got to give me a ring if we’re engaged.’ She smiled wildly at him.
Joe stared at her. Was she for real? She was amazing…unbelievable…drunk as hell…and such a romantic.
Hell. A ring. Where the hell was he going to get a ring from at this time of night?
He glanced at his fingers, all empty. Now would have been the perfect moment for that silver skull ring his mother had confiscated from him at sixteen.
Joe pulled the nearest camera bag over to him and flipped it open. Something he could use as a ring…? He undid one of the tripod legs and took the brass packer off the end. It looked about the right size.
He offered the small brass ring to her on his palm.
Riana pouted. ‘Do it properly.’ And she held out her hand as though she was in some old movie, awaiting a kiss from a handsome prince on her left hand. ‘And you have to kneel.’
Joe ran a hand through his hair. ‘Okay.’ He tucked the vodka bottle into the camera bag and shoved it to one side. He dropped to the floor in front of her.
He looked up into her face, saw the tears brimming in her eyes. His gut tightened.
He swallowed hard and slipped the ring slowly onto her finger, his mind a mass of crazy thoughts, his body a frenzy of tangled urges. None of which he had any intention of pursuing.
‘With this ring…’ she murmured, listing to one side, a soft smile on her face, her eyes closed.
‘That comes later,’ he said, shaking his head. And in this case, not at all. He was already seriously involved.
She fell sideways.
Joe caught her in his arms, holding her. What a night.
He lifted Riana into his arms, sending a prayer to the ceiling that the morning would bring her some sense as well as sobriety.
The last thing he needed was another fiancée.
CHAPTER FOUR
RIANA held her head and opened her eyes gingerly. Damn, what had she been drinking? She pried her tongue off the roof of her mouth and wet her dry lips, swallowing hard, trying to dispel the fur lining.
She was lying on the white sofa in her back office, her shoes on the floor, the spring silk samples draped over her like a blanket.
What was she doing here?
She vaguely recalled coming to the boutique last night…and before that? The wave of despair hit her. Stuart didn’t want to marry her!
Her eyes burned. He was such a jerk. Using her like a plaything, something just for fun, to amuse him until someone worth getting serious over came along.
She stared at the ceiling. Why on earth wasn’t she serious material? Sure, she may not have come from a rich family, or gone to a private school, but she had a class all of her own.
She shook her head. She was an idiot for even considering that he was worth her time, let alone her hand in marriage. The nerve of the man to tell her that she wasn’t good enough for him or his high-and-mighty rich family! 41
She rolled off the sofa, holding her stomach with one hand, her head with the other, bracing herself against the pitching of her senses.
The floor wavered. Darn. She should have kept drinking so she didn’t have to think about him, or feel like this.
She closed her eyes, resting on the edge of the sofa. At least she’d ended up safely here at Camelot Bridal Boutique and not in some gutter somewhere. That wouldn’t have been a good look for a wannabe up-and-coming designer.
She cupped her cheeks, holding her face in the hope that it might still the vibrations gnawing at her head. She hoped she didn’t look as bad as she felt.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty. At least Joe couldn’t complain this morning about her tardiness. Did she still have that change of clothes in her office from the last time she went straight from work to a club? She hoped so. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Joe’s face when he arrived and she was already here.
Joe…
She strained to think. There was something about him that she was missing. She shook her head tentatively. Whatever it was, it could wait. The last session with him was today and she wouldn’t have to think about the scruffy-looking control freak again.
Riana stood up and staggered to the bathroom, her legs feeling as though all the alcohol she’d drunk last night had solidified there, every step jarring her brain and her stomach.
Waves of nausea slapped her senses.
Riana flicked the light switch in the bathroom and blinked away the pain behind her eyes.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. Mistake. Her hair was sticking out at wild angles as though something unspeakable had nested in it for the night. The smudges around her eyes from her make-up gave her the classic been-in-a-pub-brawl look, and her skin was as pasty as olive skin could get on a bad day. And, sheesh, it was a bad, bad day.
She turned the tap on. What she needed was a long hot shower to make her feel better, wash away all the comments Stuart had thrown around. Huh! She wasn’t just for a good time.
She cupped her hands under the streaming warm water, her attention caught by the glimmer of gold on her hand.
What? A ring? On that finger?
Her belly lurched. She brought her hand up closer to her face. The small band looked like a wedding ring. She shook her head as much as her aching brain allowed. But it couldn’t be. Whirlwind weddings didn’t happen in Australia. There were no Vegas altars available twenty-four-seven here.
Riana knew this for a fact. Her older sister, Skye, was forever being asked how fast a wedding could take place—mostly by young couples too caught up in the amazing raptures of love to think straight.
It was a month, she was sure of it. And it could only be less if someone was dying—if she was remembering right. She did have the habit of blocking out her sisters’ talk about work.
She fingered the band. Who?
Had she done it herself, knowing she deserved to be as happily married as her sisters? Or had someone else put it there? Why?
She scrunched her eyes tightly closed, clawing for any hint of last night’s desolation and subsequent commiseration with a bottle of vodka.
Joe’s face came to mind.
Riana grabbed the sink for support. Something to do with Joe Henderson, photographer extraordinaire, last night?
She could remember his face, strong and angular, his jaw rough with bristle. She closed her palm, almost feeling the sensation on her fingertips.
She’d touched him?
Flashes came to mind.
