The Bride Wore Red At The Ladies Club: Arabella's Story

She stared out the window at the beautiful grounds that had once belonged to the house, but which now belonged to some stranger. He'd bought up the lot, according to Harold, and now he wanted the house to complete the set. Harold had refused to tell her the name of their guest tonight, but she guessed that the mystery land–grab man was their important guest.

Would she sign away the only home she'd ever known? Would she give up that easily? "Over my dead body," she grated out, feeling more confident after her comprehensive victory downstairs.

Pressing her cheek against the cold, smooth glass, she heaved a breath. Confident, yes, but sometimes it was very lonely here. That was why she'd joined the Ladies Club. The club was just a small group of like–minded women in the village. It had started off as a bit of a joke—they were going to find each other hot studs and have lots of dirty sex, but it had ended up more PG rated than X–rated. They talked dirty, but they didn't do a lot. In fact, she sometimes wondered if she'd ever have sex again. Harold wasn't interested, and after years of being told she was fat and ugly, she had started to believe him, so she wasn't exactly holding her breath.

She pulled back from the window, still staring out at the rolling hills and the lush green valleys. Who knew how long she'd be able to call this wonderful place home?

Oh, cheer up! Arabella instructed herself firmly. Who knew what was around the next corner?

Her mind immediately flew to a rainy day in town, when there had been an incredible–looking man around the next corner.

She'd probably never see him again, she told herself sensibly. Though he had been concerned about her shopping getting ruined, he'd hardly bust a gut to get her number.

It had turned into a lovely afternoon and she was tempted to go for a walk. There was time before making dinner, and having got rid of Harold's cronies, at least for now, she owed herself a celebratory walk.

She was just approaching the main gates when she was almost run over.

"What the—" She couldn't believe her eyes. A reckless biker, having performed a one–eighty turn, had skidded to a halt at her feet. Spitting dust and gravel out of her mouth, she glowered at the black–clad rider. "Get off my property! This is private property!" Or it had been, before it was sold. "Didn't you see the sign? PRIVATE PROPERTY!" Even as she spelled out the words, she had a really bad feeling.

The biker appeared unperturbed as he dismounted. Removing his helmet, he eased onto one tight, denim–clad hip.

"You!" she exclaimed. It was Sir Galahad from the other day in town! "Isn't it enough that you try to run me over in the High Street?" she exploded. "Have you come here to finish the job?"

"I thought it was you," he said, looking pleased.

Her heart was going crazy. He was even better looking than she remembered.

"I would surely remember if I had been trying to run you over," he said, firm lips pressing down attractively. "But as it happened, you walked in front of my car. You thumped on my hood. And you l

ed a helpless old lady in front of my car as well. It was only thanks to my whip–fast reflexes that I managed to save you both."

Did he have to grin like that? "That's your account of the event." She scowled, wishing desperately that she had bothered to put on some makeup before coming out, and had at least brushed her hair. Something different in the clothes department might have helped. Her oldest jeans, battered Barbour, and stinking, dung–covered boots didn't help her confidence at all. "What are you doing?" He was holding out a spare helmet!

"Taking you for a ride."

She didn't doubt it for a minute.

"Well?" he said.

His curving grin heated her up in all sorts of ways, and not one of those ways was angry. She meant to refuse, and spluttered something that sounded like no, but her hand seemed to have a life of its own, and reached out to take hold of the helmet.

"You'll have to help me," she admitted. "I've never put one of these on before."

"My pleasure," he drawled.

Everything about him suggested pleasure, she thought, closing her eyes as he accidentally brushed her chin as he secured the helmet.

"Relax," he murmured, smiling. "I don't bite. At least, not yet..."

Her eyes flashed open. Was that supposed to reassure her?

"There. You'll do," he approved, standing back.

Refusing to take any more mockery from those ridiculously compelling eyes, she slammed down the visor—only to get her finger caught as it sprang shut.

"Ow! Ow! Ow!" she wailed, dancing on the spot. Now she was really angry, and regretting even stopping to give him the time of day.

"Here—let me see," he soothed.