Читать книгу Rescuing The Royal Runaway Bride - Элли Блейк, Ally Blake - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

SADIE NIBBLED SO hard on the tip of a pale pink acrylic nail, the thing snapped right off, so she carefully hid it in the door pocket and racked her brain for an answer.

Where are we going? Will had asked. As if she were following some kind of plan.

Her only goal had been to get as far from the palace as possible without being seen. Her luck would not hold out for much longer. Her best bet now was to hole up, get in touch with Hugo somehow. Apologise, grovel, make him see that while her timing had been terrible it had been the right decision, for both of them.

“A room,” she said. “To stay for a night. That’s what I’d like.”

“Excellent. Do you have a place in mind?”

“Not exactly. Some place...quiet would be fine.” Discreet. Not one of Hugo’s palatial resorts, for example. “Where are those dodgy motels you see in American cop shows when you need them?”

“I’m sorry?”

Sadie glanced at her companion, thankful to find he was back to looking at her as if he was barely containing his impatience. That momentary flash of perfect white teeth as he’d smiled had been disconcerting to say the least.

She usually went out of her way to make people feel comfortable. Hugo joked that her need to be liked by everyone was pathological. Sadie simply wanted to make sure everyone around her was happy. But in these circumstances a little distance felt safer. It was easier to think of the man as a means to an end rather than a collection of dimples, warm hands and crinkles at the edges of his eyes as he smiled. Especially now, when she was feeling so untethered. In the past her decision-making skills had not been at their peak at such times.

She turned on the seat; her skirt bunching under her hip. “You know, the kind where the anti-hero in the vintage brown Cadillac hooks around the back of some dreary, anonymous, flat-roofed roadside joint where the ancient woman with a cigarette dangling from her cracked lips doesn’t even bother to look up from her crossword as she signs the guy in?”

He glanced at her and said, “Flat-roofed?”

How odd that he focused on that. It was the kind of detail that usually tickled only her. When she found herself looking into those dark eyes of his a beat too long, she glanced at her fake fingernails instead. One down, nine to go. “You know—squat. Like it’s been flattened by the weight of the world. Why doesn’t Vallemont have places like that?”

“Because it’s Vallemont,” he said, and he was right.

The sentiment wouldn’t have made as much sense to her as a kid.

Watching Hugo go away to school had made Sadie itch to see the world, to see life outside the borders of the peaceable country in which she’d been born. And eventually she’d managed to talk her way into a four-year acting course in New York.

At first it had been a dream. Auditioning, waitressing, living in near squalor with three strangers in a studio in Brooklyn. Walking streets where nobody knew her story, with its urban canyons, subway smells, its cracked sidewalks and manic energy, as different a place from Vallemont as it was possible to find.

Halfway through she’d begun to feel lonely, the brilliant, fraught, nerve-racking, ugly, beautiful and eye-opening experience taking its toll.

By the end of that year she’d realised that it wasn’t the noise and hustle and energy of a big city she had craved, but control over her life. Taking control over her narrative. That’s what she loved about theatre. Not acting, but the chance to shape a play from beginning to end.

She’d lasted another year before she’d come home. Giving up a dream many would kill for.

And oh, that land of rolling hills and green pastures. Of crystalline streams fed by snow-capped mountains. And towns of cobbled streets and dappled sunshine and quiet, happy lives. The relief had been immeasurable.

And here she was again—gifted a rare opportunity and she’d thrown it all away.

Sadie groaned and let her head drop back against the seat.

“If it’s accommodation you’re after, what about this place?” said Will, the car engine growling as he slowed.

Sadie cracked open an eye to find herself looking at a place as far from a dreary, anonymous, flat-roofed roadside joint as possible.

A sign reading “La Tulipe” swung from the eaves of a ramshackle dwelling, three storeys high, with a pitched roof and balconies all round. Bright purple bougainvillaea was starkly stunning as it crept over the muddy brick. Oddly shaped, it dissected two roads, one heading up the hill to the left, the other dipping down the hill sharply to the right, creating an optical illusion that made it look as if it had a slight lean down the hill. Or maybe it was falling down the hill. It had an ancient, ramshackle appeal either way.

A skinny black cat skittered across the way as Will pulled into a spot on the low side of the building. He turned off the engine, got out of the car and reached into the back seat for a soft black leather bag.

Sadie sat up straight. “Ah, what are you doing with those?”

“I plan on seeing you inside. And I’m not leaving my bags in the car while I do so.”

Sadie peeked over her shoulder. A gentle breeze skipped autumn leaves over the cobbled road. A small brown bird danced from one semi-bare tree to another. Other than that, there was no one as far as the eye could see. “We’re not exactly a crime capital here.”

Will followed her gaze, paused a moment, then, ignoring her, heaved his other bag—a big square silver case—out of the car and set it on the footpath. “Coming?”

Sadie heard voices—a couple laughing as they crossed the street at the bottom of the hill. Time to get inside. Except...

“I can’t go in there dressed like this. I look—” Like the girl who’d left the country’s most eligible bachelor standing at the altar. She’d be less likely to be recognised naked than in that dress. She’d heard knock-offs were already available. “A total mess. What do you have in your bag? Or your case?”

Will’s hand went to the battered silver case. It was big enough that she might even fit inside. For a brief moment she considered asking.

“Anything I might be able to borrow? I’ll take it off the minute I get inside a room.”

That muscle ticked in his jaw. Another flickered below his right eye. He appeared to be making a great effort at keeping eye contact. And Sadie realised what she’d said.

Feeling a wave of pink heat rising up her neck, she backtracked. “I mean I’ll find something else to wear, even if it’s a bed sheet, then you can be on your way.”

Her reluctant knight breathed for a beat or two, his dark eyes pinning her to her seat. Then, muttering under his breath, he lifted the leather bag and plonked it onto the driver’s seat.

Then he moved down the footpath and away from the car, his back to her, giving her some privacy. Not ideal, but needs must.

Inside his bag she found an expensive-looking knit sweater. Black. Soft as a baby’s bottom. It smelled delicious too. Like sandalwood, and fresh air and man. Like the scent she’d caught in that strangely intimate half a second where Will had put his arms around her, pulling her back into the nook of his strong, warm body, before yanking her out of the mud.

She cleared her throat and shoved the sweater aside, rifling until she found a utilitarian tracksuit top. Black again. And some black tracksuit pants. The guy sure liked black. Maybe he was a spy. Or a magician. Or clinically depressed.

She glanced over her shoulder to find he still had his back to her as he stood on the footpath, hands in pockets, face tilted to the sun.

Even in a suit it was clear he was built like a champion diver—all broad shoulders and thick, roping muscle. His profile as he squinted down the street was strong, sure, forbearing. He might not be the most easy-going man she’d ever met, but there was no doubting he was very comfortable in his own skin.

Not depressed, then. Perhaps he simply liked black.

She pulled out the tracksuit pants, shuffled up onto her knees, twisted her hands over her shoulder to attempt to rid herself of layers of lace embedded with tiny pink crystals...no luck. She twisted around the back of her waist. Still no luck. As panic tickled up her spine she thought about ripping the thing over her head, but it was so dense she’d probably find herself caught in a straightjacket of her own making.

Sadie bit her lip and looked up at the sky. Cloudless. The brightest blue. Such a happy sight. She muttered a few choice words under her breath.

Then, “Ah, excuse me. Will? I need some help here.”

He spun on his heel so the sun was behind him, his face in shadow. Resistance was evident in the hard lines of his body as he said, “Help?”

She flapped her hand towards the trillion pearl buttons strapping her in.

It was his turn to mutter a flurry of choice words before he took a few slow steps her way. “What do you need me to do?”

“Start at the top? Truth be told, I wasn’t paying much attention as I was strapped in.” Trying not to panic had been higher on her list of priorities.

Will took in a long, deep breath before his hands moved to her neck, surprisingly gentle as they pushed her hair aside. So many curls had dropped during her run from the palace. She helped, taking them in hand as she tipped her head forward.

A beat later, Will’s fingers worked the top button, which was positioned right against a vertebra. That was what it felt like anyway, as if he’d hit a nerve cluster. Goosebumps sprung up all over her body.

With a sweet glide, it unhooked, Will’s warm thumb sliding against her skin as he pressed the fabric aside.

“Sadie?” he asked, his voice deep and low and close enough to cause a rumble.

“Yes, Will?”

“There are about a hundred-odd buttons on this thing.”

“One hundred and eight.” One for every year the Giordanos had been the governing family of Vallemont. Seriously. When the small wedding she and Hugo had planned had twisted into the kind of circus where the number of pearl buttons on her dress had a backstory, that was when she ought to have put her foot down and called the whole thing off.

Will said, “Take this as a serious question, but are there...layers underneath the dress?”

“Layers?”

“Ah, under...garments?”

She’d not been able to pin down his accent until that moment. It was crisp and clear, but worldly. As if he’d travelled a great deal. In that moment it was pure, upper-crust, Queen’s English.

He sounded so adorably repressed, she was unable to stop herself from saying, “Are you asking if I’ve gone commando?”

A beat, a breath. Then, “Sure. Why not?”

“No, Will. I am not naked beneath my dress. There are undergarments to spare.”

“Glad to hear it. And are you planning on wearing your dress again?”

“Once this thing is off I never want to see it again, much less wear it!” A tad effusive perhaps?

“Excellent. Here goes.” Solid nails scraped lightly against her shoulder muscles as his fingers dived beneath the fabric. Then with a rip that split the silence he tore the dress apart. Buttons scattered with a pop-pop-pop as they hit the dashboard, the steering wheel, the metal skin of the car.

As the fabric loosened and fell forward across her chest, Sadie heaved in a big, gasping breath. The first proper lungful of air she’d managed in hours. Days even. Weeks maybe. It might well have been the first true breath she’d taken since she and Hugo had shaken hands on an agreement to wed.

She felt the moment Will let the fabric go, the weight of his warm hands lifting away. More goosebumps popped up to fill the gaps between the others.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice a little rough, as she wriggled free of the thing until she was in her bra, chemise and stockings.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Will turn away again, this time to lean his back against the car.

As the chill autumn air nipped at her skin she hastened Will’s clothes over the top. There was that scent again. This time she also caught layers of leather and skin and cologne. Subtle, expensive and drinkable. The sooner she was out of his clothes the better.

Kicking her dress into the footwell with more force than was probably necessary, Sadie got out of the car.

The stony ground was freezing against her bare toes. Bracing.

When Will’s tracksuit pants—which were far too big for her—began to fall, she twisted the waistband and shoved it into the top of her knickers. The jacket falling halfway down her thighs covered the lump.

At last, she bent to check herself in the side mirror. And literally reared back in shock at the sight. Her hair was an absolute disaster. Her cheeks were blotchy and wind-chafed. She could barely recognise herself beneath the rivers of dried mascara bleeding down her cheeks.

Licking her thumbs, she wiped her face clean as best she could. Then she set to pulling out the thousand pins from her hair. Dislodging the hairpiece was a blessed relief.

Once her hair was all her own again she tipped over her head, ran fingers through the knots, and massaged life back into her skull. With practised fingers, she tied the lot into a basic ponytail. No longer a clown bride. Now she was rocking more of an athletic goth look.

An athletic Goth with a mighty big engagement ring on her finger.

She glanced Will’s way. He was checking something on his silver case.

She looked back to the ring. It was insanely ostentatious, with its gleaming pink diamond baguette in the rose-gold band. But was it her? Not even close.

Hugo’s face slid into her mind then, with his oh-so-familiar laugh.

“My grandmother left it to me, which was a matter of contention in the family, as you can imagine. Her intention was that I give it to my bride. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“It looks ridiculous on you.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“Seriously. Your fingers are so scrawny, it looks like you’re trying to balance a brick on the back of your hand. Take it off.”

“No. Never. Do you remember the first time you said you’d marry me? I do. I was four and you were seven. Kind woman that I am, I never planned to hold you to it back then. But I’m not letting you off the hook now. This ring is what it is: a symbol. If a brick is what will help keep roofs over both of our families’ heads, then it seems like a pretty fine symbol to me.”

Another promise broken, Sadie slid the brick from her finger. The fact that it came right off, without even the slightest pressure, seemed like a pretty big sign in and of itself.

She quickly tugged down the track pants, found a ribbon hanging from her garter and tied the ring to it with a nice tight knot. Then she gave the jacket one last tug. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Will pressed away from the car and turned. His dark gaze danced over her clothes—his clothes—her bare feet, then up to her hair. It paused there a moment before dropping to the hand clutching the bouffant of fake curls. At which point his mouth kicked into a smile. Dimple and all.

As it had been the first time, it was as unexpected and magnificent as a ray of sun slicing through a rain cloud and Sadie’s heart thumped against her chest.

“What?” she shot back.

Will held a hand towards the doorway of La Tulipe. “I didn’t say a thing.”

Sadie grabbed the hood of his jacket and pulled it over her head. Then, scooting past him, her chin imperiously high, she said, “You didn’t have to.”

* * *

As soon as they entered the lobby of the old hotel, Sadie’s adrenaline kicked up a notch. For all her efforts to escape, everything could fall apart right here, right now.

She tucked herself in behind Will, breathing through her mouth so as not to drink too deeply of the deliciousness of his cologne. Skin. Washing detergent. Whatever.

“Sadie,” he said, turning so she was face to face with his strong profile. The heavy brow, nose so perfect it could have been carved from marble, the hint of that dimple.

“Mmm?”

“Have you heard of a little something called personal space?”

“Sorry,” she said, searching desperately for a sane reason why she might be snuggled into him as she was. “I’m...cold.”