PART EIGHT
Six weeks later, Stella walked into her local church, where she was a regular worshipper, to become Dior's wife. She wore an elegant, fitted, off-the-shoulder dress in palest cream, the superb fabric exquisitely beaded and embroidered. In one fell swoop, she had virtually emptied her bank account of five years of savings.
It had been like an act of faith in their marriage. She had used one of the credit cards Dior had given her to buy the matching shoes and all the other trappings. She walked down the aisle alone, and quite unconcerned. 'Someone has to give you away,' Dior had told her on the phone from Geneva, where he had been attending a conference. 'Forget that...what do you think I am? A commodity?' Stella had demanded.
'I'm almost a twenty-first-century woman!' 'Why did twenty-first-century women say no to me the night before last?' Dior had enquired silkily. A squirming silence had fallen at her end of the line. 'I want our wedding night to be special. You said you understood,' Stella had reminded him uncomfortably, her face burning.
'When I was standing under a cold shower at two that morning, aching like the very devil,' Dior had growled back in charged response, 'I changed my mind.'
It was with that memory foremost in her mind that Stella smiled with sheer brilliance on that walk down the aisle towards Dior. She was blind to the assembled guests crowding out the church, impervious to everyone but the very tall, very dark and very, very gorgeous guy waiting for her at the altar with his best man.
This was her day, her moment, her guy. Mine, she thought fiercely. Well, she adjusted then, for as long as she could hold onto him. The ceremony was beautiful. Stella drank in every word, required no prompting when it came to taking her vows, indeed got in there fast.
Why? At the back of her mind lurked a no doubt ridiculous but nonetheless enervating image of Aria Bailey somehow stopping the ceremony in its tracks at the eleventh hour.
'I make a very bitter enemy,' Aria had warned. And even as the wedding ring went on her finger, Stella's skin chilled at that memory. Unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to Stella that Dior would invite Aria to their wedding.
So it was a shock when she saw the beautiful Greek woman approaching them outside the church. A vision of perfection in a stunning white suit, Aria glided up, grasped both their hands and whispered with a rather sad smile, 'I am very happy for you both.'
Then she paused. 'Stella, I hope you don't mind, but I have something I need to ask Dior.' That touching air of plucky feminine vulnerability which had taken Stella entirely by surprise worked like a magic charm on Dior. He was drawn off to speak to Aria and Stella was left alone on the church steps.
As the minutes ticked past, Stella got paler and paler, her tension rising. Their guests were noticing, stealing covert glances at Dior and Aria, commenting. Stella just wanted to die of humiliation. The society photographer finally called, ' Harlequin...please!' And only then did Dior return to Stella'sside. 'She did that deliberately!' Stella condemned helplessly when the photographer had finished. Dior raised a questioning brow.
'Who? What are you talking about?' How could he be so obtuse? Stella was so furious she could have shaken him. 'Aria !' A silence as thick as a concrete spread. Dior breathed in deep.
'Aria remains a close friend, a very close friend,' he spelled out with what sounded like twenty-five generations of aristocratic ice and breeding backing up his chilling drawl. 'Oh, I believe I've got that message all right,' Stella whispered tightly. '
Then understand this too. I will not allow you to embarrass either myself or her in public. That's my last word on the subject. Get used to the idea before I lose my temper!' And with that blunt warning Dior turned away to speak to his best man, Maxwell Parkes. Stella quivered with sheer rage. She couldn't believe that Dior had had the nerve to speak to her as though she were a misbehaving child threatening to cause a scene.