The Silver Bride

In the enervated state she was in, she had left the car and allowed herself to be pressed across an imposing entrance hall and straight into another lift before she registered that she was not where she had expected to be. Stella frowned in bemus.e.m.e.nt. 'You said you were taking me home...'

'I thought we'd be more comfortable at my apartment,' Dior imparted. 'You called me sneaky. I don't know where you get the nerve,' Stella remarked brittly. All of a sudden every silence simply screamed. She didn't want to think about what she had impulsively blurted out in the limo. She didn't want to talk about it. What had she expected from Dior? In this scenario trouble shared would not mean trouble halved.

Dior lived in the penthouse apartment. A Greek manservant ushered them into the high-tech interior. Seeming acres of space ran in every direction. The furniture was stark and elegant, an effective backdrop for what appeared to be an extensive and fabulous art collection. She focused on one canvas.

It looked like a Picasso she had once seen in a book. She realized that it might well be the real thing. Swallowing hard, she looked away again, suddenly utterly intimidated by her surroundings. 'I want to get changed,' she said stiltedly. Dior showed her into a luxurious guest room. Stella peeled off her overall and her canvas shoes. She freshened up in the bathroom, noting in disgust that her hands were trembling.

She tipped her clothing out of the bag which Nolan had removed from her locker. After wriggling into her stretchy short black skirt and fine short-sleeved sweater, she hauled on her knee boots. She left the overall lying in a heap. No way would she ever be walking back into work at Harlequin International again.

There were plenty of other evening jobs available... only a few of them would be suitable for a pregnant woman. On her reluctant passage back to rejoining Dior, Stella noticed a large gilded photo on prominent display on a cabinet in the hall.

The photo was of three people. Dior with a tall, older man, so like himself that he simply had to be his late father, and Aria Bailey, all of them wearing evening dress. The Greek woman had signed it across one corner. Realizing that she was only putting off the inevitable confrontation, Stella breathed in deep, smoothed down her skirt and walked back into the airy drawing-room.

She started speaking before Dior even got to turn round to face her. 'I didn't mean to tell you. It was stupid. I'm going to do a pregnancy test tomorrow,' she shared tautly. Dior swung round. 'You've made an appointment with your doctor?' 'No—' 'I'll make one—' Stella stiffened. "That's not necessary.' 'I think it is,' he contradicted steadily. 'A medical examination would give a more reliable result.' Stella folded her arms in a defensive motion.

'But I—' I'm as much involved in this as you are,' Dior spelled out stubbornly. No, she thought strickenly, he wasn't. She could feel the distance in him already. He was saying the right things, going through the motions of being decent and supportive, but naturally, he was praying hard for a negative result and probably wishing he had never set eyes on her. 'It's very stuffy in here,' she said tautly. 'Can I go out on the balcony? I could do with some fresh air.' 'It's very cold tonight.' 'So shut the doors after me!' Stella advised sharply. Dior swept up a remote control.

The wall of glass glided back. Stella headed out with alacrity and was unappreciative of his magnificent view of the Thames. She gripped the rail girding the par.a.p.et until her knuckles showed white. All she could see in front of her still were Dior's cloaked dark eyes. Those beautiful midnight-dark eyes that haunted her dreams. She heard him behind her. 'Oh, go inside, for heaven's sake!' she urged without turning her head. 'I know you're freezing.'

'I'm not—' 'Look, I boiled alive when you switched off the air-conditioning at the beach house in the middle of the night! We don't even match temperature-wise,' Stella completed accusingly, swallowing back the thickness in her throat 'Stella...' Dior released his breath in an audible hiss and closed his arms around her, easing her slight body back into the lean, hard strength of his. Every fiber of her longed to luxuriate in that physical contact, but she gritted her teeth and held herself rigid, refusing to give way to her weakness.

She loved him; she loved him. It was a waste of time hoping that those feelings were about to magically go away and leave her free of pain and vulnerability. He wasn't in love with her. At most all Dior had wanted was a casual affair, and now he probably didn't even want that. Unlike Cendrillon, she had blown it.

She hadn't gone home alone at midnight. 'You feel like ice.' Dior ran long gentle fingers down over her b.a.r.e arms. 'Come inside.' 'I just want to go home,' she enunciated with great care. 'Not tonight. You shouldn't be on your own.' 'Don't be wet. I've been on my own for a long time.' She hesitated. 'I shocked you again, didn't I?' 'What do you mean?'