One Night with Morelli. KIM LAWRENCE
noticed; the dress dilemma hadn’t been the only reason she had taken some time out. A memory of winking dark eyes came into her head and crossly she pushed it away, refusing to give him space in her head—refusing to give him the satisfaction. No man had ever looked at her with such earthy speculation and then to wink as though they shared some sort of secret…or was it that he thought she was a joke? She had maintained an air of cool disdain but inside Eve hadn’t felt at all cool!
She had no clue who he was—and she wasn’t interested enough to find out, she decided loftily. The guest list was as glittery as was to be expected when the groom was as wealthy and well connected as Charles Latimer, though in true lord-of-the-manor style he had invited all the estate workers and their families, among them a few girls she went to school with. She made no attempt to avoid them but neither did she speak to them.
A minor miracle—helped along by her resisting the temptation of the freely flowing champagne, as alcohol had a way of loosening her tongue—Eve managed to make it through the speeches while maintaining her assigned role of happy daughter of the bride.
By the time the bride and groom took to the floor for their first dance the knot of misery in her chest was a weight so heavy she felt as though it were crushing her, and her face muscles literally ached from the effort of looking pleased and proud while inside she was screaming no!
As the applause died away and the other guests began to drift onto the floor she pretended not to see Prince Kamel heading her way—the poor man nudged into doing his duty by Hannah, no doubt—and headed for one of the flower-filled temporary ladies’ rooms. The last thing she needed was a sympathy dance!
But what about a sympathy something else…? For some reason the face of one guest popped into her head along with the maverick shameful thought, which she couldn’t even blame on alcohol. She gave her bodice a defiant hitch and gritted her teeth, banishing the blatantly sexual features to some dark dusty corner of her mind.
The bathroom was empty—well, she was due a break! Filling a basin with water, she stood there staring at her reflection. What she saw did not improve her mood in the slightest. It had been drizzling when they had transferred from the house to the marquee complex that had been erected on the west lawn for the reception so her hair was no longer sleek. It had frizzed and the strands that had escaped around her hairline had turned into tight corkscrew curls.
She sighed. ‘Maybe I should invest in a wig?’ Great, now she was talking to herself. She propped her elbows on the counter top and leaned in close so that her breath fogged the mirror. Standing there with her eyes closed, she patted her hair down as best she could with water, and listened to the soft gurgle as she pulled out the plug and the water drained away.
If she’d had to make a list of the five worst days of her life this one would have been right up there. It was the keeping it in that made everything worse. She’d had to smile through the knowledge that her mother was throwing herself away on a man who was not worthy of her, a man Eve despised, while looking as if she were dressed in a curtain and to top it all that man was here watching it happen.
Now what were the chances of that? It was like some horrible cosmic conspiracy! She had turned her head because she had literally felt his eyes on her, which was crazy. But she hadn’t been hallucinating; he really was there.
It had been the burst of energising adrenaline resulting from that brief contact and that wink that had got her through the photo shoot, but any benefits had been cancelled out by the fact that every time she had glimpsed him since then he’d been staring at her.
He was rude, he was arrogant and she determinedly ignored him, which was not as easy as it sounded when even across the room and separated by dozens of other people she was painfully conscious of the primitive sexual aura he exuded that had struck her dumb earlier that day. It wasn’t just his height or undeniable physical presence that made him stand out among the other men present, it was that rawness, the hint of danger he possessed.
It seemed crazy to Eve that some women were actually attracted by danger, that the whole bad-boy thing turned them on, but not being one of them she went out of her way to avoid him instead.
She opened her eyes and gave her reflection a stern look. ‘Come on, Eve, this will all be a memory tomorrow.’ Consciously straightening her shoulders, but not so much that it made her bodice slip down—she’d got the hang of it now—she headed for the door.
She had pushed it open a crack when she heard a voice she knew all too well. She peered furtively through the crack, knowing it wasn’t one person, it was all three. They always had hunted in a pack and it seemed they still did.
The bullies from her school days no longer wielded the power over her that had made her life a misery but the thought of going out there and facing them right now… No, there were limits to how much ‘suck it up and smile’ she had left in her—a school reunion with the three witches was just too much to ask of anyone.
Lifting her skirt, she ran for one of the cubicles, closing it just before the three women who like herself had had parents who worked on the estate came in.
‘I just love that lippy, Louise.’
There was a clatter as make-up was emptied onto the counter top.
‘So Hannah bagged a prince, lucky cow…’
There were murmurs of agreement.
‘He’s gorgeous, but I think she’s put on weight.’
‘Oh, definitely.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
In the cubicle Eve covered her lower face with her hand, not just to protect herself from the cloud of perfume that was drifting her way, but to stifle a gurgle of laughter. She wasn’t surprised that her friend inspired jealousy but fat…! Hannah was perfect and everyone knew it.
‘She’s welcome to her prince—it’s the hot Italian one I fancy. Now he is fit…with those eyes and that mouth.’
You’re obsessed, Eve chided herself. Just because the man is dark, why assume they are talking about him? Italian? Actually, one of the things that had struck her about him had been his Mediterranean colouring… Her green eyes glazed over as she conjured his voice in her head, hearing the slight husk in his deep, sexy drawl, but no accent.
‘Is he Italian?’
‘Have you never heard of Draco Morelli? Where have you been living?’ came the pitying response. ‘Honestly, Paula, I sometimes wonder what planet you live on. He’s a multibillionaire or something, on all the richest lists.’
‘So he’s loaded? Better and better. Shame about the scar…but I suppose it isn’t that bad.’
‘Married?’
Someone giggled. Eve didn’t know who by this point as their voices had blended into one high-pitched whine that grated on her nerves. At least one thing was cleared up: there was no longer any question mark over who they were talking about. Once they mentioned the scar she knew that the man the trio were discussing was the one whose stares she had been trying to ignore all day.
‘Does it matter?’
The careless response made Eve’s lips purse in a silent moue of distaste.
Marriage might not be something she personally aspired to, but if you were going to take vows—and she knew at least two of the women outside her cubicle door were wearing wedding bands—you stayed faithful to those vows.
If not, then what was the point?
She wasn’t surprised, given he moved in the same circles as her new stepfather, that this—what had they called him? Morelli—had money, but, unlike the trio who were discussing him as though he were a piece of prime juicy steak they contemplated eating, Eve was not impressed.
You could recognise the quality of good tailoring without admiring the person who wore it! Her birth father had money and status and he was a total sleaze. Eve admired talent and intelligence,