What the Bride Didn't Know

She didn’t understand. He’d peppered her with too much information and not enough time to process any of it. ‘I— Pardon?’

‘I want you.’

‘You—do?’

He looked at her as if she were a little bit dim. ‘Yes.’

‘But...you can’t.’

‘Pretty sure I can.’

‘I’m broken.’

‘Nah, just banged up.’

‘I’m me.’

‘Yes.’ He was looking at her as if she were minus a few brain cells again. He was just so...calm.

And she wasn’t. Somehow she had to bring this farce of a conversation under control. ‘How’s the baklava?’

‘Tastes like dust.’

‘More wine?’ She poured him some anyway, whether he wanted it or not, and maybe that wasn’t such a good idea because he drained it in one long swallow. ‘You need to give me some time with this.’

‘Little hint for you, Lena: this doesn’t require much thinking. We’ve known each other a long time. I’ve been trying to impress you since primary school. You’re either impressed or you’re not. You either want me or you don’t.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘I saw your body earlier.’ She didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘It’s skin.’

‘It’s still perfect.’

‘Still just skin. You think I can’t see beneath yours?’ He eyed her steadily. ‘You have flaws. So do I. No one’s going into this blind.’

‘Look at me, Adrian. Think of all the things you can do that I can’t do any more. I’d hold you back and you’d come to hate me for it. I’d come to hate me for it. You’d have to be blind to want this.’

‘I’m not blind,’ he said grimly. ‘This can work—you and me. You just have to want it to.’ He sat back in his chair and pushed a hand through his dark shaggy curls. ‘This isn’t going well, is it? You don’t think of me in that way at all.’

‘I didn’t say that! Don’t put words in my mouth. God.’ Trust her to push him away when she didn’t mean to. She just didn’t know how to not push him away now that he wanted to get closer. ‘You’re important to me, Adrian. You occupy a huge part of my life and always have done. Aren’t you scared that if this doesn’t work out, we’ll lose everything else we do have?’

‘Scared is watching you slide into unconsciousness for the sixth time in as many hours. Scared is thinking you’re going to die in my arms. This doesn’t even rate a mention on the fear scale.’

‘Speak for yourself. I’m terrified here.’ Lena reached over and circled his wrist with her fingers as best she could, one fingertip to his pulse point and her heart beating a rapid tattoo. His pulse skittered all over the place too. ‘You’re not that calm.’

‘Could be I’m a little nervous. Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought it through,’ he said stubbornly. He withdrew his hand from beneath her fingers and headed for the bedside phone. He picked it up, pressed a button and waited.

‘What are you doing?’

‘You said you needed some time with this. I’m giving you some.’ He turned his head into the phone a little. ‘This is Adrian Sinclair. I’m going to need a second room. King bed this time.’ He listened a moment. ‘No, it doesn’t have to be connected to this one.’ He waited another moment. ‘Thanks.’

He put the phone down. ‘A porter will be here for my bag in a few minutes.’

‘You didn’t have to do that.’

He didn’t have to repack his bag. His stuff was good to go. She didn’t want him to go. ‘Adrian, I—’

‘See you for breakfast, yeah?’

Hell. ‘Yeah.’ She tried again. ‘It wasn’t a no. I haven’t said no to anything you’ve put forward. I have thought of you like that. From time to time. I’m female. You’re you. Who wouldn’t?’

She thought she saw a glimmer of a smile.

‘But think about it, Adrian. Are you sure this is what you want? Because I really don’t think you have thought this through.’

He frowned down at her, and then he leaned down and gently brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth. His lips were soft and warm. Lena felt her eyes flutter closed.

He drew back slowly and she wondered when his eyes had got so dark and hungry.

‘I’ve thought it through. You need to do the same.’

He picked up his bag; he walked to the door.

And it clicked shut behind him.

* * *

As far as declarations of intent were concerned, that one could have gone better, decided Trig as he headed for the lifts. Lena had never handled romance well. In her teens she’d been too forward with boys, too fearless, too competitive, and she’d sent them running. Later on she’d got the hang of not scaring away potential suitors—she’d even taken a few of them to her bed, but for some reason known only to her none of them had ever measured up. Not in her eyes.

Not in Trig’s or Jared’s eyes either.

So she’d had standards that had suited them all.

Standards based around her father, the highly successful international banker. Around Damon, adrenaline junkie and hacker extraordinaire. Around Jared, who feared nothing and regularly achieved the impossible.

Standards that made her picky, and then, when she did break things off with the latest but not quite greatest, she’d start second-guessing herself and getting all despondent because the jerk she’d just let go had told her she wasn’t feminine enough or that she needed to soften up a bit before any man would take her seriously. Sour grapes, a parting shot, but Lena had never seen it that way.

She’d mope for a few days and then Jared would tell her he was going skydiving on Friday and that he’d saved her a chute.

She’d try and be softer with other people for a bit and then Trig would turn up with his lightest kite-boarding rig, and there’d be a thirty-knot cross-shore wind blowing and he’d eyeball the conditions and they’d barely be manageable and he’d ask if she wanted to go break something.

The answer to that being, ‘Hell, yes.’ Always yes.

Until she’d got shot and everything had changed for all of them.

These days no one challenged Lena to push harder or go faster, even though she still pushed herself.

These days he looked at her with concern in his eyes; he knew he did. And she looked at him and told him to go away.

Rough couple of years.

But things were getting better now. Lena was getting better now and together they could find a new way of doing things and of being with each other if only she’d try.

The lift doors opened. A uniformed boy gave him an appraising stare. ‘Mr Sinclair?’

Trig nodded.

‘Let me take your luggage.’ If the boy wondered why Mr Sinclair needed to change rooms, he was too discreet to ask. ‘Room 406 for you, Mr Sinclair. I have your entry cards here.’

Trig stepped into the lift.

He just had to convince her to try.

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