Greek's Bridal Bargain, page 5
Bryony stared down at the various floral arrangements in the brochure in front of her and wondered what had ever been perfect in her parents’ marriage. Her mother continually danced around her father’s demands, subsuming her own needs into the satisfaction of his. What was perfect about that?
‘I’ll have the roses,’ she told the hovering assistant. ‘Cream, not white.’
They left the florist to do yet another round of the bridal boutiques as she had been unable to find anything that suited her colouring or her figure.
‘I need to go on a diet,’ she lamented at the fifth boutique, her hands pushing against her tummy where the satin of the gown she was trying on was showing too much detail of her Christmas indulgences.
‘You worry too much about your figure,’ her mother remonstrated as she eyed the gown. ‘I was at least ten pounds heavier than you when I got married.’
‘At least you were marrying the man of your choice,’ Bryony said.
There was a funny little silence.
Bryony twirled around to face her mother, the rustle of the garment she was wearing the only sound in the changing room.
Glenys bent to the hem of the gown, fussing over some little detail which Bryony hadn’t noticed.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, darling?’ Glenys straightened and gave her an absent look.
Bryony rolled her lips together and, taking a breath, took one of her mother’s thin hands in hers, the tendons on the back reminding her of the struts of an umbrella.
‘You do want me to marry Kane, don’t you?’
Glenys gave her a watery smile. ‘I know you don’t think much of him but he’s doing us all a favour by marrying you.’
‘You make me sound like some sort of white elephant you can’t wait to get rid of,’ Bryony said indignantly.
‘I don’t mean to, darling, but your father has…’ She inserted a little choked sob. ‘Your father hasn’t been the same since Austin…left us.’
Bryony felt like screaming with frustration.
Why couldn’t anyone in her family say the words?
Austin haddied.
He hadn’t passed away.
He hadn’t left.
He’ddied.
She sighed and, reaching out, gave her mother a consoling hug, catching sight of herself in the mirror opposite, the outfit she was wearing making her look like a meringue without the cream and strawberries.
‘I hate this dress.’ She released her mother and began stripping off the gown. ‘I want something simple and elegant. Is there nowhere in Sydney where I can find what I want?’
She found it in Paddington.
It was cream, it was long and voluminous, it was elegant—it was perfect.
Even if her groom wasn’t.
He rang that night as if he’d somehow sensed she’d found what she was looking for.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Bryony.’
She pursed her lips sourly. ‘Who is it?’
‘You know who I am, so stop playing games.’
‘I’m not playing games. I just wish you’d identify yourself when you call.’
‘Don’t you have caller ID?’
‘I still like to know who is speaking. Numbers mean nothing to me.’
‘You’re definitely your father’s daughter then.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She heard the rustle of papers before he spoke. ‘Your father has made the most God-awful mess of things. There are creditors breathing down my neck as we speak.’
She wasn’t sure how to respond. Should she thank him for what he was doing, even though he was taking away her freedom by doing it?
‘I had no idea…’
‘No, I imagine not,’ he said. ‘Are you doing anything right now?’
She tried to think of something that could be legitimately occupying her time at seven-fifteen in the evening but she’d already washed her hair that morning.
‘No…’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.’
‘But—’
The receiver buzzed in her hand for the second time in twenty-four hours. She put it back in its cradle and stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering why it was that her mouth suddenly felt the urge to smile.
Bryony opened the door fourteen minutes and twenty-one seconds later to find Kane standing there dressed in a black dinner suit, his thick hair still showing the grooves of a recent comb.
‘Ready?’
She nodded, not sure what to expect but resigned to go along with whatever he had planned.
‘I have tickets,’ he said once they were in his silver Porsche.
‘What for?’
He gave her a quick inscrutable glance as he turned over the engine, ‘The ballet.’
She turned back to the front of the car and hustled her thoughts together.
The ballet?
He was taking her tothe ballet ?
She toyed with the catch on her evening purse. ‘I didn’t have you pegged as a ballet man.’
‘I like a good dance as much as the next man.’
She had to force herself not to look his way. ‘I must admit I can’t quite imagine you prancing around in a leotard.’
His laughter washed over her like a soft rain shower.
‘No, but I can definitely imagine you doing it. I’ve seen you many times.’
She swivelled her head to look at him. ‘You’veseen me? Where?’
Kane expertly manoeuvred the car into a tight space between a Fiat and a Volvo a short walking distance from the Opera House.
‘At Mercyfields in the ballroom.’
She sat back in her seat in shock.
He’dseen her?
He’d seen her pretending to be the next bright star of the ballet world, when all the time her knee was telling her it was time to quit her dream of professional dancing.
‘I hope you liked what you saw,’ she said, then wished she’d phrased it a little better.
‘Oh, I did.’ He wrenched on the handbrake. ‘It was quite a revelation.’
She could just imagine. A leotard was so unforgiving at the best of times, let alone when an injury had set one to the sidelines for weeks on end. Her brain fizzed with the many possible viewing opportunities he might have taken advantage of.
‘Come on,’ he said, opening her door for her. ‘I don’t want to miss the first half.’
The first half made her cry, not that she let on.
She sat silently in her seat at the Opera House and bit down on her bottom lip to control the distinct wobbling of her chin at the sights and sounds in front of her.
She’d been to the ballet countless times but for some strange inexplicable reason seeingCinderella with Kane sitting so close beside her unravelled her normally tightly controlled emotions.
During the interval she spent an inordinate time in the powder room, and when she came out to the raised eyebrow question on his face she muttered something disparaging about the discrepancy between male architects’ designs and female needs and returned to her seat with her head well down.
She barely made it through the rest of the performance.
She knew most of the cast and watched in a combination of awe and envy at what they were doing, wondering if there would be a time when she would be able to let her dreams go without a pang of deep regret.
The applause was deafening and she joined in with it enthusiastically, knowing how much it elevated a performer’s confidence.
The curtain came down on the stage like eyelashes closing over eyes and she felt Kane stir beside her, his strongly muscled suit-clad arm brushing the bare skin of hers.
‘Thank you.’ She rose to her feet and gave a discreet sniff. ‘I really enjoyed it.’
He unfolded his tall body from the seat and looked down at her, his brow creasing into a small frown. ‘Why are you crying?’
She turned away from his intense scrutiny. ‘I’m not crying. It’s somebody’s perfume that’s set me off. I have allergies…I’m allergic to some scents…’ She blew her nose inelegantly and stuffed the tissue up her sleeve. ‘It’s the cross I have to bear for having a sensitive nose.’
‘I hope my choice of aftershave doesn’t affect you,’ he said, holding her back with a hand on her hip so that someone could squeeze past them.
She felt the full imprint of his warm hand through her dress and felt her skin lift in response to his soft touch.
‘Oh, no,’ she said without thinking. ‘I really like your…I mean I don’t think it’s that…I’m just sensitive, that’s all.’
‘Come on.’ He took her arm once the aisle was clear. ‘I don’t know about you, but after watching all that exercise I’m starving.’
Bryony spooned another mouthful of blueberry cheesecake into her mouth and promised herself that tomorrow her diet would start in earnest.
Kane was sitting opposite with a barely touched summer pudding on his plate, his eyes steady on her.
She dipped her spoon into the creamy denseness of her dessert and holding it in front of her mouth, asked, ‘Since when did you start subscribing to the ballet?’
He stirred the long black coffee the waiter had placed in front of him a few moments ago.
‘I don’t subscribe regularly but I do enjoy certain performances.’
She scooped up another spoonful of pure sin and asked, ‘Do you have a favourite performance?’
‘Not really,’ he answered, picking up his cup and raising it to his lips. ‘What about you?’
She looked down at the two remaining blueberries on her plate and began chasing them with her spoon, thinking about how she should answer. Should she sayCinderella ? What aboutSwan Lake ? But then there wasPetroucha andPrince Igor …
‘I love the whole atmosphere of ballet,’ she said at last. ‘I love the training and the discipline, the costumes and the emotions one has to engage in order to perform.’
He placed his teaspoon on the saucer of his coffee cup. ‘So you have to feel something to dance?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She gave up on the last blueberry and looked across at him. ‘You have tobe the character, feel the things they would be feeling, just like an actor does on stage or in the movies.’
‘You must miss it terribly,’ he commented.
‘Yes…’ She stared at the lonely blueberry and sighed. ‘I do.’
‘Tell me about your dance studio.’ He set his cup back down.
She toyed with the edge of the tablecloth. ‘I teach classical ballet five afternoons a week.’
‘How many students do you have?’
‘I share the workload with my partner, Pauline, and two junior teachers, but the total enrolment stands at about one hundred and fifty students.’
‘That’s a lot of little girls in tutus.’ He reached for his coffee once more.
‘Yes…’
‘So tell me—’ he leaned forward in his seat to rest his wrists on the table ‘—does every little girl dream of being a ballerina?’
She found his dark eyes totally mesmerizing.
‘Not just girls,’ she said. ‘We have several boys as well.’
‘It must be difficult for them,’ he said, ‘being so outside the square, so to speak.’
‘We try to make them feel comfortable. We have one who is absolutely brilliant, very focused and determined. I think he’ll make it.’
‘Not many do?’
She shook her head and looked back down at her plate. ‘Not many girls, let alone boys. It’s not always about pure talent. It’s a combination of physical ability and luck and a certain level of skill.’
‘What stopped you?’
She gave him a rueful grimace before she squashed the hapless blueberry with the back of her spoon.
‘I have a dicky knee, as they say in the business.’
‘Have you seen someone about it?’ he asked.
She pushed the purple mess of her plate away. ‘I’ve seen the best money can buy and he said the same as all the rest. Take up swimming instead.’
‘Did you tell him you do a mean backstroke?’
Her eyes went to his. ‘No…I didn’t tell him that.’
He picked up his coffee and took a sip, looking at her over the rim of his cup. ‘I would if I were you. It might make him feel a whole lot better about taking your dancing away from you.’
No one had ever mentioned to her how difficult it must have been to relinquish her dream of professional dancing. How ironic that it was Kane Kaproulias who had done so first.
‘I haven’t swum in years,’ she said, unable to stop her eyes from going to the white-ridged scar on his top lip.
He waited until her eyes made their uncertain way back to his. ‘Neither have I,’ he said and, turning away from her, signalled to the waiter for the bill.
CHAPTER FOUR
BRYONYfell into step beside him as they made their way back to his car, unable to stop thinking about the evening they’d just spent together.
Together.
What an intimate word to be using when referring to someone like Kane Kaproulias!
He activated the central locking and opened her door for her, waiting until she was inside and belted up before closing the door and making his way around to the driver’s door.
She watched his progression from under the screen of her lashes, her eyes taking in his tautly muscled form and the easy grace with which he moved.
He looked across at her as he clipped on his seatbelt, his dark eyes dipping briefly to her chest as if he couldn’t help himself.
‘I was thinking we could have a nightcap or another coffee somewhere. I’ve narrowed it down to my place or yours, but I’m open to other suggestions.’
Bryony felt a sudden desire to see where she was going to reside.
‘Your place will be fine.’
‘My place it is,’ he said and fired the engine with a roar.
His place was nothing like she’d imagined.
Somehow she had thought his residence would be along the lines of the tackily overdone opulence of recently acquired wealth, but when he pulled into the driveway of his Edgecliff house she was surprised to see that it was of modest proportions with just the right amount of prestige to make it stand only slightly apart from its neighbours.
She walked with him to the front door, the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle wafting through the warm evening air as he turned his key in the lock.
The black and white tiles of the foyer welcomed her as she stepped inside, the sweeping staircase winding upwards elegantly, nothing like the menacing dark wood coil of Mercyfields.
‘The kitchen is this way,’ he said, moving towards a door off the hall. ‘And, if you need it, the bathroom is the first on the left.’
She chose the bathroom, not because she particularly needed it, but more because she wanted to gather herself for a few precious moments.
She stared at her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror and wondered how she was going to negotiate the next few moves.
Kane was all politeness now, but what would happen when he had a circle of gold around her finger?
She was scripted as his trophy wife, the spoils of war, so to speak. He had waited a long time to claim her, no doubt planning every move of his revenge in fastidious detail…
She gave a little shiver and bent her head to wash her hands, but as she dried them on the soft towel provided she couldn’t help wondering who it was who kept his house in perfect order.
Nothing was out of place. Not a used dish or glass, not a speck of dust anywhere. The mirror in front of her was spotless. Would he expect her to keep it that way? Or had his threats been made simply to prove a point about the way in which his mother had been treated during her time as their housekeeper? But how could she tell for sure?
He was waiting for her in the kitchen, a tray set out with coffee steaming in two cups, a liqueur bottle with two shot glasses and chocolate.
Her eyes went straight to the chocolate, her mouth watering at the thought of allowing a square of its forbidden pleasure past the rigid shield of her lips.
