Rebecca Winters - A Groom For The Taking

Elyse must have noticed him filling every inch of available space, and gave a perfunctory wave in his direction. ‘Roger, this is Bradley Knight—Hannah’s boss. He’s filling in for Great-Aunt Maude.’

Bradley deflated, not sure he’d ever been given a more underwhelming introduction.

The two men shook hands. Dimples held on a little too tight. Punk. Bradley gave the kid one last ominous squeeze before letting go. He couldn’t hide his smile when the guy winced.

Lightweight.

‘I hear you’re an aerobics instructor?’ Bradley said.

‘Personal trainer,’ Roger shot back, seemingly oblivious to the intended put-down.

Hannah, on the other hand, noticed very much. In fact she gave a little cough at the exact time she stamped on Bradley’s foot with one of those damned stiletto heels. He shook out his pulsating foot, then shoved his shoe neatly between hers. Her heels slid apart on the parquetry floor, and a hard breath puffed through her lips.

As Elyse waxed lyrical about the hotel, Hannah’s hand drifted behind her to rest against his thigh. He clenched everywhere while he waited to see what she might do in retribution. As it turned out the gentle rise and fall of her pinky finger against his leg as she breathed was punishment enough.

‘And, boy, can your mum sing! Am I right?’ Roger said, giving Hannah a chummy punch on her arm.

Hannah blinked as though she’d forgotten he was even there. ‘Pardon? Oh, yeah. That she can!’

‘She was singing in a nightclub when our parents first met,’ Elyse piped up. ‘She was practising for her Miss Tasmania pageant number. He requested “The Way You Look Tonight”, which is her favourite song ever. It was love at first sight.’

‘Sounds like your father was a smart man,’ Roger said, sidling closer to Hannah.

Bradley had to stop himself from hauling her out of the guy’s way. A hard stare had to suffice.

Though Roger, it seemed, wasn’t as much of a meat-head as he’d first appeared. He shot Bradley a grin. A take-me-on-if-you-dare-Grandpa kind of grin.

‘Do you too have the voice of a nightingale?’ Roger asked, shining his dimples Hannah’s way.

Hannah waved her hands frantically in front of her face. ‘No. Nope. God, no. Uh-uh. No way. Tone deaf. Allergic to microphones. Rabid stage-fright.’

‘So that’s a no, then?’

Hannah laughed. ‘That would be a gigantic no.’

Roger grinned.

Elyse did a little happy jig.

Before he even knew what he was about to do, Bradley reached out and tucked his fingers around the belt of Hannah’s pants. His nails grazed the curve at the top of her buttocks. She all but leapt from her tottering shoes before she pressed her hand over his.

He fully expected her to slap his hand away. Or to do worse damage with her lethal shoes. He wouldn’t have blamed her. His move had been so far over the line of propriety it was nothing short of reckless.

But after a moment, two, her hand still remained locked over his. If anything she’d melted closer. Until he was near enough to see her neck was turning pink. To feel the heavy rise and fall of her breaths. To be gripped by the scent of her perfume.

As far as adventure thrills went, that moment was right up there. It was indecent. Torturously tempting. And, with no exit strategy in sight, completely against his own best interests.

He wondered quite how far he could go in the flickering semi-darkness, with her sister and Dimples and half her home town watching on. And how far this vamp version of Hannah would let him. His throbbing pulse ramped up into such a frenzy he could barely see straight.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Elyse said, and the unexpected angst in the girl’s voice was so potent it hauled him back to the present with a snap.

As one they turned to face the distant karaoke stage where the strains of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ rang out in Virginia’s distinctively husky tones.

With his hand still tucked decadently into her pants, Bradley felt Hannah stiffen. The deliciously dark overtones to their play chilled. No guesses as to why. Virginia was singing the forties torch song her daughters associated with their deceased father. And she was singing it with yet another man.

From out of nowhere fury enveloped him. Fury he could barely control.

He moved himself in closer to Hannah, feeling a need to say … he knew not what, exactly. That he understood her disappointment? That he’d felt it too? That the only way to survive it was to turn your insides to rock so hard no amount of chipping made a dent?

No, he wouldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t. Not even while she practically crumbled before his eyes.

Besieged by a swirl of raw emotion, this was usually the point where he’d begin to feel icicles forming in his blood.

But then Hannah murmured, quietly enough he was sure only he heard, ‘Please, God, somebody remind her that this is her daughter’s wedding—not the place to pick up her next ex-husband.’

And he felt as if a pair of huge cold hands was squeezing his chest.

The adventure of the moment had been overtaken by too much stark reality for his liking.

He slid his hand from Hannah’s back and moved out of the circle. He clapped his hands loud enough that the small group turned his way. ‘Who wants a drink? My shout.’

‘There’s a bar tab, silly,’ Elyse said.

‘Even better. So, for the bride?’

‘Black Russian.’

‘Excellent. Beer for me. Boston Sour for Hannah.’

‘Hey, that was Dad’s favourite drink,’ Elyse said.

Bradley glanced at Hannah. With a deep breath she turned away from the stage and into the conversation. ‘The man had great taste—with only the occasional slip.’

Her eyes slid to his, a warm flicker coming back to life within. He couldn’t drag his eyes away even as he said, ‘Roger? Your favourite drink is …?’

‘I’d kill for a tequila slammer,’ Roger piped up.

The warmth in Hannah’s eyes sparked into a flickering fire, and her mouth turned up at the corners as she stifled a laugh. She had a great smile. Infectious as all get out. Bradley felt his own cheeks lifting in response.

‘Now, Roger, while you await your tequila slammer you should ask Hannah about her naked run down Main Street. It’s a classic.’

Hannah’s smile disappeared as she gawped at him—all hot pink cheeks and pursed red lips, bright eyes and huffing chest. Then she slowly shook her head. A warning of reprisals to come.

It was with that image in mind—that dark promise—that he turned and headed for the bar.

What a difference a day makes.

It had been less than a day since thought of Hannah jetting off for a wild weekend and a family wedding on an island she clearly adored had finally spooked him enough to abandon a long-planned New Zealand research trip on a plane.

Checking out Tasmania was a smart business move, but there was no avoiding the fact that the timing purely came down to his need to keep an eye on her. For losing her from the team at that point in time was exactly the kind of drama he did not need.

What with the Argentina show all but ready to fly, and New Zealand well and truly in the works. And now the germ of a new idea about Tasmania. He didn’t have the time to break in someone new.

He found a spot at the bar where he was a head taller than every other patron. Three rows back, he still caught the eye of a bored-looking barmaid. She perked up, fixed her hair, smiled, and ignored the throng between them.

He boomed out his order and mimed his room number for the bill. She pretended to write it on her hand. Or maybe she wasn’t pretending. She was cute. Willing. Lived miles away. But no part of him was stirred. Literally. Odd.