The Best Man for the Job. Lucy King

      THREE

      Oh, God, thought Celia, lifting her hands to her cheeks and feeling them burn as she abandoned her horror of a father and trailed in Marcus’ wake. How on earth was she going to recover from this? Would she ever get over the mortification and the humiliation? Not to mention the mileage that Marcus would get out of that disaster of a conversation. Her father might not know it but he’d given him ammunition to last him years.

      How could he have suggested she needed sorting out? She’d always known he didn’t have much time for her career and that he thought she ought to be stuck in a kitchen, barefoot and pregnant, but he’d never expressed it so publicly before.

      And in front of Marcus of all people.

      What must he be thinking?

      Well, no doubt she’d be finding out soon enough because given their history what were the chances he’d let such a scoop slide? Practically zero, she thought darkly as a fresh wave of mortification swept through her. He probably couldn’t wait to get started.

      But that was fine. She’d survive whatever taunts he threw her way. She always did. And this time she didn’t really have any choice, as she’d known the minute she’d elected to go with him instead of staying with her father. She’d made the split-second decision on the basis that by actually living in the twenty-first century Marcus was the marginally more acceptable of the two, but with hindsight maybe she should have just fled to the bathroom instead and to hell with the weakness that that would have displayed.

      As they reached the bar Celia pulled herself together because she had the feeling that she’d need every drop of self-possession that she had for the impending fallout of what had just happened.

      ‘What would you like?’ he asked.

      ‘Something strong,’ she said, not caring one little bit that it was only five in the afternoon. She needed the fortification. ‘Brandy, please.’

      ‘Ice?’

      Diluted? Hah. ‘No, thanks.’

      Marcus gave the order to the barman and the minute she had the glass in her fingers she tossed the lot of it down her throat. And winced and shook her head as the alcohol burned through her system. ‘God.’

      He watched her, his eyes dark and inscrutable, and Celia set her glass on the bar and kind of wished he’d just get on with it because her stomach was churning and she was feeling a bit giddy.

      Although now she thought about it his eyes lacked the glint of sardonic amusement he usually treated her to and his face was devoid of the couldn’t-care-less expression it normally wore when they met. In fact she got the odd impression that he wasn’t thinking about her father or that conversation at all, which made her think that perhaps he wasn’t planning to launch a mocking attack on the pathetic state of her love life just yet.

      So what was he going to do? And more to the point, what was she going to do, because she could hardly stand here looking at him for ever, could she? Even though deep down she wouldn’t mind doing just that because he was, after all, extremely easy on the eye.

      A rogue flame of heat licked through her and she wondered not for the first time what things would be like between them if the antagonism didn’t exist. Kind of secretly wished it didn’t because he was still looking at her as if trying to imprint every detail of her face onto his memory, and every cell of her body was now straining to get up close and personal to him and the effort of resisting was just about wiping out what was left of her strength.

      ‘Want to take a seat for a bit?’ he murmured, and she snapped out of it because, honestly, what was wrong with her today?

      Deeply irritated by her inability to control either her thoughts or her body, Celia pulled herself together and focused. Yes, she’d just had a pretty uncomfortable experience, but what was she, eighty? Besides, she was on edge and restless, as if a million bees were swarming inside her, and she needed to lose the feeling. ‘I’m going to take a walk,’ she said, gripping the edge of the bar and bending down to undo her shoes.

      ‘I’ll join you.’

      No way. ‘I’d rather be alone.’

      ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

      She glanced up. ‘What about?’

      ‘You’ll see.’

      ‘No, I won’t.’

      He tilted his head and smiled faintly. ‘Don’t you think you owe me for helping you out back there?’

      Had he helped her out? She didn’t think so, although that wasn’t his fault. ‘I thought you said you didn’t want anything in return for your help.’

      ‘Humour me.’

      Straightening and dangling her shoes from the fingers of one hand, Celia didn’t see why she should humour him in the slightest, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea because on reflection she’d made some pretty inaccurate assumptions about him today. Therefore she owed him at least one apology, and it would probably be less humiliating to do that on the move when she’d have an excuse to keep her eyes on the ground on the lookout for random tree roots waiting to trip her up.

      ‘OK, then,’ she said coolly. ‘Let’s walk.’

      ‘This way?’ he said, gesturing in the direction of the walled kitchen garden that would at least afford them privacy for the talk he wanted to have and the apology she had to give.

      ‘Fine.’

      They set off across the lawn and as the chatter of the guests and the music faded Celia felt her coolness ebb and her awareness of him increase. He was so tall, so broad and so solid and every time his arm accidentally brushed hers it threw up a rash of goosebumps over her skin and sent shivers down her spine.

      She sorely regretted taking off her shoes. They might be tricky to walk in, particularly over grass, but they’d added inches. Without them she felt strangely small despite the fact that she was well above average height, and a bit vulnerable, which, as she was the least vulnerable person she knew, was as ridiculous as it was disconcerting.

      She tried to distract herself by mentally formulating an apology that would let her keep at least a smidgeon of dignity, but it was no use. She couldn’t concentrate on anything except the man walking beside her. There was something so different about him at the moment. He seemed unusually tense. Controlled. Restrained. Maybe even a bit dangerous...

      Which was utterly absurd, she told herself firmly, shaking her head free of the notion. Not to mention idiotically fanciful. Marcus wasn’t dangerous. No. The only danger here was her because with every step she took away from the safety of the crowd she could feel the pressure inside her building and her self-control slipping.

      ‘You can relax, you know,’ he murmured, shooting her a quick smile that flipped her stomach and unsettled her even more.

      Suddenly totally unable to figure out how to handle the situation, she fell back on the way she’d always dealt with him and shot him a scathing look. ‘No, I can’t.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘You have to ask?’

      ‘Clearly.’

      She stopped. Planted a hand on her hip and glared at him, all the tension and confusion whipping around inside her suddenly spilling over. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, just get on with it, Marcus.’

      ‘Get on with what?’ he asked, drawing to a halt himself, a picture of bewildered innocence.

      ‘The “talk” you wanted to have. Come on, you must be dying to gloat about the sorry state of my love life, not to mention all the other things my father said.’

      He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked at her steadily. ‘I’m not going to do that.’

      She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right. Why change the habit of a lifetime?’