So, no, Aaron wasn’t to be blamed for asking what he thought were standard questions.
But he’d clearly sensed something was wrong with her. Because he’d gone from admiration—oh, yes, she could read admiration—to something akin to dislike, in almost record time. Something in those almost sleepy, silver-grey eyes had told her she just wasn’t his kind of person.
Ella’s head had started to throb. The damned pins.
Ah, well, one bouquet-toss and last group hug with her family and she could disappear. Back to her hotel. Throw down some aspirin. And raid the mini-bar, given she never had got that extra glass of champagne.
Yeah, like raiding the mini-bar has ever helped, her subconscious chimed in.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she muttered.
Well, that had been uncomfortable, Aaron thought as Ella Reynolds all but bolted from the table. Actually, she’d been walking slowly. Too slowly. Unnaturally slowly.
Or maybe he was just cross because of ego-dent. Because one woman in the room had no idea who he was. And didn’t care who he was when she’d found out. Well, she was American—why would she know him? He wasn’t a star over there.
Which wasn’t the point anyway.
Because since when did he expect people to recognise him and drool?
Never!
But celebrity aside, to be looked at with such blank disinterest … it wasn’t a look he was used to from women. Ella Reynolds hadn’t been overwhelmed. Or deliberately underwhelmed, as sometimes happened. She was just … hmm, was ‘whelmed’ a word? Whelmed. Depressing.
Ego, Aaron—so not like you.
Aaron swallowed a sigh as the guests started positioning themselves for the great bouquet toss. Ella was in the thick of it, smiling. Not looking in his direction—on purpose, or he’d eat the roses.
She was as beautiful as Tina had said. More so. Staggeringly so. With her honey-gold hair that even the uptight bun couldn’t take the gloss off. The luminous, gold-toned skin. Smooth, wide forehead. Finely arched dusky gold eyebrows and wide-spaced purple-blue eyes with ridiculously thick dark lashes. Lush, wide, pouty mouth. No visible freckles. No blemishes. The body beneath the figure-hugging bronze satin she’d been poured into for the wedding was a miracle of perfect curves. Fabulous breasts—and silicone-free, if he were any judge. Which he was, after so many years in the business.
And the icing on the cake—the scent of her. Dark and musky and delicious.
Yep. Stunner.
But Tina had said that as well as being gorgeous her sister was the best role model for women she could think of. Smart, dedicated to her work, committed to helping those less fortunate regardless of the personal danger she put herself in regularly.
Well, sorry, but on the basis of their conversation tonight he begged to differ. Ella Reynolds was no role model. There was something wrong with her. Something that seemed almost … dead. Her smile—that dazzling, white smile—didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes had been beautifully empty. It had been almost painful to sit near her.
Aaron felt a shiver snake down his spine.
On the bright side, he didn’t feel that hot surge of desire—that bolt that had hit him square in the groin the moment she’d slid into the church—any more. Which was good. He didn’t want to lust after her. He didn’t have the time or energy or emotional availability to lust after anyone.
He turned to his beautiful son. ‘Come on, Kiri—this part is fun to watch. But leave the bouquet-catching to the girls, huh?’
We’re not going down that road again, bouquet or not, he added silently to himself.
ELLA HAD BEEN determined to spend a full year in Los Angeles.
But within a few weeks of touching down at LAX she’d been back at the airport and heading for Cambodia. There had been an outbreak of dengue fever, and someone had asked her to think about helping out, and she’d thought, Why not?
Because she just hadn’t been feeling it at home. Whatever ‘it’ was. She hadn’t felt right since Tina’s wedding. Sort of restless and on edge. So she figured she needed more distraction. More work. More … something.
And volunteering at a children’s hospital in mosquito heaven is just the sort of masochism that’s right up your alley, isn’t it, Ella?
So, here she was, on her least favourite day of the year—her birthday—in northwest Cambodia—and because it was her birthday she was in the bar of one of the best hotels in town instead of her usual cheap dive.
Her parents had called this morning to wish her happy birthday. Their present was an airfare to London and an order to use it the moment her time in Cambodia was up. It was framed in part as a favour to Tina: stay with her pregnant sister in her new home city and look after her health while Brand concentrated on the movie. But she knew Tina would have been given her own set of orders: get Ella to rest and for goodness’ sake fatten her up—because her mother always freaked when she saw how thin and bedraggled Ella was after a stint in the developing world.
Tina’s present to Ella was a goat. Or rather a goat in Ella’s name, to be given to an impoverished community in India. Not every just-turned-twenty-seven-year-old’s cup of tea, but so totally perfect for this one.
And in with the goat certificate had been a parcel with a note: ‘Humour me and wear this.’ ‘This’ was sinfully expensive French lingerie in gorgeous mint-green silk, which Ella could never have afforded. It felt like a crime wearing it under her flea-market gypsy skirt and bargain-basement singlet top. But it did kind of cheer her up. Maybe she’d have to develop an underwear fetish—although somehow she didn’t think she’d find this kind of stuff digging around in the discount bins the way she usually shopped.
A small group of doctors and nurses had dragged her out tonight. They’d knocked back a few drinks, told tales about their life experiences and then eventually—inevitably—drifted off, one by one, intent on getting some rest ahead of another busy day.
But Ella wasn’t due at the hospital until the afternoon, so she could sleep in. Which meant she could stay out. And she had met someone—as she always seemed to do in bars. So she’d waved the last of her friends off with a cheerful guarantee that she could look after herself.
Yes, she had met someone. Someone who might help make her feel alive for an hour or two. Keep the nightmares at bay, if she could bring herself to get past the come-on stage for once and end up in bed with him.
She felt a hand on her backside as she leaned across the pool table and took her shot. She missed the ball completely but looked back and smiled. Tom. British. Expat. An … engineer, maybe? Was he an engineer? Well, who cared? Really, who cared?
He pulled her against him, her back against his chest. Arms circled her waist. Squeezed.
She laughed as he nipped at her earlobe, even though she couldn’t quite stop a slight shudder of distaste. His breath was too hot, too … moist. He bit gently at her ear again.
Ella wasn’t sure what made her look over at the entrance to the bar at that particular moment. But pool cue in one hand, caught against Tom’s chest, with—she realised in one awful moment—one of the straps of her top hanging off her shoulder to reveal the beacon-green silk of her bra strap, she looked.
Aaron