The Scandal Behind the Wedding

‘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 that add to the mix of this fake marriage? Trouble …

Dear Reader

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 only fitting prize is Danny Ryan.

I loved these characters! I hope you do too.

With my warmest wishes

Bella

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 So You Think You Can Write were born.

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Team O

(the ‘ahead of the game’ years)

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

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, only vintage Alaïa dress, she looked as if she could actually afford to be a resident here. Crazy how easy it was to pull on a piece of old Lycra, stuff heat-stroked tootsies into razor-sharp slingbacks and strut your way into paradise.

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 abayas and white kanduras reminded her that, ruby slingbacks aside, she wasn’t in east London any more. Or even anywhere near it.

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 will-I-won’t-I?, what-have-I-got-to-lose? singles party that her roommate Kirsty had told her about. While the rest of her buddies were all packing their overnight bags to head out of town for a girlie weekend what else was she going to do? Trail social media sites and post fake comments about the awesome time she was having?

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 that bad?

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 so much more interesting.

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 his eyebrows. Beyond vain. In love with himself and the idea of love. Shallow as that fountain and false as the Dubai Mall ski-slopes. Wow, she’d been such a fool.

‘Miss?’ The still patient tones jolted her back.

‘Fifty-ninth, thank you,’ she said, seeing the circle already illuminated.

Yes, she’d been even more gullible than usual when she’d met Nick. But this guy, even though he was smooth and sleek, actually looked hard and more than a little bit tough—a force. Elemental and real. As if he had stubble because he hadn’t had a chance to shave—not because the men’s magazines were showcasing stubble this season. As if he’d picked up the bump on the side of his nose on a rugby field or in a barroom brawl. As if he’d know exactly how to use those lips.

And the gull wings, now that she saw more closely, were really just thick, naturally well-shaped brows to set off his freakishly perfect blue eyes.

The elevator zoomed, stilled, and then the doors eased open just a few floors higher. There was barely space inside for a blast of cheap perfume but a middle-aged couple thought they’d give it a go. The guys shifted and pressed closer to her. In her heels she was nose to nose with the smallest of them, and they were all pretty tall. She could sense them exchanging looks, then heard a stifled snigger. Whatever. They were totally not getting to her and her manufactured composure.

She was late. She was heading into the unknown. But she was determined to stop being a victim. And she was going to project cool and calm—starting now.

The elevator whooshed and paused again, to deposit the couple, but the guy closest didn’t give back her personal space. Instead he turned round and winked. Really. Winked. She drew her eyes from him and stared straight ahead.

‘Hey, gorgeous, how about it?’

Georgia opened her mouth to flip out her standard, You couldn’t afford me. The line she served up with the pints and shots she passed across the bar of The Tavern—London pub and home to her and Babs since forever. But that would just get her into a conversation, and they were too young, too cocksure and too much the worse for their liquid brunch for her to go anywhere near them.

No, much better if she focussed on chatting to men who were maybe a bit older tonight, a bit quieter, a bit more homely than off-the-charts handsome—maybe a man she could … trust?

After all since Nick had gone, taking with him the stuffing he’d knocked out of her, the last thing she needed was to get all bent out of shape over another hot young dude. Or—worse still—someone like the power furnace in the corner. The one who was burning up the air in this elevator with no more than his presence. A guy like that was an incendiary device. And she wanted a slow burn, not spontaneous combustion. Didn’t she?

She could feel the thudding starting in her ears again as the number fifty-nine remained illuminated. She could feel the tension rise in the tiny cramped space as the guys re-started their testosterone-fuelled rumbling. She could feel Italian-Shoe-Man watching her closely. And she felt her eyes slide to his as she stared right back.

Georgia had to have laid eyes on hundreds and hundreds of men and boys in her twenty-six years of serving drinks, coaching football and teaching pre-schoolers. But the eyes of this man lasered right through her and jolted her harder than if the elevator had just crashed. She felt compelled to stare. She felt as if he could see right inside her. And right here, right now, anyone staring into her mess of homesick, heartsick and sick-to-her-stomach broke, was staring into something she’d much rather keep cloaked.

He didn’t flinch or shift his eyes. They were just—there. Watching … absorbing. But she was smart enough to know that, looking the way he did, he had to have a first-class degree in flirting. No way she could let herself get caught up in something as dangerous as flirting right back. Not when she was looking for a quiet, fade-into-the-background kind of guy. Someone who would cosset her, look after her and smooth her ruffled feathers. Someone who wouldn’t ask her and every other girl within a ten-thousand-mile radius to marry him. Even though this guy looked as if marriage was the last thing on his mind …

He didn’t smile, and when the doors suddenly started to close she was jolted into realising that he was probably just intrigued by how one person could wear so much make-up and not melt under the weight. And her dress, when she glanced down at it, was doing just what Alaïa had intended—flattering and flaunting.

His boozy friend broke the silence.

‘Come on—let’s get to the party. I need to get my hands on some ass …’

‘Tommy, mind your manners. There’s a lady present.’

It was quietly said but everyone hushed instantly. His eyes never left hers and her skin scorched all the way from her hot pinched toes to her hair-laquered head. He looked serious—deadly serious—and she felt a sudden intense kick of adrenalin … or fear … or some other overwhelming feeling. Trouble. That was what it was.

Time to go.

She forced herself to move. Some of them pressed back to give her a little space and she manoeuvred her sharp shoes forward.

Taking a calming breath, she stepped out of the elevator and into a broad, long corridor gleaming with the light from a thousand chandeliers and reflecting miles of pale polished marble. A small gold sign showed two choices—five suites to the left and five suites to the right. She chose left. There was silence now, apart from the light click of her heels.

In a shower of golden light a balcony opened up on her right, overhanging the atrium drop to the outrageous fountain which flowed with unadulterated affluence. The corridor swept ahead, its smooth wall curling out of sight. She clicked round, the echoes following the curve. Finally there were two doors to the left. Equally imperious. She walked right up to one. Another small golden sign: Jumeirah Suite.

This was it.

She reached her hand forward and braced herself for an hour of air-kissing and a super-bright smile.

The door swung open.

Georgia stared blankly from the very large man in western clothes who had opened it to the scene within. Riches, opulence, glamour. People—men and beautiful women. Her feet continued their self-directed path and went right in.

The place was huge. Which was no surprise, really—seven-star hotels would have seven-star suites—with more riches per square inch than Aladdin’s Cave. Still, even after six months in Dubai she was completely unprepared for what she saw.

Twin marble staircases descended with a swirl to a sunken lounge furnished with white leather sofas, overdressed with gold and china-blue satin cushions. On the mezzanines at either side were more seating areas, one with a bar and one with diner-style booths—all pale blue studded leather and filmy white and gold drapes. The wall behind the staircases was made entirely of glass—easily sixty feet of it—and behind that sat the magnificent Persian Gulf, its blue hues melding with the lilacs and oranges of the early evening sun.

But she’d seen a sunset or ten, stepped out on more than her fair share of marble, and lounged on lots of butter-soft leather. So it wasn’t the opulence that was immediately arresting. It was the rest of it that was so striking. Singles? Couples. Reclining on low white leather sofas, drinks in hand, and looking very, very relaxed. Even through the air-con there was a heady sense of hedonism. Strange for a singles’ party—even here.

She looked around for other girls like her, but every girl was occupied—very occupied—with a man.

Georgia’s eyes warred with her brain and her mouth with her feet to figure out which was going to take action first. A woman climbed one of the stairs towards her. Silky black hair and almond-black eyes. Red mouth and red one-shoulder silk dress cut to the thigh. It made her Alaïa feel more like a nun’s habit.

‘Hi—I’m not sure if I’m in the right place. I was told just to show up. This is a singles party, right?’

The stunning woman ignored her. Flicked her a derisory head-to-toe glance, arched the most perfect brow, quirked the most perfect lip and walked right on by. She paused at a bar area, trailed a scarlet nail down the cheek of a corpulent businessman. He placed his hand on her backside and squeezed. Georgia watched, transfixed, as the woman arched her back and allowed him to touch her breast.

She was not the type of woman who sang nursery rhymes to four-year-olds or who had bruises from junior football. These were not homespun girls looking for Mr Right. Oh, no. These women were sophisticated, sexy, and setting out their stalls.

Georgia looked around again for something—anything—to anchor herself to. But the whole scene was just plain weird. How could everyone be hooked up already? Okay, she’d never been to a singles party before, but she’d heard enough stories about speed-dating to figure that not everyone would be coupled up at … what? … seven-thirty p.m. In fact, when she looked a little closer, some couples were actually threes. Uh-oh.

She felt as if she was standing on the deck of a sinking ship and sharks were circling closer. If this was dipping her toe into the dating waters she’d keep herself on the warm, dry land of singlehood, thank you.

Yes, this was definitely a mistake. She’d go back to the complex. She’d have the place all to herself since everyone else would already be on a flight to Ras al Khaimah. She’d soak in the plunge pool. She’d watch TV and text Kirsty to tell her that this was her worst ever piece of dating advice.

Maybe she would see if there were any more companies hiring junior coaches. She still had a couple of week nights free to pick up work, after all. The kids would give her a reason to smile, and any extra cash would be a bonus for Babs. Really—that was what she should be focussing everything on.

It was kind of the girls to suggest she start dating again, but even though she was well over Nick she was well short of the money she wanted to send Babs. Sixty thousand in legal fees and loans was going to take ages to pay—even in tax-free Dubai.

She turned around, ready to leave, more determined than ever to get out of this crazy party. The door opened again. Noise and lots of it—the boozy boys. A crack of command to silence them … dark, disquieting tones … and then cobalt eyes fastened straight onto hers.

She watched as they all piled in. His gang—because there was no doubt that he was the leader—all had their eyes on stilts, as if it was Christmas morning and the gifts were all for them. He stood at the door, letting them go, eyes only on her.

She stalled. She wavered. He waited. And watched. And then he took the decision right out of her hands and walked up to her. Not too fast, not too lazily, but sure and solid—no room for debate.

A slash of white suddenly lit his face, changing it from intense to exceptional as the brightness of his eyes was matched by the brilliance of his smile. He was breathtaking—it almost hurt her eyes to look at him. And to think she’d once thought Nick hot and handsome! This man aced every man-measuring yardstick. He was up close now, and she tipped her head back slightly to look at him. He had that reassuring height that made her feel feminine. A chest broad enough to lay her head on and melt into. Strength and stature … looks and presence. If there were man trophies his shelves would be covered in them.

‘Hi. Good to meet you … again.’

She watched stupidly as he lifted her puppet-like arm and brought her hand to his mouth. His lips were warm with an edge of soft stubble. She felt her eyes widen as he pressed them against her skin and struggled even more to keep up. He lowered her hand, pulled her a little closer and curved his lips into the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. The promise of long, slow and sensual loving was right there in the quirk of his lips. Terrifying.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Georgia.’ She breathed out her name and allowed him to keep her hand in his for a moment, still locked into that stare.

‘Georgia. Beautiful name,’ he said.

Was blue the colour of sin? She thought so—it was laced through his eyes.

‘Danny Ryan.’

‘Hi,’ she said back, finding her voice and a bit of composure.

She shook the hand that he had wrapped in his own and wondered where on earth her default defence mechanisms were. This man was super-league in every sense. Meaning that her run-for-your-life hormones should be pumping, instead of her gooey-girl hormones.

Come on, get back in the game—bath, bed and beyond is where you’re headed. Then a trawl for another job. The last thing you need is to get caught up in something like this with someone like him.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Danny. But I’m afraid I seem to have wound up at the wrong …’ She looked around, wondering how you would actually describe this. ‘I think I’m totally at the wrong party.’

He let her fingers slip away when she tugged her hand free, but held her with that presence, or force-field, or whatever it was.

‘Well, that’s a pity, because I was hoping to get the chance to properly apologise for what happened earlier. The boys have been working flat-out—they’ve had a couple of drinks and are being a bit loose with their tongues. I had a word with them—all of them—before we came in here. I hope you weren’t offended. Apologies—they meant no harm.’

‘Thanks, but since it wasn’t you who offended me there’s no need to apologise—and I am really in the wrong place. So …’

She looked around at his group who’d brought a whole new energy to the place. A place she really didn’t feel very comfortable in—even with the hottest guy in the room so up close and personal. Especially with the hottest guy in the room so up close and personal.

‘So. Yes. Thanks. Nice to meet you but I’m going to head off.’

He frowned slightly. Very slightly. As if he hadn’t quite given her permission to leave. You had to laugh at these guys. Clearly not used to anyone doing anything other than fall into line. But the adrenalin had definitely kicked in now and she’d decided on flight not fight. She was so not going there. What would be the point? He would think that she was a lot more liberal than she was just by virtue of actually being in this crazy place. And even though she badly needed some attention, a little bit of salve for her bruised and battered ego, she’d prefer it was with someone who would settle her down rather than stir her up.