LITMIR.BIZ

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green dining room was one Layla’s favourite rooms in the castle. It had windows that overlooked the loch on the estate and the Highlands beyond. She left the curtains open as the moon had risen and was shining a bolt of shimmering silver across the crushed silk surface of the water.

      Logan came back from the cellar just as Layla was straightening the settings on the table. He was carrying a bottle of French champagne in one hand and holding two crystal glasses by the stems in the other.

      ‘I seem to recall you like champagne. But if you’d prefer wine…’

      ‘No, I love champagne. It’s my favourite drink.’ She raised her brows when she saw the label. ‘Gosh, that’s a good one. But should we be wasting it on an everyday dinner?’

      He placed the glasses on the table and began to remove the foil covering and wire from the cork. ‘This isn’t an everyday dinner. Tonight, we’re celebrating our success in saving Bellbrae. That’s worth ten thousand bottles of this drop.’

      Layla watched as he deftly removed the cork and poured the champagne into the two crystal glasses. He handed her a glass and raised his own glass in a toast. ‘To saving Bellbrae.’

      She sipped the champagne, savouring the honey and lavender notes as they burst on her tongue. ‘Mmm…lovely.’

      Logan put his glass down and reached for something inside his trouser pocket. ‘I have something for you.’ He took out a vintage emerald-green velvet ring box and handed it to her.

      Layla knew exactly what was inside the box. She’d helped Aunt Elsie pack away Logan’s grandmother’s things when Margaret McLaughlin had died from complications after routine surgery. The collection of beautiful heirloom jewellery had fascinated Layla so much she had secretly looked at it on many occasions when no one had been around. She knew the code to the safe where it was kept, and had even tried various pieces on, looking at herself in the mirror, pretending she was a princess about to be married to the handsome prince of her dreams.

      Layla put her champagne glass down and prised open the lid of the box and stared at the gorgeous Art Deco setting with its array of glittering diamonds. ‘Oh, my… I’d forgotten how beautiful your grandmother’s ring is.’ She met his gaze. ‘But surely you don’t want me to wear it? I mean, given the circumstances of our…um…marriage?’

      His expression was largely unreadable…all except for the way his eyes dipped to her mouth before going back to mesh with hers. ‘My grandmother would want you to have it. She was fond of you. Try it on. See if it fits. We can have it resized if not.’

      Layla already knew how well it fitted but didn’t want to reveal her guilty secret. She took the ring out of the box, a part of her disappointed he wasn’t the one slipping it over her finger for her, just as a man deeply in love with his fiancée would do. But nothing about their engagement was normal, so how silly of her to wish for things she couldn’t have.

      But as if Logan had suddenly read her mind, he held out his palm for the ring. ‘Here—let me do that. I believe it’s my job.’ There was a strange quality to his voice, a low deep chord of some unidentifiable emotion.

      Layla placed the ring in the middle of his palm and held her breath as he took her hand in his. Her fingers were so white against the tan of his, her skin alive with sensations—tingly, fizzing sensations—that sent tiny zaps of electricity to the far reaches of her body.

      He slid the ring over the knuckles of her ring finger and smiled when it met no resistance. ‘It’s like it was made for you.’

      She was so captivated by his smile she forgot to look down at the ring on her finger. It had been years since she had seen him give a genuine smile. Not one of those half-baked twists of his mouth but a real smile that involved his eyes, making them crinkle attractively at the corners. He looked younger, less stressed, more approachable. The grief-damaged landscape of his face restored to one of hope instead of quiet despair. He was still holding her hand, his fingers warm and gentle as if he was holding a kitten.

      The atmosphere changed as if there was a sudden rent in time. A stillness. A silence waiting with bated breath for something to happen…

      Layla couldn’t tear her gaze away from his mouth, couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to feel his lips against her own. She moistened her own lips with a darting movement of her tongue, her heart giving an extra beat like a musician misreading a musical score. ‘I—I don’t know what to say…’

      ‘Don’t say anything.’ The pitch of his voice went down another notch and he slid his other hand under the curtain of her hair, his eyes locked on hers.

      Every nerve tingled at his touch, every cell in her body throbbing with awareness. His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen them—bluer than the Bellbrae loch at midnight, bluer than a midnight winter sky. He was still holding her left hand, the heat from his hand seeping into her body with the potency of a powerful narcotic. She was aware of every part of his hand where it touched hers—the pads of his fingertips, the latent strength of his fingers, the protective warmth of his palm.

      Layla forgot to breathe. She was transfixed by the slow descent of his mouth towards hers, spellbound by the clean fresh scent of his warm breath, mesmerised by the magnetic force drawing her inexorably closer, closer, closer to his lips. It was as if she had been waiting her entire life for this to happen. She hadn’t been truly alive until now. She had been a formless ghost wandering through life until this moment when she had morphed into a live and vibrant female body with urgent needs and desires. Her heart sped up, her pulse leapt, her anticipation for the touchdown of his lips so acute it was almost unbearable.

      Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

      It was a silent chant keeping time with the pounding beat of her heart.

      But suddenly Logan dropped his hold and stepped back, opening and closing his fingers as if to rid himself of the taint of touching her. ‘Forgive me. That wasn’t meant to happen.’ His tone was brusque, his expression masked.

      Layla was so overcome with disappointment she couldn’t find her voice. She couldn’t bear to look at his face in case she saw his disgust for her written on his features. The cruel taunts of her teenage boyfriend echoed out of the past in her head.

       ‘You’re ugly. You’re a cripple. Who would ever want you?’

      She looked down at her left hand where the ring was mockingly glinting, her stomach plummeting in despair. Such a beautiful ring for a girl who couldn’t even attract a man enough for him to kiss her. What a mockery that ring was. A glittering, glaring, gut-wrenching reminder of everything Layla was not and never could be.

      ‘It’s okay,’ she said at last, forcing herself to meet his gaze. ‘I understand completely.’

      He sucked in a deep breath, sending his hand through his hair so roughly it left deep crooked finger trails. ‘I don’t think you do.’

      Layla turned and got down to the business of serving their meal onto the plates where she had left them on the sideboard, next to the serving trolley. She placed the plates on the dining table and glanced his way. ‘I think I do understand, Logan. This engagement is nothing like your last. You loved Susannah.’ She released a painful breath. ‘You still love her. That’s why getting engaged to me makes you feel so uncomfortable, because you feel you’re betraying her memory.’

      A muscle in his jaw flickered as if he was grinding down on his molars. ‘I don’t wish to discuss Susannah with you or anyone.’ His eyes were like closed windows. Curtains drawn. Shutters down.

      Layla sat down at the table and spread her napkin over her lap. ‘I realise you’re still grieving. I’m sorry things have worked out the way they have—for her and for you. It was the saddest thing, especially since you’ve had so many other tragic losses in your life. But I think your grandfather was right in encouraging you to move on with your life.’

      ‘Oh, so you quite like the way he went about it, do you?’ His tone was as caustic as flesh-eating

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