The Silver Bride

Caroline looks quite exhausted, Dior,' the other woman commented. 'I believe she might appreciate the opportunity to retire to her room.' 'Yes...yes, I would,' Stella agreed tautly.

The beautiful brunette awarded her a faint but dismissive smile of approval. His strong jawline clenching, Dior summoned a maid with an imperious snap of his fingers, his habit of command so ingrained in that gesture it caught Stella's attention and made her look away. '

I'll see you later,' he informed Stella flatly and strode back indoors. Why do I feel like I'm abandoning nun? Stella asked herself in genuine bewilderment as she followed the maid. Where had this ridiculous sense of connection come from? She barely knew Dior Harlequin. She didn't even like the guy, did she? What on earth was the matter with her? Jet lag, exhaustion, she told herself, but she knew it was more.

Helpless sympathy had flared when Dior had admitted that he'd been at odds with his father before his death. She understood that he didn't feel entitled to play the grieving role of a loving son for the benefit of an audience. Yet it was obvious to her that he had been a loving son.

But right now, Dior was so tormented by his conscience he couldn't see the wood for the trees. The maid led her into a lift off the huge entrance hall. They traveled down and then traversed a corridor which took them straight back out into the open air again.

Mystified, but intrigued, Stella, followed the girl down a short sloping path to a low building sited right on the edge of an endless dreamy stretch of golden sand. The interior was wonderfully cool. It was some sort of self—contained guest suite, Stella assumed, admiring the spacious lounge and adjoining dining area.

The tall windows had elegant shutters to keep out the sun; inviting sofas adorned the marble floor. There was no kitchen, just a concealed fridge the size of a walk-in larder, packed with snacks and soft drinks. Two en suite bedrooms completed the accommodation. Her assorted carrier bags already sat in a rather pathetic huddle on one of the beds.

With alacrity, Stella took the opportunity to strip off every stitch she wore and head straight for the shower. Smothering yawns, she washed, but she was conscious of the weirdest sense of dislocation.

Dior drifted back into her mind, and his lean, dark, devastating image wedged there, refusing to be driven out again. She frowned in confusion. Suddenly she remembered the way Dior had stridden towards her, and she shivered then, reluctant to examine her response.

Why do I want to be with you right now?' he had demanded, his incredulity unconcealed. Why, she should have asked herself, had she stood there waiting for him, strung out on such a high of anticipation she could hardly breathe? That was not how Stella acted around the opposite s.e.x.

Dior Harlequin should already have sunk like a stone under the weight of her prejudices. Stella thoroughly distrusted good-looking men and was all too well aware that rich men saw women as mere trophies with which to embellish their all-important image.

Her father had been just such a man. Only now, all of a sudden, Stella was being forced to accept that even her most cherished convictions didn't necessarily influence how she behaved.

Dior had spellbinding physical magnetism, but that didn't excuse her for acting like a silly little schoolgirl. In real life, Cendrillon would have watched her prince dance over the horizon and out of reach with a real princess, Stella reflected cynically.

No, she didn't see Dior Harlequin as an essentially superior being, but in terms of cold, hard cash and status, he was as far removed from someone like her as a royal prince. She was attracted to him, that was all, she told herself uneasily.

Unfortunately, that didn't explain why only self-conscious embarrassment in Aria Bailey 's presence had driven her into walking away from Dior.