Trish Morey - The Spaniard's Blackmailed Bride

‘You’re trembling,’ he said.

‘I…I’m cold,’ she lied.

He drew her closer, pressing his lips first to one cheek and then the other before drawing back.

‘I think,’ he whispered, ‘it could be fun warming you up, convincing you that making love would not be such a bad thing between us.’

She pressed her eyes shut, but behind closed lids she could still see him, larger than life, supremely confident, could still feel the sensual dance of his fingers against the bare flesh of her back.

‘And if you’re not enough for me?’ she gasped breathlessly, looking up in challenge, desperate for any kind of defence against this slow, sensual onslaught. He answered by gathering her full length against him and shock rendered her speechless. Through their clothes, she could feel his power pulsing, straining, waiting to be unleashed.

Unleashed inside her!

It wasn’t just shock that kept her from protesting. It was fascination she felt, a desire to explore more of these new sensations, a yearning for something forbidden, something carnal that this man promised, that held her mute.

‘Oh,’ he murmured, tugging on one diamond stud in her ear with his teeth, ‘I will be more than enough.’

And then he let her go so swiftly she almost collapsed to the ground. She spun away, panting and dizzy, not doubting him, the throb of her pulse echoing in newly awakened flesh, already aching and ready and lush.

‘So,’ he said so calmly that it was as if the last few minutes had never happened. ‘Now that we’ve settled that, if you have no further suggestions for inclusions into our pre-nuptial agreement…?’ He hesitated a moment or two. ‘No? Then I’ll see you at the wedding.’

She was still catching her breath, her heart still thudding, as he turned and swept from the room, his long coat swinging in his wake like a cape. Her skin still tingled from his touch, her senses still humming.

So much for her resolve to keep separate lives. How long would it take him to ‘convince’ her that her place was in his bed? She clutched her arms about her as she remembered the feel of his lean body pressed against hers and the way her own body had responded. Probably no more than five minutes based on what had just transpired.

Damn the man! But it didn’t have to be the end. So it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped—she’d just have to change her plans accordingly.

He might think he’d won that round, but there was still one hell of a battle to come.

It wasn’t over yet!

‘I’M SO sorry, Briar, this is all my fault.’

Briar squeezed her father’s hand as they waited for the organ music to come to an end. How strange it was that she should be the one calming him down right now.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ she assured him with a confidence dredged up from somewhere. ‘You had no choice.’

‘But Briar—’ he began.

‘None of us had any choice,’ she insisted. ‘He never gave us a chance. But at least now we’ve managed to save Blaxlea from his clutches.’

Her father squirmed in his dark suit. ‘Briar—’

But her father’s words were cut off with the strains of the wedding march ringing out, signalling that it was time to walk down that aisle and meet her fate, signalling that it was time to meet her soon-to-be husband. A quiver of sensation zipped through her, leaving her blissfully numb in its wake, so that when her father tugged her forward into the church she went without resistance.

‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’

It had to be a dream—a bad dream. Any second now she’d wake up in her own bed with the morning sun streaming through the curtains and this nightmare would fade with the darkness and she’d laugh at how ridiculous it had all been…

‘You may kiss the bride.’

Oh, God. A brain spinning with the effects of weeks of barely sleeping suddenly clicked into gear and registered the truth.

There would be no waking up to the light. There would be no laughter. Instead her nightmare stared down at her, his dark eyes chasing away the morning, chasing away all hope. They regarded her now, the heated possession contained within terrifying as he drew closer, collecting her into his arms.

Her eyes looked too big for her face, her skin so pale and her limbs so fragile it was a wonder she didn’t snap. Instead she came softly into his arms in a rustle of creamy silk, unprotesting rather than willing, and he swallowed back a sudden and totally unfamiliar urge to comfort her. But he didn’t have to comfort her. She was his now. She would accept her fate eventually.

And then his mouth slanted over her cool lips and heat arced between them in a rush.

He felt the jolt that moved through her; angling her mouth into a better fit, he felt the heat suffuse her flesh, melting her to him, and suddenly his kiss took on a life of its own and anticipation of contact more carnal hummed through his senses. If she responded this readily to just a kiss, then how much more might he heat up her temperature tonight, when they were alone?

He drew back, watched the tawny colours in her eyes eddy and swirl before coolness once again iced their depths and turned them defiant and glinting like topaz. She couldn’t disguise her cheeks so readily, though, the bright slashes of colour evidence that even if her spirit wanted to fight, her flesh was more than willing. It would be a pleasure seeing her skin flush all over. And then it would be more than a pleasure bringing her spirit into line.

Organ music soared through the lofty chapel as he laced her hand through his arm as they prepared to walk back down the aisle together as man and wife, the battery of bridesmaids and groomsmen her mother had organised from the ranks of cousins hanging behind. With Briar’s two best friends now living overseas and unable to make the wedding, Carolyn had only been too pleased to take matters into her own hands and organise everything.

Her mother stopped them before they’d gone two paces, hugging her daughter tightly and greeting her new son with a kiss as tears of joy streamed down her face.

‘If only Nat were here to see you now,’ her mother cried, and Briar bit down on her bottom lip. At least he’d been saved from witnessing this humiliation. Her father added his quiet congratulations as slowly they continued down the length of the aisle, having their progress constantly interrupted by the babble of family members, friends and colleagues, all of them from the bride’s side of the church.

The press had occupied Diablo’s side; only now they’d vacated their seats to form a camera-wielding posse in front of them, leaving a sprinkling of actual guests on the groom’s side of the church. Did this scattering of individuals constitute all of Diablo’s family and friends? She’d heard that he’d lost both his parents, but what kind of man operated so alone in the world that he had so few other contacts? And while he was frequently featured in the social pages, he’d never been seen with the same woman twice. What kind of lone-wolf had she married?

She slid a glance up at him and his eyes and jaw gave her the answer in an instant. Hard. Uncompromising. Difficult.

No wonder he had no friends.

Then they were outside in the bright sunny afternoon and enduring what felt like a never-ending round of poses and photographs.

‘Smile,’ the photographers called, reminding her once more to paste one on. Because it was expected of her. Because it was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

But how did you smile when you’d just been bound legally to a man you hated, when you’d been forced into a marriage because you had no other choice, for without it your family would be reduced to nothing?