A Bride For Christmas Page 5

  ‘If you crash it I’ll buy him another.’

  The idea made her stop in her tracks. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Why would I kid?’

  ‘I don’t want to go with you,’ she said, and it was his turn to pause and stare.

  ‘You have ethical objections to money?’

  ‘No, I…’

  ‘You should be charging Kylie. There’s no need for you to be broke.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’ she snapped, and glared.

  ‘Giving your services for free is noble, but…’

  ‘You have no idea, do you? This community…we’re here for each other. We do what has to be done, and asking for payment-’

  ‘Your career is a bridal planner. Selling yourself short is stupid.’

  ‘When Ben was killed, Henry was injured, and he had to spend months in a burns unit in the city,’ she snapped. ‘Jack has macular degeneration-his eyesight’s not what it should be-and Lorna hasn’t driven since her stroke. Shirley Grubb was one of a team who took it in turns to drive Jack and Lorna down to see us. Twice a week for nearly six months. Every other day they drove Lorna into the bridal salon and someone stayed with her all the time. The business stayed open. There were casseroles-you can’t believe how many casseroles. And you know what? Not a single person charged us. Did they sell themselves short, Mr Carver?’

  ‘Guy,’ he said automatically, and opened the driver’s door of the Ferrari. ‘Get in.’

  ‘I’m not driving.’

  ‘You are driving. You need to bring it home yourself, so you can try it out now.’

  ‘We can take my wagon.’

  ‘Your wagon backfires. Backfiring offends me. And I have no intention of being lost in these mountains for want of a little resolution on your part. Get in and drive.’

  It was such a different driving experience that she felt…unreal.

  The road up to Braeside was lovely. It followed the cliffs for a mile out of town, and the big car swept around the curves with a whine of delight. By the time the road veered inland, following the river, she had its measure, and was glorying in being in control of the most magnificent piece of machinery she’d ever seen.

  ‘Nice, huh?’ Guy said, five minutes into the drive, and she flashed him a guilty look. She’d been so absorbed in her driving that she’d almost forgotten he was there. Almost.

  ‘It’s fantastic.’

  ‘You get this wedding working for me and you can keep it.’

  She almost crashed. She took a deep breath, straightened the wheel, and tried to remember where she was.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous. I’ll merely pay my friend out. It’s not like it’s a new car.’

  ‘It’s not like it’s a new car,’ she said, mocking. ‘No, thank you, Mr Carver. My salary is stipulated in the contract. I’ll take that, but that’s all. I’d be obliged to you for ever, and I’ve had obligations up to my neck. So leave it.’

  He left it. There were another few moments of silence while Jenny negotiated a few more curves. It was so wonderful that she could almost block Guy out-and his preposterous offer.

  ‘Feels great, doesn’t it?’ he said, and she was forced to smile.

  ‘It’s magic.’

  ‘Yet you don’t want it?’

  ‘I couldn’t afford the trip to Sydney to get this serviced,’ she told him. ‘Much less the service itself. Leave it alone.’

  ‘I’m not used to having my gifts knocked back.’

  ‘Get used to it.’

  ‘Jenny…’

  ‘I’m not for sale, Guy,’ she said roughly. ‘And don’t interfere with my life. I intend to do these two weddings and then get out of your business for ever. You’ll go back to Manhattan and live your glamorous life, a thousand miles from mine-’

  ‘What do you know about my life?’ he said, startled, and she screwed up her nose in rueful mockery.

  ‘I’ve spent the last two years in doctors’ waiting rooms.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I reckon I’ve read every issue of Celebrity magazine that’s ever been printed. With you being rich and influential, and associated with every celebrity bash worthy of the name, your life is fair game. I know how rich you are. I know you don’t like oysters and you never wear navy suits. I also know you were in a car crash with your childhood sweetheart about fifteen years ago. Her father and your father were partners. She’d been at your parents’ company Christmas dinner alone, and then she’d collected you from some celebrity bash you’d been organising. She was killed outright. Your parents disowned you then. They said she’d been drinking because she was angry. They said if you’d stayed in the family law firm like you were supposed to it would never have happened. And you…The glossies say you’re still grieving for your lost love. Are you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, stunned.

  ‘I hope you’re not.’ She took a deep breath, deciding whether to be personal or not. What the heck? ‘It’s hard,’ she confided. ‘Ben’s only been dead for two years, but you know, my photographs of Ben are starting to be clearer than the image I hold in my head. I hate that. Are you better at it than me? Can you remember…what was her name? Or do you only remember photographs?’

  ‘It was Christa,’ he said, in a goaded voice. ‘I can’t imagine why you’d be interested enough to read about us.’

  ‘I wasn’t very,’ she admitted. ‘It was just something to read in the waiting room-something to take my mind off what was happening to Henry. But I remember thinking it was crazy, wearing the willow for someone for fifteen years.’

  ‘So how long do you intend to wear the willow for Ben?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re living with his parents.’

  ‘That’s because they’ve become my parents,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I fell in love with Ben himself or if I fell in love with the whole concept of family. Like you tonight, looking round the dining table and looking…hungry.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said, revolted. ‘Can we leave it with the inquisition?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, and she thought maybe she had pushed it too far. This man was supposed to be her boss. She should be being a bit deferential. Subservient.

  He didn’t make her feel subservient. He made her feel…

  She didn’t understand how he made her feel. She tried to conjure Ben up in her mind. Kind, gentle Ben, who’d loved her so well.

  ‘It’s tough,’ he said into the stillness, and she wondered what he was talking about. ‘The first Christmas was the worst, but it’s still bad,’ he added, and she knew he knew.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘But it’s tough.’

  ‘I’ve got thirteen years before I catch up to you in the mourning stakes,’ she snapped, and turned the car into the front yard of Braeside. ‘Here’s your guesthouse.’

  It was a fabulous spot, Guy thought, staring around with appreciation. The moon was glinting through bushland to the river beyond, hanging low in the eastern sky over the distant sea. The guesthouse was a sprawling weatherboard home, with vast verandas all around.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s sumptuous,’ Jenny said, climbing out of the car to stretch her legs.

  ‘You’ve never been inside?’

  ‘The likes of me? I’d be shown out by security guards.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Paris.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you about Paris.’ She hesitated while he hauled his gear from the trunk. ‘Are you serious about me driving this thing home? You realise it’ll be parked near chooks.’

  ‘Chooks?’

  ‘Feathery things that lay eggs.’

  ‘Park it as far away as possible,’ Guy said, sounding nervous.

  ‘Okay. I was just teasing. I might even find a tarpaulin. I’ll collect you tomorrow at nine, then. With or without chook poo.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. He turned away. But then he hesitated.

  ‘Thank you for tonight,�
�� he said. ‘And we really will give Kylie a great wedding.’

  ‘I know we will.’ She trusted him, she thought. She wasn’t sure why, but she did.

  But suddenly she didn’t trust herself.

  She should get into the driver’s seat, she told herself. Guy needed to walk away.

  But then…and why, she didn’t know…it was as if things changed. The night changed.

  ‘Jenny?’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘I know,’ she said, but she didn’t know anything. Except that he was going to kiss her and she was going to let him.

  She could have pulled back. He was just as uncertain as she was-or maybe he was just as certain.

  He dropped his holdall. Moving very slowly, he reached out and caught her hands, tugging her towards him. She allowed herself to be tugged. Maybe she didn’t need his propulsion.

  ‘Thank you for dinner,’ he said, and she thought, He’s making this seem like a fleeting kiss of courtesy. Though both of them knew it was no such thing.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she whispered.

  His lips brushed hers, a feather touch-a question and not an answer.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said again as he drew back-and suddenly she was being kissed properly, thoroughly, wonderfully.

  She’d forgotten…or maybe she’d never known this heat. This feeling of melting into a man and losing control, just like that. There was warmth spreading throughout her limbs. A lovely, languorous warmth that had her feeling that her world was changing, right there and then, and it could never be the same again.

  She kissed him back, demanding as much as he was demanding of her. Tasting him. Savouring the feel of his wonderful male body under her hands. Guy Carver…

  Guy Carver.

  This was crazy.

  She, Jenny Westmere, mother of Henry, wife of Ben…To kiss this man…

  She was out of her mind. Panicked, she shoved her hands between her breast and his chest, pushing him away.

  He released her at once. He tried to take her hands but she’d have none of it. She was three feet away from him now. Four.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ His eyes were gently questioning. Not laughing. She couldn’t have borne it if he was laughing. ‘No, Jenny?’

  ‘I only kiss my husband,’ she said, and the words made perfect sense to her, even if they didn’t to him.

  But it appeared he understood. ‘You’re not being unfaithful, Jenny. It was only a kiss.’

  Only a kiss? Then why was her world spinning?

  ‘I’m not some easy country hick…’

  ‘I never thought you were.’

  ‘You’re here until Christmas. Will we see you again after that?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘We’re ships passing in the night.’ She took a deep breath and steadied. ‘So maybe we’d better do just that-pass.’

  ‘I’m not into relationships,’ he said, not even smiling. ‘I’m not about to mess with your tidy life.’

  ‘My life’s not very tidy,’ she confessed. ‘But thank you. Now…I think I’d better go home.’

  ‘You’re brave enough to drive the Ferrari by yourself?’

  ‘Something tells me it’d be far more dangerous to stay here with you,’ she muttered. ‘But I’ll pick you up in the morning. As long as you promise not to kiss me again.’

  ‘You want me to promise?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, and if her voice sounded desperate she couldn’t help it.

  ‘I won’t kiss you again. I know a mistake when I see one.’

  ‘I’m a mistake?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he told her. ‘This whole place is a mistake. I should leave now.’

  Only of course he didn’t. He couldn’t. He booked into the fantastic guesthouse he’d been delivered to. He rang Malcolm in New York and confirmed that there was no one who could get here on short notice to take over organisation.

  ‘Scooping the Barret and Anna wedding is fabulous, though.’ Malcolm was chortling. ‘Every bride in Australia will want you after this. It’s just as well you’re there to do it hands-on. You’ll use the local staff? Great. Make sure you don’t mess up.’

  The local staff? Guy thought of what he had to build on-Jenny and, by the sound of it, a crew of geriatrics-and he almost groaned.

  ‘It’s the best publicity we could think of,’ Malcolm said jovially. ‘I’ll manage the Film Conglomerate do. We’re fine.’

  Only they weren’t. Or he wasn’t. Guy lay in the sumptuous four-poster bed that night, listening to owls in the bushland outside, and wondered what he was getting into.

  He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to find out.

  And five miles away Jenny was feeling exactly the same.

  When she got back to the farmhouse Henry was asleep and Lorna and Jack were filling hot water bottles from the kitchen kettle.

  ‘Did you have a nice ride, dear?’ Lorna asked, and for the life of her Jenny couldn’t keep her face under control. Lorna watched her daughter-in-law, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘He seems very…personable,’ she said, speaking to no one in particular, and Jenny knew her mother-in-law was getting ideas which were ridiculous.

  They were ridiculous.

  She scowled at her in-laws and went to bed. But not to sleep. She stared at the ceiling for hours, and then flicked on the lamp and stared at the picture on her bedside table. Her lovely Ben, who’d brought her into this wonderful family, who’d given her Henry.

  ‘I love you, Ben,’ she whispered, but he didn’t answer. If he was here he’d just smile and then hug her.

  She ached to be hugged.

  By Ben?

  ‘Yes, by Ben,’ she told the night. ‘Guy Carver has been here for less than twenty-four hours. He’s an international jet-setter with megabucks. He kissed me tonight because I’ll bet that’s what international jet-setters do. He’s your boss, Jennifer Westmere. You need to maintain a dignified employer-employee relationship. Don’t stuff it up. And don’t let him kiss you again.

  ‘He won’t want to.

  ‘He might.’

  She wasn’t sure who she was arguing with. If anyone could hear they’d think she was crazy.

  ‘Ben,’ she whispered, and lifted the frame from the bedside table and kissed it.

  She turned off the lamp and remembered the kiss.

  Not Ben’s kiss.

  The kiss of Guy Carver.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JENNY arrived at Guy’s guesthouse the next morning wearing clothing that said very clearly she was there to work. Plain white shirt, knee-length skirt, plain sandals. Guy emerged dressed in fawn chinos, a lovely soft green polo shirt with a tiny white yacht embroidered on the chest-Jenny bet it had to be the logo of the world’s most exclusive yacht club-and faded loafers. He looked at what Jenny was wearing and stopped dead.

  ‘The Carver corporation has a dress code,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with this?’

  ‘It’s frumpy.’ It was, too. In fact, Jenny had worked quite hard to find it. There’d been an international lawn-bowls meet in Sandpiper Bay two years ago, and she’d helped organise the catering. The dress code for that had meant she’d had to go out and buy this sophisticated little outfit, and she hadn’t worn it since.

  ‘It’s my usual work wear,’ she lied. ‘Yesterday I was too casual.’

  ‘We were both too casual,’ he agreed, and she blushed.

  Right. Get on with it.

  ‘So where do you want to start?’

  ‘I’ve come here to plan the refurbishment of the salon.’

  ‘That’s important. But there’s the little manner of two weddings…’

  ‘Leave the planning to me,’ he said, and she subsided into what she hoped was dignified silence. She was this man’s employee.

  He’d kissed her. She should forget all about that kiss. She should…

  Let’s not aim at the stars here, she told herself. Let’s just be a good little employee a
nd put the memory of that kiss on the backburner.

  But not very far back.

  He was out of his depth.

  They’d purchased three salons so far in this round of expansion. In each of those, Guy had visited early, taken note of the features of the building as they were, then brought his notes back to his cool grey office in Manhattan and drawn them up as he’d like them to be. With plans prepared, he’d sent a team of professionals to do his bidding, and six months later they’d opened as a Carver Salon.

  Now, thanks to Lorna’s indiscretion, the Carver name would be used before he could leave his imprint.

  He had to get rid of the fluff, and fast. Instead of sitting down, calmly planning for the future, he was trying to figure how he could get this place clear so if the media arrived to see the latest Carver Salon they’d see something worthy of the name. How to transform fluff to elegance in a week?

  And how to ignore Jenny, sitting silently at her desk? She sat with her hands folded in front of her, a good little employee, waiting for instructions.

  What was it about this woman that unnerved him?

  Why was she so different?

  He didn’t do relationships. He didn’t…

  ‘Phone Kylie,’ he said at last, goaded. ‘Tell her she’s having a Carver Wedding.’

  ‘I already have,’ she said meekly.

  He was out of his depth. He needed help here.

  ‘I need your assistance,’ he snapped, and she nodded, ready to be helpful.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jenny…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Will you cut it out?’

  ‘Cut what out?’

  ‘I don’t know where the hell to start,’ he confessed, and watched as she struggled to keep the expression on her face subservient.

  ‘You’re asking for my input?’

  ‘I want some solid help here,’ he told her. ‘I assume you’re not just the girl who mans the desk? You’ve been running this place on your own since Lorna’s stroke.’

  ‘But you’re in charge. I’m waiting for orders.’

  ‘We need to get a dumpster,’ he said in exasperation. ‘Something to get rid of this lot.’

  ‘You have two weddings to organise before Christmas and you’re planning to redecorate the salon?’ she said cautiously. ‘Right.’ She lifted the phone. ‘I’ll order a dumpster.’