Читать книгу The Runaway Bride And The Billionaire - Kate Hardy - Страница 10

PROLOGUE

YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED to be jealous of your twin.

Especially when you knew she’d just been through a rough time and she deserved every bit of happiness. And especially when it was her wedding day.

Immi really hoped that Andie was feeling so loved-up with Cleve that her twin-sense was temporarily muted and she had no idea that one of her bridesmaids was having a serious wobble.

Though, actually, Immi had a feeling that all three of the bridesmaids were having a serious wobble right now. Posy, the baby of the family, had a smile so bright and brittle that it was practically cracking. The same was true of Portia, the oldest of the Marlowe girls: the family rebel who was behaving so perfectly that she might as well have ‘faking it’ written across her forehead in bright red lipstick.

Maybe she should suggest a midnight rendezvous on the beach, where the three of them could sit and talk—just as they had when they’d been children, snuggling up beneath a duvet and having whispered conversations late into the night. Maybe they could help each other with their problems. But Posy seemed to have closed off to everyone since she’d joined the ballet corps and Portia wasn’t given to talking about personal stuff.

And what did Immi have to whine about anyway? She had a job she loved, helping to run Marlowe Aviation, the family firm; and she was in the run-up to her wedding to Stephen Walters, who was all set to be promoted to her father’s second-in-command at work.

Except Stephen didn’t look at her the way that Cleve looked at Andie.

And Immi had a nasty feeling that she didn’t look at him the way that Andie looked at Cleve: as if there was nobody else on the surface of the planet.

She shook herself. It was probably just the stress of organising her own wedding making her so antsy. There were only two months to go and it had snowballed into a massive affair. Everything was completely under control—organising was what Immi did best—but now she’d seen how gorgeous her sister’s quiet, understated wedding was, it brought home to her that the bridezilla stuff wasn’t what she really wanted for herself, either.

The doubts had been creeping in for weeks. She’d overheard Stephen’s best man Jamie saying that all he had to do was keep his nose clean until Imogen said ‘I do’ and he got the corner office. At the time, she’d tried to dismiss it as banter, but now she wondered if there was something more to it. Stephen had said he was too busy to take time off for Andie’s wedding, and because it was only a small affair he was sure nobody would mind if he didn’t make it. But was a man as ambitious as Stephen Walters really too busy to attend the wedding of the boss’s daughter—his own fiancée’s twin? Or did he have other reasons for not wanting to be here?

Oh, for pity’s sake. She had to stop overthinking things.

And she really had to stop the paranoia. What had happened eight years ago wasn’t going to repeat itself. So what if it was a cliché, marrying the boss’s daughter? Stephen said he loved her. Wanting all the extra frills was just being selfish. Immi was done with being selfish. She’d put her family through enough worries. No more.

* * *

Imogen Marlowe looked amazing, Matt thought.

The first time he’d met her, she’d been wearing a power suit, all businesslike and slightly intimidating and determined to find out exactly what was going on with her twin. The second time he’d met her, early this morning, she’d been barefoot, wearing ankle-grazer faded jeans teamed with an oversized sweater, with a streak of mud on her face from where she’d been raiding the garden for flowers—the beautiful white marguerite daisies that she’d turned into raffia-tied bouquets for the bride and the bridesmaids, and the osteospermum that graced the tables in tin cans with an organza ribbon tied in a bow around them.

Right now, she looked the epitome of cool elegance in a teal-coloured vintage couture gown. The dress was sleeveless, with straps a finger width wide and a neckline that just skimmed her collarbones. A large round brooch made from tiny white seed pearls and four large black pearls was pinned on a vertical bow in the centre of the empire line bodice, and she wore a matching pearl collar. Her dark hair was cut in an immaculate, sharp bob and her make-up was discreet and understated.

And Matt really, really wanted to untie that bow and unwrap her from that dress. Find out exactly what that material was hiding.

He shook himself. Maybe it was the wedding making him soppy. The best man and the bridesmaid, indeed.

But, as the best man, he was supposed to dance with the bridesmaid.

At that very second, human speech seemed to have deserted him. Which was crazy. What was it about this woman that made him feel all tongue-tied?

‘That’s a gorgeous dress, Imogen,’ he said in the end, knowing it sounded lame but not having a clue what else to say.

‘Thank you. It’s one of Sofia’s—my sister Posy’s godmother. And the amazing costume jewellery belonged to her too.’ She gestured to the brooch and the collar.

‘I kind of guessed that.’ He smiled. ‘It’s nice that all four of you sisters are wearing one of her dresses.’

‘It’s almost like her still being here with us,’ Immi agreed. ‘I remember coming to the villa as a child and Sofia always let us play dress-up with her amazing clothes. Though I guess that was because we always treated her stuff with respect—we didn’t smear chocolate everywhere or rip things.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t ever remember seeing this dress when I was little, but it’s so stunning: like an eighteenth-century mantua dress, but updated to have a modern profile.’

‘Mantua?’ he asked.

She gestured to the bow. ‘An open-fronted dress with a matching train and petticoat, and the train’s lifted up to show the petticoat.’

‘Mantua. I’ll remember that.’

‘I only know that because my guilty secret is watching historical dramas,’ she said, giving him a rueful smile that made his heart feel as if it had done a backflip. ‘Portia knows more about that stuff than I do, really.’

Portia was the Hollywood reporter, he remembered. The oldest sister.

‘And it’s good of Posy to let us all borrow the dresses and jewellery. Strictly speaking, they all belong to her now—along with the villa.’

‘But sisters always share. At least, mine do,’ he said.

‘You have sisters?’ She looked surprised.

‘Four. All younger than me.’

‘So you’re used to all the talking, then.’

It was his turn for the rueful smile. ‘Just a bit. Um, as the bridesmaid and the best man, I’m guessing we ought to...?’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, and let him lead her onto the temporary dance floor.

* * *

This was bad, Immi thought. Seriously bad.

Matt Stark was Cleve’s best man—a guy who lived in the cottage down the road and had kept an eye on the Villa Rosa since Sofia’s death. According to Andie, he was a computer genius who’d made a fortune from a computer program that helped people run their homes by voice control—everything from turning a house alarm on or off to opening curtains, changing the thermostat on a heating system or dimming a light. Immi had been introduced to Matt’s mother Gloria earlier, and understood at that moment exactly what had driven her son to make the program: Gloria was in a wheelchair, crippled by arthritis, and Matt’s computer system had given her back some of her independence.

He’d kept an eye on Sofia, too; although he hadn’t managed to persuade her to let him install a satellite phone for emergencies, she had agreed to let him rig up a bell she could ring if she needed help.

And he’d rescued Immi’s spider-hating twin from having to stick her head in a cupboard full of cobwebs.

Matt Stark was one of the good guys, and it was fine for her to like him instantly.

It was also fine for her to appreciate that he was good-looking—tall, with brown eyes and dark hair brushed back from his forehead, and a tiny little quirk at the corners of his mouth that told her he smiled often.

What wasn’t fine was for her to tingle where he touched her. Particularly because she didn’t feel like that when her husband-to-be touched her.

She needed to get a grip. Make an excuse that she needed to go and fiddle with the flowers on the table, or something. But for the life of her she couldn’t pull herself out of Matt’s arms. It felt as if she was under some weird kind of spell. All the social graces she used every single day in business had simply deserted her. She had no idea what to say to him.

Worse still, she found herself looking at his mouth again. Wondering. Supposing it was just the two of them and the night and the music? Dancing under the stars, in the garden that overlooked the sea, with the air full of the scent of roses...

And he was looking at her mouth as if he was thinking exactly the same thing. Wondering what it would be like if they kissed. Wondering how she tasted.

She couldn’t breathe.

This was all wrong. She shouldn’t even be thinking about kissing another man. She was getting married in eight weeks’ time. She was meant to be in love with her fiancé, not thinking about kissing Matt Stark in front of her entire family at her twin sister’s wedding.

And yet she could feel her lips parting. Feel him drawing her that tiny bit closer, enough that she could feel the heat of his body against hers. Feel herself tipping her head back...

* * *

Insta-lust, that was what his sisters called this feeling, Matt remembered. Instant crazy attraction.

It had nothing to do with the glamorous dress or the high heels, and everything to do with the woman in his arms. She felt soft and sweet and the perfect fit. And he was pretty sure she felt it, too: because her hazel eyes had turned almost golden, her pupils were huge and that perfect rosebud mouth was parted ever so slightly.

All he had to do was dip his head...

And he was just about to do it when he noticed something.

Something that made him feel as if several buckets of ice-cold water had been dropped on him.

How the hell had he missed that rock on her left hand? That huge hands-off-she’s-mine signal?

It might be traditional for the best man to dance with the bridesmaid, but that was as far as this could go. Much as Matt wanted to kiss Imogen Marlowe, he couldn’t. He didn’t remember seeing her with anyone at the actual wedding, but that massive diamond practically screamed that she was engaged.

He forced himself to ask, ‘Is your fiancé here this evening?’

And then he saw all the colour drain out of her face and horror fill her eyes. As if she were completely shocked by what had almost just happened.

‘I—er, no. He couldn’t make it. Business,’ she said swiftly.

Business was more important than the wedding of his fiancée’s twin sister?

If Immi had been his sister and her fiancé hadn’t shown up to the wedding of any of the other sisters, Matt would’ve been asking some very serious questions. Starting with whether said fiancé was the right man for her, if he couldn’t put her first in his life.

But this was none of his business.

And he wasn’t going to get involved with someone who wasn’t free.

‘Pity,’ Matt said, keeping his voice as expressionless as possible. And as soon as the dance was over, he gave her his politest smile. ‘I guess I need to dance with the other bridesmaids now.’

‘Best man duties. Of course,’ she said, looking relieved.

‘See you later.’ And he’d make very sure that there was distance between them for the rest of the evening. No more up close and personal. Because Imogen Marlowe was completely off limits.