The Billionaire Bridegroom. Emma Darcy

thread of common sense argued it wasn’t Nic Moretti’s fault. He’d simply been the instrument who’d drawn out the true picture of her future if she went ahead with her fairy-tale marriage—Cinderella winning the Prince!

      He was the man Lyall had been talking to that night, the man who’d expressed surprise at the high-flying property dealer, Lyall Duncan, for choosing to marry down, taking a lowly hairdresser as his wife. And Serena had overheard Lyall’s reply—the reply that had ripped the rose-coloured spectacles off her face and shattered all her illusions. This man had heard it, too, and the humiliation of it forced her into a defensive pretence.

      ‘Since I don’t know you…’ she half lied in desperate defence.

      ‘Nic Moretti,’ he rumbled at her.

      ‘…I don’t see how you can know me,’ she concluded emphatically.

      He’d seen her at Lyall’s party but they hadn’t been introduced, and she’d been all glammed up for the occasion, not in her au naturel state as she was this morning. Surely he wouldn’t make the connection. The environment was completely different. Yet despite her denial of any previous encounter with him, he was still frowning, trying to place her.

      ‘I’m here to collect Cleo,’ she stated briskly, hating this nasty coincidence and wanting to get away as fast as possible.

      ‘Cleo,’ he repeated in a disconnected fashion.

      ‘The dog,’ she grated out.

      The expression on his rugged handsome face underwent a quick and violent change, the brooding search for her identity clicking straight into totally fed up frustration. ‘You mean the monster,’ he flashed at her derisively.

      The blood that had drained from her face, surged to her head again, making Serena see red. It was impossible to resist giving this snobby man a dose of the condescension he ladled out himself.

      ‘I would hardly characterise a sweet little Australian silky terrier as a monster,’ she said loftily.

      ‘Sweet!’ He thrust out a brawny forearm marked with long and rather deep scratches. ‘Look what she did to me!’

      ‘Mmm…’ Serena felt no sympathy, silently applauding the terrier for doing the clawing this man very likely deserved. ‘Raises the question…what did you do to her?’

      ‘Nothing. I was simply trying to rescue the wretched creature,’ he declared in exasperation.

      ‘From what?’

      He grimaced, not caring for this cross-examination. ‘A friend of mine put her on the slippery dip out at the swimming pool. She skidded down it into the water, looking very panicky. I swam over to lift her out and…’

      ‘Dogs can swim, you know.’

      ‘I know,’ he growled. ‘It was a reflex action on my part.’

      ‘And clawing you would be a reflex action on her part. Not being able to get any purchase on the slippery dip would have terrified her.’

      Another grimace at being put on the spot. ‘It was only meant as a bit of fun.’

      Serena raised her eyebrows, not letting him off the hook. ‘Some people have strange ideas of what is fun with animals.’

      ‘I tried to save her, remember?’ He glared at the implication of cruelty. ‘And let me tell you she wasn’t the one left bleeding everywhere.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it. Though I think you should rearrange your thoughts on just who is the monster here. Take a good long look at whom you choose to mix with and how they treat what they consider lesser beings.’

      The advice tripped off her tongue, pure bile on her part. He didn’t like it, either, but Serena didn’t care. It was about time someone got under his silver-spoonfed, beautifully tanned, privileged skin. She was still burning over the way Lyall had discussed her with this man, telling him the kind of wife he wanted, the kind of wife he expected to get by taking on a non-competitive little hairdresser who’d be so grateful to be married to him, she’d be a perfectly compliant home-maker and never question anything he did. Definitely placing her as a lesser being.

      But perhaps she’d gone too far on the critical front. Nic Moretti did, after all, represent one of her sister’s regular clients who didn’t care what it cost to keep her dog beautifully groomed—a client Michelle wouldn’t like to lose. Never mind that the super-duper architect made Serena bristle from head to toe. Business was business. She stretched her mouth into an appeasing smile.

      ‘Mrs. Gifford made a booking for Cleo at the salon this morning. If you’ll fetch her for me…’

      ‘The salon,’ he repeated grimly. ‘Do you cut claws there or do I have to take her to the vet?’

      ‘We do trim pets’ nails.’

      ‘Then please do it while you’ve got her in your custody,’ he growled. ‘Have you got a leash for her?’

      Serena raised her eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t Cleo have her own?’

      ‘I’m not going near that dog until its claws are clipped.’

      ‘Fine! I’ll get one from the van.’

      Unbelievable that a man of his size should be cowed by a miniature dog! Serena shook her head over the absurdity as she collected a leash and a bag of crispy bacon from the van. The latter was always a useful bribe if a dog baulked at doing what she wanted it to do. The need to show some superiority over Nic Moretti, even if it was only with a small silky terrier, burned through Serena’s heart.

      He waited for her by the front door, still scowling over their exchange. Or maybe he had a hangover. Clearly the ringing of the doorbell had got him out of bed and he wasn’t ready to face the rest of the day yet. Serena gave him a sunny smile designed to reproach his ill humour.

      ‘Do you want to lead me to Cleo or shall I wait here until you shoo her out of the house?’

      His eyes glinted savagely at the latter suggestion, conscious of retaining some semblance of dignity, even in his boxer shorts. ‘You can have the fun of catching her,’ he said, waving Serena into the house.

      ‘No problem,’ she tossed at him, taking secret satisfaction in the tightening of his jaw.

      Though her pulse did skip a little as she passed him by. Nic Moretti had the kind of aggressive masculinity that would threaten any woman’s peace of mind. Serena tried telling herself he was probably gay. Many artistic men were. In fact, he had the mean, moody and magnificent look projected by the pin-up models in the gay calendars her former employer had lusted over in his hairdressing salon.

      Mentally she could hear Ty raving on, ‘Great pecs, washboard stomach, thighs to die for…’

      The old patter dried up as the view in front of her claimed her interest. The foyer was like the apron of a stage, polished boards underfoot, fabulous urns dressing its wings. Two steps led down to a huge open living area where practically every piece of furniture was an ultra-modern objet d’art. Mind-boggling stuff.

      Beyond it all was a wall of glass which led her gaze outside to a vast patio shaded by sails, and a luxurious spa from which a water slide—the infamous slippery dip—led to a glorious swimming pool on a lower level. She didn’t see a kennel anywhere, nor the dog she’d come to collect.

      She threw an inquiring glance back over her shoulder to the man in charge, only to find his gaze fastened on her derrière. Her heart skipped several beats. Nic Moretti couldn’t be gay. Only heterosexual men were fascinated by the jutting contours of the well-rounded backside that had frequently embarrassed Serena by drawing wolf-whistles.

      It wasn’t really voluptuous. Her muscle tone was good, no dimple of cellulite anywhere. She simply had a bottom that stuck out more than most, or was more emphasised by the pit in her back. Of course, wearing shorts probably did draw more attention to it, but she saw no reason to hide the shape of her body