Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret: Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor. Margaret Way

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СКАЧАТЬ were hers saying? That she wanted to leap up, go to him, hug him, tell him she had missed him dreadfully, for all the wonderful times she’d been having.

      Common sense won over. This was Corin Rylance. Dalton Rylance’s son and heir. A family worth billions. These were important people who mattered. Corin was way out of her league. For all she knew he could be about to tell her he was getting engaged when he went home. To the Atwood woman.

      “What am I thinking of?” he asked himself with a quick frown. “Champagne is more in order than coffee. There’s a bottle of Dom in the fridge. I think we might crack it. What do you say?”

      “I guess it should be champagne,” she agreed. She sounded so polite! No easy feat, when the level of excitement was rising at an alarming rate. She saw it as a flame that if only lightly fanned could turn into a dangerous blaze. Formality seemed as good as any defence mechanism.

       Keep your deeper emotions out of it.

      Sound advice.

      “Twenty-one and don’t you forget it,” Corin said.

      “So where have you been?” She inspected his tall elegant frame. “The evening clothes?” He looked so wonderful it made her feel strangely fretful, her legs restless.

      “I spent the evening with old friends. I actually arrived in London from Rome late yesterday. Needed to catch up on my sleep. Had a business meeting this morning that lasted until lunch. I let Zara get away on her trip to Germany so I could move in.”

      She thought of something to distract her attention away from him. “Let me get the glasses.” She rose swiftly on her small bare feet. “Zara and I often eat in here. In fact, we’ve had many an enjoyable late-night supper.”

      “She tells me you get on wonderfully well together.” He lowered his handsome dark head to look into the well-stocked refrigerator.

      “She’s my honorary big sister.”

      He turned back, champagne bottle in hand, black eyes glittery. “Just don’t make me your big brother.”

      She was surprised by his tone. “Why not?”

      “I don’t feel like your big brother.”

      His body language confirmed it. She felt a rush of emotion that was the equivalent to a huge jolt of adrenalin.

       How can he possibly look at you like that if he doesn’t like you?

       Get real! Don’t you mean he’s attracted?

      In the past few months, with all the socialising she had been doing, she had been made aware men found her very attractive. Viscount Walton, the famous ladies’ man, for one. Now, for the first time, was there a tension and an intimacy between them? Maybe it was the lateness of the hour? The months of separation? All she knew was there was a star-bright, bursting sensation in her chest, as if sparkling, spinning, Catherine wheels were going off.

       So what role does he want?

       Don’t invite disaster.

      She tried to ignore her voices, reaching up to grasp two beautiful crystal flutes. They were kept on the shelf above other crystal wine glasses of varying sizes. Sheer nerves and a surfeit of emotion made her fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. To her utter embarrassment, the flute she had just barely grasped fell from her hand onto the tiled floor. The long stem remained intact, but the bowl shattered into glittering fragments that covered a surprisingly wide area.

      “Oh, no! Sorry, sorry—I’m so sorry.” She apologised over and over. Emotion was her undoing. “How could I have been so clumsy?”

      Corin moved in very quickly. “Stand right where you are,” he instructed. “The glass has gone everywhere. Amazing how it can do that! You’d think the chandelier had fallen.”

      “I’ll replace it.”

      Corin sounded totally indifferent to the damage. “Forget it, Miranda. It’s only a glass.”

      “A very expensive glass.” Her voice conveyed her distress and agitation.

      “I said forget it,” he responded rather tersely, as though her evident upset was getting to him. “Rather a broken glass than you cut your pretty feet. No slippers?”

      “Extra quiet on the stairs,” she explained shakily. “You could have been a burglar. Anyway, I’m fine. I’ll get the broom.” She unfroze, determined to sweep up the fragments, only Corin shocked her by reaching out for her and lifting her clean off her feet.

      “I said stay put.”

      Her breathing had escalated to such a pitch it was darn nearly a whistle. “No need to turn cranky.”

      “I’m not cranky.” He laughed.

      “All the same, I was clumsy.”

      “You and clumsy don’t go together.”

      It was precisely then that the silk sash of her kimono slid out of its knot and unfurled, making its sinuous way to the tiles, thus exposing Miranda’s flimsy nightgown: fine white cotton caught by a deep V of crocheted lace that was threaded with blue satin ribbon. She had never felt so naked in her life.

      “You can’t hold me.” Her nerves were coiled so tight they were about to snap.

      “Does holding you change things, Miranda?” The amusement had gone out of his voice. It was oddly taut, as were the muscles in his lean, powerful body. Even his eyes were filled with a daunting yet exciting masculine intensity.

      “I mean I must be h-heavy.”

      “You’re a featherweight.” He hoisted her higher, to prove his point, carrying her back to the table. “There—you can relax now!” He set her atop it, with a big blue pottery bowl filled with fat, juicy lemons just to her right. “Stay there. That’s an order. I’ve opened the champagne. We’re going to have a glass or two each. It’s your birthday. I’m not going to allow anything to spoil it.”

      With his height, he reached easily into the top shelf, taking down two exquisite flutes while glass crunched beneath his gleaming black dress shoes. “Right! I’d better sweep this little lot up.”

      The odd tension between them resonated in the large room. She watched him sweep up the glass with a few swift, efficient movements, then push it into a pile, clearly sticking to his plan of pouring the champagne. That done, he handed her a frosted flute, his strong, elegant fingers closing momentarily around hers.

      The pleasure was so sharp it was a wonder she didn’t cry out.

      “Congratulations, Miranda, on your twenty-first!” He toasted her. “May you have a long, happy, healthy and fulfilled life.”

      “And may I always know you and Zara,” she returned emotionally. “The two of you have come to mean the world to this orphan.”

      “Listen to you!” he said gently. “Drink up. This is a great year.”

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