Susan Napier - Mistress Of The Groom

There were several titters in the background and a questioning buzz, but the protagonists were too intent on each other to be aware of the distraction.

‘I didn’t come here to ask for any favours,’ denied Jane coldly, her stomach turning at the thought of being forced to beg before this sadistic swine. That was what he wanted, she realised sickly. Having stripped Jane of her family inheritance, her bright career and practically every material possession, he was now intent on exposing her nakedness to ridicule and contempt. As far as he was concerned this unexpected encounter was just another opportunity to grind her pride into the dust. Well, if she had to go down, the would go down fighting!

‘No? Then perhaps you’re here to do me one,’ he taunted as their eyes clashed, two hostile shades of blue. ‘It is my birthday, after all, and everyone else seems to be in a gifting mood. Have you come to give me something too, Miss Sherwood?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she said, stepping closer, her left hand momentarily concealed by the folds of her skirt.

Hatchet-face, who had glided silently up to his employer’s side, stiffened and began to lunge forward, but he was halted by an out-flung arm.

‘Really?’ Ryan Blair dropped his arm as his would-be protector settled obediently back. ‘I wonder what you could conceivably have to give me that I don’t already possess?’ The drawl was more pronounced than ever as he sipped from his glass of champagne, a picture of contemptuous relaxation, a man who was supremely confident of his enemy’s impotence. And, no doubt because she was a woman, he was doubly certain of his superiority!

She realised she still possessed the element of surprise.

‘This...!’

Even as she half turned away, dropping her left shoulder in a classic fighting gesture, he didn’t seem to recognise his danger, and when her clenched fist came shooting up and out it was too late to duck.

The full weight of her feminine strength and fury was behind the punch which smashed squarely into his insolent jaw with a deeply gratifying crunch.

A jolt of excruciating pain exploded up Jane’s arm and flashes of white light briefly dazzled her vision, but her smothered cry of agony was lost in the concerted gasp of the crowd and the female shrieks of dismay. Ryan Blair’s head snapped back and the abrupt shift of his centre of gravity sent him crashing back against the round table behind him, his powerful bulk tipping it over and toppling him flat on the floor amidst a rain of crystal and cutlery.

The sight of him lying there cradling his bruised jaw, cursing like a navvy into the stunned silence, his façade of polished sophistication in ruins, was balm to Jane’s lacerated spirit.

As the hotel events manager swooped down on the scene, gabbling horrified apologies, and the guests began to surge forward to help the man of honour to his feet, Jane turned her back on the chaos and walked out with the same calm, unhurried dignity with which she had arrived. She looked neither to left nor right, conscious of the path opening up before her as people drew back, afraid that their proximity to a social and business pariah might be interpreted as support. Ryan Blair had made it clear that whoever was not wholeheartedly with him was against him. And, as Jane had already discovered to her cost, he made a bitter enemy.

She reached the heavy glass door to the hotel foyer without hindrance, but as she reached for the brass bar a masculine hand was there before her, pushing it open. She turned her head in a bare acknowledgement and was startled to see that it was Ryan Blair’s blond hatchet-man assisting her passage to freedom. She half expected him to try to detain her, or at least warn her that she was going to be sued for full damages, but instead he merely inclined his head as she passed through the door, a peculiar glint of sardonic admiration in his silver-grey eyes.

When she stepped out into the street, the summer night enfolded her like a warm and humid blanket. The footpath was still slick with the light rain which had fallen earlier in the evening and she had to walk slowly and carefully in her spiky heels, acutely conscious that the glass wall of the hotel restaurant fronted the street, allowing everyone inside a clear view of her progress.

She was almost to the corner, where she would turn blessedly out of sight into the side-street where she had parked her car, when she heard a scuff of sound behind her.

Before she could react she was whirled fiercely round, her arms held in a steely grip.

‘Oh, no you don’t!’

She looked up into Ryan Blair’s blazing blue eyes.

‘You didn’t think you were going to walk off scot-free, did you? Nobody throws a punch at me and gets away with it!’

His voice was thick with rage and her eyes fell to his battered mouth, where a trickle of blood revealed a split in his swollen lower lip. The reddened puffiness ran down the left side of his jaw; by morning it would probably be black and blue. Jane had always shunned violence, in her whole twenty-six years she had never seriously sought to injure anyone, but now she felt a hot burst of pleasure at the sight of the damage she had caused to Ryan Blair’s handsome face.

‘I don’t see what you can do about it,’ she told him, riding a brave surge of adrenalin, struggling to wrench herself out of his iron fists. ‘Unless you want to make yourself a laughing stock by having me arrested for assault!’

‘You don’t think people are laughing at me now?’ he snarled, his fingers tightening on her bare arms.

‘Whose fault is that?’ she choked, giving up the unequal fight and standing straight and tall within his punishing grasp, her eyes icy with scorn. ‘You may be rich enough to buy loyalty but you still have to earn respect. Your campaign to drive Sherwood Properties out of business was vicious and underhanded and commercially questionable. I bet a lot of those toadies in there that you bribed or intimidated into your circle of influence secretly enjoyed seeing you get a punch in the face. They’re just too scared to admit it!’

She had reminded him of their curious audience behind the glass wall of the restaurant, but instead of looking their way he glanced over his shoulder. ‘So you did it because you think you have nothing left to lose?’ he grated. ‘Think again, sweetheart.’

And he jerked her against his chest, crushing her hands between them, lowering his head and forcing her shocked cry back down her throat with his plundering mouth. One large hand burrowed up into her immaculate coiffure, dislodging the pins, the other arm wrapped diagonally across her back, his fingers sinking into the swell of her buttocks as he arched her into a classic clinch. His foot thrust between her teetering heels, his knees squeezing her trapped thigh, and when she tried to push him away with her fists a burst of pain in her left hand made her gasp, opening herself even wider to the rough intrusion of his tongue. She felt the sting of his teeth against her tender lip and, tasting blood, didn’t know whether it was his or her own.

He made no pretence of passion—it was an exercise in pure male dominance—but there was no pretence about the kiss, either. It was no chaste theatrical illusion, it was deep, hard and shatteringly real. Strange waves of heat and cold battered Jane’s senses, and she thought she was fainting when a white light like the one that had dazzled her in the restaurant suddenly began pulsing and whirring around her head.

Just as suddenly Ryan Blair let her go and, staggering slightly, Jane saw a grinning photographer backing away, flashing off a few more shots as he went. She shuddered to think of the images he had captured on film.

‘What did you do that for?’ she panted furiously, putting a hand up to the heavy fall of hair which he had wrenched adrift. His gloating smirk told her that he had known the photographer was approaching when he had grabbed her.