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

"There," he said. Satisfied with his handiwork, he sat back.

"Thank you."

"Will you come to the hotel with me now? You only have to put some clothes on, and pack an overnight bag, and I'll drive you there."

Jack must know he was wasting his time. She sat cross–legged on the bed facing him, swathed in towels, and with her long red hair still hanging wet in straggles from the bath. Her face stung a lot, but at least it had stopped bleeding, thanks to him, and now she owed him the truth, if nothing else.

"The one thing I've promised myself is that I'll never run away, and I won't."

"But you can't pretend that you're still loyal to Harold after this?" Jack protested, raking his hair with frustration. "He's battered your ribs, and now your eye? What comes next?"

She shrugged it off. "I fell—I made him angry." She took a breath. "Whether I like it or not, Harold is still entitled to half this house, but while I've still got breath in my body, I'm hanging on to my half, and whatever he does I won't change my mind."

He felt wretched for her, and putting his arms around her, he drew her close. Resting his brow against hers, he murmured, "I don't agree with that decision, either."

"Then we'll have to agree to disagree," Arabella said briskly, pulling away.

Grinding his jaw, he looked around. "Are you going to be alright here?"

"It's my home," she said as if that made everything alright. "I doubt Harold will be back tonight, and if he does come back, I doubt he'll have the energy to hurt me."

"And for that you must be grateful?"

She ignored his comment. "First thing tomorrow, I'll be down at the club getting everything ready for Miranda's party. You can go home, Jack. You don't have anything to do here, and you definitely don't have to feel responsible for me."

"But I do feel responsible for you."

"Well, that's very nice, but not necessary."

Leaning forward, he brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her brow, and then her lips, light and slow.

Oh, Jack, please don't do that, she thought as hunger and pleasure consumed her. Those feelings were marred by her need for caution, and her long–held loyalty to the tatters of her marriage. She wanted nothing more than to respond to Jack, but if she did that she'd be lost. The only way to get through this—to get past

everything that had happened, was to cut herself off from emotion.

Sitting back, Jack stared at her. "Maybe I'll see you at the party tomorrow night?"

"Maybe you will," she agreed. It was open house. Anyone could come. Miranda and her sexy cowboy weren't great fans of formality. "You'll be welcome, I'm sure."

Work was a great healer, and having immersed herself in preparations for the party, she told herself that she could forget Jack—and she could also forget Harold's violence was increasing day by day. She couldn't do anything about that, but she could do something here, and she was thrilled with the effect she had created. She was working to a Western theme in Randy's honor. She guessed he'd love it. Miranda would too. It was corny, but it was fun. She'd booked one of the best country and western bands around, and there had been just enough funds left in the Ladies Club kitty to hire a top DJ, so the evening promised to be perfect. The other women from the Ladies Club were coming over later, though Tracey, who was also a close friend of Miranda's, had said she would come earlier in case there were any last minute hitches.

There weren't any, and Arabella couldn't wait for the other members of the Ladies Club to see the decorations. There were fresh flowers on every table, and food she'd prepared herself.

Straightening up, she smiled at the thought of a great night ahead. She was already dressed in costume—checkered shirt and blue jeans, with cowboy boots. She'd put the hat on later, with the brim pulled down to hide the bruising around her eye. She was determined that nothing would spoil Miranda's party.

"Delivery for Lady Frost?"

"Sorry—I think..." She was about to say the delivery guy must have made a mistake, but he was clearly in a hurry and she wanted to help. She'd left the club door open to get some air in the place, and he'd walked straight in.

She looked at the big brown box he was holding out to her. She checked the label. There was no mistake. It was addressed to her:

Lady Frost: The Golf Club. Please deliver between midday and four p.m.

And it was four p.m. on the dot.

"Thank you." She signed his docket, and he handed over the box.

It was big and flat, but it wasn't very heavy. She closed the door behind him and slipped the latch. Deep down, there was part of her worrying that Harold had sent something unpleasant. Telling herself not to be so stupid, she took it to the bar, laid it flat, and opened it up. Lifting the lid gingerly, she found a mound of tissue paper covering...the red dress! It was the same dress she had seen in the boutique window—the dress she couldn't afford. The dress that probably wouldn't fit, she amended sensibly, but it was even more gorgeous close–up. The color was so vibrant and the fabric shrieked 'stroke me'. She touched it reverently, and then lifted it out of the box. For a good few moments all she could do was look at it, but then she thought, to hell with it! She was going to try it on...