A Breathless Bride. Fiona Brand

World War II to Sydney, were long gone. She had to balance the need to bolster business confidence by giving the impression of wealth and stability against the fact that they were operating on a shoestring budget. Luckily, her father had had a small insurance policy, enough to cover basic funeral expenses, and she’d had the excuse of Margaret Ambrosi’s poor health to veto any socializing.

      Her gaze narrowed. “Tell Via I’m not going to be able to make it for lunch. I’ll see you at home later on.”

      After she had gotten rid of Constantine.

      Constantine sent a brooding glance at the sky as he unlocked the Audi and settled in to wait for Sienna.

      From the backseat Zane crossed his arms over his chest and coolly surveyed the media who were currently trying to bluff their way past Constantine’s security. “I can see she still really likes you.”

      Constantine stifled his irritation. At twenty-four, Zane was several years his junior. Sometimes the chasm seemed much wider than six years. “This is business.” Not pleasure.

      Lucas slid into the passenger-side seat. “Did you get a chance to discuss the loan with Roberto?”

      The words before he died hung in the air.

      Constantine dragged at his tie. “Why do you think he had the heart attack?”

      Apparently Roberto had suffered from a heart condition.

      Instead of showing up at Constantine’s house, as arranged for the meeting that he himself had requested, he had been seated at a blackjack table. When he hadn’t shown up, Constantine had made some calls and found out that Roberto had gone directly to the casino, apparently feverishly trying to win the money he needed.

      Constantine had sent his personal assistant Tomas to collect Ambrosi, because going himself would have attracted unwanted media attention. Tomas had arrived to find that seconds after a substantial win the older man had become unwell. Tomas had called an ambulance. Minutes later Roberto had clutched at his chest and dropped like a stone.

      Constantine almost had a heart attack himself when he had heard. Contrary to reports that he was ruthless and unfeeling, he had been happy to discuss options with Roberto, but it was not just about him. He had his family and the business to consider and Roberto Ambrosi had conned his father.

      Lucas’s expression was thoughtful. “Does Sienna know that you arranged to meet with her father?”

      “Not yet.”

      “But she will.”

      “Yep.” Constantine stripped off his tie, which suddenly felt like a noose, and yanked at the top two buttons of his shirt.

      He wanted to engage Sienna’s attention, which was the whole point of him dealing with the problem directly.

      It was a safe bet that, after practically killing her old man, he had it by now.

      Thunder rumbled overhead. Sienna walked quickly toward her car, intending to grab the umbrella she had stashed on the backseat.

      As she crossed the parking lot a van door slid open. A reporter stepped onto the steaming asphalt just ahead of her and lifted his camera. Automatically, her arm shot up, fending off the flash.

      A second reporter joined the first. Spinning on her heel, Sienna changed direction, giving up on the notion of staying dry. Simultaneously, she became aware that another news van had just cruised into the parking lot.

      This wasn’t part of the polite, restrained media representation that had been present at the beginning of the funeral. These people were predatory, focused, and no doubt drawn by the lure of Constantine and the chance to reinvent an old scandal.

      The disbelief she’d felt as she’d met Constantine’s gaze across her father’s grave increased. How dare he come to the funeral? Did he plan to expose them all, most especially her mother, to another media circus?

      With an ominous crash of thunder, the rain fell hard, soaking her. Fingers tightening on her purse, she lengthened her stride, breaking into a jog as she rounded the edge of a strip of shade trees that bisected the parking lot. She threw a glance over her shoulder, relieved that the rain had beaten the press back, at least temporarily. A split second later she collided with the solid barrier of a male chest. Constantine.

      The hard, muscled imprint of his body burned through the wet silk of her dress as she clutched at a broad set of shoulders.

      He jerked his head at a nearby towering oak. “This way. There are more reporters on the other side of the parking lot.”

      His hand landed in the small of her back. Sienna controlled a small shiver as she felt the heat of his palm, and her heart lurched because she knew Constantine must have followed her with the intent of protecting her. “Thank you.”

      She appreciated the protection, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with the scenario.

      He urged her beneath the shelter of the huge, gnarled oak. The thick, dark canopy of leaves kept the worst of the rain off, but droplets still splashed down, further soaking her hair and the shoulders of her dress.

      She found a tissue in her purse and blotted moisture from her face. She didn’t bother trying to fix her makeup since there was likely to be very little of it left.

      Within moments the rain slackened off and a thin shaft of sunlight penetrated the watery gloom, lighting up the parking lot and the grassy cemetery visible through the trees. Without warning the back of her nose burned and tears trickled down her face. Blindly, she groped for the tissue again.

      “Here, use this.”

      A large square of white linen was thrust into her hand. She sniffed and swallowed a watery, hiccupping sob.

      A moment later she found herself wrapped close, her face pressed against Constantine’s shoulder, his palm hot against the damp skin at the base of her neck. After a moment of stiffness she gave in and accepted his comfort.

      She had cried when she was alone, usually at night and in the privacy of her room so she wouldn’t upset her mother, who was still in a state of distressed shock. Most of the time, because she had been so frantically busy she’d managed to contain the grief, but every now and then something set her off.

      At some point Constantine loosened his hold enough that she could blow her nose, but it seemed now that she’d started crying, she couldn’t stop and the tears kept flowing, although more quietly now. She remained locked in his arms, his palm massaging the hollow between her shoulder blades in a slow, soothing rhythm, the heat from his body driving out the damp chill. Drained by grief, she was happy to just be, and to soak in his hard warmth, the reassurance of his solid male power.

      She became aware that the rain had finally stopped, leaving the parking lot wreathed in trailing wisps of steam. In a short while she would pull free and step back, but for the moment her head was thick and throbbing from the crying and she was too exhausted to move.

      Constantine’s voice rumbled in her ear. “We need to leave. We can’t talk here.”

      She shifted slightly and registered that at some point Constantine had become semi aroused.

      For a moment memories crowded her, some blatantly sensual, others laced with hurt and scalding humiliation.

      Oh, no, no way. She would not feel this.

      Face burning, Sienna jerked free, her purse flying. Shoving wet hair out of her face, she bent to retrieve her purse and the few items that had scattered—lip gloss, compact, car keys.

      Her keys. Great idea, because she was leaving now.

      If Constantine wanted a conversation he would have to reschedule. There was no way she was staying around for more of the same media humiliation she’d suffered two years ago.

      “Damn. Sienna …”

      Was that a hint of softness in his eyes? His voice?

      No. Couldn’t