Tangled Vows. Yvonne Lindsay

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      “Yasmin?”

      “Yes, I will marry you,” she said in a voice she’d hoped would be firm and decisive, but that came out husky and with a faint tremor.

      “Shall we?” He nodded toward the aisle.

      She tucked her arm in his and together they walked slowly down the aisle toward the celebrant.

      The ceremony itself passed in a blur. She supposed she said the right things at the right time, because before she knew it, Ilya was putting a blindingly brilliant wedding band on her finger and the celebrant was pronouncing them husband and wife.

      Ilya leaned toward her. Oh my, he’s going to kiss me! she thought, her heart kicking up to double speed in her chest. Unsure of what to do, she stood there, watching him come toward her with a twinkle in those intriguing eyes and an expression of humor mixed with determination on his face.

      As he drew closer Yasmin felt his warmth and took in the scent of his cologne, the tang of pine with an underlying hint of sandalwood. And then his lips touched hers. Sensation rippled through her whole body and her breath caught in her throat. Time stopped. All that existed was the sensation of his kiss. And then, just like that, it was over. Too soon and yet not soon enough.

      As he pulled away, there was a polite smattering of applause together with whoops and hollers from Ilya’s groomsmen. He might not be touching her right now, but every nerve in her body continued to party as if he still kissed her. It was madness and it was wonderful all at the same time. A roaring sound filled Yasmin’s ears.

      Her new husband leaned forward and whispered, “Breathe, Yasmin.”

      She took in one shuddering breath and then another before turning to accept congratulations from the few members of her staff—pretty much her only friends these days—who’d made it to the wedding. All the while she tried to come to terms with the avalanche of emotion that swept her along on its tumbling course. She was married. To Ilya Horvath. And the man was dangerous.

      One kiss had scrambled her synapses. One. That’s all it had taken. Was she so weak? So starved for male attention? Yasmin looked across at Ilya, her husband, and the tingle of desire he’d ignited in her dialed up a few notches. She felt a flush warm her cheeks as he turned from the person congratulating him and his gaze met hers. Yasmin swiftly averted her eyes.

      Alice Horvath stood before her. Were those tears in the older woman’s eyes? Surely not. Before Yasmin could say anything, Alice stepped closer.

      “Congratulations, my dear, and welcome to the family. You’re one of us now.”

      Alice pulled Yasmin into a firm hug, holding her close for several seconds before letting her go. Her words, however, settled into Yasmin’s mind like a rock sinking in quicksand. Before she could reply, Ilya was back at her side.

      “The photographer would like us to himself for a while. Nagy, will you excuse us?”

      Yasmin wasn’t sure how Ilya managed it, but within moments they were in the beautiful gardens overlooking the marina. She’d been excited when she’d learned that due to California’s requirement that the couple apply for their license together, their wedding would instead take place in Washington State, where they could show up to apply separately, which satisfied the Match Made in Marriage condition of bride and groom first meeting at the altar. She’d always loved the area, with the trees, mountains and Puget Sound. The resort was as picturesque and breathtaking as she’d hoped, and the sounds of rigging clanking on the boats berthed in the marina peppered the sea-scented air.

      “Are you okay?” Ilya asked. “You looked as if you could benefit from a breath of fresh air.”

      “I’m fine, thank you, but you’re right. It’s good to be away from the circus. I didn’t know it would be so...”

      “Overwhelming?” he said in a voice that sounded like he understood exactly how she was feeling.

      She looked up at him. She was not a short woman, but in her flat-heeled slippers, he was a good head taller. “Yeah, overwhelming.”

      And she didn’t just mean the ceremony. It was him—everything about him was more than she’d expected. Of course, she’d seen pictures of him. Even been in the same room with him a time or two when they’d attended aviation industry functions. But she’d never in a million years imagined being his wife. She dropped her gaze to his hands. He held a bottle of French champagne and a single glass. When had he grabbed those? she wondered as she noted his long fingers and how gracefully he poured the wine.

      “Here,” he said, handing the flute to her. “This might help.”

      Her skin was peppered with goosebumps—as if he’d touched her already, as if he’d traced those smooth fingertips across the swell of her breasts and lower, ever lower. Inside her corset she felt her nipples harden. A tiny gasp of surprise escaped her as a spear of longing arrowed straight to her core. Was this what Alice had meant when she said they belonged together? Did the woman have some kind of insight into the chemistry that attracted one person to another? The chemistry that made Yasmin feel as though she had about as much chance of avoiding her attraction to Ilya as an iron filing did a magnet?

      She ripped her gaze from his hands and accepted the glass, lifting it straight to her lips and downing at least half the champagne in one gulp. The bubbles fizzed and danced along her tongue and down her throat, much as her blood danced more and more heatedly through her veins the longer she was around him.

      This wasn’t what she’d expected. This instant, engulfing need for a man she barely even knew, yet was now wedded to.

      “Thirsty?” Ilya asked, cocking one brow.

      A flush of embarrassment stained her cheeks, making her feel even more flustered.

      “Something like that,” she muttered and took another, more delicate, sip.

      Before she could ask him why he didn’t have a glass himself, the photographer and his assistant joined them. Yasmin took in as deep a breath as her corset would allow, grateful for the distraction.

      The next hour passed in a blur of directions, unnatural poses and equally unnatural smiles. By the time the photographer called for one last pose, she’d drank far more of the bottle of champagne than anyone who’d skipped both breakfast and lunch out of nerves had a right to.

      “Okay, people. How about a bit of passion?”

      “He does know we only just met today, doesn’t he?” Yasmin said to Ilya through gritted teeth. “We don’t even know each other.”

      Ilya’s arm slipped around her waist and he stepped in closer. “I think we can produce a reasonable facsimile of the feeling, don’t you?”

      He lowered his face to hers, his lips hovering a hairsbreadth away from her mouth. She could see the silver striations that radiated from his pupils and the rim of dark blue around his irises. He really had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. His hand was strong against her back. Supporting. Warm. The warmth seeped slowly into her skin. A shiver ran up her back in total contrast. He might essentially be a stranger to her, but he affected her on a level that intrigued and frightened her at the same time.

      His breath was a mere whisper against her lips, his gaze intense as he looked into her eyes. Involuntarily СКАЧАТЬ