Bought: One Bride(9)

She didn't have a car. She had a van, which belonged to the business. "It's just a short walk."

"I'll walk you home," he offered.

"That's not necessary." She wanted to run home. She'd need every second  of the time left to be ready. She'd have to wash her hair and blow-dry  it, and do her nails and Lord knew what else.                       
       
           



       

"I'll walk you home," he repeated, his gaze as uncompromising as his voice.

My, but he could be masterful when he wanted to be. Holly wondered if he  was just as masterful in bed. Not that she'd find out. Richard had said  tonight was just dinner and he struck Holly as a man of his word. Darn  it. Despite never having been a one-night-stand kind of girl, there were  always exceptions to the rule, and, for Richard Crawford, Holly might  have made an exception.

The Crawford house was on top of a hill, about half a kilometre from  Strathfield railway station. Holly's shop was in a small block of three  not far from the station, a reasonably good position for passing trade.  There was a café, a hairdresser and her flower shop, right on the  corner, all ancient brick buildings with awnings over the pavements and a  second floor upstairs.

"Where does your stepmother live?" Richard asked as they walked down the hill together.

"About a kilometre away," she replied. "On the other side of the railway."

"So how long have you lived in the flat over the shop?"

"I moved in not long after Dad died."

"And why was that? Couldn't stand the wicked witches any longer?"

She smiled. That was what Sara had called them. "Partly," she agreed. "But I also felt closer to Dad there."

"Understandable," Richard sympathised.

"I dare say Connie will sell Dad's house too, if and when the business sells. She's always wanted to live on the North Shore."

"So how much would the business be worth?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I was too angry to ask Connie what price she'd put on it. But over a million at least. It's a freehold property."

"That's a lot of money to give up without a fight, Holly."

"Yes, I know that. But it isn't the money so much as the business  itself. Dad loved it. And I love it. I love working with flowers, you  see. It makes me feel good. Flowers make people happy."

"I still think you should take your stepmother to court. The shop should be yours. It's not fair."

"Life's not always fair, Richard. Surely you must appreciate that," she  added, then wished she hadn't. A sidewards glance saw that the muscles  in his face and neck had tightened.

"You're right," he bit out. "It isn't always fair, but you can't allow  the injustices of life to beat you down. You have to fight back."

"I am fighting back," she countered, stung that he might think her weak. "In my own way."

He smiled over at her. "A quiet achiever," he said. "Yes, I can see you  are that, Holly. I apologise. I have no right to criticise. Or force my  opinion down your throat. What's your second name, by the way?"

"Greenaway."

"An apt name, for a florist."

"You're not the first person to say that."

"Sorry again. Is it a sore point?"

"No. Not really. But Dave used to tease me about it."

"The dastardly Dave. God help me from ever being like him."

"You're not. Don't worry."

They walked on, Holly increasing the pace a little.

"I haven't walked down this road in years," Richard said as they finally  reached the front of A Flower A Day, the large FOR SALE sign even more  glaring from the outside. "I used to catch the train to and from high  school so I came past here every day. I actually bought some flowers in  here for Mum one year when I was about seventeen. Did your dad own it  back then?"

"I'm not sure," Holly said as she retrieved the key from where she always hid it behind a drainpipe. "How long ago was that?"

"Twenty-one years."

"I think so. He bought it when he was about thirty. Look, I'd better get  myself inside if you want me to be ready in time. I'm a female, you  know."

"I did notice that," he said, and suddenly his grey eyes weren't cold at  all. They travelled slowly over her body, telling her in no uncertain  terms that he did find her attractive. Very attractive.

But as quickly as his gaze had heated up, it cooled, making her wonder  if that imagination of hers had been playing tricks on her again.

"You'd better give me your phone number, in case I'm delayed for any  reason," he went on. "I'm not dressed for dinner. I'll have to dash home  and change."

Holly almost panicked at this point. Not dressed for dinner? He looked  fine to her. What was he going to change into, a dinner suit? She didn't  have a lot of seriously dressy clothes in her wardrobe. None, actually,  now that she came to think of it.                       
       
           



       

"Where's home?" she asked as she pushed the shop door open, her mind  busily searching her wardrobe for possibilities. If only she had one of  those little black dresses, the kind that took a girl anywhere. But the  only black outfit she owned was the suit she wore to funerals. Besides  being very tailored, black was not her colour.

"East Balmain," he replied as he followed her inside the shop. "I bought a new apartment on the point there a few weeks ago."

"Oh, right," she said, not really listening to him. What on earth was she going to wear?

"I shouldn't be late," he went on, "but give me your number, just in case."

"What? Oh, yes, my phone number." She hurried over to the long table  that served as a reception desk and work station, picking up one of the  business cards from the stack that sat in a plastic stand on the corner.

"Jot down your cell-phone number on it as well," he said before she  could hand it to him. "You must have a cell phone," he added when she  lifted blank eyes to him.

"Yes, but … " She was about to say why would he want that when she  wouldn't be seeing him again after tonight. But then she thought, why be  so negative? He might be at a loose end another night and think of her.  Who knew?

"Okay," she agreed, picking up a Biro off the table and writing the number on the back of the business card.

"See you at seven-thirty," he said after she handed him the card.

"Could you make it closer to eight?"

He nodded. "Eight it is, then." And he was gone.

Holly watched him stride past the shop window on his way up the hill,  watched him and tried to come to terms with the fact that in two short  hours Richard Crawford would return to take her out. Richard Crawford.  Mrs Crawford's son. The CEO of a bank. A man, not only of impeccable  background and breeding, but impeccable dress sense.

"Oh, hell," she squawked, and dashed for the stairs.





CHAPTER SIX





BY FIVE to eight, Holly's nerves had reached lift-off.

She'd done the best she could with her appearance, but typically, when  you were in a state, things went wrong from the start. She'd spent far  too long trying to put together the semblance of a classy outfit,  discarding everything in her wardrobe till finally she'd come across an  outfit she'd bought for a wedding at least four years back, a  three-piece number in pale blue.

It had a straight, calf-length skirt, a beaded camisole with a highish  round neckline and a filmy over-jacket with three-quarter sleeves that  shouted "wedding guest" at her when she put it on, but at least it  didn't look cheap. If she'd had the time, she might have taken the hem  up on the skirt, but an hour had skipped by before she could blink. It  had been seven by the time she'd jumped into the shower.

Putting her hair up, as she'd mentally planned, had been out of the  question. She always took ages to do it that way. So she'd blow-dried it  dead straight, then hurriedly put the sides up with some clear combs.

By then it had been seven thirty-five, leaving only twenty-five minutes  to do her make-up and nails. Not nearly enough time to do a good job. In  the end, she'd settled for a fairly natural look with her face.  Fortunately, she could get away without foundation, having clear skin  that always tanned to a nice honey colour by the end of summer. A hint  of blue eye shadow, a few strokes of black mascara, some coral lipstick  and her face was done.

Her nails had presented a real problem, however. You needed steady hands  to do your nails properly. Hers had been shaking like a leaf. After a  couple of attempts Holly had given up, wiping the smudged coral polish  off and leaving her nails totally au naturel. Fortunately, she always  took care of her nails. She had to, with her job, so they were always  neat and clean and well filed to a nice shape.