Claiming His Bride

“And you think my daughter wants to get tied up with you?” Ruth’s eyes flashed daggers at him. “She doesn’t! She’s made that quite clear in the past.” She gulped down her anger, her gaze sliding away. “But if you’re serious about this being only a temporary arrangement…and if my daughter agrees…” To save face…to save Jolie Fashions…to save her daughter’s career…

“Well, Suzie?” Mack turned to his prospective bride, who’d remained silent until now. She’d been shocked into silence. “It’s your call.”

Suzie’s head was still spinning. It was impossible to think straight. Her mother’s bitter attack on Mack a second ago had had a curious effect on her, making her feel almost defensive of him, tempting her to point out his good points to her mother. Only with her mind in such a tumultuous state, she couldn’t think of any! She’d spent so much time over the past three years reminding herself of Mack’s many faults…his many sins…trying only to think of them…

Mack watched the conflicting emotions in her eyes and relaxed a trifle. She was coming around…it was going to be easier than he’d thought.

“Mrs. Guthrie’s leaving!” Lucy reported from the window. “So are the people she’s sitting closest to. There’s no sign of Tristan…he must have sent one of the staff to speak to his mother.”

Tristan hadn’t even had the courage to face his mother himself? How pathetic he was, Suzie thought in disgust. What a lucky escape she’d had…and such a close escape…and she could thank Mack….

Her eyes clouded. She didn’t want to be indebted to Mack Chaney.

Mack felt a tinge of anxiety. He’d seen that look before. Don’t get cold feet now, Suzie. “I promise I’ll give you your freedom afterward, Suzie, the moment you ask. I’ll sign anything you want me to.” His eyes burned into hers, challenging her—even as he held his breath.

As Suzie stared back at him dazedly, her mother spoke up again, Mack’s promise reassuring her. “Suzie dear, if you’re going to go ahead with this wedding, we’d better get moving. The celebrant will be waiting downstairs. You’ll have to brief her of any changes you want…”

“She’ll think we’ve gone mad,” Suzie said faintly.

Mack’s dark eyes glinted. She was actually going to go ahead with it! He hid his relief. “Mad about each other,” he corrected smoothly, trying to curb his impatience. He didn’t want her backing out now….

“I’ll go down to the garden and let people know that you’re coming.” Ruth was already moving toward the door. “I can just imagine their shock, Suzie, when you turn up with an unruly-haired biker in black leather instead of Tristan Guthrie!”

“They’ll only have eyes for the bride,” Mack murmured, “not for the man by her side.”

“Oh yeah?” Lucy breathed, eyeing him avidly. Mack was far more romantic, in his dangerous, brooding sort of way, than the impeccable, golden-haired Tristan, who’d turned out to be a bit of a wimp.

Mack held out his hand to Suzie. “Shall we go down?” He gave her a rallying smile.

The sight of his smile reassured Suzie as nothing else could. This was what she’d dreamed of once…walking down the aisle with Mack Chaney…before she’d realized she would never be able to rely on him…that he wasn’t the responsible, settling-down type.

But she didn’t have to worry about the future. They wouldn’t be married long enough. She could believe in the dream and just for today live the dream.

She took his hand and smiled back. A smile she knew she must keep up for the rest of the afternoon.

Somehow she managed it, but her head was still whirling and she was barely conscious of her feet touching the ground. She was barely conscious of anything, except vague impressions.

The official wedding photographer waiting at the foot of the stairs, the marriage celebrant coming forward to discuss the service and deal with the necessary paperwork, the barrage of cameras as she and Mack stepped out into the sun-drenched garden, the sighs of admiration as her bridal gown was duly inspected and approved and finally the stunned faces of the guests as she walked between them with Mack by her side, Lucy following close behind.

They exchanged vows in front of a shady gazebo, with Mack producing a wedding ring which, he confided, had belonged to his mother. Mack had been close to his mother, so the ring would mean a lot to him. Suzie was touched by the gesture.

“I do,” she heard herself answering when the time came, and suddenly she was married, and everyone was waiting for Mack to kiss her. He did….

The cameras went mad. As a newlywed couple, they had to sign more documents at a table in the gazebo, before enduring another barrage of photographs, not only from their own official wedding photographer, but from the clamoring fashion media. The guests, many resplendent in Jolie fashions, were also photographed. Suzie’s bosses were ecstatic.

It was a relief to finally escape the media circus, the bridal couple retreating with their guests to the reception house, where the media weren’t permitted. But they had their pictures and went away happy, dispersing quickly, keen to be the first with their fashion scoop.

As the guests spilled into the various rooms of the brightly lit, flower-bedecked reception house, champagne and appetizers were served, and the noise level rose. Everyone was having fun, the mood heightened by the astonishing turn of events.

Tristan and his mother had wanted a formal reception, but Suzie had insisted on a party instead, with a smorgasbord-style buffet set up in one of the rooms and a towering profiterole dessert instead of a formal wedding cake. A jazz band was playing in the conservatory, and some of the guests were dancing already.

“Can’t we get out of here?” Suzie begged Mack as they moved from room to room, neatly avoiding probing questions. A good few of the guests were Tristan’s friends, who’d stayed on out of curiosity. “I want to go home. You must want to escape, too. Nobody will notice we’ve gone. With all these rooms, we could be anywhere.”

“Fine with me.” Mack’s dark eyes were unreadable. “We’ll slip out the back way. But you’d better let your mother know.”

“I guess so. You wait here.” Suzie dashed off, weaving through the crush until she found her mother, flopped in an armchair. “Mum, I need to get away from everyone. I’m exhausted. I’m going to slip away.”

Her mother nodded in sympathy. “I’ll come home with you,” she offered. “You must need a comforting shoulder to cry on after all that’s happened.”

Suzie hid her alarm. The last thing she wanted was her mother’s sympathy—especially if she started commiserating about Tristan! She immediately changed tack. “Mum, Mack and I are going to have a quiet drink somewhere away from all the fuss. I’ll be home later tonight,” she promised. “I’ve no intention of spending the night with Mack,” she assured her mother, who nodded in relief.

“Don’t wait up for me,” she added, and fled.

Moments later she was out in the floodlit courtyard with Mack. The cool air hit them in the face. The afternoon had been sunny and mild—a perfect autumn day—but now it had clouded over, with one ominously dark cloud directly overhead, and there were already a few spots of rain.

She looked round. “The wedding car’s not here,” she groaned. “It must be round the front.”

“You won’t need the wedding car.” Mack was ushering her toward a big gleaming black motorcycle.

She balked. “I’m not riding on that thing. I hate motorbikes.”

“You loved riding with me once.”

“That was before—” She stopped, a deep shudder quivering through her. Before her father had crashed his high-powered Harley into a power pole.

“I know, Suzie, and I’m sorry about your father, but you’ll be safe with me, I promise.”

Safe with Mack Chaney? When had she ever been safe with Sydney’s wild-boy bachelor?

Only he wasn’t a bachelor now. He was her husband. She began to tremble. Reaction was setting in.

As she stood hesitating, Mack’s fingers closed over her shoulders—warm, strong fingers that sent a tingling heat through the delicate lace. “You know what they say when someone falls off a horse.” His voice held a seductively persuasive note—a familiar note that brought back disturbing memories. “Get right back on and get rid of the demons.”

She looked up into his compelling black eyes and shivered, her mouth twisting. The only demon she had to fight was Mack himself. She’d been fighting that particular demon for the past three years, and for another year before that, when they’d been together—on and off. When Tristan Guthrie swept into her life three months ago, she thought that she’d finally succeeded in ridding herself of the demon that was Mack Chaney.

Tristan. Her golden prince. Her charming, sensible, honorable, dependable, perfect…Pah! She should have known he was too good to be true. Hot tears pricked her eyes.

“You want to get away from here or not?” Mack was already mounting his shiny black Harley and waiting for her to make up her mind.

“Yes, get me away! But I—I’ve decided not to go home yet. Mum will be home shortly, and I just can’t face her again tonight. Let’s have a quiet drink somewhere.”

“We’ll go to my place. Hop on!”

His place? But she hardly cared where. She just wanted to get away from here, before someone saw them and tried to drag them back inside.

She looped the long skirt of her wedding gown over her arm—she’d discarded her veil and headpiece earlier—and jumped up behind Mack. He’d pulled his helmet on and had unhooked the spare one for her.

“Here, put this on,” he ordered, thrusting it at her, but she gave a reckless shake of her head.

“I want to feel the wind in my hair. I’ve a lot of cobwebs to blow away.”

“It’s illegal not to wear a helmet,” Mack reminded her with rare deference to the law. She laughed—a brittle, almost hysterical laugh. Illegal? Bigamy was illegal! Not wearing a helmet was hardly the crime of the century. But she took it and rammed it on her head. “Come on, are we going or not?”

“We’re going.” Mack revved the engine. “Hang on!”

She did, clinging to him for dear life as his high-powered machine sprang forward and roared off down the sweeping driveway to the street. The spatters of rain were increasing, great splashing drops now, gathering momentum by the second.

She shut her eyes, relishing the wind and rain in her face because it gave her something else to think about other than the shocking events that had taken place at Bouganvillea Receptions.

She could feel her carefully straightened hair sprouting curls as the rain seeped under the helmet. Well, it hardly mattered now. Tristan wasn’t going to see it. Mack, on the other hand, was bound to make some cutting remark about her new look—her artificial new look—when they finally reached the sanctuary of his home.

Sanctuary? A shiver feathered down her spine. By running off with Mack Chaney, wasn’t she jumping out of the frying pan into the fire?

As they careered round the first corner, Mack suddenly nosed his bike into the kerb and brought it to a halt.

“What are you doing?” she cried as he eased himself out of her grasp and leapt off.

What he was doing, she realized, was peeling off his leather jacket. He had a plain black T-shirt underneath which emphasized the breadth of his muscled chest and exposed the impressive muscles of his tanned arms. She pursed her lips, wondering if he’d added workouts in the gym to his other leisure activities.

“Here. Slip your arms into this.” He helped her into his jacket, which was several sizes too large for her, but felt beautifully snug and warm. “It might protect you a bit.”

Surprised at his unexpected gallantry—but then, Mac had always been a man of surprises, good and bad—she showed her gratitude with a light, “Thanks, Mack. Now you’ll get wet through.”

“Never mind about me,” Mack muttered as he threw a sturdy thigh over his bike and settled back into his seat. There was an edge of mockery in his voice, as if to say, When have you ever minded about me? “Ready to go? Hold on, Suzie!” The big machine shot forward.

The rain was tumbling down. She could feel her wet curls clinging to her cheeks, her neck. She thought of Tristan and her mouth dipped. What would it matter now if she reverted to her natural curls and dropped her sophisticated, ladylike facade? Who was going to care now that her golden prince had turned into a tarnished frog?

Just as her dark prince had, three years ago.

She wondered bleakly if an honest, dependable man existed anymore.

She turned her face into the driving rain, as if that might wash them both out of her mind and out of her life. But it was pretty futile when she had her arms around the dark prince, his ring on her finger and would shortly be arriving at his home.

Chapter Three

As Mack swung his bike into the narrow driveway of his modest weatherboard home, which he’d inherited from his mother about five years ago, Suzie felt herself trembling again. Not with reaction this time, or even with cold—Mack’s jacket had saved her from catching a mortal chill—but with a shivery apprehension.

She’d been to Mack’s house a few times during the roller-coaster months they’d been together—or more accurately, seeing each other. They’d never actually been together in that sense, though it had come close a few times and would undoubtedly have happened if Mack hadn’t shattered her faith in him—albeit blind, rebellious faith—by showing that he possessed the same destructive traits that had wrecked her father’s life.

Her mother had mistrusted Mack from the start and warned her to keep right away from him. Suzie had known in her heart that Ruth was right about him, that he was the last man in the world she should be seeing, let alone falling for, but try as she might she hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Until that awful night three years ago—the night Mack had demonstrated, with painful clarity, that he was no different from her father.

Disillusioned, she’d refused to see him again, refused his phone calls, even refused to speak to him when he’d turned up at her father’s funeral a few months later. She’d wanted to make it clear to Mack that whatever they’d shared together was now dead, and that she was severing all connections with him.

“We’re here now, Suzie, you can let go of me,” Mack drawled, and she realized they’d pulled up near his front steps and that she was still clinging to him. She released him as if her hands were suddenly on fire, and scrambled off the big machine, groaning as she looked down at her mud-spattered ivory satin high heels and the soaked skirt of her elegant wedding gown.

“My dress and shoes are ruined!” she moaned. “Haven’t you ever thought of buying a car?”

“And give up my Harley?” Mack grinned at her through the rain. In the glow of his porch light, drops of water beaded his heavy eyebrows and thick lashes, giving his dark eyes a pearly sheen. “Come on inside, Suzie, out of this rain. We’ll have to get these things off. We’re both soaked.” His wet T-shirt clung to his muscled chest like a second skin.

We’ll have to get these things off? Alarm shot through her. “I’ll be fine,” she babbled, wondering why she’d ever agreed to come to his home with him. Was she mad? This wasn’t a real marriage, for heaven’s sake! They’d agreed it wasn’t going to last. “Your jacket has kept me nice and dry and warm,” she mumbled.

“Only the top half of you.” He was still grinning, damn him, as he surveyed her sodden gown and shoes. “But I can’t see your wedding dress surviving somehow. I hope you’re not having second thoughts about marrying Tristan when you’re both free again, assuming he ever gets his divorce, of course!”

She almost snapped back, “No, I’m not!” but she caught the words back, scowling instead. A bit of doubt on Mack’s part might be a good thing. As a protective device. Mack had supreme powers of persuasion, as he’d demonstrated before when she’d been determined to keep away from him. Until he’d shown his true colors on that last soul-destroying night, and she’d made it quite clear to him that he was out of her life for good.

But she still wasn’t immune to him, she realized in dismay. Not entirely immune. Having to keep her body pressed up against him all the way to his home, and her arms wrapped tightly around him, had shown her that. The feel of his taut muscles under her hands had sent her heartbeat haywire and her pulses soaring, and even now she could still feel her nerve endings twitching. She would have to be well and truly on her guard against him, every second she spent with him.

As Mack whisked her up the rickety front steps to the shelter of his small covered porch, she fingered her wet tangle of curls and wondered ruefully what Tristan would have thought of her smooth, sleek hair sprouting rebellious curls before his eyes. Would he have laughed, and loved her just as much? Or would he have sent her off to have her hair professionally, permanently, straightened?

She simply didn’t know. What madness had made her want to rush into marriage with a man she didn’t really know? A man she’d only known for three months?

It had been nothing but a dream. And dreams weren’t real. Fairy tales weren’t real.

She heard a thud, and then another, and realized that Mack was tugging off his boots. As he peeled off his socks, revealing dark-skinned bare feet, she gulped and looked away, kicking off her own mud-spattered satin shoes.

Mack unlocked his front door and waved her in. “I’m glad to see your curls are back, Suzie,” he commented as he led her into the front room—a combined sitting room and workroom—and switched on the overhead light. Only one of the three bulbs was working—typical of Mack Chaney, Suzie thought, glancing upward. On her past visits here, he’d often overlooked practical household basics, his mind too absorbed, no doubt, with the Internet and his latest brilliant idea.

But at least the lighting was softer than it would have been with all three bulbs working!

“What on earth did you do to your hair before?” Mack asked, fingering a stray damp curl. He was thinking how cute she looked with her wet curls clustered round her cheeks, and how dewy and moist and kissable her lips looked, and how she’d die if she knew she had mascara running down her face. “And why?”

Suzie jerked her face away. “I needed a change.” No way would she tell him the real reason she’d dispensed with her curls—to impress Tristan Guthrie on the night of the Gown of the Year awards. Tristan, as head of the Guthrie Leather Goods empire, one of the sponsors for the event, had presented the main award.

Knowing he’d be there, her mother had urged Suzie to make an effort to look more elegant and sophisticated in the hope that her daughter would catch the eye of the eligible young bachelor. Dolled up in her award-winning gown, with her new sleek hairstyle and ladylike demeanor, Suzie had done her mother proud. Tristan had had eyes for no one else all night—or for the following three months.

“I had it straightened, that’s all,” she said with a shrug. “Every woman likes a new look occasionally.”

“Why change what’s perfect already?”

A tremor quivered through her. Mack was the only one who’d ever thought her perfect as she was. Everyone else preferred her new sleek-haired, sophisticated look—her mother, her workmates at Jolie Fashions, Tristan, his snooty mother.

“And you don’t need all that eye makeup and mascara,” Mack chided. “You’re too fair. It looks unnatural.”

“Tristan liked me like this.” He’d never taken a second look at the natural Suzie. He’d come to Jolie Fashions once to pick up his mother after a fitting, and he’d walked straight past her without a glance.

“He should have liked you as you really are.”

She twitched a shoulder. He never noticed me as I really was.

Mack reached up to brush a finger over her cheek. “Your mascara has run,” he mocked softly. “The hazards of makeup. Still, I’m sure Tristan appreciated your glamorous new look.” His dark eyes taunted her. “He’d like the cool, sophisticated ice-maiden look, from what I found out about him. Nothing too hot or passionate or unbridled for our straitlaced golden boy.”

He was so close to the mark that she forgot she hadn’t intended to let him get under her skin, and she lost her cool. “From what you found out about him?” she lashed back. “I still can’t believe you actually had the nerve to check up on my fiancé’s past—just on a vague, spiteful hunch!” She was too incensed to acknowledge that if he hadn’t, he would never have discovered and exposed Tristan’s secret marriage, and she would be the wife of a bigamist by now.

“There was nothing spiteful about it. I was merely looking out for your welfare. But we can discuss your errant ex-fiancé when you have a soothing drink in your hand. And when you’ve removed those wet things.”

She flinched away from him. “Oh…you mean your jacket.” She hurriedly slipped it off and handed it back to him. “Thanks.” She paused, glancing down. “I don’t suppose it matters that I’m leaving muddy splotches and watery drops on your carpet. How long since you’ve had it cleaned? Sometime last century?” She screwed up her nose in distaste at the stained, threadbare carpet.

“Oh, that old thing, it’ll be going soon.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, Suzie thought. And pigs might fly. She was still frowning at the carpet. “What did you do—hold a wild party in here? What are these stains—red wine? Or did someone get stabbed?”

His lip quirked. “It’s grease. I took my bike apart in here and made a bit of a mess.”

She rolled her eyes. “Heavens, Mack,” she exclaimed, looking around the room properly for the first time, “this whole room’s a mess. It’s a disgrace.”

There were piles of papers and cardboard cartons stacked on the floor, and more cluttering the tables and desktops, where a computer and keyboard were just visible. The armchairs had newspapers and computer magazines strewn all over them. “Don’t you ever tidy your house? Or do any cleaning?”

“I’ve been busy. I’m not going to die because of a bit of dust or a few messy papers and boxes. Besides, nobody sees the mess but me.”

“I’m seeing it.”

“Since when did a bit of mess bother you, Suzie?” His dark eyes glinted. “There was a time when you only noticed me, and the chemistry that flared between us every time we looked at each other. And we had more than just chemistry going for us.”

Suzie wanted to stop him, but his next words brought such nostalgic memories flooding back that they formed a lump in her throat, making speech impossible.

“Remember how we used to love listening to the band concerts and feeding the pigeons in Hyde Park, Suzie? And watching the yacht races on Sydney Harbour at weekends? And how we loved a good joke? And talking about everything under the sun? Music, sports, politics, books, movies, our dreams, our ambitions?”

She unlocked her throat. “Pipe dreams, in your case!” Her heart rate had picked up to a disturbing degree at his reminder of three years ago, and scorn seemed the best way to cover her turmoil. “You were always full of talk about what you were going to do with your life when your brilliant ideas hit the jackpot and you made tons of money, but I don’t see any sign that you’ve become rich and famous in the past three years!”

She raked a disparaging look around. “Nothing’s changed, has it, Mack? When I first met you, you’d just thrown in a perfectly good job and dropped out of university, and you’ve never knuckled down to a proper job since as far as I can see—let alone hit a jackpot!”

No, nothing’s changed, she thought, stifling a sigh. He’s just like my father. All his dreams of becoming rich and famous—in his case with his paintings—had come to nothing, too.

Mack gave a snort. “What was the point in staying at uni? I knew more about computers and programming than my lecturers. And the job I had with that computer firm was leading nowhere. And I have been working since then. Every time I sit down at my computer I’m working.”