Bought: One Bride

But there he’d been, as large as life, and more handsome than ever, even more so than eighteen months earlier, when she’d first seen him. Gone were the dark rings under his eyes and that pale, haunted expression.

How wicked Holly had felt, finding him so attractive at his wife’s funeral. The man had been in deep mourning, for pity’s sake, shattered by the tragic death of the beautiful woman he’d married two years before. She knew from Mrs Crawford how much her son had adored his beautiful Joanna.

But all Holly had been able to think of whenever she’d snuck a peek at Richard Crawford that day was how impressive he looked in black. Her eyes had returned repeatedly to him during the service. She’d even envied his dead wife for at least having known the love of a man like that. Holly had been feeling extra lonely and vulnerable at the time, her father having passed away only a few months earlier.

For several weeks afterwards, she’d dreamt up all sorts of romantic scenarios where the handsome widower and herself would meet. But, strangely, not one had involved his being home, alone, when she delivered flowers to his mother’s house. Neither did any scenario anticipate how intimidating she might actually find him in the flesh.

Intimidating. But still disturbingly sexy.

When he’d taken her arm just now, she’d felt almost paralysed by his touch, and his commanding physical presence.

Richard Crawford was a big man. Very tall and broad-shouldered, with large hands and firm fingers, and a manner to match.

She was grateful not to be in his presence at the moment. It gave her time to regather her composure.

But he’d be back any moment.

When he didn’t return after a couple of excruciatingly long minutes, an agitated Holly tiptoed along the floral carpet runner till she could see into the room he’d entered.

His father’s study, he’d said it was.

The room resembled more of an English gentleman’s club than a study, with wood panelled walls, rich maroon velvet curtains and large leather armchairs. The desk Richard Crawford was rummaging through was a huge mahogany antique, which looked at odds with the very modern laptop sitting down one end.

Which was plugged in and on, she noted.

That explained the engaged signal when she’d telephoned. He’d been working. His mother said he’d become a workaholic.

But what was he doing here when Mrs Crawford was out? And why was he dressed the way he was, in smart grey trousers and a crisp blue business shirt? Add a tie and jacket, he’d be ready for the office.

Not many Australian men would be dressed as he was on a summer Saturday afternoon. Most would be lounging around in shorts and thongs.

Dave would have.

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” he said with a quick, upwards glance at her from under his darkly beetled brows. “I know they’re here somewhere.”

“That’s all right,” she replied. “Take your time.”

He smiled at her. Not a wide, warm, infectious grin that had been Dave’s trademark. A rather restrained smile.

Richard Crawford was different from Dave all round.

Of course, he came from a different world from Dave. A more cultured, educated world. And he was a lot older. In his late thirties at least.

Holly frowned at this last thought. Normally, she wouldn’t look twice at any man his age. She was only twenty-six. All her boyfriends to date had always been around her own age, give or take a year.

Dave, the rat, had been exactly the same age.

Holly’s thoughts turned bitter as they always did when she thought of Dave. Her only comfort was her recent realisation that she hadn’t been truly in love with the creep. She’d just been fooled by his flattering ways. He was a charmer, was Dave.

A sales rep for a company that made cheap cards, he’d talked her into stocking his entire range within five minutes of walking into the shop. Talked himself into her life and her bed a week later.

Not that he was all that good in bed. But then, neither was she.

Dave had insisted she was, of course. He’d never stopped paying her compliments. Holly had come to the somewhat depressing conclusion since the demise of their relationship that he’d probably lied to her about everything, but especially that.

The man was a liar and a louse. Lots of men were these days.

But not this man, she thought as Richard Crawford looked up from the final desk drawer in triumph, a pair of scissors in his left hand. He was a man of honour. And depth. According to his mother, he hadn’t even looked at another woman since his wife’s death. What Holly wouldn’t give to be loved the way he’d loved his wife.

“Thought I’d never find the darned things,” he said as he rejoined her in the hallway. “The kitchen’s down here,” he added, then took her elbow again.