Yvonne Lindsay - Tangled Vows

“Take your time,” Ilya said. “I’ll be waiting for you right here.”

She felt him step away from her, heard the sound of leather creaking as he settled into one of the easy chairs. Yasmin forced herself to walk steadily to the bedroom. Once inside she closed the door behind her and released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She shook with reaction, fine tremors rippling through her body. If he hadn’t withdrawn from her, she would have done it—she would have turned around.

She’d never been that kind of girl. Never one who followed her impulses. All her life she’d been focused and hardworking. She knew the consequences of not completing things to her best ability—knew, also, the rewards that came with achievement. So what had come over her that she was prepared to put all that aside and virtually throw herself at the stranger who waited on the other side of the door? The stranger who was her husband, she reminded herself. Did that make it right? She doubted it.

Yasmin let the gown fall to the carpet in a whoosh of expensive fabric, the hand-sewn crystals on her bodice winking at her reproachfully as she stepped out of the gown and toward the bed. Her hands worked feverishly on the final hooks securing her corset as she kicked off her slippers. When she was finally free of the garment, she let it drop to the floor, too. She rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower, then shimmied out of her stockings and lace underpants.

Warm water coursed over her, flattening her short-cropped hair to her skull and washing her body free of the tension that gripped her. She wasn’t that blushing bride who’d so intently embarked on this morning’s adventure. That person had been a dreamer, not the doer Yasmin had always prided herself on being. And the man waiting for her outside the bedroom? He was beautiful and appealing and all of the things that made her body react with unseemly eagerness. But he was also the enemy, and she’d do well to remember that.

* * *

Ilya began the final approach, relieved to see the helipad next to his house in the hills overlooking the Ojai Valley coming up ahead in the darkness. Yasmin sat next to him in the cockpit—silent, watching, stifling a yawn every now and then. He knew how she felt. The day had been exhausting, but they were nearly home.

They’d barely spoken since leaving the hotel. She’d taken longer than he expected to pack, and the woman who’d eventually emerged from the bedroom, dressed in long, dark pants, a cream linen blouse and battered leather flying jacket and wearing no makeup, had been a far cry from the bride he’d begun to undress.

His hand clenched on the controls, his fingers tingling as he remembered what it had felt like to undress her—how soft her skin was, how enticing her scent as they’d stood so close. It had taken every ounce of his considerable control not to lower his mouth to the curve of her neck where it flared into the feminine line of her shoulder. But he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. If this marriage of theirs was going to work, he’d take it as slowly as she needed. He had a feeling it would be more than worth it.

He wondered what had brought her to Match Made in Marriage and made a mental note to check with his grandmother. Or maybe he should ask his wife. From now on, in all things she should be his first port of call, shouldn’t she? In all things but their businesses.

Following the directions of the staff member marshalling him from the ground, he landed the chopper on the helipad.

“Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Horvath,” Pete Wood, head of his air crew, said as he came forward to open the chopper door on Yasmin’s side. “Watch your head, Mrs. Horvath.”

“Call me Yasmin, please,” Ilya heard his wife say tightly as she unlatched her harness, took off her headset and stepped down from the chopper.

He fought back a small smile. It gave him a surprising sense of pride to hear her called Mrs. Horvath. His wife. It sent a pulse of something powerful through him. As though he was a part of something new and exciting and uncharted. And in many ways, he was. He’d never been married before—hadn’t even lived with a woman—which made the rest of his life with Yasmin pan out ahead of him as very much the great unknown.

How hard could it be? he reassured himself as he completed his shutdown procedures and then removed their suitcases from the rear of the chopper.

“Thanks for coming to marshal us in, Pete.”

“No problem, sir. Congratulations on your marriage, both of you,” Pete said with a beaming smile in Yasmin’s direction.

She ducked her head shyly and a slight smile curved her lips. Ilya had noted that reticence around his family, too, and wondered if it had been just them. It looked as though she was like that with everyone—everyone connected with him, at least.

“Can I take your bags for you, Mr. Horvath?”

“No, it’s okay, Pete. You head on home now.”

Pete tipped his cap to Ilya. “Call me if you need me.”

Ilya gave him a smile. “I’m officially on honeymoon. Hopefully I won’t need to call you again until I’m back at work in two weeks’ time.”

“Sure thing, boss. Happy honeymooning.”

Ilya walked over to Yasmin, who stood on the outer perimeter of the helipad. Behind him he heard Pete start the helicopter back up.

“If you don’t want to be blown about, we’d better start walking toward the house. We’ll take that path there,” he suggested, nodding toward a path off to one side lined with garden lights.

“Are we stranded here?” Yasmin said, her eyes not straying from the helicopter.

“Does that bother you?”

“Should it?”

Ilya laughed. “No, it shouldn’t, and no, we’re not stranded.” He gestured to the multicar garage off to the side of the house they were now approaching through the garden. “You can take your pick of vehicles in there should you feel the need to flee.”

“Flee?” She arched a finely shaped brow as she looked at him. “What makes you think I’d want to?”

“Oh, perhaps the way you’re twisting the strap of your bag.”

She looked down at her hands. “I’m just nervous. Like I said before, I’ve never done this.”

“Nor have I,” Ilya assured her swiftly. “So let’s agree to remain open with each other about how we’re feeling, okay? Let me know, so I can relieve your nerves. Well, here we are.”

Ilya approached the portico of his home. He’d fallen in love with the Mediterranean-style property nestled on forty acres of land the moment he’d seen it. It was a half-hour drive from the airport and Horvath Aviation—less time, of course, if he took a chopper—and now he’d get to share it with Yasmin. He set the suitcases down and pressed a finger on the reader at the front door before pushing the double doors open to reveal the entrance.

“Welcome to our home, Yasmin.”

She started to move forward but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Allow me,” he said and stepped closer to swing her up into his arms.

She stifled a squeak of surprise and hooked her arms around his neck as he crossed the threshold. She felt ridiculously light in his arms, but the press of her body against his had all the impact of a jumbo jet blast when it came to his senses. One hand curved around her ribcage, just beneath her breasts. Oh, yes, for all her slenderness she had curves, all right. What would she do if he followed tradition even further and kissed her again?

The brief peck on her lips after their ceremony had been both a tease and a torment for him. The second he’d felt her lips beneath his he knew he wanted to explore her further, but with a room full of family and friends looking on, he’d been forced to acknowledge there was a limit to what was acceptable in public. Even now that they were alone, her obvious apprehension about the day meant he would have to take things slowly, he reminded himself, as he set her back down on her feet again.