hands gripped the edge of the basin so tight, she couldn’t feel her fingers. That was one small mercy because the rest of her felt like one huge, raw wound throbbing in acute agony.
She blinked and stared at the mirror in the downstairs rear bathroom. The one to which she and her bridesmaid had retired for a quick make-up fix as the bathroom at the front of the house was engaged. The one with an open window, obscured by ivy, that gave onto the sprawling back garden.
In the mirror, dazed hazel eyes stared back at her. Her mouth in that new lipstick she’d thought so sophisticated was a crumpled line of colour too bright for parchment-pale cheeks.
Around her white face she still wore the antique lace of her grandmother’s veil.
Emma shuddered and shut her eyes, suddenly hating the weight of the lace against her cheeks and the long wedding dress around her shaky legs. The fitted gown, so perfect before, now clasped her too tightly, making her skin clammy, nipping at her waist and breasts and squeezing her lungs till she thought they might burst.
‘Did you know?’
Emma’s eyes popped open to meet Steph’s in the mirror. Instead of turning into a wax doll like Emma, shock made Steph look vibrant. Her eyes sparked and a flush climbed her cheeks.
‘Stupid question. Of course you didn’t know.’ Her friend’s generous mouth twisted into a snarl. ‘I’ll kill him with my bare hands. No, killing’s too good. Slow torture. That’s what he deserves.’ She scowled ferociously. ‘How could he treat you that way? He must know how you feel about him.’
The pain in Emma’s chest intensified from terrible to excruciating. It felt as though she was being torn apart. Which made sense, as she’d been foolish enough to hand her heart to Christo Karides and he’d just ripped it out.
Without warning.
Without anaesthetic.
Without apology.
‘Because he doesn’t care.’ The words slipped through numb lips. ‘He never really cared about me.’
As soon as she said the words aloud Emma felt their truth, despite the romantic spell Christo had woven around her. He’d been kind and understanding, tender and supportive, as she’d grappled with her grandfather’s death. She’d taken his old-fashioned courtesy as proof of his respect for her, his willingness to wait. Now she realised his patience and restraint had been because he didn’t fancy her at all.
Nausea surged as the blindfold ripped from her eyes.
Why hadn’t she seen it before? Why hadn’t she listened to Steph when she’d spoken of taking things slowly? Of not making important decisions while she was emotionally vulnerable?
Emma had been lost in a fairy tale this last month, a fairy tale where, as grief struck yet again, her Prince Charming was with her, not to rescue her but to be there for her, making her feel she wasn’t alone.
Everyone she’d loved in this life had died. Her parents when she was eleven, abruptly wiped out of her life when the small plane they’d been in went down in a storm. Then her grandmother four years ago when Emma was eighteen. And now her opinionated, hopelessly old-fashioned yet wonderful Papou. The sense of loss had been unbearable, except when Christo had been beside her.
She drew a sharp breath that lanced tight lungs, then let it out on a bitter laugh. ‘He doesn’t even know who I am. He has no idea.’
Wants only to please him, indeed!
A homebody!
Obviously Christo had believed Papou, who’d insisted on thinking she studied to fill in time before she found the right man to marry!
Maybe Christo thought she lived in her grandparents’ house because she was meek and obedient. The truth was that, despite his bluster, Papou had been lost when her grandmother had died and Emma had decided to stay till he recovered. But then his health had failed and there’d been no good time to leave.
The tragedy of it was that Emma had thought Christo truly understood her. She’d believed he spent time with her because he found her interesting and attractive.
But not as attractive as her vivacious, gorgeous cousin Maia.
Pain cramped Emma’s belly and her breath sawed from constricted lungs.
Bad enough that Christo viewed her as a plain Jane compared with her sexy siren cousin. But the fact he hadn’t noticed that Maia was warm-hearted, intelligent and funny, as well as sexy, somehow made it worse.
Christo was a clever man. According to Papou, his insightfulness had made him phenomenally successful, transforming the family business he’d inherited. Clearly Christo didn’t waste time applying that insight to the women he met.
Because we’re not important enough?
Because he thinks we’re simply available for him to use as he sees fit?
What that said about his attitude to women made Emma’s skin shrink against her bones.
He had a reputation as a playboy in Europe, always dating impossibly glamorous, gorgeous women. But in her naivety Emma had dismissed the media gossip. She’d believed him when he’d assured her his reputation was exaggerated. Then he’d stroked her cheek, his hand dropping to her collarbone, tracing the decorous neckline of her dress, and Emma had forgotten her doubts and her train of thought.
She’d been so easy to manipulate! Ready to fall for his practised charm. For his attentiveness.
Because he was the first man who’d really noticed her.
Was she really so easily conned?
Emma lurched forward over the basin as nausea rocketed up from her stomach. Bile burnt the back of her throat and she retched again and again.
When it was over, and she’d rinsed her mouth and face, she looked up at her friend. ‘I believed in him, Steph. I actually thought the fact he didn’t respond to Maia was proof he was genuinely attracted to me.’ Her voice rose to something like a wail and Emma bit her lip.
She’d been gullible. She’d brushed aside her friend’s tentative questions about the speed of Christo’s courtship. At the time it had made sense to marry quickly so her Papou could be with them. And when he’d died, well, the last thing he’d said to her was how happy he was knowing she had Christo and that he didn’t want her to delay the wedding.
She should have waited.
She should have known romantic fantasies were too good to be true.
‘I’ve been a complete idiot, haven’t I?’ She’d always been careful—cautious rather than adventurous, sensible rather than impulsive—yet she’d let a handsome face and a lying, cheating, silver tongue distract her from her career plans and her innate caution.
‘Of course not, sweetie.’ Steph put her arm around her shoulders, squeezing tight. ‘You’re warm and generous and honest and you always look for the good in people.’
