Tangled Vows. Yvonne Lindsay

smile,” Ilya commented as the doors swished open and they stepped out on her floor.

      Their floor, she reminded herself. And just like that, the butterflies were back in her stomach and commencing an aerobatic maneuver. She suddenly wished there had been some kind of handbook issued explaining what happened next. Her smile died as the little voice in the back of her head told her she was an idiot. It was their wedding night. What did she think would happen next?

      They reached the door to the honeymoon suite and Ilya produced a keycard from his pocket.

      “My cases were brought up here during the reception,” he said as they walked inside the beautifully appointed room. “I told them not to unpack.”

      “Not to unpack?” Yasmin repeated. “Aren’t we supposed to be honeymooning here?”

      “Did you particularly want to? I’m happy to stay if that’s what you prefer but we have other options. We could disappear to Hawaii or even hide out at my home overlooking Ojai. The choice is yours.”

      Yasmin considered his words carefully. As much as she loved Washington, she felt like a fish out of water here with Ilya. Perhaps if she was back in California, in more familiar surroundings, this unusual marriage of theirs might begin to feel more usual.

      She looked around the sumptuous suite where she’d felt like an outsider from the moment she’d arrived. She wasn’t used to this world of wealth and glamour.

      “No,” she answered simply. “I don’t want to stay here.”

      “So which is it to be? Hawaii or back to my place?”

      He made it sound so simple. But then again, in his world, maybe it was.

      “Let me change and pack.”

      “Do you need help?”

      She was on the verge of refusing when she remembered the dress’s multitude of hooks and eyes that Riya had helped her with.

      “Thank you,” she answered, turning her back to him. “Perhaps if you could undo the hooks for me?”

      She heard his indrawn breath before he answered. “Sure. They look tricky. Let’s see what I can do.”

      Yasmin braced herself for his touch. And there it was. He tucked his fingers into the top of her bodice and deftly worked the hooks and eyes apart. His hands were warm—didn’t the man ever feel cold? She held the front of her dress against her.

      “You’re wearing a corset,” he said as the back of her dress parted to reveal her undergarments. “Can you manage that on your own?”

      Yasmin closed her eyes a moment. Having him undress her was proving to be sheer torture. “Perhaps if you can just undo the first few inches? I can manage the rest.”

      Ilya didn’t answer. Instead, she felt his hands at her back again as he slowly worked his way through the fastenings. Yasmin dragged in a deep breath as the corset loosened and took a step forward.

      “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

      There was a tightness to her voice she couldn’t hide and her heart hammered in her chest like a trapped bird. Curiosity pricked at the back of her mind; she wondered what it would be like if she turned around to face him. If she let her hands drop from where they held her bodice and just waited to see what would happen next. Fire raced along her veins again, licking tiny flames of need into aching life.

      “Take your time,” Ilya said. “I’ll be waiting for you right here.”

      She felt him step away from her, heard the sound of leather creaking as he settled into one of the easy chairs. Yasmin forced herself to walk steadily to the bedroom. Once inside she closed the door behind her and released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She shook with reaction, fine tremors rippling through her body. If he hadn’t withdrawn from her, she would have done it—she would have turned around.

      She’d never been that kind of girl. Never one who followed her impulses. All her life she’d been focused and hardworking. She knew the consequences of not completing things to her best ability—knew, also, the rewards that came with achievement. So what had come over her that she was prepared to put all that aside and virtually throw herself at the stranger who waited on the other side of the door? The stranger who was her husband, she reminded herself. Did that make it right? She doubted it.

      Yasmin let the gown fall to the carpet in a whoosh of expensive fabric, the hand-sewn crystals on her bodice winking at her reproachfully as she stepped out of the gown and toward the bed. Her hands worked feverishly on the final hooks securing her corset as she kicked off her slippers. When she was finally free of the garment, she let it drop to the floor, too. She rushed into the bathroom and turned on the shower, then shimmied out of her stockings and lace underpants.

      Warm water coursed over her, flattening her short-cropped hair to her skull and washing her body free of the tension that gripped her. She wasn’t that blushing bride who’d so intently embarked on this morning’s adventure. That person had been a dreamer, not the doer Yasmin had always prided herself on being. And the man waiting for her outside the bedroom? He was beautiful and appealing and all of the things that made her body react with unseemly eagerness. But he was also the enemy, and she’d do well to remember that.

      * * *

      Ilya began the final approach, relieved to see the helipad next to his house in the hills overlooking the Ojai Valley coming up ahead in the darkness. Yasmin sat next to him in the cockpit—silent, watching, stifling a yawn every now and then. He knew how she felt. The day had been exhausting, but they were nearly home.

      They’d barely spoken since leaving the hotel. She’d taken longer than he expected to pack, and the woman who’d eventually emerged from the bedroom, dressed in long, dark pants, a cream linen blouse and battered leather flying jacket and wearing no makeup, had been a far cry from the bride he’d begun to undress.

      His hand clenched on the controls, his fingers tingling as he remembered what it had felt like to undress her—how soft her skin was, how enticing her scent as they’d stood so close. It had taken every ounce of his considerable control not to lower his mouth to the curve of her neck where it flared into the feminine line of her shoulder. But he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. If this marriage of theirs was going to work, he’d take it as slowly as she needed. He had a feeling it would be more than worth it.

      He wondered what had brought her to Match Made in Marriage and made a mental note to check with his grandmother. Or maybe he should ask his wife. From now on, in all things she should be his first port of call, shouldn’t she? In all things but their businesses.

      Following the directions of the staff member marshalling him from the ground, he landed the chopper on the helipad.

      “Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Horvath,” Pete Wood, head of his air crew, said as he came forward to open the chopper door on Yasmin’s side. “Watch your head, Mrs. Horvath.”

      “Call me Yasmin, please,” Ilya heard his wife say tightly as she unlatched her harness, took off her headset and stepped down from the chopper.

      He fought back a small smile. It gave him a surprising sense of pride to hear her called Mrs. Horvath. His wife. It sent a pulse of something powerful through him. As though he was a part of something new and exciting and uncharted. And in many ways, he was. He’d never been married before—hadn’t even lived with a woman—which made the rest of his life with Yasmin pan out ahead of him as very much the great unknown.

      How hard could it be? he reassured himself as he completed his shutdown procedures and then removed their suitcases from the rear of the chopper.

      “Thanks for coming to marshal us in, Pete.”

      “No problem, sir. Congratulations on your marriage, both of you,” Pete said with a beaming smile in Yasmin’s direction.

      She ducked her head shyly and a slight smile curved her lips. Ilya had noted that reticence around his family,