looked hastily away again, and yet the man’s face stayed imprinted in her brain. He was seated next to Mrs Hammond, a tall dark man with piercing grey eyes, an arrogant slash of a nose, lean cheekbones, a thinned mouth, his powerful physique looking magnificient in the grey morning suit, the shirt snowy white, a man of possibly thirty-eight, thirty-nine years of age.
She glanced back at him, finding those curiously light grey eyes still on her—and making no pretence of doing anything else. At twenty-four she was confident enough of her own attraction not to blush, meeting that arrogant gaze squarely for several seconds before slowly turning away. Those few seconds had given her chance to notice several other things about the man, like the sprinkling of grey in the darkness of his hair at his temples, the hardness of the grey eyes, the cynical twist to that almost sensual mouth.
His mouth quirked mockingly as she began to turn away, and for a moment her eyes widened. How dared he look at her so insolently! There were high wings of colour in her cheeks as she turned back to face the altar, but it was because of anger, not embarrassment, that her eyes sparkled like a cat’s. Rude, arrogant man!
And what was he doing sitting next to Ruth Hammond? Paul didn’t have a brother, she knew that, and his cousins had acted as ushers. But there he sat, with Ruth and Claude Hammond, almost like visiting royalty!
And he was still watching her, damn him! She didn’t need to turn to know those grey eyes were still watching her, could feel the man’s presence with ominous clarity. Ominous …? Now why should she have chosen a word like that? She had become adept, over the years, at putting down the wolves—even the apparently lethal kind, as this man appeared to be. He didn’t frighten her, and if he chose to follow up this single-minded interest he seemed to have in her he would find out that he didn’t attract her in least.
He was there again while the photographs were being taken, standing on the very edge of the crowd watching them, those light eyes still fixed on Lori. He seemed very tall out here in the sunlight, his hair pure black now, no grey distinguishable, his legs long and straight in the grey trousers, the jacket to the suit fitting snugly across his wide shoulders.
Lori’s head was back proudly, her hair a red-gold cloud in the light breeze, her eyes the colour of honey in the sunlight.
‘Luke!’ Paul called out. ‘Luke, come and join us.’
‘Not me,’ the man with the grey eyes spoke out lazily, his voice deep and controlled, the sort of voice that commanded attention.
‘Oh, come on, Luke,’ Paul cajoled.
‘Yes, come on, Luke,’ Nikki joined in the pleading, holding out her hand.
‘Do I get to stand next to the chief bridesmaid?’ he drawled, his gaze mocking as he saw Lori’s mouth tighten.
All the guests laughed—with the exception of Lori. And Jonathan Anderson, the best man. Jonathan was one of the junior lawyers in the firm of Ackroyd, Hammond and Hammond, and he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to date Lori for the last six months. His arm tightened possessively about her waist as they stood in the group for the photograph, moving closer to her.
‘Well, do I?’ Luke mocked.
Lori was breathing heavily, hating the way this man was humiliating her in front of all these people. She didn’t like attention drawn to her, a relic from the past, and she would never forgive this man for causing all the eyes to be on the both of them.
‘Of course you do,’ Nikki giggled.
‘Then I accept.’ He stepped forward, his movements fluid and forceful.
‘Lucky Lori,’ Sally murmured goodnaturedly. ‘Where have you been hiding him, Nikki?’
Wherever it was, Lori wished he had stayed there. He had taken Jonathan’s place now, his arm encircling her waist just as Jonathan’s had, his body hard and unyielding, his arm implacable.
He smiled down at her as he felt her stiffen, a roguish smile, the coldness gone from his eyes, the cynicism from his mouth.
Lori pointedly ignored him, looking over at the photographer as he organised the bride and groom, the two bridesmaids, best man, and Luke in the photograph. A disgruntled Jonathan stood at Sally’s side, and he grimaced as he caught Lori’s gaze.
As the photographs continued to be taken Luke remained at her side, his hand never moving from the slender curve of her waist, accepting her haughtiness, but unaffected by it.
‘Bride and groom only now,’ the photographer requested briskly, having done this so many times now it was rather boring for him.
His words were all the encouragement Lori needed, and she evaded that confining arm to slip away into the crowd, noting with satisfaction as the man called Luke was waylaid by Claude Hammond. He had obviously intended talking to her, and as she didn’t like anything about him she had no wish to talk to him.
Nevertheless, his silent admiration continued at the reception, his fixed gaze starting to become embarrassing. He had no right to look at her like that, to mentally strip her with his eyes. And they were such all-seeing eyes, slightly narrowed, their expression enigmatic.
‘Damned cheek!’ Jonathan muttered at her side.
Lori continue to smile at him, taking the glass of champagne he held out to her. She didn’t need any explanation as to the reason for his anger, the resentful glances he was still shooting at the dark-haired man across the room spoke for him.
‘Who the hell is he?’ he snapped, standing in front of her and effectively blocking her view of the room behind him.
She shrugged. ‘I have no idea. A friend of the Hammonds’, I suppose,’ she infused uninterest into her voice, although her own curiosity about the man was quite strong.
‘Mm,’ Jonathan nodded. ‘Nikki seems to know him too,’ he added questioningly.
‘She’s never mentioned him.’
‘Hm,’ Jonathan said again, turning to look at Luke, who was now deep in conversation with Paul. ‘Interesting-looking chap.’
Dangerous, she would have said. Ominous and dangerous? Considering she had never even spoken to the man he had made a deep impression on her!
She might not have spoken to him, but he had said enough with those eyes, was still saying it!
‘Like to dance?’ Jonathan offered.
‘Thank you,’ she nodded, smiling up at him.
Jonathan was a dear, she knew he was, and yet something held her back from going out with him. He reminded her too much of Nigel, the same blond hair, the same good looks. The same determination to succeed! She knew that, like Nigel, he would never think of taking Lorraine Chisholm for his wife.
They moved well together, both tall, the red cloud of Lori’s hair drawing attention to the beauty of her face, a beauty Jonathan seemed fascinated by, for he gazed down at her with admiring eyes.
Lori chuckled as they continued to dance together as each successive melody was played. ‘I think we’re supposed to change partners, or at least take a break occasionally,’ she teased.
‘I know,’ he muttered.
