Tangled Vows. Yvonne Lindsay

To Ilya Horvath. And the man was dangerous.

      One kiss had scrambled her synapses. One. That’s all it had taken. Was she so weak? So starved for male attention? Yasmin looked across at Ilya, her husband, and the tingle of desire he’d ignited in her dialed up a few notches. She felt a flush warm her cheeks as he turned from the person congratulating him and his gaze met hers. Yasmin swiftly averted her eyes.

      Alice Horvath stood before her. Were those tears in the older woman’s eyes? Surely not. Before Yasmin could say anything, Alice stepped closer.

      “Congratulations, my dear, and welcome to the family. You’re one of us now.”

      Alice pulled Yasmin into a firm hug, holding her close for several seconds before letting her go. Her words, however, settled into Yasmin’s mind like a rock sinking in quicksand. Before she could reply, Ilya was back at her side.

      “The photographer would like us to himself for a while. Nagy, will you excuse us?”

      Yasmin wasn’t sure how Ilya managed it, but within moments they were in the beautiful gardens overlooking the marina. She’d been excited when she’d learned that due to California’s requirement that the couple apply for their license together, their wedding would instead take place in Washington State, where they could show up to apply separately, which satisfied the Match Made in Marriage condition of bride and groom first meeting at the altar. She’d always loved the area, with the trees, mountains and Puget Sound. The resort was as picturesque and breathtaking as she’d hoped, and the sounds of rigging clanking on the boats berthed in the marina peppered the sea-scented air.

      “Are you okay?” Ilya asked. “You looked as if you could benefit from a breath of fresh air.”

      “I’m fine, thank you, but you’re right. It’s good to be away from the circus. I didn’t know it would be so...”

      “Overwhelming?” he said in a voice that sounded like he understood exactly how she was feeling.

      She looked up at him. She was not a short woman, but in her flat-heeled slippers, he was a good head taller. “Yeah, overwhelming.”

      And she didn’t just mean the ceremony. It was him—everything about him was more than she’d expected. Of course, she’d seen pictures of him. Even been in the same room with him a time or two when they’d attended aviation industry functions. But she’d never in a million years imagined being his wife. She dropped her gaze to his hands. He held a bottle of French champagne and a single glass. When had he grabbed those? she wondered as she noted his long fingers and how gracefully he poured the wine.

      “Here,” he said, handing the flute to her. “This might help.”

      Her skin was peppered with goosebumps—as if he’d touched her already, as if he’d traced those smooth fingertips across the swell of her breasts and lower, ever lower. Inside her corset she felt her nipples harden. A tiny gasp of surprise escaped her as a spear of longing arrowed straight to her core. Was this what Alice had meant when she said they belonged together? Did the woman have some kind of insight into the chemistry that attracted one person to another? The chemistry that made Yasmin feel as though she had about as much chance of avoiding her attraction to Ilya as an iron filing did a magnet?

      She ripped her gaze from his hands and accepted the glass, lifting it straight to her lips and downing at least half the champagne in one gulp. The bubbles fizzed and danced along her tongue and down her throat, much as her blood danced more and more heatedly through her veins the longer she was around him.

      This wasn’t what she’d expected. This instant, engulfing need for a man she barely even knew, yet was now wedded to.

      “Thirsty?” Ilya asked, cocking one brow.

      A flush of embarrassment stained her cheeks, making her feel even more flustered.

      “Something like that,” she muttered and took another, more delicate, sip.

      Before she could ask him why he didn’t have a glass himself, the photographer and his assistant joined them. Yasmin took in as deep a breath as her corset would allow, grateful for the distraction.

      The next hour passed in a blur of directions, unnatural poses and equally unnatural smiles. By the time the photographer called for one last pose, she’d drank far more of the bottle of champagne than anyone who’d skipped both breakfast and lunch out of nerves had a right to.

      “Okay, people. How about a bit of passion?”

      “He does know we only just met today, doesn’t he?” Yasmin said to Ilya through gritted teeth. “We don’t even know each other.”

      Ilya’s arm slipped around her waist and he stepped in closer. “I think we can produce a reasonable facsimile of the feeling, don’t you?”

      He lowered his face to hers, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth away from her mouth. She could see the silver striations that radiated from his pupils and the rim of dark blue around his irises. He really had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. His hand was strong against her back. Supporting. Warm. The warmth seeped slowly into her skin. A shiver ran up her back in total contrast. He might essentially be a stranger to her, but he affected her on a level that intrigued and frightened her at the same time.

      His breath was a mere whisper against her lips, his gaze intense as he looked into her eyes. Involuntarily she raised her hand to cup his cheek, her palms tingling as she felt the bristles of his neatly trimmed beard against her fingertips. Her lips parted on a sigh and her senses primed themselves for that moment when their lips would touch.

      “Perfect!” the photographer exclaimed joyfully, breaking the spell. “Now let’s go back inside for some group shots and the cutting of the cake.”

      Yasmin blinked and let her hand drop to her side. Her other hand still clutched her bouquet in a death grip. What had nearly happened there? She wasn’t sure if she was grateful for the photographer’s interference or maddened by it. She shivered again. Even though it was early fall, and the day had dawned sunny and mild, clouds were gathering in the sky and the temperature had dropped markedly.

      “Here, you’re cold. Let me put this on you.”

      Before she could protest that they’d be inside soon, Ilya had stripped off his jacket and was draping it over her shoulders. The heat of his body transferred from the silk lining to her skin, leaving her feeling overly sensitive. A few drops of rain fell on his white shirt, rendering it transparent where they hit. She caught a glimpse of a dark nipple behind the fine cotton, felt a clench of need so intense it made her stumble as she started to move forward.

      Ever the gentleman, Ilya steadied her. The photographer’s assistant rushed toward them with a massive white umbrella that Ilya accepted and held over them both. He guided her toward the doors leading to the main reception room. As soon as they were inside, she pulled off his jacket and thrust it toward him.

      “Thank you. I don’t need this now.”

      “It’s okay to accept a little help from time to time.”

      “Said the man who has never had to ask for help from anyone, ever.”

      She smiled to soften her words but her meaning hung in the air between them. He had been born into a life of privilege. Certainly the privilege had been created by the hard work of previous generations and, she knew well, of the current generation, too. But had he ever truly wanted for anything?

      “Besides,” she continued, “you’ll need to look your formal best for the reception.”

      He said nothing but shrugged the jacket back on. The resort’s wedding planner hovered at the inner doors to the reception room.

      “Are the two of you all ready?” she asked with an encouraging smile.

      “As ready as we’ll ever be, right?” Ilya replied with a crooked smile in Yasmin’s direction.

      She nodded, desperately trying to ignore the ridiculous sensations that poured through