An Unlikely Bride for the Billionaire (13 page)

Add to that the fact that Andrew Robert Fairweather was a Federal Court judge—he sent people to jail for a living—and Mia could feel her legs start to shake.

This
was the person who'd replaced Carla and Dylan's parents as role model and guardian? Her stomach rolled in a slow, sickening somersault. For all their trust fund money and fancy education, Mia didn't envy Dylan and Carla one jot. She found her heart going out to them in sympathy.

‘It's past time I was introduced to this man you mean to marry, Carla. As you won't bring him to meet me, I've had to resort to descending on you unannounced.'

‘You're welcome here any time, Uncle Andrew.' Dylan's smile didn't reach his eyes. ‘Your room is always kept ready for you.'

‘Humph!' He fixed his gaze on Mia. ‘Who are
you
?' he barked.

Three years in prison had taught Mia to hide all visual evidence of fear. It had also taught her to fly beneath the radar. ‘I'm Mia. Just a friend of Carla and Dylan's.'

He immediately passed over her to start grilling Thierry.

Thierry, it appeared, ticked every box on the elder Fairweather's list of what was desirable. As a self-made man in the world of finance, Thierry had power, position, and money of his own. They even knew some of the same people.

If Andrew Fairweather had expected Thierry to fawn he'd be sadly disappointed, but for the moment at least he didn't seem to hold that against the younger man.

Their exchange took the heat off the rest of them for a good fifteen minutes. Three sets of shoulders lowered a fraction. Dylan, Carla and Mia even dared to nibble at their thin slices of smoked salmon.

It wasn't until the entrée had been cleared away and a delicious risotto served that Fairweather Senior turned his attention back to his niece and nephew.

‘Pray tell, Carla Ann, what are
you
doing with the education you've been so fortunate to have had? Frittering it away like your brother, no doubt?'

Carla glanced at Dylan. The older man had to be joking, right?

‘Carla has no need to work for a living,' Thierry inserted smoothly. ‘She's in the fortunate position of being able to help others—a role she takes seriously and one I'm happy to support. Recently she's been busy working on charitable projects, including some important conservation work. I couldn't be more proud of her.'

Wow! Go, Thierry.
Mia didn't blame Carla in the least for the look of unabashed adoration that she sent him.

Dylan glanced at Mia and raised an eyebrow. She could only shrug in answer.

‘Well, what about
you
?'

His uncle fixed Dylan with a glare that made Mia quail internally. Silence stretched and she searched for something that would help ease the tension that had wrapped around the table.

She forced a forkful of food to her mouth and made an appreciative noise. ‘This meal is really lovely. I'd... I'd like to become a better cook.'

Everyone stared at her. Her stomach curdled. She loathed being the centre of attention. She grasped the lifeline Dylan had given her on a previous occasion.

‘I've always wanted to make veal scaloppini. I don't suppose anyone has a good recipe for that particular dish, do they?'

It was Thierry, of all people, who answered. ‘I have a fool-proof recipe.'

Thierry
cooked
? She shook off her surprise. ‘Would you be willing to share it?'

‘Yes.'

Andrew Fairweather's face darkened. ‘Dylan, I—'

‘Maybe I could make it and you could all come to dinner at my place to try it?'

Carla finally got with the programme. ‘What a lovely idea, Mia.'

From the corner of her eye Mia could see Mr Fairweather opening his mouth again, his hard gaze burning in Dylan's direction. She set her fork down.

‘Maybe we should set a date?'

She couldn't seem to help herself, but she had a feeling she'd say anything to halt the malice she could see sitting on the end of the older man's tongue.

‘What about Saturday two weeks from now?' Carla suggested.

‘I'm free.' She had no social plans slotted into her calendar at all.

When she glanced at Dylan she found him smiling at her.

‘Sounds great. If you're sure?'

Her stomach started to churn. She was very far from sure, but she couldn't back out now. ‘If it's a disaster we'll just call out for pizza.'

She'd aimed for light, but even though both Dylan and Carla laughed it occurred to Mia then that nothing could lighten the mood around the table.

‘Back to business!' Mr Fairweather boomed. ‘Dylan, I want to know what you're working on at the moment.'

All her offer of dinner had done was delay the inevitable. His uncle fired question after question at Dylan—all of them designed to put him on the defensive, all of them designed to make him look small.

A frown built through her. But...
why
?

She glanced from Dylan to his uncle, trying to understand the animosity that crackled between them. Carla said nothing, just stared down at her plate of untouched food. Thierry met her gaze, but there was no help to be had there. His curled lip was directed at
her
, not at Fairweather Senior.

‘You were given all of the tools to make something of yourself and you've wasted them,' Andrew Fairweather was saying.

No, he hadn't!

‘I'm sorry I've disappointed you, sir.'

No! A hundred times no!
Dylan shouldn't apologise to this man. In whose world could Dylan ever be construed as a failure? How could anyone conceivably interpret Dylan's achievements as worthless or lacking in value?

Would
no one
stick up for him?

Fairweather Senior slammed his knife and fork down. ‘You could've done something
important
! Instead you've wasted the opportunities presented to you on trivial nonsense. You should be ashamed of yourself. You lack backbone and brains and you're—'

‘You are
so
wrong!' Mia shot to her feet, quailing inside but unable to sit and listen to Dylan being run down like that any longer. ‘What Dylan does is neither shallow nor trivial. He brings people's dreams to life. Don't you realise how important that is?'

‘Important? He throws
parties
for a living. It's disgraceful!'

‘You really mean to tell me you can't see the merit in what Dylan does?' Her daring and defiance made her stomach churn, but she couldn't stop herself. She turned to Dylan. ‘How long have you had to put up with this?'

‘Mia, I—'

She swung back to his uncle. ‘Your nephew provides people with memories they can treasure for a lifetime. Dylan doesn't just “throw parties”—he doesn't just light sparklers and eat cake. He creates events that mark milestones in people's lives. He creates events that honour their accomplishments. He provides an opportunity for people to celebrate their achievements with their families, their friends and their peers. That's what life is about. It's not trivial or shallow. It's
important
!'

‘
Duty
is what's important!'

Mia swallowed and reminded herself that she wasn't on trial here. Regardless of how much she displeased him, Fairweather Senior couldn't send her to jail simply for disagreeing with him.

‘I agree that working hard and being a useful member of society is important—it's what we should all strive for. And Dylan does both those things.' She lifted her hands skywards. ‘Can't you
see
how hard he works? Can't you
see
how talented he is? He has a gift—he's a creator of dreams. And if you can't see the value in that then I pity you.'

She dropped her crisp linen napkin to the table. ‘If you'll all excuse me for a moment...?'

She turned and walked out of the dining room. Everything started to shake—her hands, her knees...her breath. Letting herself out of a side door, she stumbled down a series of steps and collapsed onto a low retaining wall that stood just beyond the light of the house. Dropping her head to her knees, she felt her shoulders shaking with the sobs she couldn't hold back.

‘Shh...'

She found herself lifted and planted in Dylan's lap. His arms moved about her, holding her securely against him. His warm scent surrounded her.

‘Why are you crying, Mia? You were magnificent.'

‘I scared myself.' She hiccupped through her sobs. ‘I... Men like your uncle scare me.'

‘Men like that scare everyone. But at the moment I think he's more afraid of you.'

He said it to make her laugh, but she was still too shaken. She lifted her head and scrubbed her fists across her face. Dylan slapped her hands away and dried her face gently with the softest of cotton handkerchiefs.

‘Look at me,' he urged gently.

‘No.' She stared instead at her hands, but she couldn't prevent herself from leaning into him and taking comfort from his strength and his warmth.

‘Why not?'

She pulled in a shaky breath. ‘Because I know what I'll see in your face, Dylan, and I don't deserve it.'

‘You don't think you deserve admiration and gratitude?'

‘I don't.'

‘Mia, you—'

‘It was a man like your uncle who sentenced me to three years in jail. And he was right to do so. I'd broken the law. I'd taken money that didn't belong to me.'

She hadn't kept it, but that was neither here nor there.

‘That's why my uncle scares you?'

She met his gaze then. ‘I meant everything I said at the table. Every single word.'

His eyes throbbed into hers. ‘I know.'

‘But, Dylan, don't you see? All it would've taken was for Thierry to tell your uncle that I'm an ex-convict and that would've instantly negated everything I'd said.'

‘Not in my eyes.'

No, not in Dylan's eyes. She reached up and touched his cheek. ‘But it would in your uncle's...and most other people's too.'

He turned his head to press a kiss to her hand. She went to pull it away but he pressed his hand on top of it, trapping it between the heat of his hand and the warmth of his face.

‘Does it matter what people like my uncle think?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it means that whenever I stand up against some injustice, as soon as my background is known my protests have no effect, no impact. In fact it usually makes things worse—as if their association with me taints them. I might as well have kept my mouth shut.'

‘You're wrong.'

The intensity of his gaze held her trapped. She couldn't look away.

‘After you left just then, Carla announced to the table at large that she was proud of me. It's the very first time she's ever stood up to him.'

Her heart pounded against the walls of her chest. ‘Have
you
ever stood up to him?'

‘On Carla's account—but never my own.'

She couldn't stop herself from brushing his cheek with her thumb. It turned his eyes dark and slumberous.

Dangerous
.

The word whispered through her, but she didn't move away. She liked being this close to Dylan.

‘You shouldn't let him treat you the way he does.'

‘I realised that tonight for the first time. I've made a lot of excuses for him over the years. He lost his brother, and he and my aunt provided a home for Carla when our parents died.' He shrugged. ‘The family tradition of law and politics is important to him, but I had no intention of ever following that path. Letting him rant and rave at me seemed a small price to pay, but...'

‘But?' she urged, wanting him to break free from all the belittling and bullying.

‘But I hadn't realised until tonight how much I'd let his voice get inside my head. Somewhere over the years I'd unknowingly started to agree with him—started to define myself by his standards. But tonight you stood up and reminded me of why I do what I do. And I felt proud of it.'

She smiled. It came from way down deep inside her.

Dylan stared at her. His gaze lowered to her lips and the colour of his eyes darkened to a deep sapphire. A pulse started up in the centre of her.

‘I want to kiss you, Mia.'

Her heart fluttered up into her throat. ‘Oh, that would be a very,
very
bad idea.'

‘Why?'

A part of her wished he'd just seize her lips with his and be done with talking.

Crazy thought!

‘Because...' It was hard to talk with her heart hammering in her throat. ‘Because I've made it clear where I stand in relation to romance and relationships.'

‘And you think I want more?'

They'd set their ground rules, but...

‘Do you?'

‘Things change.' He spoke slowly, frowning.

His reply frightened her, and yet she didn't move away.

‘I haven't changed.' She'd meant the declaration to sound defiant, but it came out whisper-soft and full of yearning. She couldn't drag her gaze from the firm promise of his lips.

‘If you really don't want me to kiss you, I won't.' He trailed his fingers down her throat and along her collarbone. ‘I meant to say earlier that I love your dress.'

The change of topic should have thrown her, but she grasped it like a lifeline. ‘It's new. I bought it especially.' She hadn't been able to resist the raspberry-coloured linen dress once she'd tried it on.

‘For tonight? For me?'

Her eyes met his.

No lying
.

‘Yes.'

His fingers continued to trail delicious paths of sensation across her skin. ‘Are you sure your stance on romance hasn't changed?'