His Christmas Bride

‘Your job—or don’t you work?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Yes, I work.’ He was rattling her, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Drawing in a deep, hidden breath, she told herself to relax before she proffered, ‘I’m a fashion photographer, actually.’ Make of that what you will.

The eyebrow rose higher. ‘Really?’

Yes, really, in spite of my present attire. She forced herself to smile. ‘’Fraid so.’ She took several sips of coffee and then decided to play him at his own game. ‘Do you find that surprising?’ she asked sweetly. Agree if you dare.

‘Yes, I do.’ He eyed her expressionlessly.

This guy took the biscuit, he really did, but he could darn well spell it out. ‘Why is that, Mr Hamilton?’

‘Zak, please.’ He had the gall to smile. ‘No formality.’

That smile. Perfect white teeth. She bet he had never endured the mortification of the braces and dental work which had hampered her teenage years. ‘Why is that, Zak?’ she asked with grim civility. Greg’s income depended on this man.

‘You say you and Melissa are twins, but from what I’ve seen, and more especially from what Greg says, Melissa is the epitome of the contented wife and mother without a career bone in her body. I thought twins were supposed to be the same.’

She stared at him. ‘We’re twins,’ she pointed out. ‘Not clones.’ Why was it men like him always had the sort of wicked, lusciously thick eyelashes women would kill to possess? It gave them an unfair advantage. Dean’s had been an inch long.

‘Point taken.’ He grinned and took another huge bite of Melissa’s yummy cake. ‘This is absolutely fantastic, by the way.’

Blossom silently pondered whether she would have preferred him to say he had been surprised because she looked the exact opposite of anything remotely fashionable. Probably not.

‘So, fashion photography.’ He had finished the cake in record time. ‘Tough field to break into, I’d imagine. Do you work for a studio or fashion house or magazine?’

Blossom shook her head. ‘I’m a freelance photographer; I prefer it that way. And yes, it was tough to get into, and is just as tough to continue in, but I like it. I guess I have a knack of selling my techniques and the pictures I produce, though, that helps. There’s lots of excellent photographers who don’t know how to market their skills.’

He nodded. Settling back on the sofa, he crossed one leg over the other after draining the mug of coffee, his arms along the back of the seat. It was a very masculine pose. Blossom ignored the quickening of her heartbeat as grey cloth pulled tight over hard male thighs. She tried to think of something to say to fill the silence and failed miserably, gulping at her coffee instead. Suddenly she wasn’t at all hungry.

‘So.’ The piercing eyes were tight on her face. ‘No husband around?’ He nodded at her left hand, which was devoid of rings.

Blossom felt the question in the pit of her stomach, which was ridiculous. She was well past that stage. Before tonight she hadn’t thought of Dean in days, and when she had it had been with acute loathing. Her voice crisp, she said, ‘No, there’s no husband, and isn’t likely to be. That’s another area Melissa and I differ in.’ She raised her chin a fraction of an inch.

‘Right.’ The blue eyes narrowed. ‘That taken as read, do you fancy going for a drink one evening?’

Surprise robbed Blossom of speech. It was the last thing she’d expected, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she’d heard him correctly. He wasn’t interested in her, surely? He was the sort of man who would definitely go for a certain type—a tall, willowy blonde or vivacious redhead, the sort of female who would cause the conversation to lull whenever they entered a room—and she didn’t fit the bill. She wouldn’t crack any mirrors, admittedly, but she wasn’t particularly tall or small, just average. Her brown hair and eyes were pretty average too. Melissa had been the one to get the looks. At five-feet-ten, with liquid brown eyes and natural ash-blonde hair, her twin was a stunner. Not that Melissa was vain, just the opposite.

Without considering her words, Blossom blurted, ‘Sorry, but I don’t date. I made up my mind years ago that I’m a career girl, and romance and getting to the top in any profession don’t mix. Not for women, at least.’

He straightened slightly. ‘If you’re saying a woman can’t have a love life as well as a top job, I disagree. This is the twenty-first century, not the dark ages.’

‘I’m aware of that.’ She agreed with him, but wasn’t about to say so. The excuse she’d used could very well be the coward’s way out but it had sufficed in the past to put men off. She wasn’t about to bare her soul to any man, especially Greg’s boss. Besides, she had the feeling he was the kind of guy who would be persistent when it came to getting his own way unless he was satisfied there was no chance whatsoever. And there was not. Not with her. The last thing she needed was a Zak type.

‘Another piece of cake?’ The silence was stretching on and becoming uncomfortable. She did so hope he would say no.

‘Thanks, I’d love one.’ He held out his plate. She noticed with a pang of what could have been pique that he wasn’t particularly devastated she was off the menu. He was probably the sort of male who felt compelled to try his luck with any unattached female below a certain age, she thought maliciously. Date them, persuade them to fall for him, and when the challenge was gone move on to the next poor sop. But perhaps she was just being hideously unfair. She knew Dean had soured her. Mind, she doubted Zak Hamilton would go to the trouble some men did to get a woman into bed—he wouldn’t have to, for one thing. Dean had been a head-turner, but Greg’s boss was in a different league altogether. As he very well knew, no doubt.

Becoming aware she was staring at him, Blossom hastily reached for the proferred plate. ‘Another coffee?’ she offered for good measure, feeling a little guilty about her uncharitable thoughts—although they were probably all bang on the mark.

‘Great.’ He settled back against the billowy sofa with every appearance of relaxed enjoyment. ‘And make the cake a big slice, would you? I’m starving.’

Cheeky hound. Blossom smiled frostily. Utterly sure of himself and arrogant with it—just the sort of male she’d walk a mile to avoid. Still, she’d offered seconds now.

Once in the kitchen she made the coffee and cut a generous wedge of cake—not that the other slice had been small, she thought grimly. She looked at the half of cake remaining in the tin, and for a moment was tempted to put that on his plate rather than the slice she’d cut. She resisted. Less because he was Greg’s boss and more because he’d probably eat it quite happily, remaining oblivious to any sarcasm. Giant ego.

Walking through to the sitting room, she silently handed him the plate and mug, deciding the cool, non-speaking approach was the quickest way to get rid of him. No more repartee.

‘Thanks.’ He took the cake with boyish enthusiasm. ‘Your sister is some cook. She didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would bake her own cake when I met her at Christmas.’

The work do. Blossom had babysat on that occasion too, and she remembered Melissa had looked like every man’s fantasy with bells on in the draped-silk jersey dress with plunging neckline she had worn. Talk about stereotyping! Blossom eyed him severely. ‘My sister is extremely domesticated,’ she said coolly. ‘All Melissa ever wanted from when she was a child was to be a wife and mother, and she does both extremely well.’

‘And you disapprove of that?’ he asked evenly.

‘No, I do not.’ Coolness went out of the window and she glared at him. ‘Of course I don’t. Everyone, man and woman, should follow their own path. We’ve chosen very different ones, that’s all. I wouldn’t dream of expecting Melissa to want what I want. We respect each other as individuals.’

‘Greg’s crazy about her, isn’t he?’

‘She’s crazy about him.’

Zak’s nod was thoughtful. ‘He’s something of a mad professor, but brilliant, quite brilliant. I can see it would suit him to have someone to look after him.’

She couldn’t imagine Zak wanting to be looked after. Blossom sipped at her now-cool coffee as she watched him eat the second slice of cake. It was gone in a few big bites. He ate with relish; she could imagine he was a man who tackled every area of his life with the same unabashed gusto. Something in the pit of her stomach curled, and she lowered her eyes to her empty mug. When she raised them, Zak was looking straight at her.

‘You’re clearly wiped out, I’d better be going,’ he said softly. He stood to his feet. ‘Thanks for the coffee and cake.’

Flustered, Blossom rose a moment later, furious that her cheeks had turned pink when there was no logical reason for it. ‘I’ll let Greg know you called by when he comes home.’

‘Tell him I won’t expect him in until Melissa’s home and feeling herself again while you’re at it,’ he said lazily as she led the way to the front door. ‘There is nothing brewing in the pipeline that can’t keep for a week or two.’

‘Right.’ She nodded. She felt ridiculously out of her depth. What was it about this man that made her feel she’d regressed to the painful teenage years, when she’d been gawky, awkward and tongue-tied? Whatever it was, she could do without it. She opened the front door and stood aside for him to exit the house. Instead he stopped in front of her.

His eyes unfathomable, he murmured, ‘It’s been nice meeting you. Do I take it you’ll be sticking around for a day or two?’

It was a simple question, so why the agitation in her breast? ‘Until I’m not needed,’ she confirmed. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘That won’t prove difficult work-wise?’

She shook her head. ‘As luck would have it, I’ve just finished a pretty extensive spell of work and had promised myself a break.’

‘We might see each other again, then. If anything crops up I need to speak to Greg about.’ He smiled a slow smile.

He was the head of a major electronics firm and he was talking about face-to-face contact? Without pausing to consider how it sounded, she said, ‘Have you got Greg’s mobile number?’

He continued to regard her for another moment before his eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Do I take that as a polite way of saying I wouldn’t be welcome?’ he asked mildly.

The pink in her cheeks had turned to a fiery red that would have rivalled a boiled lobster. Her embarrassment wasn’t helped by the fact that he seemed to find her amusing rather than offensive. ‘Of course not,’ she said tightly. ‘I was just checking you could contact him if you needed to, that’s all.’

‘Just checking.’ Two words, but they carried a huge amount of disbelief.

‘Absolutely.’ She stared straight back into the blue eyes.

‘Right.’ His tone had not changed. He held her gaze for one more eternal moment, and then stepped out of the house and walked towards a low-slung sportscar parked at the side of the pebbled front garden. It was a beauty, an Aston Martin, in a delicate shade of silver grey, gleaming in the summer twilight.

Blossom wondered why she hadn’t noticed it when he had arrived, and wouldn’t admit it was because she’d had eyes for nothing but him. She shut the front door, not waiting to see him drive away, and then stood leaning against it as she strained her ears. There was the sound of a car door shutting, the throb of a powerful engine and then the scrunchy noise of tyres on stone. He was leaving, so why was her heart still thudding?

It was only when all was quiet that she became aware she had been holding her breath. Letting it out in a great sigh, she straightened. That was that. He had gone. Undoubtedly with the impression that Melissa’s twin sister was a cold, hard and somewhat rude career woman without a romantic bone in the whole of her body.

‘And I’m not.’ She spoke aloud into the quiet, slumbering hall where the only sound was the steady ticking of the magnificent antique grandfather clock in the far corner. Was it her imagination, or was it staring at her with a reproachful look on its superior face?

Blossom stuck out her tongue in a manner which belied her thirty-four years, resolving to put Zak Hamilton and his possible opinion of her out of her mind. She had more than enough to cope with as it was in the forseeable future; the whirling dervish that was her nephew would be waking at the crack of dawn, if the weekend she’d babysat Melissa’s children before was anything to go by. And, once Harry was awake, the world had no choice but to follow.

She squared her shoulders, breathed in and out very deeply, and made her way into the sitting room to clear away the mugs and plates.

CHAPTER TWO

ANNOYINGLY, once Blossom was lying under the tastefully scented, crisp linen sheets in the generous double bed in Melissa’s guest room, sleep became an impossibility. She found herself embroiled in a minute-by-minute post-mortem of the whole day, right from when Greg had first called her.

The crazy dash to the house, Greg’s poor little wan face, the frantic pace that had ensued with the children, not to mention the mistakes she’d made in dealing with Harry—and overall the awful knowledge that her sister was in terrible pain and she couldn’t help her. That had been excruciating.

Finally, when she couldn’t keep him at bay a moment longer, she allowed Zak Hamilton to walk through the door of her mind. This resulted in a distinctly harrowing, squirmingly hot and embarrassing twenty minutes when she replayed every word he had said and she had said, every gesture, every look. She did this several times. More than several. It got worse, not better.

When she couldn’t stand it a moment longer, Blossom slid out of bed and walked into the en suite, running herself a hot bath and adding a liberal amount of bath oil which magically promised to soothe and calm in equal measures. Stripping off the practical ‘I’m dealing with children’ pyjamas she had bought especially for her last babysitting endeavour, she surveyed herself in the full-length mirror to one side of the deep cast-iron bath before climbing into the perfumed water.

Only someone as effortlessly slim as Melissa could think having a mirror you couldn’t avoid when you were naked was a good idea, she reflected ruefully as she inched her bottom slowly into water which seemed to be a good few degrees hotter than she had thought. Not that she was a two-ton Tessie by any means. She just wasn’t naturally willowy like her sister.

She was now resting on the bottom of the bath, and breathed out thankfully. It had been obvious from an early age she took totally after their mother, whereas Melissa had inherited their father’s to-die-for genes. Yet it had been apparent to anyone within a five-mile radius of their parents that their father had worshipped the ground his sweet but homely wife walked on.

Blossom’s face took on a tender quality. She was so glad her parents had lived long enough to see Harry and Simone before they had been killed in a multiple car-crash three months after the twins had been born. They’d been so thrilled Melissa had achieved her heart’s desire. She and Melissa had had the best of childhoods, and their parents had continued to be utterly supportive even after she and her sister had left home—Melissa to married life, and Blossom to follow her career in London. She had always dreamed she’d find a relationship similar to the one her parents had had one day, a love which would lead to marriage, perhaps even children, whilst her career was put on hold for a short time.

And then, a few months after her parents had died, Dean had come along just when she’d been beginning to doubt there would ever be a Mr Right among all the Mr Wrongs she’d dated in the past. She hadn’t known then that, if all the Mr Wrongs in the world had been gathered up into one bundle, they wouldn’t be as wrong as Dean had been.

Blossom tried to close her mind against the memories now pouring in, but it was too late; she had opened Pandora’s box.

They had met at a fashion shoot; he had been one of the male models, and she had been bowled over by his dark Latin looks and smouldering charm. As he had intended she should be.

They had married two months to the day they had met, and already her photographs had begun to open doors for him. She had established good contacts over the years, and she had used every last one of them for Dean. He was her husband, her love; there was nothing she wouldn’t have done for him.

She had been so looking forward to their first Christmas together. Blossom clenched her teeth as the pictures in her mind rolled on with relentless accuracy. On the day before Christmas Eve she had come home to the flat—her flat; Dean had been sharing a grotty bedsit with a friend called Julian when they had met. She found all his clothes and belongings gone and a note waiting for her, propped inappropriately—or perhaps completely appropriately, she thought bitterly—against their wedding photograph. A small, neatly folded piece of paper.

He was holidaying in the Caribbean, Dean had written. He would not be returning to the flat when he came back to England. Their marriage had been a terrible mistake. It was better they faced it now than later. This was all for the best, and he hoped she understood. They had been married for seven months.

It had got worse. Oh, how it had got worse.

When she had gone to the bank after Christmas it was to discover Dean had withdrawn every last penny from their joint savings account, which had housed her half of the inheritance from her parents’ estate. A tidy nest-egg. All gone.

A week later a concerned work colleague had reported he had heard whispers Dean had taken someone with him to the Caribbean. Subsequent enquiries had revealed the woman had in fact been living with him in the bedsit when Blossom had met him—‘Julian’ was ‘Juliette’, and the two had never stopped seeing each other.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow, but Blossom had had to accept Dean had married her purely for the size of her bank account, and the influential circles within the modelling and TV fraternity she could introduce him to. His career—due mainly to her efforts on his behalf, along with the cash she had lavished on him for anything he had needed—had taken off far better than even he could have hoped for. He’d begun to fly high, and he and his Juliette must have been congratulating themselves at Blossom’s gullibility as they had basked in the warm Caribbean sun, laughing at her as they’d sipped their cocktails.

She had been ill for some time after that.

Blossom moved restlessly in the warm water, drawing a mental veil over the emotional devastation she had suffered. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. She nodded to the thought which had been voiced by Greg, of all people. He had been right. When she had surfaced from the blanket of grief and despair, she found she’d become curiously autonomous, and she welcomed it. She never, ever wanted to put her trust on the line again. Her heart was her own, and she intended it would continue to remain so.

She understood work. Work was safe, secure, sure, even taking into account the inevitable backstabbing and diva-like skirmishes which were part and parcel of the fashion world. That world could be irritating, false and cruel; it could make her angry or plain disgusted on occasion. But the ups more than made up for the downs and, more importantly, even the worse aspects didn’t touch the inner core of her. Didn’t make her feel as though life wasn’t worth living, that she was the ugliest, most unattractive, unworthy female since the beginning of creation. A man had done that, and she never intended to give another male the same opportunity. Once bitten, definitely twice shy.

Her mouth tightening, she stood up, reaching for the fluffy bath sheet and wrapping it round her. Why was she thinking about Dean tonight, reliving it all? She had thought that was behind her. It wasn’t as though she cared about him any more.

Zak Hamilton. The name popped up as an answer all by itself. Blossom frowned. Over her dead body. She wouldn’t give a man like Zak the tiniest chance of entering her life. But—the frown deepened—he had unsettled her. Rattled her. She didn’t know why, but he had. And it wasn’t his looks or wealth; she came into contact with plenty of drop-dead-gorgeous men in her line of work, and more than a few were well-heeled. Nothing like that intimidated or impressed her any more.

So—what was it about Zak she didn’t like? His confidence, which definitely bordered on arrogance? The fact that he was probably one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, and certainly possessed a male charisma that was dynamite? The way he’d looked at her, the amusement in his eyes, along with the fact he had made her feel like an insect under a microscope? A bumbling, somewhat ineffectual insect at that. His manner, which had spoken of unlimited wealth and the knowledge people would jump as high as he ordered them to?

Dropping the sheet, she pulled on the pyjamas again and then rubbed the bottom of her shoulder-length hair with the handtowel. It had got slightly wet as she had lain in the bath.

She was probably being monumentally unfair, because she really knew nothing at all about Zak Hamilton, but she didn’t care. She didn’t like him. The brown-haired reflection in the mirror stared back at her, and as though it contradicted her she said firmly, ‘I don’t. Not one iota.’

Padding into the bedroom, she climbed into bed and was asleep within a minute or two.

The next days were hectic, but by the time Melissa came home Blossom felt she had got a handle on running a home and caring for four energetic and high-spirited little ones. Admittedly she hadn’t attempted to bake—she knew her limits—but she had learnt how to manage Harry, and that was an accolade for anyone. The house was spick and span, she was up to date with the washing as well as the ironing, she’d even found time to cut the lawns and weed the flowerbeds. The children had been fed well on Melissa’s cooking—courtesy of the well-stocked freezer—and had fully accepted Blossom after the somewhat disastrous first day.

‘Thank you so much for holding the fort, everything looks lovely,’ Melissa said gratefully once the initial hullabaloo caused by the children having their mother home again had died down. ‘I feel positively guilty, having spent hours in bed watching TV and reading books in that lovely room at the hospital.’ Courtesy of Greg’s handsome private-health package at work.

‘It was a pleasure.’ Well, parts of it had been. Things such as reading Rebecca and Ella their bedtime story, when the two little girls had been damp and sweet-smelling from their bath and curled up sleepily beside her. Wrestling the rake off Harry when he’d snuck into the garden shed while her back had been turned hadn’t been so hot. Her nephew had been intent on terrorising his sisters with it, and hadn’t taken kindly to his fun being spoilt.

‘Were they good?’ Melissa turned fond eyes on her little brood, who were playing with Greg in the garden while the two sisters had a welcome cup of coffee. Fresh ground, now Melissa was home. She wouldn’t dare to suggest anything else.

‘Angelic,’ Blossom lied stoutly. Some of the time.

‘I bet you can’t wait to get back to your flat and your own way of doing things,’ Melissa said. ‘Peace and quiet for hours on end if you want it.’

Blossom knew her sister didn’t mean a word of it. Melissa couldn’t think of a more wonderful existence than being with her children, and she expected everyone else to feel the same. Surprisingly—and she admitted this with a very real feeling of astonishment—Blossom knew she was really going to miss her nieces and nephew when she left. She loved them very much, of course, she always had, but over the last days she had begun to thoroughly enjoy their company and she hadn’t expected that. They were funny and cute, and naughty and exhausting, but overall so alive, so brimming with wonder and excitement about the most ordinary things. And it kind of rubbed off on her, she’d found.