LITMIR.BIZ

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keeping eye contact. And Sadie realised what she’d said.

      Feeling a wave of pink heat rising up her neck, she backtracked. “I mean I’ll find something else to wear, even if it’s a bed sheet, then you can be on your way.”

      Her reluctant knight breathed for a beat or two, his dark eyes pinning her to her seat. Then, muttering under his breath, he lifted the leather bag and plonked it onto the driver’s seat.

      Then he moved down the footpath and away from the car, his back to her, giving her some privacy. Not ideal, but needs must.

      Inside his bag she found an expensive-looking knit sweater. Black. Soft as a baby’s bottom. It smelled delicious too. Like sandalwood, and fresh air and man. Like the scent she’d caught in that strangely intimate half a second where Will had put his arms around her, pulling her back into the nook of his strong, warm body, before yanking her out of the mud.

      She cleared her throat and shoved the sweater aside, rifling until she found a utilitarian tracksuit top. Black again. And some black tracksuit pants. The guy sure liked black. Maybe he was a spy. Or a magician. Or clinically depressed.

      She glanced over her shoulder to find he still had his back to her as he stood on the footpath, hands in pockets, face tilted to the sun.

      Even in a suit it was clear he was built like a champion diver—all broad shoulders and thick, roping muscle. His profile as he squinted down the street was strong, sure, forbearing. He might not be the most easy-going man she’d ever met, but there was no doubting he was very comfortable in his own skin.

      Not depressed, then. Perhaps he simply liked black.

      She pulled out the tracksuit pants, shuffled up onto her knees, twisted her hands over her shoulder to attempt to rid herself of layers of lace embedded with tiny pink crystals...no luck. She twisted around the back of her waist. Still no luck. As panic tickled up her spine she thought about ripping the thing over her head, but it was so dense she’d probably find herself caught in a straightjacket of her own making.

      Sadie bit her lip and looked up at the sky. Cloudless. The brightest blue. Such a happy sight. She muttered a few choice words under her breath.

      Then, “Ah, excuse me. Will? I need some help here.”

      He spun on his heel so the sun was behind him, his face in shadow. Resistance was evident in the hard lines of his body as he said, “Help?”

      She flapped her hand towards the trillion pearl buttons strapping her in.

      It was his turn to mutter a flurry of choice words before he took a few slow steps her way. “What do you need me to do?”

      “Start at the top? Truth be told, I wasn’t paying much attention as I was strapped in.” Trying not to panic had been higher on her list of priorities.

      Will took in a long, deep breath before his hands moved to her neck, surprisingly gentle as they pushed her hair aside. So many curls had dropped during her run from the palace. She helped, taking them in hand as she tipped her head forward.

      A beat later, Will’s fingers worked the top button, which was positioned right against a vertebra. That was what it felt like anyway, as if he’d hit a nerve cluster. Goosebumps sprung up all over her body.

      With a sweet glide, it unhooked, Will’s warm thumb sliding against her skin as he pressed the fabric aside.

      “Sadie?” he asked, his voice deep and low and close enough to cause a rumble.

      “Yes, Will?”

      “There are about a hundred-odd buttons on this thing.”

      “One hundred and eight.” One for every year the Giordanos had been the governing family of Vallemont. Seriously. When the small wedding she and Hugo had planned had twisted into the kind of circus where the number of pearl buttons on her dress had a backstory, that was when she ought to have put her foot down and called the whole thing off.

      Will said, “Take this as a serious question, but are there...layers underneath the dress?”

      “Layers?”

      “Ah, under...garments?”

      She’d not been able to pin down his accent until that moment. It was crisp and clear, but worldly. As if he’d travelled a great deal. In that moment it was pure, upper-crust, Queen’s English.

      He sounded so adorably repressed, she was unable to stop herself from saying, “Are you asking if I’ve gone commando?”

      A beat, a breath. Then, “Sure. Why not?”

      “No, Will. I am not naked beneath my dress. There are undergarments to spare.”

      “Glad to hear it. And are you planning on wearing your dress again?”

      “Once this thing is off I never want to see it again, much less wear it!” A tad effusive perhaps?

      “Excellent. Here goes.” Solid nails scraped lightly against her shoulder muscles as his fingers dived beneath the fabric. Then with a rip that split the silence he tore the dress apart. Buttons scattered with a pop-pop-pop as they hit the dashboard, the steering wheel, the metal skin of the car.

      As the fabric loosened and fell forward across her chest, Sadie heaved in a big, gasping breath. The first proper lungful of air she’d managed in hours. Days even. Weeks maybe. It might well have been the first true breath she’d taken since she and Hugo had shaken hands on an agreement to wed.

      She felt the moment Will let the fabric go, the weight of his warm hands lifting away. More goosebumps popped up to fill the gaps between the others.

      “Thank you,” she said, her voice a little rough, as she wriggled free of the thing until she was in her bra, chemise and stockings.

      Out of the corner of her eye she saw Will turn away again, this time to lean his back against the car.

      As the chill autumn air nipped at her skin she hastened Will’s clothes over the top. There was that scent again. This time she also caught layers of leather and skin and cologne. Subtle, expensive and drinkable. The sooner she was out of his clothes the better.

      Kicking her dress into the footwell with more force than was probably necessary, Sadie got out of the car.

      The stony ground was freezing against her bare toes. Bracing.

      When Will’s tracksuit pants—which were far too big for her—began to fall, she twisted the waistband and shoved it into the top of her knickers. The jacket falling halfway down her thighs covered the lump.

      At last, she bent to check herself in the side mirror. And literally reared back in shock at the sight. Her hair was an absolute disaster. Her cheeks were blotchy and wind-chafed. She could barely recognise herself beneath the rivers of dried mascara bleeding down her cheeks.

      Licking her thumbs, she wiped her face clean as best she could. Then she set to pulling out the thousand pins from her hair. Dislodging the hairpiece was a blessed relief.

      Once her hair was all her own again she tipped over her head, ran fingers through the knots, and massaged life back into her skull. With practised fingers, she tied the lot into a basic ponytail. No longer a clown bride. Now she was rocking more of an athletic goth look.

      An athletic Goth with a mighty big engagement ring on her finger.

      She glanced Will’s way. He was checking something on his silver case.

      She looked back to the ring. It was insanely ostentatious, with its gleaming pink diamond baguette in the rose-gold band. But was it her? Not even close.

      Hugo’s face slid into her mind then, with his oh-so-familiar laugh.

       “My grandmother left it to me, which was a matter of contention in the family, as you can imagine. Her intention was that I give it to my bride. I’m sorry.”

       “Sorry for what?”

      

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