Bella Frances – The Scandal Behind the Wedding (страница 1)
‘We need to make a move now if we’re going to pull this off.’ He stood, swung round alongside her. Cupped her face with his hands. ‘Trust me. I won’t hurt you. I’ll take care of you.’
She almost choked. They were words that should belong in a real marriage proposal. Words that would have her melting and sobbing a grateful ‘yes’. But this was a business marriage and a business deal.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said.
He smiled. His eyes crinkled and flashed. He dipped his lips and planted a soft, warm kiss on her mouth.
‘Good.’
He kissed her again. Just for a moment. Full on her lips. And her feral cat desire for him sprang up, startling her. What did
How many times have you had a goal in mind, an end point, a glittering prize that seems to be almost within reach? And then, when your fingers finally close around it, you realise it wasn’t what you wanted or, more importantly, what you needed after all.
Well, this is what happens to Dubai’s hottest bachelor—Danny Ryan. Even the planets align for Danny, because all hell is let loose when they don’t, but when a meteor hits his path in the shape of the lovely Georgia he learns that ‘It’s my way or the highway’ isn’t the only rule in town.
At the start of this book, when Georgia walks into a seven-star hotel, I wondered how on earth she would heal his tortured soul. She seems to have it all: beauty, wit, intelligence and strength. Still not enough for an inferno like Danny … But by the end of the book, when she turns out to be a composite of all the most dedicated educators I’ve ever met, I knew he was toast. Above all of her qualities it’s her selfless compassion that shines most brightly. And when you have that as much as she does the
I loved these characters! I hope you do too.
With my warmest wishes
Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English Literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon® books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practise (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two (almost grown-up) cherubs.
Her eclectic collection of wonderful friends have provided more than their fair share of inspiration for heroes, heroines and glamorous locations, and it was while waiting to board a flight home after a particularly lively holiday that the characters for her first competition success in
Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK, but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!
Catch up with her on her website at www.bellafrances.co.uk
The Scandal
Behind the
Wedding
Bella Frances
To Team O
(the ‘ahead of the game’ years)
Table of Contents
Dear Reader
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
HEART THUDDING THUNDERCLAP-LOUD in her ears, Georgia Blue climbed out of her sand-strewn sedan and tossed the keys to the valet parker. In her best … okay,
She cut a path through the lobby of the seven-star Al-Jafar, the swish and sway of guests blending into a blur of colour and monochrome. Between the dots of majestic palms and bejewelled pillars the spectacular central fountain bubbled liquid wealth, and in between the couture, the businesswear and the downright casual, black
She passed by the wide, welcoming lounge and straight to the elevators. Times she had sipped iced water with Nick on those sofas flashed through her mind—gorgeous days. When there had still been a chance that old Alaïa might one day make friends with new Alaïa. When the half-carat diamond on her finger had flashed happily, sure that a band of gold would one day join it. Not like now, when her ring was the definition of solitaire. Tucked away with her pride in its little velvet box. Now the best downtime could offer was a beach club Happy Hour in between the two jobs that kept money flowing back home.
And this. This ‘party’. This
No. It was well past time she got a grip on the gloom and took some control back. A singles party was just what she needed. So what if she was dreading it? Could it be
She poked a seen-much-better-days manicured fingernail to call the elevator. Another luxury that would have to go. Brass doors opened. Smoky mirrors reflected the net result of putting make-up on in a car, on a half-built road, in the middle of a sandstorm, with five minutes to spare. She was Cleopatra-dramatic with the eyes, and the wonky lip-liner round her mouth made it look much more trout than pout.
Her confidence was already borderline neurotic even without a make-up malfunction—enough to tip her over the edge and into the car back home and a hot date with the television. Yes, that sounded perfect.
She paused, swivelled round to leave. A figure appeared behind her, blocking the light and her path back out. Tall, dark and sharp in executive clothes. Super-hot. And even through the haze of her mascara-caked eyelashes he looked kettlebell-fit. She caught his eye before she got a chance to spin round and hide her face between the twin curtains of dark red hair that for once in her life was all soft waves instead of ponytail-sensible. If Babs could see her now she’d never believe it—her tomboy baby sister looking like a drag queen with stage fright.
Georgia stood in the corner, eyes swept down, staring at his shoes. They had to be handmade. And Italian. They stepped inside and turned, with their owner, to face first her and then the control panel in the corner. Noise came next. Voices … male. Laughing and easy and fun. They piled right in through her line of vision. She swept her eyes up past them. The ceiling was
Young rich men were ten a penny in this town—and this lot brought a noise and a scent that bellowed the fact that they’d been on a liquid-only brunch.
A slight hush as they piled inside and then the doors closed, pushing them closer. They’d noticed her. Over here everybody noticed her—even in her default bare-faced-and-boring look. Paper-pale skin and long auburn hair were not the easiest things to keep under wraps—but add to that an explosion in a make-up factory and a no-imagination-needed dress and she guaranteed herself an audience of gaping man cubs.
‘Excuse me, miss?’
Dark, deep and disquieting, Italian-Shoes-Man’s tones cut through the crush and jolted her eyes back down.
‘Which floor?’
She flashed a glance at the array of illuminated golden circles. At a Dubai-bronzed masculine hand hovering, waiting for her reply.
‘Which floor?’ he repeated patiently.
His accent was hard to place—a native English-speaker, though the soft burr made her think of rugged coastlines and rolling fields. Cosy pubs and pints of stout. Comfort. But the man himself, when she trailed her eyes from outstretched hand to broad shoulder and proud jaw, was clean-line city.
In the crush of boozy testosterone he stood apart. Taller, fiercer. Power oozed like strong cologne and she scented it, unwillingly. Powerful men were hard work. They made demands and expected returns. Their egos took more maintenance than her manicure. She dealt with them enough at work to know they were exactly the kind of men to stay well away from.
And he had those thick, sharp, gull wing brows going on.
She rolled her eyes. There was something deeply unattractive about a man with better eyebrows than you. Nick was like that. But Nick was a jerk—who admittedly waxed, plucked and tinted