An Unlikely Bride for the Billionaire (17 page)

His hands clenched about the steering wheel. He would
not
give up! Mia had told his uncle that he, Dylan, made dreams come true. Was there the slightest chance on earth that he could make
her
dreams come true?

If he wanted to win her heart he had to find out.

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
STORY
DIDN
'
T
break on Monday or Tuesday. It didn't break on Wednesday or Thursday either. There wasn't a single item in the newspapers about Dylan, let alone any shady ex-convict women he might be dating.

Not that they
were
dating.

Even if he'd made it clear that he'd like to be.

Mia's wilful heart leapt at the thought, avoiding all her attempts to squash its exuberance.

She'd finally gathered up the courage to ring Carla on Tuesday night. Carla had claimed she didn't care about Mia's history—that she only cared about the kind of person Mia was now. Mia had even believed her.

She hadn't seen Dylan all week. He hadn't dropped by Plum Pines during her lunchbreak. He hadn't rung her for no reason at all other than to talk nonsense until she started to laugh in spite of herself. He hadn't even rung to talk about the wedding.

Despite her best intentions, she missed him.

She didn't just miss him—she
ached
for him.

On Friday morning, when it was barely light, she rushed the one and a half kilometres to the nearest newsagent's to buy a newspaper. Again, nothing.

Saturday dawned—the day of her dinner party—and still no scandal broke. She could hardly imagine what strings Dylan had pulled to hush up the story. Could she start to breathe more easily?

It didn't make the memory of their encounter with the photographer fade, though. She physically flinched whenever she recalled the moment Dylan had punched the other man. Was he
crazy
? He could have been hauled off in a paddy wagon and thrown in a cell overnight! All because someone had called her a bad name.

Couldn't he see that for the rest of her life there'd be people who'd be happy to call her bad names? What would he do—punch them
all
on the nose?

Dylan deserved better than that.

So do you
.

The thought whispered through her and she had to sink down into the nearest chair. Her heart thumped, the pulse in her throat pounded and her temples throbbed.

There are worse things than prison
.

Dylan was right.

Shame, sharp and hot, engulfed her. She'd stolen money from people—people who hadn't deserved it. Knowing she was capable of that—living with that knowledge—was the worst thing of all. She'd willingly spend another three years in prison if it would rid her of the taint. But it wouldn't. Nothing would. Saying sorry to the people she'd hurt, doing her jail time, being a model prisoner, having the counselling—none of that had helped.

The only way she could ensure she never did something like that again was to stay away from people as much as she could.

Heat burned the backs of her eyes. She pressed a fist to her mouth. She wanted to believe Dylan—believe that she'd changed, become stronger, that no one could manipulate her now. His face rose up in her mind...a beautiful dream she'd kept telling herself was out of reach. Her every atom yearned towards him.

With a half-sob, she closed her eyes. She couldn't reach for that dream until she was certain she'd changed.

But how could she ever be certain of that?

* * *

Mia glanced at the plate of nibbles she'd set on the coffee table—some nice cheese and fancy crackers, along with some fat feta-stuffed olives. Should she add some grapes to the platter?

She clasped and unclasped her hands. She wasn't serving an entrée—just a main and a dessert...and these pre-dinner nibbles.

She peered into the refrigerator to check on the individual crème-brûlées she'd prepared earlier. What if they'd spoiled?

They hadn't.

She glanced at the wine. What if she'd chosen the wrong sort? She knew nothing about wine. The man at the liquor store had been helpful, but still...

What if nobody wanted wine? What if they wanted something she didn't have? She'd stocked up on mineral water and cola. She'd filled umpteen ice cube trays, so there'd be plenty of ice, but... She hadn't thought to buy port. What if someone wanted an after-dinner port? Or sherry!

She twisted her hands together. What if she ruined the veal scaloppini?

We'll call out for pizza
.

What if she spilled a whole bottle of wine?

We'll mop it up
.

What if—?

Relax
.

The voice in her head sounded suspiciously like Dylan's. Funnily enough, it
did
help calm her panic.

It's just a dinner for friends. Nothing to get het up about
.

A knock sounded at the front door and her heart immediately leapt into her throat.

They were twenty minutes early!

Does it matter
?

Yes. No. She didn't know.

She wiped her palms down her pretty pink summer dress—another extravagant spur-of-the-moment purchase. She'd been making a few of those since she'd met Dylan—not that she could find it in herself to regret them.

Pulling in a breath, she went to answer it. Dylan stared at her from behind the screen. He held a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers, but she barely noticed them against the intensity of his burning blue eyes.

Swallowing, she unlatched the screen and pushed it open. ‘Come in.'

He kissed her check—all formality—and handed her the wine and flowers. ‘Gifts for the hostess.'

She swallowed again, her senses drenched with the nutmeg scent of him. ‘Thank you.'

While he might be physically close, his reserve made him seem a million miles away. Her fingers tightened around the stems of the flowers. She had no idea how to breach that distance. She wasn't even sure she should attempt it.

‘I didn't know if you'd come.' She moved behind the kitchen counter to find a vase for the flowers—yellow-headed daisies.

‘I'd have let you know if I couldn't make it.'

Of course he would. He had impeccable manners.

She glanced up to find him scrutinising her living room, a frown—small but unmistakable—settling over his features.

She set the vase of flowers on the kitchen bench and walked across. ‘What's wrong?' Maybe he hated cheese and olives. She could have sworn he'd eaten them the night she'd dined at the Fairweather mansion.

He gestured to the room. ‘Do you mind if I make a few adjustments?'

‘Knock yourself out.'

He immediately shifted the cushions out of their perfect alignment and shook out her throw rug before casually draping it across the sofa. He took a decorative rock from the mantel and placed it on the coffee table, pushed the platter of cheese and olives from the centre further towards one end. He moved the vase of fresh flowers she'd bought that morning to the end of the mantel, rather than dead centre, and then pulled a magazine and a book from the magazine rack, all but hidden by the sofa, and placed them on the little table by the door.

‘There!' He dusted off his hands. ‘Now the place looks lived in.'

Mia blinked. His few simple changes had made a big difference. The room now radiated warmth rather than stiff awkwardness.

Her hands went to her hips. ‘How do you even know how to do that?'

He shrugged. ‘You just need to relax a bit more, Mia.'

Relaxing around Dylan... Was that even possible?

She swallowed. ‘I spoke to Carla through the week.'

‘I know. She's talked of little else.'

Mia couldn't work out whether he was pleased about that or not.

‘Carla's the reason I'm early. She seemed to think you might need a hand, and that I should be the one to offer it.'

He didn't smile.

She gestured to the room, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Obviously she was right.'

He just stared at her, his eyes blue and brooding.

She pressed a hand to her stomach. ‘I...uh... I think I have everything under control.' She kicked into hostess mode. ‘Can I get you a drink? Beer, wine...soft drink?'

He chose wine. She poured wine for both of them and invited him to help himself to the cheese and olives. They sat there barely talking, barely looking at each other. Mia excused herself and pretended to do something in the kitchen.

They were rescued from their excruciating awkwardness when Carla and Thierry arrived fifteen minutes later.

‘Oh, look at your cottage!' Carla gushed, hugging her. ‘It's so quaint and pretty.'

Carla's kindness eased some of the burning in Mia's soul, and she could only give thanks that his sister's presence made Dylan a little more sociable. Thierry neither hugged her nor kissed her cheek. Not that she'd expected him to do either. He barely said hello.

The veal scaloppini was a melt-in-the-mouth success. The dinner, however, wasn't. Dylan complimented her on the food, made small talk about nothing of note, and every time Mia glanced at him a knife twisted into her heart. His despondency—his
unhappiness
—was her fault.

She hated it that she'd hurt him. And she didn't know how to make it right. More to the point, she didn't know if she
should
make it right.

Carla's eyes grew increasingly narrow as she glanced from Mia to Dylan. Thierry just continued to survey Mia with his usual and by now familiar suspicion.

She told a funny story about a wombat at Plum Pines but only Carla laughed.

She mentioned that she was considering getting a car and asked if they had any opinions on what she should buy. Thierry said he wasn't interested in cars.

Carla gaped at him. ‘Liar!'

‘I'm interested in
sports
cars. Mia can't afford one of those.'

‘Don't be so rude!'

‘No, Thierry's right,' Mia jumped in. ‘I'm just after something reliable and economical.'

Dylan then subjected them all to a long, monotonous monologue about the pros and cons of a particular model of hatchback that had their eyes glazing over and Mia wishing she'd never asked the question in the first place.

‘What is
wrong
with you two?' Carla finally burst out at the two men. ‘I think it's brave of Mia to tell us the full story of her past. I don't care what the two of you think—it doesn't change the way
I
feel about her. She's been a lovely friend to me.'

‘Carla, that's really nice of you.' Mia's heart hammered up into her throat. ‘But I think you ought to know that Dylan doesn't have an issue with my past either.'

Carla folded her arms, her eyes flashing. ‘Then what's the problem? What's wrong with the pair of you?'

‘That's none of your business,' Thierry bit out.

‘Dylan is my brother. Mia is my friend. Of
course
it's my business.' She turned to Mia. ‘Is it because of that incident with the photographer?'

Dylan's hands clenched about his knife and fork. ‘Why the hell did you have to tell Carla about that anyway?' he shot at Mia.

An answering anger snapped through her. ‘I didn't know it was a state secret. Besides, I thought it only fair that Carla be prepared for the story to break.'

‘I told you I'd take care of it!'

‘You'll have to excuse my scepticism. I didn't know your reach was both long and powerful enough to stop a story that juicy from making the headlines.'

‘There's a lot you don't know about me!'

He glared at her.

She glared back.

‘Why did you wait until Tuesday night to tell Carla?'

The question ground out of Thierry, cutting through everything else.

Mia moistened her lips. ‘Because I was afraid that once she knew the whole truth she'd despise me.'

Thierry leaned towards her. On her other side she felt Dylan tense.

‘She
should
despise you.'

‘Thierry!'

Carla's pallor caught at Mia's heart.

‘Ignore him. He has a giant chip on his shoulder because his father was in and out of prison all through his childhood.'

Mia's jaw dropped as Thierry's animosity made sudden and perfect sense.

Thierry shot to his feet. ‘I told you that in the strictest confidence!'

They all stared after him as he slammed out of the house.

Carla leapt up too, grabbing her handbag. ‘I'll call you tomorrow,' she said to Mia, before racing after him.

Mia glanced at Dylan. Did
he
mean to slam out of her cottage as well?

He stared back, his mouth a hard straight line, and she realised he meant to do no such thing.

She swallowed. ‘Dessert?'

‘Please.'

Before Mia could retrieve the crème-brûlées the cottage phone rang. That phone hardly ever rang.

She lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?'

‘This is Andrew Fairweather, Ms Maydew—Dylan and Carla's uncle. Perhaps you remember me?'

His tone of voice said,
Of course you remember me
.

‘Yes, sir, I do.'

‘A disturbing report has reached me claiming that you and my nephew are romantically involved. Well?'

His tone reminded her of her father. Her hands trembled.

You stood up to your father
.

She pushed her shoulders back. ‘No comment.'

‘I know about your background, young lady!'

Her fingers tightened about the receiver. ‘I can't say as I'm surprised.' She glanced at Dylan to find him watching her closely.

‘I'm giving you a friendly warning.'

Oh, yes—very friendly
.

‘Stay away from my nephew and niece or you
will
be sorry.'

‘I'll keep that in mind.'

The line went dead. She dropped the receiver to the cradle and made for the kitchen.

‘Was that the press?' Dylan demanded.