Vengeful Bride
Marry in haste… Emma had a secret in her past… a secret that meant she mustn't fall in love with Dominick Fleetwood. She had behaved recklessly with him once, and now he was back in her life - asking her to marry him!Emma found, to her surprise, that time had not made her immune to Dominick's brand of dangerous charm. And she soon found herself hoping that love might one day take the place of revenge in their marriage bed.
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Table of Contents
“Don’t be a bad loser!”
“I’m not!” Emma’s angry retort was silenced by Dominick’s mouth. And her noble intentions of asserting herself vanished. He kissed her with short, hungry snatches of passion that aroused her more headily than she could ever have imagined.
“You want me,” Dominick said on a thick groan. “Admit it, Emma.”
“Yes,” she whispered faintly. “I want you….”
Having abandoned her first intended career for marriage, ROSALIE ASH spent several years as a bilingual personal assistant to the managing director of a leisure group. She now lives in Warwickshire, England, with her husband and daughters, Kate and Abby, and her lifelong enjoyment of writing has led to her career as a novelist. Her interests include languages, travel and research for her books, reading and visits to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in nearby Stratford-upon-Avon. Other pleasures include swimming, yoga and country walks.
HER prospective employer was tall, broad-shouldered, and darkly attractive. Emma watched him rise to his feet, circle the vast mahogany desk and cross the carpeted study towards her, and for a few moments her nerve failed…
‘Miss Stuart. Come and sit down.’ He spoke pleasantly, his voice husky, full of that deeply ingrained male confidence which came from generations of wealth and power. Catching her breath sharply, she felt the warm strength of his hand as he clasped hers in greeting.
‘Thank you.’ Weakly, silently ordering her wobbling legs to carry her, she went to sit on the round-backed chair he was indicating. She crossed her legs. The skirt of her smart violet wool suit felt too short. Furiously she uncrossed her knees again and clamped them firmly together, tucking her ankles under the chair. She had the annoying impression that he was watching her discomfiture with veiled amusement.
‘Would you like tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea would be lovely.’ She smiled coolly. She had her feelings under control now. Discovering that Dominick Fleetwood in the flesh was a glorious cross between Mel Gibson and Kevin Costner had thrown her initially, but she had enough inward motivation to handle that…
He was relaying the order for tea to the elderly housekeeper who’d shown her in. When the housekeeper had gone, he sat on the edge of the desk, and eyed Emma expressionlessly.
‘So you’re a fully qualified archivist?’ His eyes were a stunning shade of blue, she registered, meeting their probing gaze with her own clear, deceptively mild grey ones.
‘I am.’
‘You don’t look like one.’
She smothered a desire to laugh.
‘What does an archivist look like?’ she enquired gravely.
‘I pictured someone dusty, flat-chested and a confirmed spinster,’ he informed her, equally deadpan. ‘Whereas I suspect that behind the disguise of those steel-rimmed glasses and raked-back hairstyle you are definitely nubile.’
The audacious chauvinism almost took her breath away. Did he seriously expect her to want the job, when he said things like that? But anticipation of the tailor-made perfection of the job, and a secret she’d no intention of revealing just yet, kept her glued to the chair like a prisoner.
‘Whether that’s supposed to be compliment or insult,’ she managed calmly, ‘I’ll do you a favour and ignore it.’
The gentian-blue gaze narrowed speculatively. His eyes were long and dark-lashed, and unnerv-ingly intense. In spite of her composure, she felt herself begin to prickle with awareness as he slid his gaze over the pale, set oval of her face, the neat shine of chestnut hair wound into a prim bun, the conservative cut of her suit not quite concealing voluptuous breasts and hips, a swoopingly narrow waist and long slim legs which went on forever…
In turn, she gazed back at him, taking involuntary note of the fine grey cloth of his city suit, the immaculate whiteness of his shirt. His skin tone was almost Mediterranean-dark. His hair was thick and black and wavy, cut short on top and curling slightly into his nape. He’d look good wearing a gold earring, she told herself tartly. There was a dangerous gypsy air about him, at odds with his upper-class lineage…
She had the sudden, sinking feeling that he knew exactly who she was, knew exactly why she felt this burning curiosity to see Fleetwood Manor…After all, he was a brilliant barrister, feted in London as one of the youngest and brightest to be called to the bar. Weren’t barristers supposed to be gifted at reading people’s thoughts and motives? At knowing everything about everyone?
But that was crazy. Dominick Fleetwood couldn’t possibly remember her. She certainly didn’t remember him. She’d been born here on the Fleetwood estate, but they’d have left when she was about five. And Dominick would have been away at school…
And besides, how could Dominick Fleetwood know why she was here, when she didn’t even quite know herself?
