.)

I wriggled in my seat, wondering whether Nico Rossi spoke in Italian when he was having sex. He’d brought his younger sister to the wedding—a sleek, dark vision of slender perfection. She was poised and sophisticated, just like him. Every now and then she glanced at him adoringly, as if he were a god. It seemed unnatural to me. I mean, I loved my sister but there were plenty of days I wanted to poke her in the eye. But these were perfect people who would never show emotion in public. They probably never argued. They were the sort who believed marriage to be an exciting journey.

I was always sick on journeys.

Thanks to our parents’ less than stellar example, my sister and I were both equally screwed-up about relationships. Not that there weren’t men in our lives. Far from it. Men were always attracted by Rosie’s sweet, heart-shaped face and her pretty smile. They thought she was fragile and needed protecting. Then they discovered my sister had a black belt in karate and could break a man’s bones with one kick and they usually retreated nervously, licking their wounded machismo.

There was a guy once, but if I so much as thought his name she’d break my bones, too, so it was a subject I didn’t touch.

Just when I thought this wedding was never going to end, the priest benevolently told the groom he could kiss the bride. He’d been kissing the bride and half her friends regularly for the past six months without permission from anyone, but no one seemed to care about that.

I couldn’t help wondering if the kiss was for my benefit, to remind me what I’d turned down.

It was very Hollywood. No bumping noses or awkward moments. Scripted. The sort of kiss where you just knew they were thinking about how it looked on the outside, not how it felt on the inside.

There seemed to be an awful lot of tongue involved.

Rosie made sick choking noises next to me.

God, I loved my sister.

And then finally, finally, it was over.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

And my dress split.




Chapter Two (#ub55254ff-5326-5b86-9edf-c25fe35f4329)


Oh fuck, so now I was naked. Not just wearing a condom, but a split condom, and suddenly no one was looking at the bride and groom—they were staring at me and I couldn’t exactly blame them because there was plenty to see. There were times when I was happy to be the centre of attention, but this wasn’t one of them.

Why oh why hadn’t I worn a bra?

I’d tried it, but it had shown through the cheap, shiny fabric, so I’d decided in the interests of vanity that if I had to wear this hideous dress at least my outline would be smooth and perfect.

Another bad decision. The dress had split down both side seams simultaneously, exposing me completely from the waist up. I felt like a half-peeled banana, but I probably looked like one of those women who turned up at stag parties and leapt out of cakes.

I was strip-o-gram bridesmaid.

Everyone was staring, transfixed by delicious horror, all deeply relieved it hadn’t happened to them. But it could never have happened to them. Only to me. My life had a habit of unraveling, only usually not quite as literally as this.

The snow and the draughty, under-heated old church had conspired to make my nipples stand to attention. I tried to cover them with my hands, but then I realized I was probably making it worse. Now I wasn’t just naked—I was touching myself.

For the first time in quite a few years, I prayed.

Kill me now.

Mum had always drummed into Rosie and me that we should wear clean underwear in case of an accident, although to be fair I don’t think this was the sort of accident she had in mind when she dished out that advice. I wished I’d listened, but I honestly hadn’t thought my underwear, or lack of it, was going to be an issue. Every unattached girl hoped she would score at a wedding, but I was a realist. No man was going to hit on a woman wearing a giant body condom. Don’t misunderstand me—I was all for safe sex. I insisted on condoms. It was just that I didn’t usually try and squeeze my whole self into one.

The dress was a horribly tight tube, floor length, which basically meant my legs were locked together. I couldn’t even run away. I was like a mermaid, but without an ocean to drown in. Escape would be a slow, shuffling, breast-bouncing affair.

Scarlet-faced, I tried to grab the misbehaving fabric and cover myself with that, but honestly it was like trying to cover Big Ben with a handkerchief.

Somewhere through the swirling clouds of embarrassment I heard Rosie snort. She was laughing so hard I knew she was going to be as much use to me as a non-alcoholic cocktail at a party. Rosie had a problem with laughter. She couldn’t control it. Watching her laugh usually made me laugh, too, but any desire to laugh was squashed by the look in ruthless Nico Rossi’s eyes.

While everyone else was gaping in horrified silence (and I can tell you they weren’t looking at my face) he strode across the aisle towards me, all broad shouldered and powerful like a warrior preparing to repel an invading army.

I waited for Rosie to leap to her feet and execute one of her incredible scissor kicks that would flatten him, but my useless sister was doubled up with tears pouring down her face and Nico was still striding. I guessed it would take a lot to flatten a man like him.

Just for a moment I shivered because whatever he lacked in the emotional warmth department, physically he was truly spectacular—stomach-melting, willpower-destroying spectacular. The sort of man you couldn’t look at without thinking about sex.

Dark, glittering eyes were focused on me like a laser-guided weapon programmed to destroy.

His role as best man was to support the groom and solve problems and right now I was the problem. Or at least, my breasts were. They were loose and free and I could tell from the look on his face he thought breasts like mine shouldn’t be allowed out without a permit.

The elderly aunts had their eyes averted, but the elderly uncles were staring at me, their bulging eyes reminding me of sea creatures. I saw sweat on their brows and was just wondering whether I was going to be responsible for adding more bodies to that pretty churchyard when Nico reached me. He removed his jacket in a smooth movement that made me think he’d be good at undressing women, and wrapped it around my shoulders. Actually ‘wrapped’ was too gentle a word for what he did, but either way my bouncing breasts were now safely buried under Tom Ford. His jacket felt warm. It smelled delicious. It smelled of him.

‘Move!’ It was a command, not a request and I opened my mouth to point out my legs were tied together, but his hand was on my back and he was propelling me down the aisle. Down the aisle. That’s right, I, Hayley Miller of 42 Cherry Tree Crescent, Notting Hill, was shuffling down the aisle with a man, something I always said I’d never do, except that I was doing it backwards and half-naked, so it probably didn’t count.

I staggered past a sea of faces, all with their mouths hanging open. They reminded me of a nest of baby birds waiting to be fed and I wasn’t just feeding them morsels of gossip—I’d given them a banquet. At least they wouldn’t need to eat at the reception.

And behind the fascinated horror was the delight some people felt when they witnessed someone else’s public humiliation. They’d be talking about this moment for weeks. Who was I kidding? Years. One thing I knew for sure—I was never trusting a condom again.

But I had more immediate problems to worry about.

I had no idea where we were going.

This was a small private church in the grounds of a stately home. England was full of that sort of thing and, since the credit crunch, even the very rich were looking for ways to supplement their income. Hiring out the dusty family chapel for weddings was a clever way of allowing less privileged folk to pretend for that one day of their lives that they actually lived like this. I didn’t think it was any more fake than exchanging vows and promises about loving each other forever and then splitting up a few years later. In other words, none of it meant anything, so why not go over the top? If dressing like an over-whipped dessert made you happy, then go for it I say (but for God’s sake get one that fits).

Everyone wanted to get married in this particular chapel, not for religious reasons but because the door was pretty and looked good in the photos.

‘Oh, God, the photos! What about the photos?’ I stopped dead, but he pushed me forward into a room and slammed the door.

It was just the two of us and the silence was really loud.

I looked around me and saw we were in a room with wood paneling and portraits of unsmiling dukes on unsmiling horses. In the corner was a perfectly decorated Christmas tree. No wonky home-made decorations like the ones Rosie and I used in our apartment, but designer perfection.

I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be here, but I guessed Nico wasn’t giving much thought to protecting the assets of our hosts. He was more interested in hiding my assets from the gawping guests.

What was I supposed to say?

What was the etiquette for a serious wardrobe malfunction?

I had a feeling ‘oops’ wasn’t going to cut it and asking for a needle and thread would have been like asking for a teacup to bail out the Titanic.

‘Er—nice jacket.’ And because I was wearing his jacket, he was in his shirtsleeves and I could see the swell of hard male muscle pressing against the fabric. His shirt was pristine white and I noticed his skin was golden, not pale and pasty like Charlie’s, and his jaw had the beginnings of a dark shadow. Thick, dark lashes framed eyes that were indecently sexy—the only thing that spoiled it was the dangerous glint of anger.

He dragged his fingers through hair that was usually smooth and sleek, exploded into Italian, and then switched language in midsentence as if realizing that if he wanted to insult me he’d better do it in a language I understood. ‘Cristo, what were you thinking choosing a dress that revealing?’

‘I didn’t choose it.’

‘Then you should have refused to wear it.’ His gaze was fixed on mine and didn’t waver.

Clearly he’d had no desire to ogle my bare breasts. I told myself that didn’t bother me.

What did bother me was the unconcealed look of disapproval on his handsome face.

I was sure he was a very successful lawyer. I didn’t even know which bit of the law he dealt with, but whatever he did I was sure he was the best of the best. I knew that if I were on the witness stand and he fixed me with that penetrating gaze I would have confessed to pretty much anything.

Yes, Your Honour, it’s true that on the twenty-second day of December I wore a giant condom to a wedding…. No, I had no idea I would be arrested for antisocial behavior—condoms are supposed to only have a 2 percent failure rate, but in my case it was 150 percent. Yes, I understand there were serious consequences. Wedding interruptus.

I wondered why he was so angry.

It wasn’t as if the groom had ended up with me. This episode could have just been labeled ‘narrow escape’.

Outrage started to simmer inside me. I was the victim of a cruel fashion crime, blameless in everything except my proportions and I wasn’t about to apologize for my breasts.

And anyway, I felt a bit funny inside. Not queasy exactly, but a bit dizzy and swimmy-headed. I thought it was probably hearing him speaking Italian. The only Italian I knew I learned from a menu and there was nothing sexy about Pizza Margherita even if you tried saying it in a sultry voice.

This man, however, was spectacularly sexy and everything that came out of his mouth made me want to grab him and do very, very bad things which was definitely off limits because Nico was the sort who was always ruthlessly in control of himself and behaved impeccably in public. I assumed lawyers weren’t allowed to misbehave.

‘Why the fuck are you here, Hayley? You are the master of bad decisions.’ He spoke through his teeth as if he were afraid that if he opened his mouth a tirade of insults would escape.

Frankly I was surprised to hear him say ‘fuck’.

But now he’d said it, I started thinking about it. Not the word, but the act. I couldn’t help it. Truthfully I’d been thinking about it long before he’d said that word. I doubted any woman could look at Nico and not think of it. Not love or romance, you understand. He wasn’t the hearts and roses sort of man. I couldn’t imagine him risking his suit by changing a nappy or rolling up his perfectly ironed sleeves to wash a greasy saucepan, but sex? God, yes. All it took was one look to know this man would know everything there was to know about hard, hot, sweaty sex.

For a wild moment I wanted to ask if he’d impart some of his knowledge, but then I remembered he’d just told me I made bad decisions. There was only so much abuse a girl could take in one day and I was right up to my limit. When you work in a male dominated profession as I do, you’re used to being judged. Most of the time I let it wash over me. If I threatened their masculinity that was their problem, not mine. Occasionally I fought back. Sometimes I took sadistic pleasure in surprising people, but I was damned if I’d allow myself to be told I made bad decisions by a man who never let himself go.

I stood up straighter and pushed my chest out (good job I was wearing his jacket). ‘Excuse me, but what gives you the right to judge my decisions?’

‘We could start with the fact you’re currently naked from the waist up under my jacket. Fix the dress. I’m the best man. I have duties to perform.’

And I was willing to bet he’d perform them well.

Oh, God, I had to stop thinking like that.

‘The dress is unfixable. And I couldn’t refuse to wear it. This was what Cressida wanted.’

‘Your half-naked body on display? I don’t think so.’ He threw me a look that would have terrified an entire army into immediate surrender. ‘But you’re just a girl who can’t say no.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I exploded, which considering I was half-naked wasn’t a good idea. Because I was quite physical I tended to add emphasis to what I was saying by using my hands. Up until a moment ago my hands had been holding the front of his jacket together. Now they were waving around wildly, preparing to act in my defense. Unfortunately they were not the only part of me to be waving around wildly.

His eyes darkened and I realized that he had stopped looking at my face.

Suddenly there were four of us in the room.

Me, him and my breasts.

I saw a tiny muscle move in his jaw and then his gaze lifted to mine and that was the moment I discovered that looking at someone could make you burn inside.

‘I can say no.’ My voice came out croaky and I realized the timing of that sentence wasn’t great because I knew, I just knew, that both of us were thinking about sex.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Hayley? At this wedding? Have you no pride?’

‘Pride is the reason I’m here. If I’d stayed away everyone would have thought I was broken-hearted.’

‘And are you?’ His question surprised me as much as the roughness of his voice.

We didn’t exactly have the sort of relationship that included an exchange of confidences and that was a deeply personal question. I had no intention of answering it.

I hadn’t even told Rosie how bad I felt, although she knew of course. That was why she was here. Solidarity even in the absence of confession. That was one of the unspoken rules of true sisterhood.

The second was that we were going to leave at the first possible moment, scoot back to our apartment in London and drown the memories of today in a large bottle of wine while we wrapped presents and finished decorating our apartment for Christmas.

Not that I was broken-hearted about Charlie—I wasn’t. It was more the misery of being forced to confront yet more evidence of how utterly impossible relationships were.

I was mourning the fairy tale, which was ridiculous when I thought about it because I’d never believed in the fairy tale.

‘Hayley? Cristo, answer the question.’ His voice was raw and thickened by an emotion I didn’t recognize. I assumed it was anger, since that was the only emotion he ever seemed to feel around me. ‘Are you broken-hearted?’

The question hung between us in an atmosphere that was heavy and sweaty. A moment ago I’d been freezing. Someone needed to open a window. It was stifling in here.

‘Unless you’re a cardiologist, the condition of my heart is none of your business.’ I might have been hiding my feelings but I wasn’t hiding anything else. I lifted my hands to close my jacket but he was there before me. Strong male fingers tangled with mine and the backs of his fingers brushed against my breasts. His hands were warm and chemistry shot through me. It was like falling on an electric fence.

Both of us froze.

The only sound in the room was his breathing. Or maybe it was my breathing.

He was standing really close to me, so close I had a magnified view of hot masculinity. My eyes were level with that darkened jaw, that unsmiling mouth and those incredible bed me if you’re lucky eyes.

Right at the moment I so, so wanted to get that lucky.

I knew he wouldn’t be good for me. He’d probably be a bit like junk food—something you could crave even while knowing it had no nutritional value and might make you feel sick later.

I didn’t care about the wedding. I didn’t care that I’d be gossiped about for the next two decades. All I wanted was to feel that mouth on mine and find out whether kissing him would be as good as I thought it would.

Oh, God, why not?

Today had been such a total disaster I might as well try and extract one decent memory to comfort me in the hours of cringing flashbacks that were bound to follow.

Telling myself I was doing us both a favor, I grabbed the front of his shirt and was about to pull him towards me when he muttered something in Italian and dragged me towards him by the lapels of his jacket.

We collided, locked together like wild animals in the mating season.




Chapter Three (#ulink_7bacc786-e671-56f5-9969-2d9d6001303b)


Bodies, mouths, every part of us that could touch were touching, and although I had no idea who made the first move I didn’t care any more because his mouth was warm and skilled and his kiss confirmed what I’d already suspected—

That he was the hottest man on the face of the earth.

Whatever else it was, this wasn’t a scripted kiss.

I doubted either of us would have known or cared if anyone else was watching. We were so wrapped up in each other, so absorbed in the moment, we wouldn’t have noticed if a horse had leapt from one of the paintings and started galloping around the room.

I felt the erotic slide of his tongue in my mouth and moaned aloud because what he was doing connected a million tiny circuits inside me and set off a chain reaction until I was fairly sure my body was close to meltdown. I didn’t care that he never smiled because I knew now his mouth was made for kissing and he proved it with every delicious, skilled stroke of his tongue. My arms were round his neck, my body pressed against his—and his was hard, muscular and just about perfect. Under that shockingly expensive suit, the man was ripped. Everything was ripped. My dress, his body and my reputation.

I couldn’t help myself. I covered the front of his trousers with the flat of my hand and felt him, hard and thick against my palm.

‘Cristo—’ he muttered against my lips and slammed me back against the wall, his mouth hot and demanding on mine. His hands had moved from the jacket to my breasts and I felt a thrill of delicious excitement as his thumbs grazed my nipples.

Usually I closed my eyes when I kissed, but not this time.

His eyes were fixed on mine, dark with heat and raw desire. It was the sexiest experience of my life and I didn’t want to miss a single moment of it.

My mind wasn’t capable of much coherent thought, but I knew I’d been wrong about one thing—

Nico Rossi wasn’t a good boy. He was a bad boy dressed in a good suit.

Heat pulsed between us, the chemistry screaming, scorching and intense. His fingers drove into my hair, which tumbled out of its clip and slid over his hand. His mouth was pressing hot, sensual kisses against my neck and lower.

He murmured something in Italian and I was about to ask him to translate when I realized I didn’t want him to. Knowing what he was saying might spoil everything. There was no way I was ever going to understand what was going on here anyway, so what was the point in trying?

I felt the thrust of his hard thigh between mine and there was another ripping sound as the seams tore a bit further. If the bridesmaid dress hadn’t already been ruined it would have been now. I didn’t think he even noticed. His mouth devoured mine and he yanked what was left of the stupid dress up and locked his hands on my shifting hips.

I strained against him, feeling the hard thrust of him against me and then I felt his hand move to my inner thigh. The anticipation almost killed me, and then he was stroking me with those long, knowing fingers, somehow programmed to touch me in exactly the right place even though I hadn’t said a word or made a sound. My mouth was on his, we were breathing the same air, biting, licking and it was the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. I wasn’t thinking about anything except how good it felt and then he slid his fingers inside me and good became incredible and I could feel myself pulse around him. I was gripping his shoulder because my knees were so weak I thought I might slide to the floor if I wasn’t holding on, but that left me with one hand free and I wasn’t going to waste it.

I wrapped my hand around him and felt him thicken in my grasp. As I stroked him I heard him growl deep in his throat and it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard, even sexier because I knew I was the one who had done that to him. This man who was so big on control was losing control, and he was losing it because of me.

His fingers were skilled, finding that exact spot with unerring accuracy and I felt the first flutters of orgasm.

We’d barely exchanged a word before today, this man and I, and yet here we were locked in this unimaginable intimacy. His knee nudged my thighs further apart, giving him full access and he kept using his fingers, kept kissing me until I felt everything inside me tighten and pulse. I was close, so close, and he knew because he was right there with me, his fingers controlling everything I was feeling, his mouth breathing in my gasps.

‘Come,’ he ordered softly, and normally I was very bad at doing what I was told but this time our objectives were clearly aligned and I tightened my hand around the glorious thickness of him and then heard someone calling my name.

‘Hayley?’ It was my sister, using one of her frantic stage whispers, knocking on doors as she searched for me. Presumably she’d finally stopped laughing for long enough to work out I might be in trouble.

Shit.

Nico and I stared at each other, eyes and mouths still locked together. My body was suspended in a state of intense excitement.

For once in my life I wished Rosie had just carried on laughing and not tried to help me out.

Here I was, hovering on the edge of what I knew was going to be the best orgasm of my life with the hottest man I was ever going to meet and my sister was banging on the door.

I was going to kill her. Slowly. If I was going to die in agony then I was going to make sure she did, too.

‘Hayley? Are you OK?’

It was a measure of how turned on I was that having my sister banging on the door hadn’t made any difference to the way I felt.

Nico swore against my mouth (in both Italian and English, in case you were wondering), and I was just about to ask whether he’d locked the door when it burst open.

Fortunately Nico had his back to our audience, shielding me. I had yet another reason to be thankful for those broad, muscular shoulders.

With admirable calm, he removed his fingers and his mouth from my body and somehow managed to pull my dress down and draw the lapels of his jacket together at the same time. He was impressive in a crisis—smooth and composed. Rosie had seen most of it before, of course. We’d lived together since we left home to go to college and we didn’t lock doors very often, so at this point I was more exasperated than embarrassed.

But then I looked past his shoulders (and that took some willpower, I can tell you, because it was the best view I’d seen in a long time) and saw a shocked face that didn’t belong to my sister.

Nico’s sister was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.

Oh crappity, crap, crap.

Her eyes were wide and shocked, her mouth slightly agape.

She obviously thought I’d corrupted her usually controlled brother. And maybe I had. I was certainly well on my way. From the moment he’d touched me, I’d thought about nothing but him. And before you judge me I can tell you without a flicker of doubt that if this man had kissed you, you wouldn’t have been thinking of anything but him either.

He swore under his breath. ‘Go back to the church, Kiara.’ It was a command, and she colored and stepped back without question.

If he’d spoken to me like that I would have posted his Tom Ford suit to a worthy charity, but she didn’t say a word. Just obeyed him like a puppy in an obedience class.

I decided it must be the shock that had stopped her from standing up for herself. And I was responsible for that shock.

So much for having a sexual relationship without emotional involvement. It seemed that no matter what rules you played by, someone always got hurt.

I wanted to tell her not to worry, that we hated each other really, but she’d already gone and I was left with more than a split dress to worry about.

I’d thought my embarrassment couldn’t get any deeper.

Turned out I’d been wrong about that, too.




Chapter Four (#ulink_1ba54304-a5b1-50b0-b52b-599cea687a3a)


‘Best wedding ever.’ It was Christmas Eve and Rosie was stretching on the living room floor, surrounded by half-wrapped Christmas presents. She spent a lot of time stretching. I’d learned to give her a wide berth because there had been more than one occasion when I’d moved too close and ended up with her foot in my face. She’d started karate at the age of six, then she’d added in Muay Thai when she was eighteen and met— But I wasn’t allowed to mention him. Let’s just say we call him He Who Shall Not Be Named (and he’s not that Voldemort guy from Harry Potter, although from the smile on my sister’s face at the time I think he might have had a magic wand hidden somewhere).

‘Glad you were entertained.’

Snow drifted lazily past the windows. The streets of London were white and everyone was wrapped up against the cold in bright scarves and outrageous hats. That was one of the many things I loved about living in London. People weren’t afraid to dress creatively, especially where we lived. In Notting Hill we were surrounded by artists, musicians and writers. And my angel-faced, karate-loving, kick-boxing sister.

I snuggled deeper into the sofa, my laptop balanced on my thighs because I couldn’t be bothered to walk to the table and anyway, it saved on heating bills. ‘Can we stop talking about the wedding?’

She’d been laughing non-stop for the past three days.

Sisterly love was wearing thin.

I pretended to be absorbed by my laptop, but if I was honest I’d barely done any work since we’d arrived home from the wedding. I couldn’t concentrate. My brain was jammed up with the hottest memory of my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. Mostly about the way Mr Super Cool had gone from ignoring me to virtually having sex with me. The change in him had been shocking and, well, exciting. What wasn’t so exciting was the fact it had been interrupted and there was no chance of a repeat performance, which basically meant I was doomed to die of sexual frustration. Not that I hadn’t tried to do something about that, but no vibrator was ever going to come close to the unique bedroom talents of Nico Rossi. It was like watching a boxed set, ending an episode on a cliffhanger and then realizing you’d lost the final DVD. I desperately wanted to know what happened next.

But I was never going to because Nico hadn’t liked me before the wedding, so he was going to like me even less since I ruined the day and walked off with his Tom Ford.

For a couple of days I’d nurtured a fantasy he might contact me, but of course he hadn’t. Real life is a split dress and embarrassment, not a hot guy ringing you.

I answered another email, trying to block out the memory of the wedding. I’d scoured YouTube for days, checking that no one had uploaded a video of my dizzying descent into ignominy. So far all seemed well, but if I could have dug a hole and lived underground for a while, I would have done. ‘Why the hell did you have to walk in when you did?’

‘Why the hell didn’t you lock the door if you were planning to have sex? I’ve wrapped a load of “spare” presents by the way. They’re the ones without labels.’ She spun and kicked, almost removing a lamp from the table. If the lamp had been a person, it would have been unconscious. And she wondered why men were intimidated by her. Sex with my sister could probably have been classified as a lethal sport.

And talking of sex…

‘We weren’t having sex!’ I watched as Rosie paused to arrange the presents in a pile under the perfectly shaped fir tree we’d picked up from the garden centre. I would have had a fake one, but she said we had so much fake in our life growing up, we deserved the real thing. Personally I didn’t see anything romantic about picking dried green needles out of the bottom of your feet in March, but that was just me. ‘Haven’t you overdone the “spare” presents this year?’

My sister always bought extra Christmas presents. She said it was because it made the tree look festive, but I knew her idea of a terrible Christmas would be for someone to turn up and her not have a gift for them. She was very generous—it was all linked with her fairy-tale view of the world. Not that she was idealistic, but she believed you could make your own fairy tale if you worked hard enough at it. Who needed a prince when you had a credit card and online shopping? When we were little she was the one who danced around the room in pink tights with a tiara on her head, pretending to be a princess. Then our parents split up and she decided she’d rather be the Karate Kid.

My sister’s most important self-created fairy tale was Christmas. Because we’d never had a proper family Christmas, she overcompensated madly. Hence the tree, the stockings and her determination that no one we knew would spend the day alone.

‘I’m going to pick up the turkey.’ She spun and executed another kick and her blonde hair flew around her face. There were times when I thought she should have auditioned to play Bond (and I do mean Bond, not the dopey girl planted in the film so he can have sex). She trained for hours every day, but it had paid off and she’d landed a great job coaching martial arts at Fit and Physical in the City. She was also building a list of clients for personal training. Her results were startling, but I guessed that was because they were all terrified of my sweet-faced sister. If you didn’t put in effort she kicked your butt. Literally.

Another ten emails pinged into my inbox. We were in the middle of this huge project at work and it wasn’t going away just because most of London had shut down for the holidays.

Half of me was hoping one of those emails was from Nico. I didn’t need to tell you which half but let’s put it this way—I was wondering if it was too late to ask Santa for a new vibrator. Was there one called The Niccolò? That was the one I wanted.

Idly I typed ‘vibrator—the Niccolò’ into the search engine. ‘I have to send the jacket back.’

‘You can’t do it today—he won’t be in the office. It’s Christmas Eve and it’s snowing.’ Rosie grabbed her coat. ‘Come with me. Better than moping.’

‘I’m not moping.’

‘You’re moping. And dreaming in Italian.’

I closed the lid of my laptop so she couldn’t see what I’d just typed. I had some secrets. ‘If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have had to dream. I would have had reality. I would have put my New Year’s resolution of emotionless sex into practice.’

‘It would have been a waste to rush something so good with a man that hot.’

‘So instead I didn’t get to do it at all? How is that better?’ I ducked as she threw me my coat. ‘I’m not going out. I still haven’t recovered from being naked in church. Someone might recognize me.’

‘The advantage of being naked from the waist up is that no one was looking at your face.’ Rosie threw my scarf. ‘Unless what you’re working on is an emergency, you’re coming.’

I wished she hadn’t used those exact words.

I wasn’t coming. That was the point. And yes, it was close to an emergency. At this rate I’d need resuscitation. Mouth-to-mouth. And mouth to— Well, you get the point. All I could think of was sex, which wasn’t good when there was no immediate hope for a satisfactory resolution.

Maybe freezing cold and snow would reduce the need for a vibrator.

It didn’t, but I had to admit there was something uplifting about walking through Notting Hill on Christmas Eve. Shop windows sparkled with lights and decorations and everyone was smiling, which didn’t make sense when you thought about the number of people who found this a miserable time of year or didn’t celebrate, but maybe they’d all stayed indoors.

A family strolled past, dragging an enormous tree. They were all holding hands. A mother, father and two very excited children with pink cheeks and shiny expressions. Something twisted inside me. I didn’t understand how I could envy that when it wasn’t what I wanted.

I caught Rosie’s eye and she shrugged, reading my mind.

That was one of the things I loved about my sister. Not only did she know what I was thinking without me saying it, but the past was the past. If something was messed up, then she was going to make sure she did it differently in the future. She was all about moving forward.

Snow was falling on her hair and I thought how pretty she was. Dancer-slim with amazing green eyes and blonde hair that licked around her face and fell to her shoulders. Long, slim limbs that could knock you out with one kick. It was her superpower.

Everyone else was thinking about Christmas, but I was thinking about the wedding. ‘Do you think I ruined their big day?’

‘No, but it would serve them right if you did. It was mean of them to insist you be a bridesmaid. Not that he was right for you, but they never should have put you in that position.’

She was my sister. It was her job to try and make me feel better, but I really wanted to believe her. It was Christmas Eve and no one wanted to feel bad about themselves on Christmas Eve.

‘It’s kind of ironic that I went because of my pride, and ended up half-naked in public and then kissing a man who hates me.’

Rosie made a snorting sound. ‘He doesn’t hate you. The two of you have chemistry. You always have. You two have always been much better suited than you and Charlie.’

I stopped dead and gaped at her. ‘How can you say that?’ I analyzed the evidence. ‘Nico Rossi has barely ever spoken to me. Whenever we’re in the same room, he ignores me. He doesn’t like me.’ Which made the whole thing all the more confusing. How could I possibly have had such a hot encounter with a man who didn’t like me?

‘He arranged for a car to drive us home from the wedding so you didn’t have to face the guests. That must have cost him a fortune.’

And I’d already tucked the money into the pocket of his Tom Ford. I didn’t want to be in debt to Nico. ‘He did it because he wanted to get us out of there. I’d already ruined the wedding.’

‘He rescued you when everyone else stood around gawping.’ My sister had stopped, too. Snow settled on her blonde hair. ‘He gave you his jacket. He didn’t have to do that.’

I frowned. ‘He didn’t want me naked in a church.’

My sister bent gracefully and scooped up a handful of snow, forming it into a snowball. ‘Who gave you a lift home the night you invited a load of us to celebrate your new job and Charlie proceeded to ignore you and get wasted?’

‘Nico.’ That evening had been the beginning of the end for Charlie and me. He’d proposed the day after, as an alternative to taking the job. I’d thought he was still drunk and kidding. Turned out he was sober and dead serious. He saw marriage to him as a preferable career option. ‘Nico, but he was driving past my house anyway.’

I waited for her to say ‘yes, you’re right’, but instead she watched me steadily and suddenly I wondered what explanation Nico had given his sister. Maybe he’d told her it hadn’t been his fault, that he’d been assaulted by my bare breasts and had merely been defending himself. He was a lawyer. I was pretty sure he could plead self-defense better than anyone.

On the other hand he didn’t strike me as the sort of man who made excuses.

Take him or leave him.

I’d tried to take him and look where that had got me.

I slid my arm through Rosie’s and resolved to stop thinking about him. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’ I’d never spent so long thinking about a man I wasn’t even in a relationship with. ‘So far my resolution to have emotionless sex isn’t turning out so well. Maybe I should have just gone for something more traditional like losing weight and getting fit.’

‘You’re already fit, and you’re not supposed to start your resolution until the New Year. Perhaps you’ll meet someone cute tomorrow.’ Something in the way she said it made me turn my head suspiciously.

‘Who have you invited? Please don’t tell me it’s that journalist guy.’

‘Just all our usual friends and a few others.’ She was studying a gingerbread house in the window of our favorite bakery. ‘Should we buy that?’

‘If you buy any more food there won’t be room for the guests. Rosie, who exactly is coming tomorrow?’

‘I never know until they knock on the door. You know what it’s like—not everyone confirms.’ She didn’t look at me. The year before she’d invited an entire class from her gym. They were all kicking in our living room.

We wandered on, staring in windows. I thought how much I loved London. We lived in a great area, with shops, markets and lively restaurants on our doorsteps. Our apartment was on the top floor of a beautiful red-brick Victorian house in the trendy part of Notting Hill. The streets were really pretty here and we were round the corner from Portobello market and an easy walk from Kensington Gardens. Loads of our friends lived nearby.

I wondered where Nico lived. Had he gone home to Italy for Christmas?

I hoped he didn’t need his jacket.

‘Hey, wake up. It’s been snowing all night.’

I burrowed under the covers, resenting my sister’s energy levels. ‘It’s too early.’

‘It’s Christmas. We have to open our stockings and there’s loads to do.’

‘Only because you insist on inviting half the world to lunch.’ I emerged from under the covers and looked out of my attic window.

London was covered in another deep coating of sparkling snow. It almost was a fairy tale, except I had to get up and cook Christmas lunch for a bunch of people I’d probably never met before when all I wanted to do was lie in a heap, watch back-to-back TV and try to forget about the disastrous wedding.

Rosie sprang onto the bed and crossed her legs, her daisy pajamas a cheerful, springlike rebellion against the winter weather. ‘Do you mind? Would you rather I didn’t do this?’

I was about to confess that one year it might be nice to just eat turkey sandwiches and flop in front of the TV when I saw the look of excitement in her eyes and knew I would never, ever, stop her doing this. And anyway, I understood why she did it. We couldn’t have a proper ‘family Christmas’ so she had a ‘friend Christmas’ instead.

Rosie was determined to create the life she wanted to live and I admired that.

‘I think it’s great.’ And I did. Because of my sister, no one we knew spent Christmas on their own. Everyone with nowhere to go was invited, which meant that some years our apartment was pretty crowded, but I didn’t really have a problem with that.

‘Are you sure?’ She dragged the stockings onto the bed. ‘I wondered whether you wouldn’t rather just have a quiet day.’

‘Not in a million years.’

Don’t get me wrong—my sister and I fought, but it was always over the small things. When it was anything to do with our past, we were a united front.

We opened the ‘stockings’ we’d laid out the night before (she filled mine and I filled hers. Last year we’d bumped heads stuffing stockings at the same time). Each was full of funny low-priced gifts. Thanks to the stress of the wedding, I’d bought all mine on the internet. I had no idea when Rosie had done her shopping. Soon my bed was covered in ripped paper and in amongst chocolates, a notebook, an exceptionally cute stuffed llama, and a festive bra and panty set in red with white faux fur trim, there was a packet of condoms with ‘not to be used until the New Year’ on them.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t remember mentioning those when I wrote to Santa.’

‘He knows you’ve been a good girl this year but he also knows you’re going to be a bad girl very soon.’ She winked at me. ‘And he wants you to be prepared.’

Rosie was as subtle as a kick in the stomach from a reindeer.

I was pretty pleased with the presents I’d chosen for her, and as well as the small things I gave her my main gift—a leather handbag in a soft shade of cappuccino she’d admired in the market back in November.

‘I love it.’ She cooed over it and then threw me an enigmatic look. ‘Your big present is coming later.’

I wondered how my present could be coming later when there were no deliveries on Christmas Day, but I had no time to dwell on it because we were expecting a load of people and we had to produce food.

Surrendering to the inevitable cooking marathon, I showered quickly and teamed my favorite skinny jeans with thigh-length boots and a cute shirt with shell buttons. Underneath I was wearing my new festive underwear (including the bra, in case you were wondering. Never let it be said I don’t learn from my mistakes).

I reported for duty in the kitchen just as Rosie staggered through the door carrying the turkey. It had spent the night in our hallway, apparently reaching ‘room temperature’.

‘This needs a bit of attention. Can you do that while I make the stuffing?’

I looked at it doubtfully because I wasn’t much of a cook. ‘What sort of attention?’

‘There are some stray feathers. Pluck them out.’

She wanted me to pluck the turkey?

‘Poultry hair removal isn’t exactly my specialty,’ I began, but I was talking to myself. Rosie had already left the room, whirling through the flat singing Christmas carols. I wouldn’t have minded, but my sister was a much better dancer than she was a singer.

I stared gloomily at the turkey. It had dark stubble on one leg. Clearly the person who had prepared this turkey for the oven had been anxious to leave work early. I looked at the stubby ends poking out of the plump pale skin and sympathized. It wasn’t easy keeping yourself smooth. What the hell was I supposed to do?

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked my texts and emails but there was still nothing from Nico. Not that I was expecting ‘Merry Christmas’, but I thought he might at least have demanded his jacket back.

‘Stop looking at your phone.’ Rosie was back in the kitchen, squeezing orange juice into a bowl of cranberries. ‘He isn’t going to call you.’

‘I have no idea what you mean. I was checking my work emails.’

‘On Christmas Day?’

I wondered why she was so sure he wouldn’t call me. I had his jacket. It was Tom Ford. If nothing else, he should want it back. A guy like him was bound to be going to lots of smart dinners over the holidays. ‘This project is important. And you’ll be busy once Christmas is over.’ Rosie’s phone never stopped ringing with people wanting her to help them get into shape. Usually I didn’t see her until February when everyone went back to being inactive slobs.

The doorbell rang. We were nowhere near ready for guests and I looked at her in horror but Rosie smiled, which I thought was a very odd reaction. Given the hairy turkey and the state of our kitchen I would have anticipated screaming.

She vanished to answer the door and I decided life was too short to pluck a turkey. And anyway, I needed rapid results.

I formulated a plan, congratulating myself on my ingenuity. Behind me I could hear our apartment slowly filling up with people and it was quite a few minutes before Rosie came back into our pretty country-style kitchen. ‘Hayley, you need to—’ She broke off and stared at me in disbelief. ‘You’re waxing the turkey?’

‘You told me to remove the stray feathers.’ I ripped the strip, removing feathers and most of the skin. ‘Oops. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to turn out.’

‘You were supposed to pluck it!’

‘There was no time to pluck each feather individually.’ We both stared at the skinless leg of the turkey, me with morbid fascination and Rosie with horror.

‘I can’t believe you waxed our turkey! You’ve ruined it.’

I felt a stab of guilt. ‘Just one leg. And leg meat is often dry.’

‘I’m never letting you near my kitchen again.’ Rosie shoved me aside and it was only then I remembered she’d come in to tell me something.

‘You were telling me I needed to do something. What?’ I turned my head and almost passed out because Nico was standing there, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the living room and the other guests.

I’d thought about nothing but him for the past few days. Sometimes when you fantasized about a guy and then you saw him again, you realized you’d built him up in your head. Not Nico. He was truly spectacular. And imposing. He filled the doorway of our kitchen and he glanced from me to the turkey and lifted an eyebrow.

Seriously unbalanced by his unexpected appearance, I gave what I hoped passed for a casual shrug. ‘Not everyone likes leg.’

‘True.’ Those dark eyes met mine with sardonic humour. Not a smile, but definitely humour. ‘I’m more of a breast man myself.’

Oh, God, why did he have to say that?

Immediately I was back in that room at the wedding, with him showing me just how much of a breast man he was. I wondered what the hell he was doing here.

Presumably he needed his jacket for some Christmas gathering or other, but this seemed like an odd time to show up on our doorstep.

I turned to look at Rosie, but she was in a panic over the waxed turkey.

My sister had no sense of priorities.

I was about to fetch Nico’s jacket and send him on his way when I realised he wasn’t alone.

Kiara stood in the doorway, groomed and polished as ever. She gave me an awkward smile, which I returned. At a guess I’d say mine was more awkward than hers. I felt more naked than the turkey (although without being vain, I’d say my legs were looking a hell of a lot better).

Nico was leaning casually against the doorframe watching me from under those thick lashes, the way he had when we’d kissed. He might as well have been touching me because I could feel his gaze right through me. The sensation started as a tingling on the surface of my skin and then it was a warmth through my veins, and then the warmth turned to heat. The heat pooled low in my pelvis and I didn’t think it had anything to do with my fur-trimmed panties. It exasperated me that I could feel like this. And what was even more exasperating was the fact he knew I was feeling like this. Not that he looked smug or anything. Oh, no. If I’d had to describe his expression I would have said ‘watchful’.

He kept looking at me. Unflinching. Unembarrassed. As if he’d asked himself a question and was now looking at the answer.

Then he glanced from me to the woman standing quietly next to him.

‘You haven’t been formally introduced, have you?’

Oh, great. He was going to ram home the fact that his sister had only ever seen me half-naked. ‘No.’ I spoke between my teeth. ‘We haven’t.’

‘This is Kiara. Kiara, this is Hayley. You saw her briefly at the wedding.’

All right, enough!

It might have been brief, but I had a feeling it had been fairly comprehensive.

What was the guy playing at? One more comment like that and I’d give him one of my own kicks, which might not have been as impressive or elegant as my sister’s, but would still have threatened his ability to father children.

‘Hi, Kiara. Lovely to meet you.’

I tried not to look at him even though I could feel him looking at me. He hadn’t stopped looking at me since he’d walked into the kitchen. Being on the receiving end of that smoldering, intense gaze made my legs turn from a solid to a liquid. I was about to reach for the fire blanket Rosie kept in the kitchen and throw it over myself.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Kiara said earnestly. ‘I know you’re an engineer. I’m in awe. I’m hopeless at Math and Physics. Nico used to tear his hair out helping me with homework.’

He’d helped her with homework?

I blinked.

I tried to imagine this smooth, sophisticated guy sitting patiently by his sister, helping her with algebra.

‘Well that’s, er, lovely.’ And honestly I did think it was lovely. Except that I was confused by the contradictions. ‘You came here for your jacket, so I ought to get that for you—’

Nico was still watching me. I wondered if part of his job involved interrogation because his gaze was like a laser. If I’d had a mirror I would have checked there wasn’t a red dot on my forehead.

There was a long, pulsing silence and he continued to look at me as if something I’d said had answered a question lingering in his head.

‘I’m not here for the jacket. We’re here because Rosie invited us to join you for Christmas.’




Chapter Five (#ulink_cb9744cf-f8f6-5975-8d6c-cf47f564c5c3)


She what?

My sister had invited him without telling me.

I didn’t know whether to kill her or kiss her.

Kiara was looking anxious. ‘It was kind of you to invite us both. Are you sure it’s all right?’

No, it wasn’t all right.

Why hadn’t she told me?

Coward.

I turned my head to look accusingly at Rosie. I felt like yelling ‘chicken’ but then realized it would confuse people as she currently had her head buried in a turkey.

I produced what I hoped was a smile, but felt closer to the face I pulled when I was on the receiving end of the wax. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘The food is going to be a while,’ Rosie said brightly, ‘so why don’t you just go into the living room and get to know each other better. Chill out and play some games.’

Chill? I was boiling hot. And as for games—there were already enough games going on in this kitchen. Unfortunately no one had told me the rules.

One look at Rosie’s face told me she not only thought she’d already played the first game, she was the winner.

She wafted past me and murmured under her breath, ‘Happy Christmas. Enjoy your present.’

Nico was my present?

That was what she’d meant when she’d said it would be arriving later?

I wondered if she’d told him he was my gift. I sincerely hoped not, but knowing my sister she probably had.

I followed her into the living room, avoiding his gaze. Not that I was particularly shy or anything, but I’d been thinking about nothing but sex with him for the past four days. I wasn’t confident that my eyes wouldn’t light up like slot machines.

Thank goodness he couldn’t read my mind.

He sat down on the sofa, nudging my laptop to one side. He’d abandoned Tom Ford, presumably because I was now in possession of half of it, and was wearing a pair of black jeans. They molded themselves to his long, powerful legs as if there was nowhere they’d rather be than snuggled against those hard thighs. I didn’t blame them. In fact I envied those jeans. Through the gap in the neck of his shirt I could see a hint of dark hair against bronzed flesh.

I was just pondering the etiquette of accepting a gift who didn’t know he was your gift, when he reached idly for my laptop.

‘I don’t normally work on Christmas day, but do you mind if I just check something?’

I opened my mouth to tell him to help himself when I remembered that not only had I not shut my laptop down the night before, but that the last search had been ‘vibrator—the Niccolò’.

I flung myself across the room but it was too late. He’d already opened it and I stood, marinating slowly in embarrassment for the second time in less than four days. It seemed I was destined to humiliate myself around this man. First he’d seen the outer me stripped bare, and now he was seeing the inner me similarly naked.

I was doomed.

‘Nico can’t stop himself checking the court cases.’ Kiara walked across the room balancing the bowls of nuts and crisps my sister had given her. ‘Normally he does it on his phone, but I unplugged his charger last night, so I’m in trouble.’

Nowhere near as much trouble as I was in.

Shit, shit, shit.

I waited for him to skewer me with one of his severe, disapproving looks, but he didn’t. Instead he tapped the keyboard with those strong, clever fingers that knew exactly how to drive a woman crazy and checked whatever it was he wanted to check.

His expression didn’t flicker. He was the most inscrutable man I’d ever met. In fact he was so calm and controlled, I wondered if maybe my memory was failing me. Maybe I had closed that page down. I must have done, or he would have said something or at least given me one of his looks.

The doorbell rang again and other people started streaming into our apartment, leaving me no opportunity to dwell on it.

It was a good job Rosie had bought those extra presents because pretty soon we were up to twelve people. I knew about eight of them, but it didn’t really make any difference because I wasn’t looking at them anyway. They might as well have not been there for all the impact they made on me. For me there was only one man in the room.

We popped bottles of bubbly, opened presents, then helped Rosie carry the food to the table. And all the time I was aware of Nico. Kiara had suddenly become the life and soul of the party, but he’d barely opened his mouth. I knew that, because I kept looking at it. I loved the shape of his lips and kept remembering how they’d felt as they’d moved over mine.

‘I should give you your jacket.’ I blurted the words out, wishing I had a tenth of his control.

‘No hurry.’

That was all he was going to say?

The atmosphere was so tense that by the time my sister placed the turkey in the centre of the table I was hotter than any of the food.

Because our table was designed to seat eight at the most, twelve was a squash. I sat down at the end, because at least then I’d be up close and personal with just one other person.

Nico sat down next to me.

My heart bumped. I tried to work out if this was accident or design and decided he wasn’t a man who did anything by accident. He didn’t look at me and as usual there was nothing in his expression that gave me any clues as to what he was thinking. His arm brushed against mine. We were jammed together like atoms in a molecule. Anyone looking at us would probably have assumed it was lack of space that necessitated the closeness, but I knew differently.

I’d like to say lunch was delicious, but honestly I couldn’t have told you what I ate because Christmas lunch was all about the man seated next to me.

When he reached across and forked turkey onto my plate all I saw were lean, bronzed hands and a dusting of dark hair on his forearms. He’d rolled his sleeves to the elbow. I guessed that was as close to casual as this man got.

‘Enough?’

I looked at him blankly.

‘Turkey,’ he said gently and I blinked.

‘Yes. Thanks.’ What was it about a man’s forearms? Although, if I were honest, it wasn’t just his forearms. It was all of him.

He leaned forward to pick up a dish of potatoes and I saw the muscle flex in his powerful shoulders. Then he sat down again and this time he was thigh to thigh with me. Our legs might as well have been glued together.

I experimented and eased my leg away slightly, but his followed.

My heart swooped upwards like a paraglider hitting a thermal, taking my mood with it.

Rosie glanced at me. ‘Is it good?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I focused on my plate even though I knew she wasn’t talking about the turkey. ‘Brilliant. You’re brilliant.’

People were swapping stories about their Christmas traditions, but I didn’t hear a word because I had this noisy, happy sound ringing in my head.

Nico was here.

Sitting next to me.

And whatever our relationship had been in the past, right now it was hot and electric.

I decided one of us had to say something or we’d draw attention to ourselves. ‘So what sort of lawyer are you?’

He reached for his glass, although I’d noticed earlier that he was drinking water. Maybe he was afraid his control would slip if he drank alcohol. ‘A good one.’

‘That’s not an answer.’ I turned my head to look at him and of course that turned out to be a mistake because his wasn’t a face you wanted to look away from. I could have stared at him until I’d died of hunger, thirst or frustration, whichever came first. I could tell you at this rate it was going to be frustration.

And of course, he knew. ‘You really want to talk about law?’

There ought to be a law preventing a man driving a woman this crazy.

His voice was so soft I knew no one else would be able to hear him.

The blood was pumping through my veins and I could still feel his thigh pressed hard against mine.

I was just about to make a second attempt at polite conversation, when I felt his hand slide over my thigh. The warmth of his palm pressed through my jeans and I almost jumped out of my seat with shock.

I could no longer pretend any of this was an accident or that we were fused together because of a lack of space. He left his hand there, as if testing to see if I was going to jump, jog the table and knock all the glasses over.

When I didn’t move, he slid his hand higher up my thigh and no matter what anyone said about some men, I could tell you there was nothing wrong with his sense of direction. He knew exactly where he was going.

My stomach clenched. The excitement was almost painful. The chemistry was off the scale. I didn’t understand it, and I was good with all the sciences. I could explain nuclear fission but I couldn’t explain this. What I felt made no sense at all to me, but that didn’t stop me feeling it and also the frustration that came from being in public.

There always seemed to be something between me and sexual satisfaction. In this case it was denim and a room full of my friends.

I wished I’d worn a dress with stockings instead of skinny jeans and thigh-length boots, but he was obviously a man who didn’t let obstacles get in his way because his fingers moved higher and higher until he was pressing right there.

I knocked my wine glass over. Fortunately I’d already drunk half of it, so we had a puddle, not a lake.

‘Oh, crap.’

My sister threw me a look and a napkin. Then she turned back to her neighbour and continued the conversation.

Nico didn’t move his hand, nor did he relax the pressure. As I said, obviously not a man to let anything stand in his way. I felt shivery and weak. The atmosphere between us was heavy, thick and so scorching hot I was surprised we hadn’t set off the smoke alarm.

I decided I might as well make the most of the thigh-length boots and ran my foot up his calf.

‘More turkey, Hayley?’ A guy I knew vaguely from Rosie’s gym smiled at me from across the table and I smiled back, shook my head and murmured an acceptable response. It was a surprise to me I could still string a sentence together because I was gripped by raw desire and the delicious friction created by Nico’s clever, persistent fingers. The frustration was almost unbearable. I decided pleasure this good shouldn’t be one-way and slid my hand up his thigh and covered him. If I’d needed confirmation that he felt the same way, I had it now. His erection was a thick, hard ridge under my hand, pressing through the constraining fabric of his jeans. For a moment I was tempted to pull that zip down, but I decided I’d had enough public exposure for one year.

‘Answer me a question—’ His voice was soft and just for me.

Given where my hand was, I was worried about what the question might be.

‘Only the one?’ I had millions I wanted to ask him, and then I remembered my resolution to have a sex-only relationship. I’d never done it before, but I was fairly sure a sex-only relationship involved—well, sex only. Asking questions about other things, particularly family, was a fast way of turning it into something I didn’t want. ‘What’s your question?’





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