The Right Side of Mr Wrong
I write fun, flirty fiction with feisty heroines and a bit of an edge. Writing romance is cool because I get to wear pretty shoes instead of wellies. I live in a mountain kingdom in Derbyshire, where my family and pets are kind enough to ignore the domestic chaos. Happily, we’re in walking distance of a supermarket. I love hearts, flowers, happy endings, all things vintage, most things French. When I’m not on Facebook and can’t find an excuse for shopping, I’ll be walking or gardening. On days when I want to be really scared, I ride a tandem.
For M and D <3
Brando Marshall catapulted out of the lift, and cursed that he was late for his midday summons to Bryony’s flat. He rapped on her door, and braced himself for whatever was coming. Only one thing was certain – with baby sister Bryony, there was no such thing as a free lunch.
‘Brando!’ Tall, blonde, beautiful and air kissing, Bryony grinned, then grappled him into a hug that squished his breath away. Definitely a bad sign.
‘So. Long time, no see.’ She patted his arm as she released him.
What the hell? She was the one who’d been avoiding him.
‘Not still cross about Country House Crisis are you Brando?’
No, not cross. Incandescent, more like.
They both knew she was the one person in the world he couldn’t refuse, but letting the TV crew into Edgerton Manor to fill a gap in her schedule, was a huge favour she should have respected.
‘There’s a lot to answer for Bry. You said a few shots to show the downside of owning a stately home, and a few business ideas from the presenter.’ Not that
he
needed business advice, but that was the point of the thing. ‘I play along, then instead of gruesome Gloria coming out with her usual bed and breakfast in the stable block bollocks, she says what I need is a wife, and invites the world to apply for the job! Tell me, what part of that would I not be fuming about?’
The whites of Bryony’s eyes contained more desperation than her coaxing tone. ‘Come through, have some lunch…’
He followed her into the lofty living space, with its spectacular view of the Thames, and she gestured towards the long granite breakfast bar.
One corporate sandwich platter which screamed television company expenses, one showy vase of flowers and he had her rumbled.
‘You hate sandwiches at lunchtime Bry, and you’d never choose
orange
lilies. What’s going on?’
He watched her face crumple. Damn the way that expression always made him feel responsible.
‘Jeez, what’s he doing here?’ He grimaced as a guy with a camera on his shoulder emerged from behind the giant fridge.
‘Please Brando … ’ her squeak became quietly urgent. ‘We’re making a Country House Crisis follow-up, and I need you to give me one more Lord of the Manor shot. That’s all, it’s not much to ask, but there’s a huge amount at stake for me here.’
No emotional blackmail at all then. He counted to ten under his breath.
Then caved. ‘Okay, dammit! I
knew
I could smell a waxed jacket!’
Plucking a coat from behind a sofa, she tossed it towards him. ‘Put the Barbour on and come to the table. We’re ready to go, as soon as you are.’
Nice ambush Bryony.
Dragging on the coat, he sidled forwards, aware of the cameraman behind him now.
‘The table’s perfect for this shot, because we’ve had such a huge response … you remember Brando? A wife needed for Edgerton Manor, applications on a postcard.’
Gloria Rutherford trying to bounce him to the altar on national TV would be etched upon Brando’s memory until the end of time. But he wasn’t about to admit it.
Bryony arrived beside him, arms wrapped around a wide box. With one flip, she sent a cascade of postcards whooshing across the table. ‘There were over five hundred entries, you really caught the public imagination – in terms of viewing figures, it’s sensational.’
‘What the … ’ Brando winced as the array of potential brides fanned out in front of him, and made his head swim. ‘This is insane.’
Bryony cut in hastily. ‘No Brando, it’s successful TV, and you
have
to help. Just choose one!’ The note in her voice slid upwards. ‘And don’t you dare run out on me!’
He’d heard that note before, when they were kids, practically those same words, making his chest twang the same way it did now. That one note of desperation spun him right back to when he was about to walk out and leave her, simply because he couldn’t stand to stay at home any more. He had saved himself, and left her behind, and the guilt still burned fresh, which was why he could never say ‘no’ now, whatever she asked him. Although that didn’t mean it didn’t drive him round the bend every time it happened.
‘Jeez, what sort of woman would want to do this anyway?’ He swallowed hard to dispel the distaste.
‘Go on then.’ Chivvying beside him, Bryony’s voice was lighter, now she sensed she was about to get what she wanted.
As she reached over to swirl the ocean of colour, he caught sight of a card. One image. Incongruous. Nothing to do with brides or weddings.
He leaned in, plucked it from the pile, held it in his palm. A blast from the past. For a fraction of a second his face cracked into a smile, then he tossed the card back on the table.
‘Thanks Brando. I owe you.’ She flashed him a grateful smile which melted into a slow grin. ‘You know Gloria’s right though?’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re thirty five, a wife would be great for you.’
‘You have to be joking?’
One blink of Bryony’s clear blue eyes said she was not only serious, but back on his case. ‘And a little bit more footage from Edgerton, would make all the difference too. You with your trial wife perhaps?’
Now he’d heard it all. Would she never back off?
‘Okay, Bry, I’ll say this one time only. This far I’ve done what you wanted, but as of now I’m through with this, out. That’s O-U-T as in ‘I’m having zero involvement.’ Understand?’
‘I’m only thinking of you – and your long-term happiness.’ Bryony, as usual, giving it everything she’d got.
‘For happiness, read TV rankings?’ He gave a bitter laugh. Deep down he knew her concern was genuine, but she had to butt out. ‘I’m a lost cause, you’re wasting your time.’
‘Brando … ’
He gritted his teeth, hardened himself to her wail. ‘Sorry Bry, but I’m done here.’ He screwed out of the jacket, making a lunge for the door. ‘And that means, no more Country House Crisis, no TV crews, but most of all, NO WIFE!’
Sorry, no matrimonial ambitions whatsoever, but great at organising …
For the ninety-ninth time that afternoon Shea Summers wondered how those few short words she’d scribbled on a postcard had catapulted
her
into the air. Private helicopters didn’t happen every day, even in affluent North Cheshire, at least not to her.
Brando Marshall, of Edgerton Manor, in need of a wife, applications on a postcard.
Women had been fighting for the opportunity apparently. It seemed ironic that she was the one the TV company had chosen, when she didn’t give a damn about it, and had zero intention of becoming anyone’s wife.
She clutched her stomach as it gave another unnerving lurch. Beneath her white knuckles it was performing the same impromptu tango it had before her first ever dancing exam when she was seven, the same one it did every time she psyched herself up now, as a wimpy twenty four year old, for the misery of a bikini wax. And she had an idea that a bikini wax might be a walk-in-the-park compared to what she had let herself in for here. She delved into the pocket of her tailored jacket in search of fortification, and gesticulated wildly, in the direction of the co-pilot.
‘Fancy a sour worm, or a pink shrimp?’
The co-pilot, turned, ran an eye swiftly up her legs, then winked as he gave a half shake of his head. She returned his grin, slipped a sour worm into her mouth, and shuddered as the sugar hit zapped her taste buds. Then she shuddered again as she took in the panorama below. Worryingly green. Green as in rural, rolling countryside. Green as in miles from anywhere.
Damn.
She definitely hadn’t expected a middle-of-nowhere scenario. Her insides squished as she recalled all the stuff she hadn’t asked. Bryony, the nice girl from the TV company, had been very persuasive and reassuring, but she hadn’t let her get a word in edgeways.
‘Just a bit of that organising you’re obviously so good at and a few pieces to camera … a new angle for the follow-up programme … Brando is very rarely there … you could make it your holiday … ’
‘Closing in now Miss Summers!’
The pilot’s gruff tones hauled her back to the present with a jerk that caused her to gulp her last pink shrimp practically whole. A weird shiver of déjà-vu slithered down her back as she peered down at the collection of stone-tiled roofs flashing gold in the autumn sun, took in a classical facade of the elegant house with its perfect rhythm of Georgian sash windows. The same spinning view of Edgerton Manor she’d last seen on the closing credits of the Country House Crisis programme. As she took in the real-life extent of the property her heart faltered. She hoped she hadn’t over-exaggerated her organisational skills. She was used to working in big houses, but this one was something else.
Dragging her eyes away from the view below, she brushed the sugar dust off the pleats of her skirt, slipped her feet back into the patent stilettos she’d eased out of earlier, and dug the spike of the heel softly into her ankle. Just enough pain to remind her she wasn’t dreaming, without the nightmare of a ripped stocking. She wasn’t sure that helicopters mixed with towering court shoes, but she knew if she could only nail that all-important first impression, the rest was usually easy-peasy.
‘Almost there now, I’ll be bringing us down on the grassy area in front of the house, Miss Summers.’
She hurled a mental pillow over the voice in her head which was yelling ‘Eeeeeeeek’, snatched up her bag and made a grab for her lip gloss and her heavily framed Dolce & Gabbana glasses.
‘Oh, lordy, look at that!’ She stifled a groan of dismay. Grassy had to be a man’s way of describing the expanse of mud where they were about to land.
Mud and high heels. Not the best combination.
Wriggling her skirt into place, she tugged her jacket into submission over her cleavage, and widened her smile to the max. So much for her impressive entrance, it was going to take a miracle just to get her to the front door.
* * *
‘Dropping women onto me out of the sky is not going to make me settle down!’
Brando Marshall’s loud protest down the phone to his sister was simultaneously heartfelt and indignant. ‘What part of ‘I don’t do relationships’ don’t you understand Bryony?’ Not that he was about to enlighten her, but as far as women went he had three rules: plenty of them, never at home, and no repeats, although recently he’d put business before sex too often. He raked his fingers through his hair, shuddering at the fleetingly awful thought that Bryony might have any idea of the hard, hot sex he enjoyed, or worse, the hard, hot women he enjoyed it with. Slamming a mental door on that one, quickly, he shook his head at the realisation that this time she’d almost out-witted him. He could already feel the vibrations of the approaching helicopter.
‘I’m only going to say this once, Bry! Regardless of what your motor-mouthed TV presenter boss with the hideous pink lips might have told the nation, I do
not
need a wife! And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be hooking up with some fortune-seeking low-life who writes in to some down-market TV show!’
‘Okay. Take a chill pill Brando … ’
One vault took him over the sofa and to the window. He peered at the lawn in front of the house, scrutinising the descending helicopter through a flurry of leaves, as it nudged to the ground.
Damned cheek of the girl! Bryony was only flying the woman in, using
his
chopper!
His face cracked into a slow smile.
Giving him the perfect means of escape.
He vaulted over the sofa, and grabbed the phone again.
‘Nice of you to borrow my helicopter without asking, but handy – I’m out of here! I’m off back to London right now, and you can get rid of the woman … ’
He was going with the split-second decision.
Belting along the landing, he halted for a nano-second as he reached the top of the stairs. He knew the staff went apoplectic when he did his parkour moves around the house, but what the hell? He wouldn’t be around to catch the fall out. He bent his knees, and flung himself into the air.
Whoosh. Nothing like the rush of carved balusters and deep pile carpet spinning past your face at forty miles an hour.
Three flick-flacks, an equal number of thumps and groans from ancient timbers, and he was streaking across the hall, only stopping to hurl open the huge front door.
Tearing wind slapped him head-on as he dashed into the late October cold, his t-shirt flapping wildly. With one leap, he’d cleared the stone steps outside the front door, then the gravel crunched beneath his converse as he sped on towards the grass. He pulled to a halt as he saw a figure alight from the helicopter. Someone slight, bending down now, waving their arms, holding onto their flapping jacket. A woman.
The
woman.
Struggling.
He grimaced. She straightened to standing and he got a view as she spun. He clocked a suit and hair pinned back securely enough to resist the turbulence. A cabin bag-on-wheels.
‘Damn you Bryony!’ He was muttering under his breath now. ‘Why the hell have you sent an air hostess?’
He took in endless legs, heels, a nipped-in waist. His eyebrows shot upwards in immediate appreciation, and he heard himself let out a long, low whistle, with no apparent input on his part.
And wow, she was stacked. An air hostess, who was stacked!
Quick re-assessment. ‘Nice work, Bryony!’
But he was still out of here.
He dragged himself back to the scene unfolding in front of him, in apparent slow-motion. The air hostess turned. Huge black glasses, dwarfing a delicate face, took him by surprise, then a smile at least as wide as the Atlantic whacked him somewhere in the solar plexus, and surprised him some more. He felt his hand rise and he gave himself a mental kick as he realised he was waving to her. She lifted her hand off her thigh, and gave an enthusiastic wave in return.
For crazy sakes don’t grin at her you fool!
The last thing he needed to look was welcoming, dammit.
She held her hand aloft, as if she were waiting for his smile before she let it fall, but Brando had stopped thinking about smiling, and instead had his eyes fixed on the hemline of her skirt, flirting in the buffeting wind.
Bingo!
A freak gust tore at the pleats and blasted them skywards. Before she had time to react, the air hostess skirt had twisted inside out, and was billowing, wildly, somewhere around her ears.
‘Nice one!’
Brando’s face cracked into an, involuntary smile. Just what a guy needed to brighten a dreary afternoon. Maybe there was a god after all. Stocking tops, delicious dark knickers, he had enough time to make out the pattern of the lace. He gave a nod of appraisal.
‘Twelve out of ten for that bottom – at the very least.’
A tug at the base of Brando’s stomach, and a constriction of denim in the groin area, indicated that the skirt wasn’t all that was rising.
Resist the urge to help a damsel in distress.
Given he would be leaving as-soon-as, there was no point in complicating the issue. He looked away. Next time he looked she was bent double, her arms wrapped around her knees, skirt firmly in place, feet solidly planted, but her body was gyrating.
She almost looked as though her feet were …
It took two blinks for Brando to know she was about to lose her balance, and one more for him to shoot across the grass, and grab hold of her before she crashed to the ground.
‘Watch out!’
It was a shout, but the helicopter blades spun his words away.
The fact that he’d ended up cradling her bottom in his crotch was incidental. The important thing was he had saved her the embarrassment of a face-plant. Her body jack-knifed against him, stiffened, then the warmth of her soft buttocks passed straight through her skirt pleats, and set his groin on fire.
‘Sorry about … ’
Damn.
Now he was pulling her onto a huge hard-on, and the fact that he could feel her breasts folding onto his hands somewhere round her front was making matters worse. From the vibrations in her torso, she was obviously saying something. Still grasping her tightly he pressed his ear closer to her mouth, struggling to hear what she said over the roar of the engines. He was rewarded with a brush with a pillow-soft cheek, and a spiky jab in the eye from her specs.
‘What are you playing at?’
Was that what she was saying?
He couldn’t be sure. He tried to disentangle himself, but felt her lean into him. What the hell? She was pointing to her feet now, twisting, gesticulating, shouting words he still failed to grasp.
He looked down.
Lots of mud, all over her shoes. And those surely had to be eff-me shoes, if ever he’d seen them. And right this moment, his blood was all heading one place, making damn sure he was ready to oblige.
Yes Siree!
He needed to get a grip here. A grip of the situation, rather than the woman would be useful. It took a moment to disengage his brain from his libido, then it hit him.
‘You’re stuck?’
She grimaced at him, stuck fast and unable to move with both hooker-high heels firmly impaled in his lawn.
Through the huge lenses of her glasses, her panicky eyes were smoky purple. And she smelled of summer. That was it. Summer.
Summer and sex.
‘Hang on to me!’
He dipped down, shivered as her hands closed around his head to steady herself, then he prised one foot at a time out of her shoes.
And not just any sex, hot sex.
His libido thrust into overdrive, and once more he made a valiant attempt to disengage it, as he wrenched her shoes out of the ground, stood up fast, and rammed them into her hand.
‘I’m just leaving … ’ He was yelling, but she shrugged back at him.
Jeez, he’d come here to get in the chopper, get the hell out of here, or better still, to wave the woman back to wherever she’d flown in from. So why wasn’t he pressing ahead and doing just that? He blinked away the miniscule twitch in his left eye. That tiny giveaway. His unfailing, gut-fuelled instinct kicked in.
‘Looks like this is the only way … ’
As he bent his knees, braced himself, and grasped hold of his air hostess, he saw her eyes go bright with surprise.
When the hell had she become
his
air hostess
?
Up close now, he clocked the strawberry curve of her lips as they parted in astonished protest, and knew he was on the right track. He swung her easily into his arms, and turned, and strode towards the house, with his jaw set. Whatever was happening to him, he was determined to shake it off fast.
* * *
Feet dangling.
Cheek rammed unceremoniously against the rocky shoulder of a man who smelled delectable, and seemed in no hurry to put her down.
Not quite how Shea had planned her entrance to Edgerton Manor.
Her heart was still pounding from the shock of being literally swept off her feet, but at least that had solved the immediate problem of how to cross the sea of mud and reach the house without damaging her shoes further.
‘You can put me down now, thanks.’
For a fleeting moment she was dizzied by the whole male proximity thing. She’d almost forgotten how it felt. Come to think of it, she’d
never
been man-handled like this. There was something appalling about the raw thrill vibrating through her. She didn’t have herself down as a sucker for caveman tactics.
‘I said you can put me down!’
She forced her eyes beyond the line of the sensuously stubbled jaw inches above her face, and caught a view of a ceiling as high as the sky, and the twinkliest chandelier she’d ever seen. When she looked back again, he was motionless, staring down at her, and her gaze locked onto slate-hard grey eyes and a quizzical smirk that made her stomach flip.
‘If you insist on putting your head in the wolf’s mouth, you can expect to get bitten!’ His growl was rough as bitter chocolate. ‘Your choice. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
Before she had time to work out what he meant by that, the world swung, and he lowered her legs, setting her down gently. Then backed away.