For Those Who Wait

By Roberta Pearce

They were ancient history . . . Or were they?
Fiona’s very different from the naïve girl who tried to seduce the object of her teenage fantasies five years ago—who, as it happened, was secretly engaged! Noah Wilding is back in her life: divorced, bitter, and just as sexy as ever. And trying to enlist her help stopping the impending marriage of his half-brother to her conniving younger sister.

But that goal gets put on the back burner as Noah starts a campaign of seduction on Fiona—he does owe her, after all, for disappointing her dreams. A romantic week on his private Caribbean island will fix her just fine—and alleviate some of his guilt, too.

Fiona misses the person she used to be. But will fulfilling her wildest sexual fantasies with Noah through hot Caribbean nights restore anything she’s lost?

Probably not. But couldn’t hurt, either. Right? After all, she’s waited for him for a long time . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roberta Pearce
• Release date: Dec 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311939142

Roberta Pearce

Roberta Pearce’s relationship with romance novels began when she fell into a box of her aunt’s dog-eared treasures that miraculously opened at the most interesting bits. All through post-secondary adventures – Russian Lit: good; torrid love scenes: better – this amour de HEA took her, though it goes without saying that she failed French. One day, she decided to make a useful contribution to society and write HEAs rather than just reading them, and still seeks one for herself in real life.First-time participant and winner of 2013 NaNoWriMo, Pearce is still waiting for her cheque. Her influences include Fyodor Dostoyevsky [his dreamy side], Douglas Adams, Rupert Brooke, Emma Darcy, and Omar Khayyam. While she currently has no pets, she once had a pair of Siamese fighting fish named Pat and Mike, whose ghosts appear occasionally in her novels. Her imaginary hobbies include climbing Kilimanjaro and enjoying lofty literature. Her real hobbies include drinking copious bottles of wine with good friends while discussing anything that pops to mind.

Book preview

For Those Who Wait

a romance

Roberta Pearce

SMASHWORDS EDITION

***

PUBLISHED BY:

Roberta Pearce on Smashwords

For Those Who Wait

Copyright © 2013 by Roberta Pearce

Discover other works by Roberta Pearce at

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All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Adult Reading Material

Time is

Too Slow for those who Wait,

Too Swift for those who Fear,

Too Long for those who Grieve,

Too Short for those who Rejoice;

But for those who Love,

Time is not.

from Inscription for Katrina’s Sun-Dial,

Henry Van Dyke

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Connect with Roberta Pearce

Chapter One

A bride should look chaste—not caught.

Fiona’s ordinarily civil brain spat out the impolite thought as she stared in open-mouthed dismay at her sister parading about the upscale bridal shop in a dress that a stripper would hesitate to attempt.

Perhaps the dress would look stylish and sassy on a sylph (on her way to a nightclub), but not one of the lushly curved McKenna sisters could claim sylph-ishness. And while some women could wear such a risqué gown with flair and style, taunting chasteness without slapping it in the face, Fiona’s sister was not that woman.

Mara did not look sexy or daring. She looked—there was no other word for it—trashy.

The alterations are perfect! Mara squealed excitedly.

Alterations? Did such a mass overhaul constitute mere alterations? The once trés elegant off-the-shoulder bateau A-line designer cocktail gown was now a strapless mini! Probably nine grand of material had been cut off the ten-thousand-dollar dress, and Fiona had to admit grudging admiration for the speed and thoroughness with which it had been done.

The dress now looked suspiciously like the one their mother had refused to pay for in the first place. That was Mara—when refused in anything, she’d always find a way through to it.

On the bright side, it wasn’t Fiona who had to strut down the aisle with her breasts spilling out of that bit of satin, so she closed her mouth to give a practised expression of noncommittal acceptance that most people assumed was a smile.

What do you think, Fi? Mara asked, as if her opinion would matter. Aren’t I gorgeous?

An ambiguous dip of her chin was all she managed before resuming feigned interest in the several pounds of bridal magazine weighing down her knees. Page-after-glossy-page describing how the modern woman could get her happy day, had she just enough money to throw at it.

While that was all very depressing, the magazine did provide event minutiae and wedding etiquette advice that she had spent the better part of the morning mangling into topics of conversation. She had little else to say to Mara these days. Maybe they had little in common other than DNA, but that was no excuse for disloyal thoughts about someone she loved. Perhaps things were just magnified lately with wedding jitters and excitement.

She would simply make a greater effort to see Mara’s side of things.

Little sister had done well for herself, landing the second-best most-eligible bachelor in the city, and one of Fiona’s closest friends. While it was no mystery that Mara would want such a handsome and wealthy man, it was nearly inconceivable that brilliant Will Maitland had fallen into such an obvious and shallow trap as Mara.

Okay, not exactly the view from Mara’s side. But from Fiona’s side, completely apart from the fact that the couple were completely unsuited, there was something sketchy about this whole deal. Disaster was unfolding before her, and she could do nothing to stop it.

Well, if positive thinking was beyond her at the moment, perhaps she could try constructive! You might find those shoes a bit treacherous on the sand, she commented of the stiletto pumps.

"The sand? Don’t be silly."

You’re getting married on a beach . . . ?

Mara preened in front of the triptych of full-length mirrors as a bridal-store consultant chased around her, trying to pin up the red-gold hair and fasten a headdress on the squirmy bride-to-be. "Will has the servants building a dais so we don’t have to actually walk on the sand!"

God help Will’s ‘servants’ when Mara became their mistress. Fortunately for said staff, Will and Mara were not planning to live on the Maitlands’ private Caribbean island—the existence of which was news to Fiona. They were going to make their home here, where Fiona would have to see them all the time and inwardly weep for the mistake Will had made.

What is wrong with you? Mara has good qualities . . . She chewed her lip. She simply couldn’t think of any just now.

Mara sighed dramatically. For God’s sake, Fi, I know you’re jealous, but at least pretend to be happy for me! Now, did you talk to the caterers about tonight’s party? And that menu change for the reception at Nott’s Gate on Friday. Have you handled that? And the—

At the mere mention of the next series of never-ending parties Mara was having people throw for her (it was the Single-Mara Farewell Tour), Fiona’s thoughts turned further inward, even as she murmured proper replies in hopefully appropriate places. Was it possible to retract her agreement to be maid of honour? It was not alleviating gossip as she had hoped.

Oh, the gossip! Their family, and Will’s family, all their friends and acquaintances, and every living creature on the planet believed two things: that Fiona was jealous her younger sister was getting married first, and that Fiona still carried a torch for Will.

One: she had no interest in marriage. Two: it’s hard to hold a thing that never existed.

Two years ago, she and Will had gone out on a date, two childhood friends seeing if their friendship could go that next step. Minutes into it, they had burst out laughing at the ridiculous and awkward scheme, and had dinner as friends, as they had done time out of mind.

And that was that. Fiona had practically forgotten about it until the night of her birthday—the night Will and Mara chose to announce the engagement. Glowing with triumph in front of a gathering of family and friends, Mara looked at her and asked, plain as day: You okay with it, Fi? I know you’re in love with him.

You could have heard a pin drop, had anyone had a pin and cared to cast it aside at that particular moment. Both Fiona and Will had protested. But all anyone remembered was Mara’s ‘concern’ for her sister, and Fiona’s subsequent blistering silence. Suddenly the gossips put Fiona and Will’s long friendship under the microscope, trotted out that one-date story . . . and had made hay since. And thanks to Mara’s constant jabs, no one believed Fiona, but blamed her for undermining Mara’s ‘day’.

Ah, if it were only a mere day! It had been going on for weeks.

But only weeks; six, to be precise. The sheer speed of the wedding plans on the heels of the engagement was downright terrifying. She wasn’t even aware they were seeing each other! Will never mentioned it to her . . . though he’d been avoiding her the last while, even before the engagement. Regardless, it was out of character for Will to rush into a thing.

The situation reminded her of another out-of-the-blue wedding five years past.

You aren’t writing this down, Mara’s sharp tone rescued her from plummeting full-throttle into those memories.

Licking her fingertips, she blindly flipped a page, and spared Mara a glance. All in my head, Mare.

That got a scowl that Fiona wondered if Will had ever seen—it made Mara look like a snake.

There it was again, that feeling that had lurked in the background for years, increasing exponentially since the engagement. It upset her, nauseated her, kept her awake at night.

It was the feeling that while she loved her sister, she did not like her—at all.

Subtly chiming electronic bells tuned to The Wedding March sounded, a whimsical and weird touch in the exclusive boutique, and she breathed a sigh of infinite relief as her youngest sister charged through the door.

Hi, Fi! Good God, Mare, you look like a tramp in that piece. The ebullient and brutally honest Kayla threw herself onto the delicate settee beside Fiona. "My lord, is that a tiara? Kayla, shame on her, hooted with laughter. What happened to the dress you chose?"

"This is the dress I chose! It’s just been altered a bit."

Kayla snorted unapologetically. A bit. Mom’s on her way . . . and, in a whispered aside to Fiona, . . . to a heart attack over that mess!

Fiona studiously buried her nose in the magazine again, her practiced cool smile in place.

How’re you doing? Kayla murmured with genuine sympathy.

Fine, she snapped a little too snappily. Fine, she repeated more breezily.

Completely unfazed as she danced wildly to her own drummer, Kayla nudged her in the ribs. Get out of here before Mom arrives and you have to referee. I’m going to enjoy this. So much.

Try on your dresses now, Mara demanded while still staring dreamily at her reflection. Then, with an angry gasp, she whirled on them. Kay, what have you done to your hair?

Cut and colour, was the cheerful response, with a hand dashed through cropped pitch-black locks. A week ago. You’re just noticing?

"You’ve barely been around. Now look at you. I’m to be the strawberry-blonde bride flanked by her auburn attendants! You’ve ruined the entire wedding!"

Oh, good! Now it will be called off!

But not so. We’ll get you a wig, Mara said determinedly. Now, go try your dresses on.

Eldest and youngest exchanged significant looks. Kayla pushed at Fiona urgently.

I got a text from Nott’s Gate. Some problem with something, Fiona invented a little wildly, tossing the heavy magazine onto the low table in front of her, quite surprised the glass top did not shatter under the impact. I’d better take care of it.

I’ll book a time for our final fitting, Kayla volunteered with overdone solicitousness. We don’t need to chew up Mara’s time. Tomorrow good for you, Fi?

Yes, thanks. See you both tonight! With quick hugs to both sisters, she made her escape to the street, hauling in fresh air with relief. Well, at least things couldn’t get worse.

She was wrong.

Hello, Fi. Long time.

Abruptly, at the sound of that voice, everything was far worse than mere seconds before.

Parked at the curb of the narrow Yorkville street like he owned the world, leaning all of his denim-and-leather-clad sleek muscle against the fender of a sleek muscle-car, was the best most-eligible bachelor in the city.

Not a bachelor, really. And he didn’t live here anymore. But he was single again.

Will had warned her of his choice for best man, but she hadn’t expected to see him. Not until the wedding—the wedding she had half-convinced herself wouldn’t happen. So she hadn’t thought about him, hoping not to go through this moment.

Time was meaningless as heart-wrenching turmoil sent her back five years. Knee-buckling, spine-tingling memories of kisses and quick breaths and hopes raised and every dream dashed.

Her brain reloaded as she tried to shoot down the past and its memories that came at her hard and fast: the good, the bad, and the humiliating.

Will’s half-brother removed his sunglasses, and ancient history stared her in the face with steel-blue eyes.

Noah Wilding.

They were ancient history. They were so ancient they made ancient history look modern.

Well, okay . . . maybe medieval.

*

Did she still feel anything for him?

For an instant, there was the merest flash of emotion in her eyes and telltale flags of colour in her cheeks . . . But then it was all obliterated with a polite smile on serene features. It was the sort of smile he didn’t recall her ever using and did not like now.

Hello, Noah. How are you?

So courteous! So stilted! Fine, we’ll play it like that. Well. And you?

Good, good. Busy with the wedding plans. Exciting stuff, eh? she said brightly, and wisely did not wait for a response. I didn’t realise you were in town.

Only just arrived. Trying to stop this idiocy—though it was not as bad as he had first feared, it was still catastrophic. Will marrying Mara—did his brother have no taste at all? Hemming and hawing uncharacteristically in the ensuing weeks since agreeing to be Will’s best man, he finally opted to come back here ahead of time in the hope of seeing—helping—the wedding plans unravel.

The cause of all hem and haw rubbed her hands together and shifted her feet.

The harsh noon sunbeams tangled and softened in the long and loose dark-red hair in which Noah had once twisted his hands, and his surety in his purpose faltered as he questioned his own sanity in accepting the risk of seeing her again. But he needed her help, so there was no choice.

I heard you were still in England.

Been keeping tabs on me, Fi? That’s awfully sweet.

Well, I don’t pay too much attention, but I can’t help hearing some things. Like how your marriage crashed and burned. She paled, the faint freckles dusting the nose of her little elfin face standing out starkly. Oh, Noah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—

Crashed and burned spectacularly, he confirmed with fake but laudable cheer. Thanks for reminding me. The Fiona of old would never have said anything so rude. But if anyone had the right to say it to him, it was she.

She rubbed a palm against a deliciously rounded hip clad in a boring knee-length skirt. That she had become somewhat of a tasteful frump annoyed him a bit, and surprised him a lot. He remembered miniskirts and insensible shoes and a flirtatious walk.

I’m sorry it didn’t work out, she was saying, still apologetic.

Are you now? After wishing on me all the bad things that one could wish on another?

I was just a kid, Noah. Cut me some slack.

You were twenty-one, he recalled dryly. Almost. And don’t pretend you didn’t mean it.

She drew a calming breath that had the opposite effect on him, his palms itching as if they remembered the weight and softness of the full breasts straining against her snugly tailored linen shirt. What are you doing here?

His fabricated excuse had mysteriously vanished while watching the rise and fall of her breasts, so he told a complete lie, and not a good one. Will sent me to fetch the McKenna women. He couldn’t come himself. Worried about accidentally seeing the bride in her dress.

"Fetching us in that?" She eyed his rented two-seater Viper doubtfully.

Resisting the temptation to slap his forehead,