I Only Want To Be With You Page 3

  “Honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Tartaglia.”

  William’s firm grasp enveloped Marcella’s hand, but instead of shaking it, he gave it a gentle squeeze while he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

  Sexy, elegant man. It was all Marcella could do not to turn her face into his lips.

  He drew back slowly, his gaze locking into hers where Marcella caught a glimpse of longing, similar to what she was experiencing herself.

  “Marcella,” she corrected, remembering to breathe. “Call me Marcella.”

  He smiled. “Beautiful name, Marcella. Italian?”

  She nodded.

  “Some of us call her Tart,” Lynne interjected.

  “Short for Tartaglia,” Sallie amended. “No other reference implied, of course,” she added, laughing off the jibe, thank God, because suddenly Marcella felt uncharacteristically like a shy schoolgirl.

  “Of course.” William joined in Sallie’s laughter.

  My kinda guy, Marcella thought.

  Lynne’s nostrils flared.

  “Right. I’d best dash, then, if I’m to be in the receiving line. Mustn’t risk another late arrival, eh, Auntie?” He chuckled at the jibe, which Lynne pretended not to appreciate. Still, she smiled fondly at him as she offered her cheek for a kiss.

  William kissed his aunt, then waved goodbye to Sallie. “I hope to speak with you again at the reception.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be seeing me. I’ll be the one following you around like the paparazzi. I have a feeling you’re scheduled to be in lots of photos.”

  Marcella’s silent plea to shut up was lost on Sallie, who seemed to be purposely avoiding her gaze. Marcella resumed her smile when William paused before her.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing you were in need of a lift,” he said. “I’d love to run you over to Rousham House, Marcella, if you don’t mind my motorbike. In all good conscience as a gentleman, I simply cannot stand by and allow a beautiful woman to … er, ‘bum a ride’ from strangers. So, what d’you say?”

  Lynne twittered. “Surely not, William, you silly-willy. Marcella can’t ride with you. Her clothes, her hair — they’ll end up a gastly mess in all that wind. She has a wedding reception to attend.”

  William cocked a brow. “So do I, as I recall.”

  Marcella scrambled to take this all in. William thought she was beautiful? He wanted her to ride with him to the reception. Wonder of wonders, it was a fantasy come true, but she couldn’t. Lynne was right. She’d spent all morning styling her hair, perfecting her makeup. Vanity ruled. She was not going to make an appearance looking like the Bride of Frankenstein for any man, no matter what color his eyes were.

  Besides, William was already taken, apparently. What about Babette, huh? Babette, whom he’d been sleeping with earlier this morning.

  Marcella opened her mouth to politely refuse when Sallie shouted, “Great! It’s settled. I’ll ride with the wedding party; Marcella will ride with you. Thank you, William, for solving our problem.”

  William turned to Marcella with a smile she could see was meant for her alone. “Pleasure.”

  Before Marcella could respond, Sallie grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away, calling, “Excuse us a moment, please. I need to discuss some photo shots with Marcella before we go.”

  Once out of earshot, Sallie spat, “I saw your face. You were going to refuse him, weren’t you? Have you lost your mind? You’ve been hot for him from the moment he roared into the parking lot.”

  “Sallie, I can’t get on that bike. Do you realize the state I’ll be in by the time I reach the reception?”

  “You’ll be fine. You’re wearing a pantsuit. So what if you get a little windblown? The helmet will cover your hair.”

  “Oh great. Severe hat hair.”

  “A little fluffing, a shot of hair spray and you’ll be good to go. Don’t mess this up. The guy is obviously interested. And it’s really getting under Lynne’s skin.”

  “Yeah, what’s her problem? You’d think she’d be in more generous spirits on her wedding day.”

  “Strange, I know. But enough of her. Look at him, Marcella.” Sallie turned back for a peek at William who was speaking with Henry.

  Marcella watched. William Stafford was incredibly handsome to begin with, but dressed in a frock coat, top hat and white cravat … well, he simply took her breath away.

  “Looks like he’s just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel,” Sallie commented, reading her mind. “I’d hop on that Triumph myself if I didn’t have my camera to protect. How can you just let a guy like that slip by? C’mon, did Elizabeth refuse Mr. Darcy?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  “I never read the book myself. But that’s beside the point. You’re not some two-hundred-year-old debutante. You don’t have time to waste being coy.”

  “Oh. Was I being coy?” Marcella begged to differ.

  “Where’s that adventurous spirit we all know and love? Deep inside I know you want to do this, Marcella. Now, march back there and accept his offer. Swing your legs up behind that son of an English viscount and wrap your thighs around his bike like you mean business. You little Tart, you.”

  Marcella laughed. “Okay, I’ll do it. Elizabeth did change her mind eventually, but unlike her, I don’t have the luxury of time. Might as well go for it now. Come Monday morning I’ll be boarding a plane to New York, and then it’s back to my dateless, workaholic life.”

  Chapter 3

  William drove into the busy roundabout, following the flow of traffic round the loop. As he leaned his Triumph into the circular turn, it tilted at a sharp angle.

  Marcella shrieked. She resisted, shifting her weight in the opposite direction so that William had to fight against her for balance. Wrapped in his frock coat and wearing a cycle helmet with its goggles pulled down over her eyes, she squeezed him in a bear hug that forced the breath from his body. Her nails clawed his midsection as she clutched a handful of his billowing shirt.

  “All right back there?” he shouted over the rush of traffic. “Not scared?”

  She leaned close to his ear. Her breathy gasps drowned out the sonorous rasp of the Triumph’s twin exhausts and caused his heart to pound like waves of torque through his gears.

  It was all he could do to concentrate on driving. Those fantastic breasts were pressed to his back. Right, there they were again, as distracting on the road as they were in church, as distracting when he couldn’t see them as when he could. He’d bloody well dream of them tonight.

  She caught her breath and yelled, “No-o-o-o, not scared at all. I love zipping through traffic at high speeds in an open vehicle with nothing but gravity keeping me in my seat. Do all the intersections in England converge in a circle? No stop signs? No traffic lights? And I thought New York City traffic was hectic.”

  William grinned. He adored her sarcastic humor. “What d’you’ mean? We have signs. How about that sign at the entry point that read ‘Give Way’?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I don’t see anyone giving way.”

  “Right. Bloody nuisance, signs. But seriously, it’ll make things much easier on both of us, if next time we make a turn, you lean with me in the same direction as the bike. Anyway, try to relax. It’s only a twenty-minute ride to Bicester. I know it can seem a bit scary if you’re not familiar with riding motorbikes, but you’re safe with me.”

  “Safe? And here I thought hog riding with Will Stafford was going to be a walk on the wild side.”

  If the wind wasn’t whipping his face, William thought he might have blushed. He was feeling a bit awkward. For a man in a profession which exposed him to all sorts of men and women in all walks of life, a man who daily shared their greatest joys and sorrows, where an instant rapport and ease of conversation were essential skills, this sudden shyness was uncharacteristic.

  Nevertheless, there it was.

  Maybe he was smitten. She was quite dishy.

  In the six
years he’d been a vicar, he’d found it difficult to meet eligible young women outside his parish. The moment they spotted his dog collar an awkwardness took over.

  They’d adopt a saintly air. They’d endeavor to shield him from reality by discussing noncontroversial subjects, like the weather. They’d feign wholesomeness and become cautious of their language. Meetings were always the same. Always unstimulating.

  ‘Course, on the opposite side of the coin were those encounters which were too stimulating for comfort. Some women spotted his dog collar and immediately thought what great sport it would be to shag a vicar.

  Either way, a woman who could not be genuine with him was hardly worth his time. William was looking for someone he could truly get to know and enjoy, someone he could, in turn, share himself with, someone who liked to joke and laugh.

  Someone like Marcella. Marcella flirted. Marcella was amusing. Marcella made him feel as though she was attracted to him for no other reason than liking him for himself.

  Something was happening here. Relationship-wise, where could he possibly be headed with this cheeky American? One would think a man would learn from his past. One would think a broken heart would be lesson enough. But when he spotted Marcella chatting with Aunt Lynne, a blood-rushing excitement he hadn’t experienced in years took hold of him, and in a moment of daring, William seized the opportunity for an introduction.

  And now, here she was, on his bike.

  “I hope you’ll allow me to buy you a drink at the reception,” he called to her. “I’d love to get to know you better.”

  “I’d like that. Say, did you really trade in your Fiat for a minibus?”

  “Yes. Actually, I did.”

  “Why?”

  William laughed. “I’m perfectly content getting round on my motorbike. Most times, in fact, when I don’t have far to travel, I just peddle a bicycle about. Exercise, you know. Anyway, I thought it rather a good deed to put the money for the Fiat towards service for those who need it more. But in so doing, I seemed to have inconvenienced a lot of people today. I’m sorry I don’t have a more comfortable ride to offer.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about me. I thrive on being taken out of my comfort zone. You sound like a very generous man, Will. But don’t you find it difficult getting back and forth to work without a car? What is it you do? Does your family own a business? Who do you work for?”

  A black Saab convertible blew past, cutting rather close.

  “Jesus!” she cried in fright.

  “Right, that’s him.”

  “Huh? Who?”

  Rather than explain, William gestured up ahead. “Ah, we’ve arrived, Marcella. There it is. Rousham Park.”

  He’d have to show his hand soon, though. William hesitated, not because he was ashamed of his vocation. No, he worried Marcella would hide herself from him once she found out he was a priest. That would be a bloody tragedy, because William had a feeling Marcella Tartaglia, beyond her obvious beauty, which would attract any man, was a refreshingly genuine person he very much wanted to spend time with.

  *

  Marcella pushed open the ladies’ room door with the flat of her hand and ducked inside. She made a dash for the mirror, and noticing she was alone, dropped her organizer on the vanity for a critical inspection.

  She cringed at her reflection. Her thick black waves were packed around her ears in a smooth cap. Those funky biker goggles had smudged her mascara. The wind had swept the blusher from her cheeks. Her lipstick … well, she’d probably chewed it off herself. So now, in addition to black circles under her eyes, she was ghastly pale. And this was the image she’d left with William before he drove off to park his bike? Hello, Halloween was over four months away. Nice, real nice.

  A long wig and she could make an appearance as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.

  Speaking of whom, Marcella’s cleavage seemed to have disappeared. She straightened the double-breasted jacket of her pantsuit until it once again sat square on her shoulders, its deep neckline centered over her bosom.

  Ah, much better. And while she was at it, she might as well lift and adjust. Reaching between the wide lapels, she slid a hand into one cup of her black satin demi-bra and repositioned her breast over the push-up pad.

  She switched hands and had just scooped up her right breast when the door burst open and in walked that little brunette she’d seen flirting with William on the church grounds.

  Marcella immediately jerked her hand out of her underwear then leaned over the sink to fluff her hair, hoping the girl would disappear into one of the stalls, but she marched up to the vanity beside her.

  Marcella tried to ignore her, rejecting any possibility she could be competing for William’s attention with this pixie of a woman-child who barely looked old enough to drink. She straightened and ran the faucet to wash the smudged mascara from beneath her eyes, until finally the staring became so palpable it was ridiculous to go on pretending she didn’t notice. She glanced down to meet the girl’s gaze in the mirror.

  “Hi! I’m Darcey.” She waved excitedly at Marcella’s reflection. “Darcey Little, actually. Darcey with an E-Y. Mum’s a big Jane Austen fan.”

  Marcella smiled curiously into Darcey Little’s heavily, although expertly, made-up eyes. “Funny, I was thinking of Pride and Prejudice earlier this morning. Hi, I’m Marcella Tartaglia.”

  Who could have imagined a pierced eyebrow would complement a classic silky bob, but Darcey pulled off the look.

  A sequined fabric tote featuring a Parisian café scene hung from her shoulder. She slipped it off, opened it, then shook it upside down. Compact cases, lipstick tubes and glosses, moisturizer jars, liner pencils, mascara wands, eyelash curlers, eyeshadow discs, perfume sprays, and makeup brushes of every shape and size scattered over the vanity.

  “Help yourself,” Darcey offered.

  Marcella eyed the spill suspiciously.

  “It’s all right,” Darcey assured. “William sent me.”

  “William?”

  “William, yes. I mean, he told me to be discreet. Didn’t want you to know he’d noticed your makeup running all down your face, but I thought, sod it. Any girl’d be keen to know what a thoughtful fella she had in William. Perfect gentleman, isn’t he? Not a bit like Bertie. His younger brother, you see.” She leaned closer and whispered, “My boyfriend. Yes, complete prat, Bertie. A sex god, but still a prat, unfortunately. Especially on days like today when he’s got all his mates round. You must’ve seen him. He’s one of the Oxford rowers in the striped jackets.”

  Too much info, too fast. If she gave it some thought, Marcella might be mortified, but she was busy enjoying this newfound discovery that the relationship between Darcey and William was not a romantic one.

  Which made her think. Darcey was the person to ask for the scoop on William, but as she obviously couldn’t be discreet, Marcella dismissed the idea. Interrogating William’s mother had been embarrassing enough. She wouldn’t want William thinking she was pumping his entire circle of acquaintances for information.

  No, anything she wanted to know about William Stafford, Marcella would learn by herself, thank you very much, including his rating as a sex god.

  So, William wanted to buy her a drink. A drink meant conversation, an opportunity to get to know one another. Whoopie!

  Marcella nosed through the makeup. “Yes, I believe I did notice Bertie,” she admitted. He must’ve been the one humping his oar.

  “Do you fancy him?” Darcey asked. With a shake of her head, she snorted a laugh. “Not Bertie, obviously. William.”

  “What’s not to fancy?” Marcella countered.

  William’s refined British elegance in combo with that laid-back, biker-dude attitude and dry sense of humor was the sexiest. With the wind blowing through his thick chestnut hair, it had been all Marcella could do not to bury her face in the back of his neck as she inhaled his clean scent. And what about those abs, huh? She’d admittedly capitalized on being frightened by the ride in
order to snuggle up to his buff bod.

  “You’re a lucky girl,” Darcey said. “William’s not the type to chat up a woman unless he’s pretty certain he’s interested. ‘Course Bertie says how could William not be interested with bosoms like yours? They are real, aren’t they?”

  Marcella was rather taken aback. Not by the question, but by these small, shiny purple packets she kept noticing mixed in with Darcey’s makeup stash. At first, she assumed they were perfume samples. Then it dawned on her. Condoms.

  “Not that it matters,” Darcey was saying. “I hear it’s done all the time in the States. Having one’s breasts enlarged.”

  So, William was a boob man, was he? Something to keep in mind. Marcella threw back her shoulders and noted the effect in the mirror. “Oh, they’re real, all right,” she boasted. “I inherited them from my Italian nana.”

  She didn’t mention she was, in fact, a modest B-cup. Her slim frame and the push-up pads did wonders for creating a fuller bustline.

  Darcey chose a lipstick and a powder compact from amongst her things and offered them up like pocket change to a beggar. “Go on then,” she encouraged. “Wouldn’t you like to use something?”

  “Well, maybe just some blusher.” A person could pick up some serious germs using another’s makeup, but all Marcella had for repairs of her own was a thin lipstick tucked into one of the pencil slots of her organizer.

  “Blusher … right … very good.” Darcey rooted around before producing a gel stick of cheek stain.

  She unscrewed the cap. “This is all the rave of the fashion magazines. Very natural. Leaves a dewy hint of color. This one’s mauve with blue undertones. Perfect for a light olive complexion like yours. It’ll look fabulous, trust me. Would you like me to apply it for you? I’m really quite good.”

  “Sure, why not?” Marcella turned on her mules and strutted over to a nearby chair where she took a seat then crossed her legs. What did she have to lose? She couldn’t look any worse than she did right now, and if Darcey could repair Marcella’s makeup with half the skill she’d used to apply her own, then great.