The Collector's Edition Volume 1 (45 page)

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Authors: Emma Darcy

BOOK: The Collector's Edition Volume 1
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

F
AY
P
ENDLETON
, Keir’s wonderful all-purpose secretary, bustled around them in the nave of the church, making sure the bridal procession was arranged to proceed perfectly.

Jamie was in the lead, dressed in a formal black pageboy suit, carrying a white satin cushion on which lay the two gold wedding rings.

Emily came next, then Sarah, both looking absolutely exquisite in flower-girl gowns of ivory raw silk. Seed pearls enhanced the lace on their bodices and outlined the waistline. Frills and bows ornamented softly puffed sleeves, and the full skirts were caught at the back with a feature bow. Around their hair were circlets of little pink florabunda roses and baby’s breath, and they carried beautifully decorated baskets of rose petals to sprinkle down the aisle.

“There! Now don’t twitch or anything,” Fay advised Rowena. “I’ve got the train just right. You’re ready to go. I’ll signal the organist before taking my seat.”

Rowena smiled. “Thank you for organising everything for me, Fay. You’ve been marvellous.”

“It’s been a real pleasure, Rowena. Like having a daughter.”

She moved to the head of the aisle and gave them one last look-over, nodded approval, then set off for her seat at the front of the church. It would be easy for the organist to spot her, Rowena thought. Fay had her hair dyed a fiery copper and was wearing a vibrant violet outfit.

Sarah disobeyed the eyes-forward edict and turned her head to catch one more admiring eyeful of her transformed mother. “You look just like a princess, Mummy,” she whispered, a note of awe in her voice.

“Thank you, Sarah,” Rowena whispered back, her heart swelling with happiness.

She
felt
like a princess. Keir had insisted they be married in a traditional fairy-tale wedding, and she was to buy the dress of her dreams, no expense spared. When she had seen this wedding gown she had just stared and stared at it, spellbound, finding it utterly magical and perfect in every detail.

It was made of ivory silk duchess satin and had an air of elegant majesty about it. The empire, sleeves, cinched waist and deep neckline evoked a bygone era. The wide flare of the skirt created a wonderful balance to the tightly fitted bodice. It featured a centre gore encrusted with lace and pearls, repeating the pattern sewn onto the flared lower half of the sleeves.

In keeping with the style of the dress, the veil was attached to a tiara of fine gold and tiny ivory flowers. Rowena’s hair had been swept up into a high topknot, which the tiara encircled. Around
her neck she wore a fine gold chain supporting a beautiful gold and pearl-encrusted cross.

Keir hadn’t seen any of it. She hoped—no, she knew—she was everything he wanted in a bride. To him, she would look beautiful whatever she wore, and part of feeling like a princess was knowing her prince was at the altar, waiting for her.

The soft organ playing stopped. There was a hushed expectancy in the church. The “Wedding March” started. Jamie set off down the aisle, keeping in perfect time with the music. Emily correctly paced her entrance, gently scattering rose petals from her basket. Sarah followed on cue, apparently deciding a shower of rose petals was more appropriate. Or more fun.

Rowena couldn’t help smiling. She smiled all the way down the aisle—to the friends she had met and made over the past sixteen months while living with Keir, to Aunty Bet and her son and his family, who had flown down from Queensland for the wedding, to Keir’s parents, who were so delighted to be getting Rowena as their daughter-in-law, and finally to the man she loved and always would love.

Keir.

He looked stunningly handsome in black, peak-lapel tails and white wing-collar shirt, so elegant and debonair. The classic style gave him such a distinguished air. But it was the expression in his eyes that mattered most to
Rowena, the shining of a love that had spanned so many years without ever faltering.

She wished her parents could have been here, not as they were after Brett’s death, but before, when they had been happy to have Keir as almost a second son, happy for her to go out with him. She hoped they had found peace and perhaps were even looking down at her and Keir right now, knowing it was right for them to have come together again.

The marriage service began.

She thought fleetingly of her marriage to Phil, wondering if he was as happy as he wanted to be with Adriana. He had resigned from Delahunty’s over a year ago, investing the money from the sale of the house in a real estate business on the Gold Coast of Queensland. The fast-paced life there suited them better, he had said, and the girls could come and have a vacation with him when they were old enough to travel alone.

Their parting was reasonably amicable. So was their divorce. There was no question over the custody of the children, and formal visiting rights were waived. The girls could contact him if they wanted to, but basically he had simply dropped out of their lives, and Rowena didn’t believe he was missed.

Keir more than filled the gap.

Keir.

Their commitment to each other was at last being formalised in this marriage service, husband and wife in the eyes of the world, yet
the inner bonding went back a long, long way and would go on forever. Rowena was certain of that. No doubts. No fears. The rapture in her heart was completely unshadowed.

Keir slid the gold ring on her finger. She slid the matching ring on his. They said the words that sealed the promise of togetherness. They kissed. They signed the marriage certificate. They were one.

Then Keir’s parents came forward, his mother lovingly laying Keir’s and Rowena’s new baby son in Rowena’s arms. He was clothed in the same beautiful ivory christening robes Keir had worn thirty-six years ago. They moved over to the christening font. Fay Pendleton proudly joined them as designated godmother. Aunty Bet’s son, Darren, who was godfather to Jamie, stepped up to take on the same responsibility for Jamie’s new brother. The children clustered around to complete the family grouping.

Brett Keir Delahunty.

To Rowena the name symbolised so much that was good—friendship, trust, sharing and caring.

Once the christening ceremony was over, Jamie declared he had something to say, and he and Emily and Sarah had agreed that this was the time to say it. The girls nodded vigorously. Keir smiled at his older son, his eyes shining with love and pride.

“Say what’s on your mind, Jamie,” he invited, happily confident it would not be amiss.

“It’s like this,” Jamie started, then turned to address Rowena. “When Brett gets a bit older and begins learning words, he’ll be saying Dada when he sees Keir, won’t he, Mum?”

Rowena hadn’t thought that far. “It would be the natural thing, Jamie,” she answered, feeling strongly that Keir shouldn’t be deprived of the joy of hearing Dada for the first time.

“And he’s our brother,” Jamie went on, “so he might get confused if we don’t call Keir Dad. We’re all in the same family.”

His reasoning was wonderfully clear, beautifully clear. A brilliant smile burst from Rowena’s heart. “That’s true, Jamie,” she encouraged.

He looked at Keir. “So if it’s okay with you, Emily and Sarah and I would like to call you Dad from now on.”

Emily and Sarah lifted brightly expectant faces to him.

“I’d like that very much,” Keir assured them all, his voice deepening with emotion, a sheen of tears making his eyes even shinier.

“I’d rather call you Daddy,” Emily appealed.

“Daddy is fine, Emily. Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Keir said warmly.

She beamed.

Rowena’s heart turned over. Such full acceptance from Emily meant she really felt she belonged to Keir.

“I like Dada,” Sarah declared. “Dada, Dada, Dada,” she trilled with uninhibited glee. “Brett will learn real fast from me, Dada.”

Keir laughed. “I’m sure he will, Sarah.”

And he’ll live in a fairy-tale, wonderland with Sarah as his guide,
Rowena thought. Her younger daughter was utterly entranced with the baby, and her attachment to Keir had never been in question. He had entered her life as the prince, and Rowena suspected that when Sarah grew up, there would be many a man who’d find himself being measured against the prince, and woe betide them if they didn’t reach the mark.

“That’s it, Dad,” Jamie said with a huge grin. “We can move out now.”

Keir returned the grin, father to son. “Lead the way, Jamie.”

Rowena passed baby Brett to Keir and curled her arm around his for the long walk down the aisle and out of the church. Their eyes caught in a magic moment of love, utterly fulfilled.

His wife, Keir thought, his heart so full it was fit to burst. He looked down at the baby cradled in his other arm. His son. He watched Emily and Sarah take their places in the procession behind Jamie. His family.

To be so blessed…the wonder and glory of it.

Their wedding day.

 

Craving Jamie
Emma Darcy
“Who are you?” he demanded
The urge to hit him in the face with it was strong. “I’m Beth Delaney,” she shot at him. It gave Beth savage satisfaction to see he hadn’t completely forgotten her. “I came looking for Jamie.”
 
His chin jutted. A muscle in his cheek flinched.
 
“He once said he would come to me when he could. He never did. Last night I had the chance to look him up. But Jamie was gone. I only found Jim Neilson.”
 
His mouth thinned into a grim line.
 
“Now it’s time for Beth Delaney to go, too,” she said with bleak finality. “There’s nothing left of what there once was.”
 
She turned away. There was nothing to hold her here. No doubt Jim Neilson would only feel intense relief at seeing her go, a ghost from the past he didn’t want to remember.
 
“Wait.”
 
The snapped command fell like a whiplash across her shoulders.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
S
HE wore yellow.
It was the colour that first drew Jim Neilson’s eye. A daffodil amongst black orchids, he thought whimsically. Women in the arty crowd always seemed to wear black—leather, satin, silk, slinky knits—dressed up with gold chains or exotic costume jewellery. It was like a uniform that said, “I fit in. I belong to this smart, classy world.” The gallery was full of them, come to see or be seen at the preview of Paul Howard’s exhibition.
Jim wore black, too—silk shirt, designer jeans, casual leather jacket, Italian shoes. He quite enjoyed the illusion of fitting in, even while knowing he didn’t and never would. The sense of apartness never left him, no matter how high he climbed on the various ladders he’d chosen. In this milieu he had a well-earned reputation as an art collector. His opinion was respected, his favour sought. But that didn’t make him fit. It simply meant he had money to spend.
The woman in yellow intrigued him. She obviously didn’t mind standing out, being different. Not many people could wear that particular colour successfully. It either sallowed the skin or was too dominant, washing out the person. On her, it looked stunning. Just a simple linen suit with clean, classic lines.
She carried herself like a model, tall, slim, shoulders straight to maximise the striking curves of her figure, a long neck to support the thick fall of silky caramel hair that dropped to below her shoulders. Her face had an appealing, natural look, the golden tan of her smooth skin shining with vitality rather than matted with make-up. Bright eyes, a lush mouth and a straight, aristocratic nose.
Quite a honey, Jim thought, sexual interest aroused. His love-life—if it could be called that—could do with a boost. His interest in Alysha had waned even before she flew off for the fashion shows in Europe. He wanted someone new. A woman who excited him.
There were several women here who would jump at the chance of a tumble in bed with Jim Neilson. They didn’t care about the person he was inside, though. Just fancied him. Or what he could offer. He was bored with shallow relationships. He craved something more. A bit of mystery? The spur of a hunt instead of a lay-down gift?
The woman in yellow looked like a bright splash of spring in this crowd of sophisticates. Fresh. Tantalising. Whoever she was, she seemed to be alone, no one closely tagging her. She didn’t speak to anyone, either. His curiosity was more and more piqued as he watched her.
She wasn’t interested in the paintings. Her gaze only skimmed them, no pause for any lengthy assessment of their value or attraction to her personally. She looked at the men in each group she passed, scanning them closely as though anxious not to miss a face. The women were ignored, apparently inconsequential to her.
“Another glass of champagne, Jim?”
Claud Meyer at his elbow, oiling his way to a sale. The owner of the fashionable Woollhara gallery was always an assiduous host to good clients. This cocktail-hour preview would probably result in enough purchases to ensure the exhibition’s success for both artist and entrepreneur. Claud was a good businessman. Jim respected that while seeing straight through the tactics being used.
“Why not? Thank you,” he said, setting his empty glass on the silver tray Claud held and picking up a full one. “Quite a turnout tonight.”
“Popular artist,” was the knowing reply. “See anything you like?”
“Yes.” He nodded towards her. “The woman in yellow.”
Claud’s surprise was quickly swallowed into a good-humoured chuckle. “I meant the landscapes on show.”
“The guy has talent, but there’s nothing that hits me in the eye and says, ‘Buy me!’”
“He’ll be a good investment,” came the swift persuasion.
“Who is she?”
Claud followed the line of his gaze then looked back, puzzled. “Are you kidding me?”
“You must know who she is, Claud. This preview is by invitation only.”
He frowned. “I’ve never seen her before in my life. She didn’t have an invitation. I let her in because she said she was meeting you.”
Jim’s curiosity took a mega-leap. “How very enterprising of her,” he mused.
“I assumed since you came alone...”
“She was my date?”
Claud shifted uneasily, not enjoying being wrong-footed. “If she lied...”
“No. Let her be, Claud. She will be meeting me.” Jim eyed the gallery owner with a sardonic twinkle. “If she likes one of these landscapes, I might even buy it. Who knows what could eventuate?”
Recognising there was no profit in engaging Jim Neilson in further conversation, Claud smiled and said, “In that case, I hope she pleases both of us.”
“Mind if I take another glass of champagne?”
“Help yourself.”
Claud moved on, doing the rounds of prospective customers. Jim concentrated his attention on the woman in yellow. Had she tossed off his name simply as a ploy to get into the gallery, or was it her intent to meet him? For what purpose? It was an intriguing question.
Was she a gold-digger on the hunt? Ever since he’d been listed as one of the most eligible bachelors in Australia—without his permission—he’d been the target of quite a few novel approaches.
His revulsion to the idea she’d come here on the make was strong. He didn’t want her to be like that. Yet she
was
sizing up the men in the gallery. And dismissing them, one by one.
Cynicism soured his mind as he continued to observe her meticulous assessment of the male half of the company. If he was her mark, he was in the mood to string her along for a while before delivering a comeuppance she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He despised freeloaders. He’d worked damned hard to get where he was. A pretty face and a beguiling body bought nothing from him. Except space in his bed if he really felt enticed to take what was offered.
She came through the archway that linked the two rooms on the first floor of the gallery. Jim tensed as her gaze swung towards him. Any second now, the moment of truth. He waited, a savage challenge brooding in his mind, his eyes simmering with dark intent.
She found him, her eyes widening as he stared straight at her. A questioning? An expectation of some response from him? Almost as if he should recognise her. Well, she was bound to disappointment if she thought that old line would work on him. He’d never seen her before in his life.
If there was one thing Jim prided himself on, it was total recall, people, places, figures. It was his one great talent, the means by which he had climbed to the pinnacle he now occupied, the hottest financier in town. The woman in yellow was not, and never had been, part of his world.
Her expression changed. It was as though she had mentally stepped back from her first reaction. She studied him with an intensity he found oddly discomforting. He could feel her trying to burrow under his skin to see the man inside. It was a cool, steady, calculating look, the kind an astute man might give in sizing up someone he was dealing with, not even a hint of sexuality in it.
It provoked Jim into moving, taking the initiative from her. She wanted to meet him? Fine! She would meet him on his terms.
He had a compelling urge to reduce her to simply another woman, a woman responding to him as a man. He wanted to strip off her deceptive cloak of spring, unmask both her body and mind. He wanted her flesh in his hands, naked of any illusion, grinding her into compliance to his will.
Deliberately he slid his eyes over the lush fullness of her breasts, his mouth curving into a smile of male appreciation. Her short skirt gave him a good view of her legs, too, long and lissome in silk stockings. He imagined them wound around him in submission. He would give her one hell of a serve for tricking him.
No one fooled Jim Neilson for long.
He was too wise in the ways of the world.
The yellow had been nothing but a spotlight. An impact colour. It would give him a lot of satisfaction ... taking it off her.

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