Chapter Seven
"You must wear the ivory silk," Rosie advised her.
She was sprawled on Bronte's monster of a bed built of solid mahogany. Glossy black curls cascaded down the back of her silk bustier in a vivid fire engine red the exact shade of her lipstick.
"According to an expert on weddings, my mother," Bronte said seriously, "you should never wear white or cream to a wedding if you are a guest." She eyed her friend with sheer envy. "I hate you. I do. Look at those breasts."
Rosie stood, stuck out her breasts and gazed with pride at perfect creamy globes.
"Chicken fillets, honey. Plus I'm boned, lifted and separated."
Bronte stood in white lacy panties and peered wistfully down the neck of her T-shirt, remembering her ex-fianc?'s withering comments on her lack of 'a rack.'
"Mine look like fried eggs."
Rosie grinned and held up a black floaty number in pure silk. "Your boobs are pert, they don't sag. I could never wear a sexy backless number like this, but then you'd look good in a bin liner. Bitch."
Used to her friend's thought processes, Rosie always wanted what she didn't have, namely poker straight hair, five more inches and to be lean and mean.
Bronte ignored the comment and ran a critical eye over the dress.
"The problem with that one is underwear. Even a thong leaves a line." She took it from Rosie, frowned into the mirror and held it up against her. It was gorgeous, an impulse buy, never worn.
Rosie lifted the flowing skirt of Bronte's dress.
"It's lined and floor length. Don't wear panties. Who's to know?"
Stripping off her T-shirt, Bronte stepped into the cool silk. From the front it wasn't particularly revealing. A spaghetti strap hooked over each shoulder leaving her back naked. It was a dress made for sin. She had no idea what she'd been thinking when she bought it. Shimmying out of tiny panties she checked out the back in the full length mirror. The dress sat snugly above her buttocks.
"I don't know." She bit down hard on her bottom lip. "I feel naked."
Worse, she felt vulnerable, torn between adoring the dress and being scared to death. Dinner with Nico wearing this was asking for trouble. Especially after the way he'd been looking at her this afternoon. And yet was she going to deny herself the chance to flirt with a man who set her hormones on fire?
Rosie lifted a brow and shook her head, hands on her hips.
"You know, I don't get you at times."
Bronte met her friend's eyes in the mirror and raised a brow.
"You don't?"
Rosie's expression was quizzical. "It's been almost two years since you've had activity of a sexual nature."
Here we go again; Bronte suppressed a long suffering sigh. Keen to avoid a debate about her lack of a love life, she released newly shampooed hair and rubbed her scalp.
Then she picked up a hair brush and turned to Rosie who'd plonked herself on the bed.
"You're obsessed with sex. And your point is?"
"I'm only obsessed with sex because I'm not getting any," Rosie muttered, then added before Bronte could interrupt, "Anyway, I'm not talking about me. My point is an incredible man looked as if he could swallow you whole this morning. And you lost the ability to remember your name."
Bronte sat on the bed with a bump. Perhaps the whole dinner thing was a bad idea.
Even though the physical attraction couldn't be denied, she didn't need all these conflicting emotions or the complications a man like Nico would bring into her life. She rummaged around her small clutch bag and found her Blackberry.
"I'll tell him I'm ill, a migraine." Bronte rose, paced back and forth as her friend watched her with big eyes and an even bigger grin. "No, I'll leave a message with Alexander to tell him I'm unwell and I can't make it."
"Bronte Ludlow, you're running scared. Talk to me," Rosie ordered.
She kept pacing. "My skin feels too tight for my body."
Rosie scowled. "You mean he creeps you out?"
Bronte shook her head, her brows knitted as she tapped the phone on the palm of her hand.
"No, just the opposite. There's a strong connection. Too strong. I don't like how it makes me feel."
"For goodness sake, woman, get a grip. It's only dinner with the man. It's not as if Nico Ferranti is in the market for a wife. He's the king of love them and leave them. He's never been engaged and he's never been married."
Bronte simply stared at her.
"And how do you know all this?"
"Google is my friend," Rosie said, without embarrassment or shame.
"You searched him on the internet?"
"Of course. My best friend is being chased by a lovely Latin. I want to know all about him."
"You need to stop sniffing out men for me, I mean it."
"I do not sniff out men for you." Ignoring Bronte's snort, Rosie continued, "Well, okay, I'll admit to keeping a weather eye open for a likely candidate. But you snagged this one on your own. Go, Bronte!"
"You watch too many American sitcoms."
"They're the best. You would've done the same for me." Rosie told her, and then thought for a moment. "Or maybe not. You have nothing to worry about, my dear Bronte. Nico is not a keeper. He's perfect for you."
"I'm not sure. He only wants one thing."
She sank onto the bed.
Rosie held up her hands in a 'whatever' sign.
"Yeah. Trust me on this. It's not only bricks and mortar." Rosie caught her hand and looked into her eyes. "You deserve to have fun, remember all work and no play makes you a dull girl. I put good money on it Nico is a fully paid up member of the screaming orgasm club. You could do with a couple of those to exorcise that low life scumbag, Jonathan." She leaned back, raised her eyebrows. "What's with the face?"
Bronte wrinkled her nose.
"We're getting ahead of ourselves, my dear Rosie. It's the idea that I deserve him."
Her friend blinked. "You don't deserve to be happy or have fun?"
"I am happy. I'm a single healthy female who is mature enough to have a physical relationship when she feels like it," she said in a prim tone that made her friend grin.
As soon as the words were uttered, she knew they were a lie. She'd never been able to detach her emotions from any form of intimacy.
But it was time for her to get real. Jonathan's words came back to haunt her. She needed to be more responsive to a man instead of just lying there, he'd told her. How was it his fault if she couldn't satisfy him and Annabel could? But what had thrown her completely was the fact she hadn't been as upset as she should have been when he dumped her.
Honesty made her wonder if she'd agreed to marry him just to keep her parents happy, and if true, how pathetic was that? They'd adored the Honourable Jonathan Whitfield. Since he was from the 'right' background he'd been perfect for her, they'd said. But she was not the right lineage or pedigree for him now, was she?
Bitterness grabbed her by the throat and squeezed her lungs. She was a cuckoo placed through lies and deceit into the wrong nest. With stubborn determination, she decided not to think about it now.
Avoiding her fears went against her nature, but her whole world had tilted on its axis and until she found her feet again she refused to think about the truth she had another father in the world. A man, she'd learned of in the cruellest way, with no idea he had a daughter.
Her eyes stung, what on earth was she worrying about? Nico was a playboy and she was acting like a simpering virgin. Perhaps she should take a leaf out of her dead mother's book and toss her knickers in his lap.
Rosie frowned, dark eyes scanning her face. "I've upset you, haven't I?"
"No, I hear what you're saying." She blinked, resting her head on Rosie's shoulder. "I'm living life the way I want to these days."
After all, it wasn't as if she was promiscuous, she'd only ever known one man. And at twenty-six wasn't that simply pitiful?
Rosie leaned back on the bed and took a long hard look at her. "You're s
till struggling with what that bastard Jonathan did to you, aren't you?"
Bronte shook her head. "I'm struggling with the fact I wasn't honest with myself or with him. I would have settled for a relationship that was fundamentally flawed and I just can't get past it. What the hell was I thinking?" She gave a sad smile as Rosie continued to stare.
"Hmm, but you didn't marry him. I don't understand why you keep beating yourself up over it." Rosie's anxious eyes stayed on hers. "What's going on?"
"I don't feel like me these days."
Rosie rolled to her side and leaned on her elbow, her dark head rested on her hand.
"Okay, I get that. Life's certainly been throwing you a few curves recently. You want for yourself what your parents had. I don't know how many times I've heard you say it."
Bronte avoided her friend's eye and plucked at her dress. "My parents lived a lie. I trusted them, I believed in them and they lied to me." Her eyes met Rosie's and by her expression of disbelief, she wasn't getting through to her.
Her friend shook her head, her dark eyes full of worry and concern.
"Your parents adored you. I was there too and I saw how much they loved each other. Every marriage has its ups and downs, Bronte. Whatever happened nearly twenty-eight years ago, they got past it. You need to get past it too."
She stabbed a finger at Rosie. "You see, that's just it. I can't get past it. So I'm living in the moment, rather than living in the past or the future." She gave Rosie's fingers a squeeze. "And it's working for me, I'm happy living here." She lifted her chin as Rosie chuckled. "And if Nico is as attracted to me as you seem to think and wants a no strings fling then that's fine with me."
"How long did you practise that little speech?"
"All day."
Rosie slung an arm around her. Her brown eyes filled with love and affection.
"Why don't you wait and see what happens. Go with the flow. And," she added with a truly wicked chuckle, "you have a plentiful supply of condoms, since I've put a box in your evening bag."
"You're a disgrace."
"No, we were girl guides, always be prepared, dib dib dib."
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