ONE
Ten minutes after the vicar had pronounced her brother and his fiancée man and wife and the register had been signed, Celia Forrester stood on the steps of the altar of the pretty Shropshire church and braced herself for the moment she’d been dreading all day.
In terms of things she’d rather not do, on a scale of one to ten, going to the gym hovered at the two mark. Pulling an all-nighter at work ranked around a four. Dinner à deux with her father, an eight.
Having to take Marcus Black’s arm and walk down the aisle beside him, however, hit a ten.
Up until about a couple of hours ago she’d thought she’d escaped. As Dan’s best friend—and consequently, best man—Marcus had been expected some time yesterday afternoon, but to the consternation of everyone apart from her he hadn’t shown up. Her brother had muttered something about a missed flight and a possible arrival in time for the reception but, in all honesty, Celia had been too relieved to pay much attention.
All she’d been able to think was that she had a stay of execution and that, with any luck, by the time Marcus got there—if he got there at all—she’d have indulged in the gallon of champagne she needed to handle the horribly edgy and deeply uncomfortable effect he had on her, should she be unable to implement her customary plan A and avoid him.
She’d had no problem with following Lily—the other bridesmaid and Zoe’s sister—and her brand-new fiancé, Kit, down the aisle alone. She was good at doing things alone, and she’d been more than happy about the delay in having to talk to too-gorgeous-for-his-own-good, serial womaniser and general thorn in her side Marcus Black. Quite apart from the unsettling way he made her feel, he loathed her as much as she loathed him and no doubt he would be expressing it at the first available opportunity, namely the church, so who could blame her for savouring any delay to the moment?
But then a couple of hours ago, when the three of them had been sitting in the spare room of Zoe’s parents’ farmhouse with rollers in their hair and tacky nails, news had reached them that Marcus had made it after all, and just like that the Get-Out-of-Jail-Free-card feeling she’d been holding onto had blown up in her face.
The degree of shock and disappointment that had rocked through her had surprised her. Then her skin had started prickling, a rush of heat had swept through her and she’d instantly felt as though she were sitting on knives.
She’d managed to hide it, of course, because firstly she was used to hiding the way he made her feel, and secondly today was a happy one that was all about Dan and Zoe and not in the slightest bit about the trouble she had with Marcus, but it had been hard. Even harder when she and Lily had entered the church behind Zoe and she’d seen him standing next to Dan at the altar, looking tall, dark and smoulderingly gorgeous in his morning suit.
But she’d done it, and she’d continue to do so because fifty pairs of eyes were trained on the proceedings and so right now she didn’t have the option of giving him a cool nod and then blanking him. She was simply going to have to suck it up and accompany him down the aisle.
In approximately thirty seconds.
The organist began belting out Widor’s Toccata and as Dan and Zoe turned and stepped away from the altar, their smiles wide and unstoppable, Celia pulled her shoulders back and plastered a smile of her own to her face.
She wouldn’t let him get to her, she told herself, adopting the unusual strategy of channelling serenity and inner calm. She wouldn’t think about the struggle she’d had throughout the ceremony resisting the constant temptation to keep looking in his direction, especially when she could feel his eyes on her. Nor would she dwell on the way that, despite her deep disapproval of him and his clear loathing of her whenever they met, he somehow managed to turn her into someone she didn’t recognise, addling her brain, making a mockery of her intellect and rendering her body all soft and warm and fluttery.
No, she’d simply rise above the inconvenient and highly irritating attraction and get on with the job. She could ignore the heat of him, the mouth-watering scent of him and the invisible thread of attraction that seemed to constantly pull her towards him. She could bury the desire to drag him off somewhere quiet, press herself against him and let chemistry do its thing. Of course she could. She had done so for years, ever since the night, in fact, he’d tried to get her into bed. For a bet.
Besides, it was, what, thirty metres between the altar and the heavy oak door, so all she had to do was keep a smile on her face and her mouth shut and not let him get to her. After that, during the inevitable photo session and then the reception, which was to be mercifully short, she’d do what she always tried to do and avoid him. Simple.
Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she glanced up at him to find him looking down at her with those wickedly glinting blue eyes that had seduced legions of women over the years.
‘Shall we?’ he said, a faint smile playing at the mouth that had given her an annoying number of sleepless nights over the years, as he held out his arm.
‘Why not?’ she said coolly, taking it.
See? This was fine. She barely noticed the hard muscles of his forearm beneath her fingers. And so what if his elbow was now pressed up against her breast and the feel of him, the heat of him, would be making her heart beat hard and fast and her body tingle if she let it? All that was relevant right now were the five stone steps she had to negotiate in heels three inches higher than she normally wore, and she needed to concentrate.
‘Ready?’ he asked, his deep, lazy voice tightening her stomach muscles and making her cling onto his arm a little tighter for a second. Just in case she stumbled, of course.
‘Couldn’t be readier.’
Reassuring herself that in five minutes or so this would all be over and she’d be free of him, Celia glanced down and lifted the longer back of her dress so it didn’t catch on a heel.
‘Those shoes look lethal,’ he murmured as they descended the first step.
‘They are.’
‘And spiky.’
‘That too.’
‘Appropriate.’
And just like that, despite all that serenity and inner calm she’d been striving for, her intention to keep her mouth shut evaporated. ‘Good of you to make it, by the way,’ she said a touch acidly.
‘I nearly didn’t.’
‘So what held you up?’ she asked, once she’d safely navigated the remaining steps and could relax her grip on Marcus’ arm. ‘Unable to prise yourself away from an overly clingy lover? Or a pair of them perhaps? Surely it couldn’t have been a trio?’
She felt him tense and wondered fleetingly if her barb had stung. Then decided it couldn’t have because for one thing his many and varied bedroom exploits were no secret, and for another they’d traded mild insults like this for years and it had never seemed to bother him before. Nevertheless she kind of wished it had because it would be satisfying to know she got to him the way he got to her.
‘You know something?’ he said, shooting her a slow stomach-melting smile. ‘I rustled up that ash cloud especially because I knew it would wind you up.’
‘My word, you literally do have a God complex,’ she said, annoyed beyond measure that he of all people should still be the only man ever to melt any of her internal organs. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘Lucky you’re always there to smack me down.’
‘It’s my sole purpose in life.’
‘Really?’ he murmured. ‘I thought your sole purpose in life was work.’
‘I excel at multitasking.’