the only adornment on both the veil and the gown, the simplistic lines of the latter outlining the perfection of her uptilted breasts, slender length of waist, and gently curving hips. It was a gown of sheer genius, a masterpiece.
‘Oh, my God, I almost forgot to tell you in the excitement!’ Cally hurried over to her, stunningly beautiful herself in a shimmering gold gown. ‘The mystery guest has at last arrived,’ she told Diana breathlessly. ‘It’s Reece Falcon!’ The announcement was made with a triumphant note for the effect the man’s identity was sure to have.
But Cally couldn’t know just how much of an effect it had had on the woman so thankfully hidden behind the shimmering veil. Her cheeks paled, green eyes glazed with forbidden memories, her mouth suddenly dry.
‘He’s Chris’s father,’ Cally encouraged as she received no obvious response from Diana. ‘Christopher Falcon,’ she enlarged frustratedly as she still had no reply. ‘The man who has been sending you red roses all week and generally making a pest of himself!’
Diana swallowed hard, fighting to regain control. It had just been the shock, the suddenness—— She had known she would have to face him again one day, but she had hoped it would be by her design, not like this, not today; she hadn’t even realised he had been sent an invitation. But perhaps he hadn’t, not in the normal way; Charles would have been sure to tell her of such an important guest. No, Reece Falcon had arranged this at the last minute; he was the sort of man who, when he decided he wanted something, made sure he got it. Getting himself invited here today would have been easy for a man like him.
Cally still looked deflated by her lack of reaction. ‘Diana——’
‘Will you stop delaying the girl?’ Joanna cut in desperately. ‘I can hear Charles building up to the finale now. God knows what he will do if Diana is late with her entrance——!’
‘Heaven forbid the bride should be late,’ Diana returned drily, fully in command of her emotions again now. Reece Falcon was just a man, with chinks in his arrogant armour like any other; hadn’t she managed to find one of them? Wasn’t that the reason he was here today? But there was nothing he could do to her, absolutely nothing he could do that would touch her either mentally or physically.
‘There won’t be a dry eye in the house,’ Joanna predicted. Even cynically hardened as she was, she was obviously moved by the delicate perfection of the bride who stood before her.
Diana gave her a grateful smile before stepping proudly from the room, she could hear the expectant murmur of voices in the main room as she took her place in readiness for presenting herself to them, professionalism taking over as she stepped out on to the catwalk right on cue, barely aware of the awed gasps of admiration as she began her slow walk—just the way Charles had told her he wanted it done!—down the raised platform. Silence fell over the entire room as she did so, even the effervescent Charles, the designer-genius of the gown, having nothing further to say after he had announced the ‘Divine Bride’.
All week, at this Paris fashion show, Diana had been showing Charles’s ‘Divine Collection’ exclusively. For she was Divine.
It had all started out as a gimmick thought up by her agent and herself when she first took up modelling four years ago: the Divine Diana. But as her career took off she had simply become known as Divine to her colleagues and the public alike. This exclusive collection named after her was as much an accolade to her own success as it was to Charles’s brilliance as a designer. This wedding gown, her final appearance for the week, was to be her—and obviously Charles’s—pièce de résistance.
And from the stunned reaction of the audience, as they gazed up at her with wide-eyed wonder, it was having the desired effect.
But now, at this moment in time, Diana was interested in one reaction only to her appearance—that of the man seated in the chair in the centre of the row at the very end of the catwalk—a chair, placed between a beautiful redhead on one side and a lovely blonde on the other, that had, until a very short time ago, remained mockingly empty. Model after model, as they came backstage for another quick change, had exclaimed over this unusual fact as the show progressed. It was unheard of for a seat to remain empty in this way at the Paris Fashion Show. And right there, at the end of the catwalk, it had been so glaringly obvious to them all.
But the seat, as Cally had stated, was empty no longer, was now occupied by a man whose very size seemed to dwarf those around him.
It was him. Reece Falcon. Or just Falcon, as he was generally known. A bird of prey. How apt.
And Diana knew that today she was the focus of that narrowed silver gaze. Not admiringly, as with the rest of the audience, but with cold, raking assessment, chilling contempt stamped on every arrogant line of his harshly chiselled face.
The veil she wore acted as a shield, gauzy admittedly, but it nevertheless meant she could look out, while no one—including this silver-eyed devil—could look in. It was all the reprieve she needed after learning of his unexpected presence here today. She knew why he was here, of course, had known this moment would have to arrive eventually. That chink in his armour…
The photographs she had seen of him didn’t in any way do him justice, could in no way tell of the power he emanated as he sat there so still and totally knowing. The lightweight hand-made suit he wore did nothing to tame the sheer animal savagery of the man, and neither did the cream silk shirt and neatly knotted tie at the base of his throat, all of them the trappings of civilisation worn by a man who lived by his own rules and not those dictated to him.
Dark hair that seemed inclined to curl was kept neatly cut to his perfectly shaped head, equally dark brows winging arrogantly over those narrowed silver-coloured eyes, the latter taking on a slightly luminous quality against the dark tan of his skin. His nose looked as if it might have been broken at some time in his life—probably by one of his many enemies, Diana dismissed with contempt—appearing almost hawklike with that slight bump in its bridge, further enhancing his Falcon reputation, no doubt. His mouth was thin and unsmiling, his jaw square and challenging as his head tilted back in that steady assessment. A bird of prey, in fact.
But she had no intention of being his next victim!
As Charles had instructed, she glided to a halt at the end of the catwalk, pausing for effect, all eyes riveted on her now, before slowly raising slender silver-tipped fingers and lifting the veil back from her face.
As Charles had predicted, spontaneous applause filled the room as the full effect of her youthful beauty in the magnificently simple gown became apparent, several women openly crying at the simplistic perfection she presented.
Reece Falcon, Diana noticed, remained unsmiling, showing no emotion whatsoever, although that luminous glitter of his eyes seemed to have taken on a mesmerising quality.
Diana wasn’t in the least conceited about the way she looked, had no illusions about her pale ‘English Rose’ beauty; after all, for the last four years her face and her body had been her fortune, and the photographers and designers left her in no doubt about the fact that she would only be popular for as long as those looks lasted.
Her golden hair, naturally wavy, reached to the base of her spine, framing a face that was hauntingly lovely; green always-distant eyes flecked with gold were surrounded by thick dark lashes, her nose was short and straight, her lips full and sensual, her chin small and pointed, her skin as pale and creamy as magnolia. She had an almost Pre-Raphaelite beauty, an unworldliness that made her much in demand both for modelling and photographic sessions.
But she might as well have been
