Fiona Brand - A Breathless Bride

This wasn’t part of the polite, restrained media representation that had been present at the beginning of the funeral. These people were predatory, focused, and no doubt drawn by the lure of Constantine and the chance to reinvent an old scandal.

The disbelief she’d felt as she’d met Constantine’s gaze across her father’s grave increased. How dare he come to the funeral? Did he plan to expose them all, most especially her mother, to another media circus?

With an ominous crash of thunder, the rain fell hard, soaking her. Fingers tightening on her purse, she lengthened her stride, breaking into a jog as she rounded the edge of a strip of shade trees that bisected the parking lot. She threw a glance over her shoulder, relieved that the rain had beaten the press back, at least temporarily. A split second later she collided with the solid barrier of a male chest. Constantine.

The hard, muscled imprint of his body burned through the wet silk of her dress as she clutched at a broad set of shoulders.

He jerked his head at a nearby towering oak. “This way. There are more reporters on the other side of the parking lot.”

His hand landed in the small of her back. Sienna controlled a small shiver as she felt the heat of his palm, and her heart lurched because she knew Constantine must have followed her with the intent of protecting her. “Thank you.”

She appreciated the protection, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with the scenario.

He urged her beneath the shelter of the huge, gnarled oak. The thick, dark canopy of leaves kept the worst of the rain off, but droplets still splashed down, further soaking her hair and the shoulders of her dress.

She found a tissue in her purse and blotted moisture from her face. She didn’t bother trying to fix her makeup since there was likely to be very little of it left.

Within moments the rain slackened off and a thin shaft of sunlight penetrated the watery gloom, lighting up the parking lot and the grassy cemetery visible through the trees. Without warning the back of her nose burned and tears trickled down her face. Blindly, she groped for the tissue again.

“Here, use this.”

A large square of white linen was thrust into her hand. She sniffed and swallowed a watery, hiccupping sob.

A moment later she found herself wrapped close, her face pressed against Constantine’s shoulder, his palm hot against the damp skin at the base of her neck. After a moment of stiffness she gave in and accepted his comfort.

She had cried when she was alone, usually at night and in the privacy of her room so she wouldn’t upset her mother, who was still in a state of distressed shock. Most of the time, because she had been so frantically busy she’d managed to contain the grief, but every now and then something set her off.

At some point Constantine loosened his hold enough that she could blow her nose, but it seemed now that she’d started crying, she couldn’t stop and the tears kept flowing, although more quietly now. She remained locked in his arms, his palm massaging the hollow between her shoulder blades in a slow, soothing rhythm, the heat from his body driving out the damp chill. Drained by grief, she was happy to just be, and to soak in his hard warmth, the reassurance of his solid male power.

She became aware that the rain had finally stopped, leaving the parking lot wreathed in trailing wisps of steam. In a short while she would pull free and step back, but for the moment her head was thick and throbbing from the crying and she was too exhausted to move.

Constantine’s voice rumbled in her ear. “We need to leave. We can’t talk here.”

She shifted slightly and registered that at some point Constantine had become semi aroused.

For a moment memories crowded her, some blatantly sensual, others laced with hurt and scalding humiliation.

Oh, no, no way. She would not feel this.

Face burning, Sienna jerked free, her purse flying. Shoving wet hair out of her face, she bent to retrieve her purse and the few items that had scattered—lip gloss, compact, car keys.

Her keys. Great idea, because she was leaving now.

If Constantine wanted a conversation he would have to reschedule. There was no way she was staying around for more of the same media humiliation she’d suffered two years ago.

“Damn. Sienna …”

Was that a hint of softness in his eyes? His voice?

No. Couldn’t be.

When Constantine crouched down to help gather her things, she hurriedly shoveled the items into her bag. The rain had started up again, an annoying steamy drizzle, although that fact was now inconsequential because every part of her was soaked. Wet hair trailed down her cheeks, her dress felt like it had been glued on and there were puddles in her shoes.

Constantine hadn’t fared any better. His gray suit jacket was plastered to his shoulders, his white shirt transparent enough that the bronze color of his skin showed through.

She dragged her gaze from the mesmerizing sight. “Uh-uh. Sorry.” She shot to her feet. She was so not talking now. His transparent shirt had reminded her about her dress. It was black, so it wouldn’t reveal as much as white fabric when wet, but silk was silk and it was thin. “Your conversation will have to wait. As you can see, I’m wet.”

She spun on her heel, looking for an avenue of escape that didn’t contain reporters with microphones and cameras.

His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back against the furnace heat of his body. “After four days of unreturned calls,” he growled into her ear, sending a hot shiver down her spine, “if you think I’m going to cool my heels for one more second, you can think again.”

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