Kristen Ashley: Lucky Stars

Still, what did you get the woman who had or could have everything?

Clearly, Belle hadn’t done a bad job of it.

“I’m pleased you like it,” Belle murmured, sounding as pleased as she was and Joy squeezed her arm.

“I don’t like it, I love it. It’s unusual, beautiful and very thoughtful,” Joy replied.

For the first time since she arrived at the castle, Belle felt unmitigated happiness and her smile deepened.

They stopped at a small bar set up for the party with a variety of glasses and bottles of liquor with buckets of ice. It was attended by a dark-jacketed, bow-tied bartender.

“Two champagnes please,” Miles ordered, coming to stand behind Belle and she felt his hand move to rest at the small of her back.

She looked over her shoulder at Miles and tried to hide her annoyance.

He did that all the time, ordered for her. And it wasn’t like he knew her preferences because he barely knew her . He just said things like “You have to try this,” or “This is the best thing they make,” and then he’d order it for her without allowing her to say a word.

She actually didn’t want the meals he ordered her and at that moment she also didn’t want champagne.

With her nerves, she needed at the very least vodka. If she had the courage of her grandmother and mother, she would have ordered a shot of tequila (or three).

Champagne wasn’t even in her top five.

She sighed and let it go.

One thing she learned from Calvin was to pick her battles.

And she was not going to have words over champagne.

The bartender held out the glass to her but Miles leaned in and took it, moving it the scant inch between the bartender’s hand and Belle’s as if Belle was above doing such common things as accepting a glass of champagne from a lowly servant.

This act so surprised and irritated her, she very nearly said something.

Of course, she did not.

Instead, she clenched her teeth a moment before she lifted the glass and sipped.

“Oh there’s Adele!” Joy cried suddenly, glancing across the room. “I must go say hello.” She turned to Belle. “Now that you have refreshments, I can leave you to it.” Her eyes moved upwards to her son. “Now Miles, don’t let Belle get drunk and dance on any tables,” she ordered and the very idea of Belle “Meek and Mild” Abbot dancing on a table made Belle burst out laughing.

When she’d controlled her hilarity and her gaze focussed on Joy, the woman’s blue eyes were studying Belle and they were shining with an odd, soft light.

Then she leaned toward Belle and whispered. “You should do that more often, darling.”

Then without another word, she was gone, melting into the crowd.

Miles moved her away from the bar so others could order drinks and Belle braced because she was certain she was going to have to start mingling.

Belle hated to mingle. She had no talent for small talk and found the effort gruelling.

They did not, however, sift into the crowd. Instead, Miles’s hand at her waist curled her body toward his and then in so they were hips-to-hips and belly-to-belly.

Startled, Belle looked up at him.

Firstly, they were too close, loverly close. It wasn’t seemly and, furthermore, they weren’t lovers.

Secondly, they’d shared some kisses but she hadn’t even let Miles get to second base and he’d tried on every date they shared, even the first one. She was uncomfortable with this casual but extreme closeness which gave the wrong message.

They certainly were not at a point in their relationship where he would hold her that close in public.

In fact, Belle wasn’t entirely certain there ever would be a time in any relationship where she’d allow a man to hold her that close in public.

Not before Calvin.

Not during Calvin (not that he was that way inclined, fortunately).

Not after Calvin.

She put her hand to his bicep and leaned against his arm, tipping her head back to look at him.

She opened her mouth to ask him to move away when she felt it.

A trill shot up her spine causing the small hairs at the hairline of her neck to rise and she felt her belly dip right before it warmed.

Of its own accord, her head turned to the side, her eyes moved instinctively and locked on a man across the room.

He was an unbelievably handsome, green-eyed man who stood straight and tall, his body, even at rest, clearly at his command and his gaze was riveted on her.

Belle’s knees went weak, heat hit her cheeks and her fingers clutched Miles’s arm as she looked upon the indecently attractive James Bennett, in the flesh, for the very first time.

Jack

Jack was listening to Yasmin talk as he took a sip of champagne before the crowds parted and he saw her wearing a blush-coloured dress and pink shoes. Both dress and shoes were feminine and unbelievably sexy in a way they hinted tantalisingly at the charms of the woman wearing them rather than brazenly displaying them.

He was struck by the sight of her. Struck enough for his body to go completely still, his hand holding the glass arrested in its descent from his lips.

Then it hit him who she was.

In the last eight months he’d seen her pictures dozens of times, maybe even scores of times in the media.

Belle Abbot, “The Tiny Dynamo”, “The Great American Heroine” and half a dozen other nicknames the press had given her when, eight months ago, she’d witnessed an accident in front of her while driving down the road. A bus carrying school children coming back from an outing had flipped over a bridge into icy waters.

She’d stopped her car, torn out and dove into the freezing sea to save the lives of seven schoolchildren and the bus driver who she’d plunged after, again and again, to pull from the bus.

Two children had swum free themselves, two children had drowned. Both drown victims Belle had pulled from the watery wreckage and one she was still giving CPR when the paramedics finally arrived.

This was all caught on other onlookers’ phones, both in photos and video. They did not help Belle Abbot. No. Instead they sold their photos far and wide. Photos of her dripping wet, diving, breaking the surface with a child’s arm wrapped around her neck, dragging the child behind her, kicking toward the shore.

The press had made a meal of her, as they would because the story was, frankly, astounding.

They hadn’t, however, as the months passed, lost their interest.

Mainly because, when Belle Abbot wasn’t cold, wet and saving lives, she was exceptionally pretty.

Not beautiful, her nose was too pert, her skin was peaches and cream, she was not petite but also not tall.

But she was uncommonly pretty with shining, unbelievably thick, dark blonde hair streaked with honeyed highlights. Her body was perfectly proportioned and lusciously curvaceous. Lastly, she had a classic, elegant style, a bearing that was nearly regal and she was way too photogenic for her own good.

Further, she was an enigma. In a time when instant celebrity was coveted to the point of obsession, she didn’t speak to the press. She didn’t sell her story. She didn’t do television interviews. She didn’t pay any attention to the media at all. She kept her eyes averted, head bowed and went about her daily life as if she hadn’t committed an act of selfless altruism. An act which had already, without Belle Abbot’s input or approval, been made into a television movie.

Her head turned and her grey eyes hit him and Jack felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his gut.

He was wrong.

Perhaps she wasn’t as photogenic as he thought.

In the photos, she was not beautiful.