Tessa Radley - The Saxon Brides

Joshua made his way over to where his parents stood with Alyssa, Alice—whatever her damned name was.

He was aware of the incongruously glamourous, burgundy dress she wore and how it mirrored the colour of her long hair. Against the rich hue her bare shoulders gleamed like pale pearls.

Angrily he suppressed the flare of reckless want. He’d just taken a call from the surgery team advising that his brother was in critical condition—worse than the medical team had originally believed—and here he was lusting after Alyssa Blake, accomplished liar. It was insane.

But even as he drew closer, she gathered up her bag and rose to her feet. He stopped beside his parents and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, at a loss to convey what he had learned. As Alyssa started for the doors one hand shot out and snagged her arm. “Where are you going?”

She kept her head down and continued to walk. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait … I need some answers.”

But she pulled free of his hold and marched toward the external glass doors in a flurry of dark red. Joshua started after her, then stopped as Heath came over and murmured, “Have you told Mum and Dad?”

He shook his head.

His parents must come first.

The next two minutes were a nightmare as he relayed what the surgeon had told him. “It’s the internal bleeding they’re worried about, and the head injury. Roland wasn’t wearing a seat belt. He was catapulted from the SUV. The surgeon said they don’t expect to be out for hours.”

His mother’s eyes stretched wide, shocked. His father straightened stiffly. Heath, his brave, bad-boy brother, was still pale under his tan. Joshua knew they all feared the same unspoken thing—that Roland might die.

Through the glass doors he could see Alyssa Blake’s back, bare above that killer dress. She must be freezing. Then he put how cold she must be out of his mind.

All this had started with her arrival.

Anger turned his vision bright red. Leaving his parents with Heath, he stalked forward. The doors slid open and cool, dank night air rushed against his face.

The doors hissed closed behind him. Ahead lay the almost-empty car park. Alyssa didn’t spare him a glance.

He drew a deep, steadying breath. “You came with me. How do you propose to leave?”

She brandished a cell phone. “I’ve called a cab—I need to collect my car from your home.”

“You can’t be intending to drive back to Auckland tonight?”

“Don’t worry, there’s not a drop of alcohol in my system.” She gave him a sideways glance. “But, no, I won’t be leaving tonight. I want to stay near Roland.”

He drew another, deeper breath and forced himself not to react. Instead he said as calmly as he could manage, “You must be freezing. Here, take my jacket.” He started to shrug off the black dinner jacket he’d grabbed before they’d left the homestead.

But she said, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“You’ve got gooseflesh.” He touched the skin on her upper arms, and she leapt away as if he’d singed her.

“I don’t need it. The taxi will be here in a moment.”

“You can give it back to me tomorrow.”

She stilled. “Okay, thank you.”

He slid the jacket off. It sounded as if it had taken a lot for her to accept his offer of help. Contrary damn woman. Watching her wind the jacket around herself, he relaxed a little as the pale tempting flesh disappeared out of sight.

“Where will you stay?”

Her mouth curled. “Don’t worry, you won’t need to track me down. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t worried about that.”

She named a popular hotel in town.

“And you’re leaving tomorrow, right?” Part of him wanted her to leave, never come back. He couldn’t help the ridiculous superstitious stab of dread that her arrival had heralded Roland’s accident. But there was another part of him, the sybaritic pagan part, who wanted to see her again. Touch her again. Kiss her again.

For one reckless instant he considered doing just that. It would be so easy. One tug, and she’d be up against his chest. He’d feel her body warm against his, he’d taste her lips under his mouth. The cold that froze him inside might seep away under her touch … her kisses.

And then he’d despise himself for it. He shook his head to clear it.

Maybe Alyssa Blake was a witch.

“I might leave tomorrow. It depends.” Alyssa gave him a sideways glance.

But Joshua barely heard. He frowned as he took in her red-rimmed eyes, the silvery stains on her cheeks where the wind had already dried the tears. “You’ve been crying.”

Quickly she averted her face.

“Why?”

The look she gave him revealed too little. Secrets, he thought suddenly. He glanced through the glass doors and his gaze landed on Amy, curled up in the chair, her face wearing an expression of intense misery.

His gaze came back to Alyssa and narrowed. Instead of drowning her, his dinner jacket simply increased her upmarket city sexiness. She was gorgeous, stylish, smart. The kind of woman Roland had always dated before he’d become engaged to Amy….

And Amy had been upset earlier this evening—she and Roland had fought, even though it was common knowledge they never fought. The uncertain suspicion coalesced into certainty.

Alyssa had been having an affair with Roland.

She must have confronted Roland during the evening, and Amy had found out.

It wasn’t important , Alyssa had said when Joshua asked her about her conversation with his brother. He’d known from the flicker in her eyes that she’d been lying. The conversation had been very important.

And now Roland was unconscious….

No wonder Alyssa was upset. Did she feel responsible for causing her lover’s accident?

Did she love his brother?

He raked his hands through his hair as unruly thoughts churned round and round in his overwrought brain. “Who invited you to the ball tonight? You weren’t on the list of official guests—it had to be a personal invitation.” From Roland?

“I didn’t have an invitation. I gate-crashed.” There was defiance in her gaze.

Then she turned away. He heard what she had, the sound of the taxi pulling up at the curb.

But all he could think about was that Roland hadn’t invited her. Or she could be lying. Again. “Why? What did you hope to achieve?”

She didn’t answer and started to move away.

“Tell me, dammit.” Without thought, he reached for her. His hands closed over her shoulders covered with the fine fabric of his jacket. He glared down into her blank features, her lashes lying long and dark against her cheeks. “Tell me!”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Had she tried to break up Roland’s engagement? He struggled to read the beautiful, frozen face. “I think it does.”

She didn’t answer. He slid his hands down and circled her wrists, gave them a shake to get her to meet his gaze.

Wrapped in his jacket, she stood unmoving. And strangely that made him even angrier. He wanted her to object to his hold, he wanted her to struggle, to see her eyes spit fire at him; he didn’t like the limp arms in his grasp, the listlessness in her eyes.

So he softened his grasp and said with quiet menace, “What did you want at Saxon’s Folly tonight?”

She hesitated. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

He heard the taxi door open.

“Ma’am, did you book the taxi?”

He looked over her shoulder. “The lady’s not ready to leave yet.”

“But I am,” she murmured.

His brows drew together. “I want an answer before you go. What did you want?”

What had happened between her and Roland? Had Roland sent her away—was that why she’d kissed him out in the garden? To get back at Roland? Was that why she’d landed in his bed?