took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, handing her one. ‘Oh? That sounds very important.’ He took a bored sip of his wine that told her he thought it sounded anything but. ‘In that case we will talk. But later.’ He took her free hand, surrounding it in his warmth, and headed into the ballroom. ‘First the happy couple must mingle with our guests seeing they’ve come especially to wish us well.’
‘You mean they’ve come to knit at my execution. They’re nothing but ghouls, wanting to witness the ultimate degradation of one of their own.’
He stopped dead and lowered his head to hers, his body close, his voice a clipped whisper in her ear. ‘You had a choice. You did not have to agree to this.’
‘I had no choice, and you know it. You left me without any choice at all.’
‘Wrong,’ he hit back. ‘You could have walked away from me and—’ he swept his champagne-bearing hand around the room ‘—and all of this.’
‘I couldn’t—’
‘No! You could have, but you didn’t—for whatever reasons you had, you chose not to! And, having made your decision, I expect you to live with it. Now, I suggest we meet some of our guests.’
It was many hours and many more cases of champagne later that the party wound down, leaving only a few of Cameron’s colleagues, who seemed all too content to settle in for brandy and cigars in the library. Carolyn had excused herself an hour ago, pleading too much excitement, and Briar sympathised.
It had seemed an endless night, moving on from one group of people to the next, filling the time with the same small talk, trying to instil the right measure of excitement into her voice. She could see the doubts, she could see the cynical way half the attendees accepted the marriage, the questions they asked, aimed to find any chink in the story, seeking out the truth they knew was there if they just dug in the right place.
She could even see the looks of envy that were fired her way from women who obviously thought Diablo was some kind of catch. Just because he hadn’t been embraced by Sydney society didn’t mean there wasn’t a queue of women lining up to be photographed on his arm.
Diablo had carried himself through the night like a consummate professional, letting his answers trip from his tongue—their attraction had surprised them both but now they couldn’t wait to be married, and the icing on the cake was his father-in-law-to-be’s sudden change in fortunes.
And all the while he’d bluffed his way through the potential minefield of the evening, he’d never let her stray more than inches away, his arm proprietorialy looped over her shoulders or around her waist, or just reaching out to stroke her arm, or tuck a strand of hair away from her face. Briar, on the other hand, had smiled through gritted teeth at the pointed questions and gentle caresses and wished the whole evening over. After what felt like an eternity, thankfully, it nearly was.
‘Now, you wanted to talk.’
They had just bid farewell to the last of the departing guests at the front door. She shook her head, revelling in being able to put some distance between them at last. At last the pretence was over. But the strain of deflecting their barbed queries coupled with Diablo’s constant presence at her side had left her with such a thundering tension headache that all she wanted to do now was to go to bed. The last thing she wanted to face was an all too revealing statement of how she saw their marriage working.
‘It can wait,’ she conceded, rubbing her temples. ‘I’m just glad this farce of an evening is over.’
But Diablo was talking to a passing waiter and she didn’t think he’d heard her.
‘Why do you call it that?’ he said, turning back to her a moment later and proving her assumption wrong. ‘Our engagement is no farce, nor will our marriage be.’
‘You know it’s a farce! And having to pretend that this relationship is anything other than the business transaction it is, it’s just impossible.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You think this marriage is merely a business transaction?’
‘Isn’t it? It’s hardly a love match.’
He ushered her into a small sitting room opposite the ballroom just as the waiter returned, bearing a tray with two glasses, one a tumbler of what looked like Scotch, the other a tall frosty glass, its contents sparkling. He lifted them both from the tray and held out the tall glass as the waiter exited, closing the door behind them.
‘What is it?’ she said, not taking it.
‘Drink it. It’s an old Spanish headache remedy. It will make you feel better.’
Briar eyed the glass suspiciously. There was no telling what ingredients might go into making an ‘old Spanish headache remedy’. ‘And you care how I feel? I don’t think so.’
He shrugged, still holding the glass even as he took a sip from his own. ‘You would rather keep your headache?’
She murmured her thanks as she took the glass, aware she was being churlish, wondering at his ability to rub her up the wrong way. She sniffed tentatively at the glass, took a sip and, with surprise, instantly recognised the slightly bitter taste of paracetamol. ‘Old Spanish headache remedy’ indeed. She lifted her eyes to meet his and found them creased at the edges, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
He was laughing at her.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘let’s stop wasting time. Tell me about these “ground rules” you’re so keen on implementing.’
‘Do we have to do this now?’ she protested, after finishing the contents of her glass. She wasn’t up to going ten rounds with anyone right now—let alone with Diablo. ‘It’s late. Can’t it wait?’
‘No. We will be married in two weeks and for much of that time I have business overseas. If you want anything incorporated into our pre-nuptial agreement, then you best tell me now.’
His cold words broke over her like a rogue wave, catching her unawares, tumbling her into the sandy depths. ‘What pre-nuptial agreement?’
‘Oh, come, come.’ He swept away her protest with one potent hand. ‘Surely you didn’t expect we would be married without one? As you say, ours is hardly a love match.’
For a moment she bristled at his ready agreement with her summation. Only then common sense prevailed. If his terms for this marriage could be in writing, so too could hers. Two could play at that game.
‘Of course, you’re right,’ she conceded, feeling a surge of confidence. ‘A pre-nuptial agreement would be for the best. Then we both know where we stand.’
He downed the rest of his drink in one mouthful and she watched as he swirled the smooth liquor around his mouth and kick back his jaw as he sent it southwards. And through it all his eyes smouldered, never shifting from her, as if weighing her up, evaluating her.
‘Sí, exactly. So tell me, Briar, where do you stand? What terms would you like included in the arrangement that outlines our future life together?’
‘You mean our marriage together,’ she corrected.
He smiled in a way that made her shiver.
