The Bridal Bed
The Bridal Bed
HELEN BIANCHIN
The wedding deception! Suzanne was thrilled that her mother was remarrying. But everyone expected her to attend the wedding with her own fiance, the very gorgeous Sloane - the bridegroom's son! How could Suzanne admit their engagement was off? But Sloane had a plan.For the weekend of the wedding, they'd play the part of a happy, soon-to-be married couple. Which meant sharing a suite - and a bed! And secretly, Sloane also intended bringing about the second family wedding of the weekend… .DO NOT Disturb! Anything can happen behind closed doors!
“Which bed would you prefer?” (#ubd29fbf5-5672-5ed4-921e-35c6ad77a46e)Title Page (#u04e85333-96ec-5bde-ab72-47baacb45e9a)CHAPTER ONE (#u0396e783-0f47-5395-af59-55a1a6ad2690)CHAPTER TWO (#udd854cad-4a41-5ee6-aa6f-c640780e654d)CHAPTER THREE (#u60fe8fbe-5d7c-596f-9f3c-bf3e4065a4d1)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Which bed would you prefer?”
Sloane regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t want to share?”
“No,” Suzanne told him. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t dare. It was bad enough having to share the same villa, the same bedroom!
To share the same bed was definitely impossible. Unless she was into casual sex, for the sake of sex. And she wasn’t. To her, sex meant intimacy, sensuality, love.
“A word of warning, Suzanne,” Sloane said softly. “Don’t expect me to behave like a gentleman.”
Anything can happen behind closed doors!
Do you dare find out...?
Welcome to the final book in our sizzling, sensual
miniseries DO NOT DISTURB!
Meet the last of four different couples thrown
together by circumstances into a whirlwind of
unexpected attraction. Forced into each other’s
company whether they like it or not, they’re soon in
the grip of passion—and definitely don’t want to
be disturbed!
This month it’s the turn of popular Presents
author Helen Bianchin to explore this delicious fantasy in a tantalizing romance you simply won’t want to put down.
What happens when Suzanne and her ex-fiancé
Sloane find themselves sharing The Bridal Bed...?
Turn the pages and find out!
The Bridal Bed
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IT SHOULD be Friday the thirteenth, Suzanne determined as she perused the perfectly printed legal document on her desk and noted yet another clause she knew wasn’t worded to her client’s best interest.
Midwinter had delivered metropolitan Sydney with a shocking day, and she’d woken to howling winds and heavy rain. Consequently she’d got wet traversing the external stairs leading from her tiny Manly flat down to the garage beneath.
Her car, which had up until now behaved impeccably, had decided not to start. A telephone call to the automobile association had elicited there was a backlog of calls, and it would be at least an hour before someone could come to her rescue. Two hours later the diagnosis had been a dead battery, and it had taken a further hour to organise a replacement and drive into the city.
Consequently she’d been late, very late arriving at the inner-city legal office where she worked as one of several junior solicitors. A fact that hadn’t sat well with two waiting clients who had been virtuously punctual. Nor had the senior partner been very happy that she’d missed an important staff meeting.
There had been files piled up on her desk, messages that required attention, and three rescheduled appointments lined up one after the other. Lunch hadn’t even been an option.
Mid-afternoon came and went as she struggled to catch up on a workload that threatened to spill over into work she would have to take home.
‘Suzanne, urgent call on line three.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded hesitant, diffident, and vaguely apologetic for breaching a ‘hold all calls’ instruction. ‘It’s your mother.’
Her mother never rang her at work. An icy hand clutched Suzanne’s heart as she snatched up the receiver. ‘Georgia? Is something wrong?’
A light, husky laugh echoed down the line. ‘Darling, everything’s fine. It’s just that I wanted you to be the first to hear my news.’
‘News, Mama?’ She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘You’ve won a fabulous prize? Bought a new car? Booked an overseas trip?’
There was a breathless pause. ‘Right on two counts.’
‘Which two?’
‘Well, sweetheart,’ Georgia began with a delicious chuckle, ‘the overseas trip is booked...Paris, would you believe? And I have won a fabulous prize.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ Really wonderful. Suzanne shook her head in silent amazement. Georgia was always taking lottery and raffle tickets, but had never won anything other than the most minor of prizes until now.
‘It’s not exactly a prize prize.’
The faintly cautious tone had Suzanne sinking back in her chair. ‘You’re talking in riddles, Mama. Is there a catch to any of this?’
‘No catch. At least, not the kind you mean.’
What had her cautious mother got herself into? ‘I’m listening.’
‘Bear with me, darling.’ Georgia’s voice hitched, then raced on in an excited rush. ‘It’s all so new, I still have a hard time believing it. And I wouldn’t have rung you at work, except I really couldn’t wait a minute longer.’
‘Tell me.’
There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I’m getting married.’
Initial joy was quickly followed by concern, and it was a frightening mix. Her mother didn’t date. There was a collection of friends, but no one man. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,’ Suzanne said slowly, and heard her mother’s light laughter in response. ‘Who is he, and where did you meet him?’
‘We met at your engagement party, darling.’
Three months. They’d only known each other three months. ‘Who, Mama?’
‘Trenton Wilson-Willoughby. Sloane’s father.’
Oh, my God. Heat rushed through her veins, then chilled to ice. ‘You’re not serious?’ Tell me you’re not serious, she pleaded silently.
‘You sound—shocked,’ Georgia responded slowly, and Suzanne quickly gathered her wits.
Recoup, regroup, fast. ‘Surprised,’ she amended. ‘It seems so sudden.’
‘Sometimes love happens that way. Sloane swept you off your feet in a matter of weeks.’
Like father, like son. ‘Yes,’ she agreed cautiously. Sloane had gifted her a sparkling diamond, whisked her down to Sydney from Brisbane, and moved her into his Rose Bay penthouse apartment before she’d had time to think, let alone catch her breath. Blinded by a riveting attraction and primitive alchemy.
‘When is the wedding taking place?’ A few months from now would give her plenty of time to—what? Explain that she was no longer living with Sloane?
‘This weekend, darling.’ Georgia sounded vaguely breathless and tremendously excited.
This weekend Today was Wednesday, for heaven’s sake. ‘Don’t you think—?’
‘It’s a bit sudden?’ her mother finished. ‘Yes, darling, I do. But Trenton is a very convincing man.’
Suzanne took a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’
‘As sure as I can be.’ There was a funny catch in her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’
Oh, hell. She had to collect her thoughts together. ‘Of course I am. And give you my blessing. I’m just so happy you are happy.’ She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Where is the wedding taking place? Have you chosen what you’ll wear?’
Georgia began to laugh, and, Suzanne suspected, to cry. ‘Bedarra Island, Saturday afternoon. Would you believe Trenton has booked all the accommodation on the island to ensure total privacy? I’m wearing a cream silk suit, with matching shoes and hat. We want you and Sloane to be witnesses.’
Bedarra Island was a privately owned resort situated high in North Queensland’s Whitsunday group of tropical islands. A minimum three-hour flight, followed by a launch trip to Bedarra.
‘Trenton has organised for you both to fly up on Friday morning and stay until Monday.’
Oh, my. Trenton’s organisation would include the family jet, the charter of a private launch.
Sloane.
It was three weeks since she’d walked out of his apartment, leaving a penned note briefly spelling out her need for some time alone. It attributed nothing to the reality of an anonymous threat if she didn’t end the engagement.
A threat she hadn’t taken seriously until the young socialite who’d initiated it had almost run Suzanne’s car off the road to emphasise her intent, then identified herself and promised grievous bodily harm if Suzanne failed to comply.
The sequence of events had been very carefully planned, she reflected, to coincide with Sloane’s absence overseas. Bitter, vitriolic invective had merely added doubt as to the socialite’s mental stability, and extreme caution had motivated Suzanne to leave Sloane’s apartment and move all her clothes into a flat on the other side of the city.
However, she had underestimated Sloane. When she’d refused to take his calls on his return, he’d pulled rank and walked unannounced into her office. His icy anger when she had refused to elaborate on the contents of her note had been so chilling, it had been all she could do not to fall in a heap the second the door had closed behind him.
Now it appeared she had little option but to see him again.
Suzanne slowly replaced the receiver, then stared sightlessly at the wall in front of her. Georgia and Trenton. Could her mother possibly guess at the complications she’d created?
Allowing no time for hesitation, Suzanne punched in the digit to access an outside line, then completed the set of numbers that would connect with Sloane’s law chambers.
Not that the call did much good. All she received was a relayed message stating that Sloane Wilson-Willoughby was in court and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. Suzanne logged in her name and phone number on his message bank.
Damn. The silent curse did little to ease her frustration as she turned her attention to the documents requiring her perusal. She made a note of two clauses she felt were not entirely to her client’s advantage, pencilled in a notation to delete one, and re-phrase another. Then she had her secretary lodge the necessary call in order to apprise the client of her suggested alterations.
The afternoon was hectic, and the nerves inside her stomach became increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by. Each time the phone rang, she mentally prepared herself for it to be Sloane, only to have her secretary announce someone else.
Was he deliberately delaying the call? Just to make her sweat a little? Whatever, it was playing havoc with her nervous system.
At five her phone buzzed just as she ushered a client from her office, and she crossed to her desk and picked up the receiver.
‘Sloane Wilson-Willoughby on line two.’ The information was imparted in a faintly breathless voice, and Suzanne momentarily raised her eyes towards the ceiling.
Sloane tended to have that effect on people. Women, especially, responded to something in his deep, smoky voice. Once they sighted him in the flesh, the response went into overdrive and tended to make vamps and vixens out of the most sensible of females.
She should know. She’d been there herself. Part of her ached for the promise, the dream of what they might have had together.
Then she drew in a deep breath, released it, and picked up the receiver. ‘Sloane.’ To ask ‘how are you?’ seemed incredibly banal.
‘Suzanne.’ The polite acknowledgement seared something deep inside, and she resolutely kept her voice even as she sank back in her chair. ‘Georgia rang me. I believe Trenton has relayed their news?’
‘Yes.’ Brief, succinct, and unforthcoming.
He wasn’t making it easy for her. There was no way out of this, and it was best if she just got on with it.
‘We need to talk.’
‘I agree,’ Sloane indicated silkily. ‘Make it dinner tonight.’ He named a restaurant in a city hotel. ‘Seven.’
She needed to put in another hour in order to appease her employer. ‘I don’t think—’
‘It’s the restaurant or your flat.’ His voice acquired the sound of silk being razed by steel. ‘Choose.’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Seven-thirty.’ A public place where there were people was the lesser of two evils. The thought of Sloane appearing at her flat, demanding entry...
‘Wise.’
No, it was most unwise, but she didn’t appear to have much option.
Suzanne replaced the receiver and attempted to concentrate on notations she needed to finalise.
Consequently it was well after six when she left the office, and almost seven before she reached home.
Within half an hour she’d showered, dressed, swept her damp hair into a sleek twist, applied make-up with practised precision, and she was on her way out of the door, retracing a familiar route into the city.
Except this time the traffic was more civilised. And there was the advantage of valet parking. Even so, she was fifteen minutes late.
Suzanne pushed open the heavy glass door and entered the hotel lobby. It took only seconds to locate a familiar dark-suited figure standing several metres distant.
Her pulse tripped its beat and accelerated to a faster pace as she watched him unfold his lengthy frame from a deep-cushioned lounge chair.
Sloane Wilson-Willoughby stood four inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders and muscled frame of a superbly trained athlete. Inherited genes had bestowed ruggedly attractive facial features, piercing brown eyes, and thick dark brown hair. Evident was an aura of power, and the ease of a man well versed in the strengths and weaknesses of his fellow men.
He watched as she moved towards him, his appraisal swift, taking in the red power suit adorning her petite frame, the upswept hairstyle and the stiletto heels she invariably wore to add inches to her height. She possessed an innate femininity that was at variance with the professional image she tried so hard to maintain. Slight but very feminine curves, slender, shapely legs, silken-smooth honey-gold skin, deep blue eyes, and a mouth to die for.
He’d tasted its delights, savoured the pleasures of her body, and put an engagement ring on her finger. It had stayed there precisely ten weeks before she’d taken it off with an excuse he’d no more believed then than he did now.
‘Sloane.’ She moved forward and accepted the touch of his hand at her elbow. And told herself she was impervious to the clean male smell of him mingling with the faint aroma of his exclusive brand of cologne. Immune to the latent sensuality that seemed to emanate from every pore.
He searched her pale features, and noted the faint smudges beneath eyes that seemed too large for her face. ‘Working hard?’
The deceptive mildness of his voice didn’t fool her in the slightest. She effected a light shrug and opted for flippancy. ‘Next you’ll tell me I’ve dropped weight.’
He lifted a hand and traced her jawline with his thumb. And saw her eyes dilate. ‘Two or three essential kilos, at a guess.’
His touch was like fire, and a muscle flickered in involuntary reaction. ‘Judge, advocate and jury rolled into one?’
‘Lover,’ Sloane amended.
‘Ex-lover,’ she corrected him, and saw the sensual curve of his lower lip.
‘Your choice, not mine.’
She deliberately moved back a pace, and met his gaze squarely. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘You wouldn’t prefer a drink first?’
She really wanted to keep this as short as possible. ‘No.’ She sought to qualify her decision. ‘I really can’t stay long.’
There was a tinge of wry humour evident in his voice as they walked towards the bank of lifts. ‘Dedication to duty, Suzanne?’
The humour stung. ‘Suffice it to say it’s been one of those days, and I have work to catch up on.’
A set of doors slid open and she preceded him into the lift. They were the only occupants, and he leaned forward to depress the button for the appropriate floor.
His suit sleeve brushed against her arm, and she tried to ignore the shivery sensation feathering over her skin. Her fine body hairs rose in protective self-defence, and she felt her pulse trip and surge to a faster beat.
Did he realise he still had this effect on her? Probably not, she reassured herself silently, for she strove very hard to project detached disinterest.
The restaurant was well patronised, and the maître d’ led them to a reserved table, saw them seated, and summoned the drinks waiter.
Suzanne viewed the menu with interest, and she ordered soup du jour, a seafood starter, and grilled fish as a main course.
‘Do we attempt to engage in polite conversation,’ Sloane drawled as soon as the waiter disappeared, ‘or shall we cut straight to the chase?’
Suzanne forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘Dinner was your idea.’
Evident was the leashed anger beneath his control. ‘What did you expect? A curt directive to meet me at the airport Friday morning?’
‘Yes.’
His smile was totally without humour. ‘Ah, honesty.’
‘It’s one of my more admirable traits.’
Their drinks were delivered, and Suzanne sipped the iced water, almost wishing it were something stronger. Alcohol might soothe her fractured nerves.
She watched as Sloane took an appreciative swallow of his customary spritzer before setting the glass onto the table, then leaning back in his chair.
‘You haven’t responded to any of my messages.’
It was difficult to retain his gaze, but she managed. ‘There didn’t seem much point.’
‘I beg to differ.’
He was a skilled wordsmith and a brilliant strategist. He was also icy calm. When all he wanted to do was reach forward and shake her.
‘We’re here to discuss our respective parents’ marriage to each other,’ she managed civilly. ‘Not conduct a post-mortem on our affair.’
‘Post-mortem?’ His voice was a sibilant threat. ‘Affair?’
He was playing with her, much as a predatory animal played with its prey. Waiting, watching, assessing each and every move, in no doubt of the kill. It was just a matter of when.
Suzanne rose to her feet and reached for her bag. ‘I’ve had one hell of a day. I have work to get through when I get home.’ Her eyes flashed angrily. ‘I don’t need you playing cat-and-mouse with me.’
A hand closed over her arm, and it took all her control not to shake it free.
‘Sit down.’
She would have liked nothing better than to turn and walk out of the door. But there was Georgia to consider. No matter how difficult the weekend might prove to be, she had to be present at her mother’s wedding. Anything else was unthinkable.
‘Please,’ Sloane added, and without a word she sank down into her chair.
Almost on cue the waiter delivered their soup, and she spooned it slowly, grateful for the ensuing silence.
When their plates were removed she picked up her glass and sipped the contents.
‘Tell me about your day,’ Sloane commanded with studied ease.
Suzanne looked at him carefully. ‘Genuine interest, or an adept attempt to keep our conversation on an even keel?’
‘Both.’
His faint, mocking smile was almost her undoing, and she felt like screaming with vexation. ‘I’d prefer to discuss the weekend.’
‘Indulge me. We have yet to begin the main course.’
At this rate she’d suffer indigestion. As it was, her stomach seemed to be tied in numerous knots.
‘The car refused to start, the automobile club took ages to send someone out, I was late in to work, and I got soaked in the rain.’ She effected a light shrug. That about encapsulates it.’
‘I’ll organise for you to have the use of one of my cars while yours is being checked out.’
A surge of anger rose to the surface. ‘No. You won’t.’
‘Now you’re being stubborn,’ he drawled hatefully.
‘Practical.’ And wary of being seen driving his Porsche or Jaguar.
‘Stubborn,’ Sloane reiterated.
‘You sound like my mother,’ Suzanne responded with a deliberately slow, sweet smile.
‘Heaven forbid.’
Anger rose once more, and her eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘You disapprove of Georgia?’
‘Of being compared to anything vaguely parental where you’re concerned,’ Sloane corrected her with ill-concealed mockery.
Suzanne looked at him carefully, then honed a verbal dart. ‘I doubt you’ve ever lacked a solitary thing in your privileged life.’
One eyebrow rose, and there was a certain wryness apparent. ‘Except for the love of a good woman?’
‘Most women fall over themselves to get to you,’ she stated with marked cynicism.
‘To the social prestige the Wilson-Willoughby name carries,’ Sloane amended drily. ‘And let’s not forget the family wealth.’
The multi-million-dollar family home with its incredible views over Sydney harbour, the fleet of luxurious cars, servants. Not to mention Sloane’s penthouse apartment, his cars. Homes, apartments in major European cities. The family cruiser, the family jet.
And then there was Wilson-Willoughby, headed by Trenton and notably one of Sydney’s leading law firms. One had only to enter its exclusive portals, see the expensive antique furniture gracing every office, the original artwork on the walls, to appreciate the elegance of limitless wealth.
‘You’re a cynic.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘A realist.’
Their starter arrived, and Suzanne took her time savouring the delicate texture of the prawns in a superb sauce many a chef would kill to reproduce.
‘Now that you’ve had some food, perhaps you’d like a glass of wine?’
And have it go straight to her head? ‘Half a glass,’ she qualified, and determined to sip it slowly during the main course.
‘I hear you’ve taken on a very challenging brief,’ she said.
Sloane pressed the napkin to the edge of his mouth, then discarded it down onto the damask-covered table. ‘News travels fast.’
As did anything attached to Sloane Wilson-Willoughby. In or out of the courtroom.
He part-filled her glass with wine, then set it back in the ice bucket, dismissing the wine steward who appeared with apologetic deference.
Their main course arrived, and Suzanne admired the superbly presented fish and artistically displayed vegetable portions. It seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb the arrangement, and she forked delicate mouthfuls with enjoyment.
‘Am I to understand Georgia meets with your approval as a prospective stepmother?’
Sloane viewed her with studied ease. She looked more relaxed, and her cheeks bore a slight colour. ‘Georgia is a charming woman. I’m sure she and my father will be very happy together.’
The deceptive mildness of his tone brought forth a musing smile. ‘I would have to say the same about Trenton.’
Sloane lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, then regarded her thoughtfully over the rim. ‘The question remains... What do you want to do about us?’
Her stomach executed a painful backflip. ‘What do you mean, what do I want to do about us?’
The waiter arrived to remove their plates, then delivered a platter of fresh fruit, added a bowl of freshly whipped cream, and withdrew.
‘Unless you’ve told Georgia differently, our respective parents believe we’re living in pre-nuptial bliss,’ Sloane relayed with deliberate patience. ‘Do we spend the weekend pretending we’re still together? Or do you want to spoil their day by telling them we’re living apart?’
She didn’t want to think about together. It merely heightened memories she longed to forget. Fat chance, a tiny voice taunted.
Fine clothes did little to tame a body honed to the height of physical fitness, or lessen his brooding sensuality. Too many nights she’d lain awake remembering just how it felt to be held in those arms, kissed in places she’d never thought to grant a licence to, and taught to scale unbelievable heights with a man who knew every path, every journey.
‘Your choice, Suzanne.’
She looked at him and glimpsed the implacability beneath the charming facade, the velvet-encased steel.
As a barrister in a court of law he was skilled with the command of words and their delivery. She’d seen him in action, and been enthralled. Mesmerised. And had known, even then, that she’d have reason to quake if ever he became her enemy.
A game of pretence, and she wondered why she was even considering it. Yet would it be so bad?
There wasn’t much choice if she didn’t want to spoil her mother’s happiness. The truth was something she intended to keep to herself.
‘I imagine it isn’t possible to fly in and out of Bedarra on the same day?’
‘No.’
It was a slim hope, given the distance and the time of the wedding. ‘There are no strings you can pull?’
‘Afraid to spend time with me, Suzanne?’ Sloane queried smoothly.
‘I’d prefer to keep it to a minimum,’ she said with innate honesty. ‘And you didn’t answer the question.’
‘What strings would you have me pull?’
‘It would be more suitable to arrive on Bedarra Saturday morning, and return Sunday.’
‘And disappoint Trenton and Georgia?’ He lifted his glass and took an appreciative swallow of excellent vintage wine. ‘Did it occur to you that perhaps Georgia might need your help and moral support before the wedding?’
It made sense, Suzanne conceded. ‘Surely we could return on Sunday?’
‘I think not.’
‘Why?’
He set the glass down onto the table with the utmost care. ‘Because I won’t be returning until Monday.’
She looked at him with a feeling of helpless anger. ‘You’re deliberately making this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?’
‘Trenton has organised to leave Sydney on Friday and return on Monday. I see no reason to disrupt those arrangements.’
A tiny shiver feathered its way down her spine.
Three days. Well, four if you wanted to be precise. Could she go through with it?
‘Do you want to renege, Suzanne?’
The silkily voiced query strengthened her resolve, and her eyes speared his. ‘No.’
‘Can I interest you in the dessert trolley?’
The waiter’s appearance was timely, and Suzanne turned her attention to the collection of delicious confections presented, and selected an utterly sinful slice of chocolate cake decorated with fresh cream and strawberries.
‘Decadent,’ she commented for the waiter’s benefit. ‘I’ll need to run an extra kilometre and do twenty more sit-ups in the morning to combat the extra kilo-joules.’
Even when she’d lived with Sloane, she’d preferred the suburban footpaths and fresh air to the professional gym housed in his apartment.
‘I can think of something infinitely more enjoyable by way of exercise.’
‘Sex?’ Was it the wine that had made her suddenly brave? With ladylike delicacy, she indicated his selection of crème caramel ‘You should live a little, walk on the wild side.’
‘Wild, Suzanne?’ His voice was pure silk with the honeyed intonation he used to great effect in the courtroom.
Knowing she would probably lose didn’t prevent her from enjoying a verbal sparring. ‘Figuratively speaking.’
‘Perhaps you’d care to elaborate?’
Her eyes were wide, luminous, and tinged with wicked humour. ‘Do the unexpected.’
Very few women sought to challenge him on any level, and none had in quite the same manner this petite, independent blonde employed. ‘Define unexpected.’
Her head tilted to one side. ‘Be less—conventional.’
‘You think I should play more?’ The subtle emphasis was intended, and he watched the slight flicker of her lashes, the faint pink that coloured her cheeks. Glimpsed the way her throat moved as she swallowed. And felt a sense of satisfaction. With innate skill, he honed the blade and pierced her vulnerable heart. ‘I have a vivid memory of just how well we played together.’
So did she, damn him. Very carefully she replaced her spoon on the plate. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what arrangements you’ve made for Friday morning.’
‘I’ve instructed the pilot we’ll be leaving at eight.’
‘I’ll meet you at the airport.’
‘Isn’t that carrying independence a little too far?’
‘Why should you drive to the North Shore, only to have to double back again?’ Suzanne countered.
Something shifted in his eyes, then it was successfully masked. ‘It isn’t a problem.’
Of course it wasn’t. She was making a problem out of sheer perversity. ‘I’ll drive to your apartment and garage my car there for the weekend,’ she conceded.
Sloane inclined his head in mocking acquiescence. ‘If you insist.’
It was a minor victory, one she had the instinctive feeling wasn’t a victory at all.
Sloane ordered coffee, then settled the bill. She didn’t linger, and he escorted her to the lobby, instructed the concierge to organise her car, and waited until it was brought to the main entrance.
‘Goodnight, Suzanne.’
His features appeared extraordinarily dark in the angled shadows, his tone vaguely cynical. An image of sight and sound that remained with her long after she slid wearily into bed.
CHAPTER TWO
THURSDAY proved to be a fraught day as Suzanne applied for and was granted two days’ leave, then she rescheduled appointments and consultations, attended to the most pressing work, delegated the remainder, and donated her entire lunch hour to selecting something suitable to wear to Georgia’s wedding.
Dedication to duty ensured she stayed back an extra few hours, and she arrived home shortly after eight, hungry and not a little disgruntled at having to eat on the run while she sorted through clothes and packed.
Elegant, casual, and beachwear, she determined as she riffled through her wardrobe, grateful she had sufficient knowledge of the Wilson-Willoughby lifestyle to know she need select the best of her best.
Comfortable baggy shorts and sweat-tops were out. In were tailored trousers, smart shirts, silk dresses, tennis gear. And the obligatory swimwear essential in the tropical north’s midwinter temperatures.
Some of Trenton Wilson-Willoughby’s guests would arrive with large Louis Vuitton travelling cases containing what they considered the minimum essentials for a weekend sojourn.
Suzanne managed to confine all she needed into one cabin bag, which she stored on the floor at the foot of her bed in readiness for last-minute essentials in the morning, then she returned to the kitchen and took a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator.
She crossed into the lounge, switched on the television and flicked through the channels in the hope of finding something that might hold her interest. A legal drama, a medical ditto, sport, a foreign movie, and something dire relating to the occult. She switched off the set, collected a magazine and sank into a nearby chair to leaf through the pages.
She felt too restless to settle for long, and after ten minutes she tossed the magazine aside, carried the empty can into the kitchen, then undressed and took a shower.
It wasn’t late late, but she felt tired and edgy, and knew she should go to bed given the early hour she’d need to rise in the morning.
Except when she did she was unable to sleep, and she tossed and turned, then lay staring at the ceiling for an age.
With a low growl of frustration she slid out of bed and padded into the lounge. If she was going to stare at something, she might as well curl up in a chair and stare at the television.
It was there that she woke, with a stiff neck and the television screen fizzing from a closed channel.
Suzanne peered at her watch in the semi-darkness, saw that it was almost dawn, and groaned. There was no point in crawling back to bed for such a short time. Instead she stretched her legs and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee.
Casual elegance denoted her apparel for the day, and after a quick shower and something to eat she stepped into linen trousers and a matching silk sleeveless top. Make-up was minimal, a little colour to her cheeks, mascara to give emphasis to her eyes, and a touch of rose-pink to her lips. An upswept hairstyle was likely to come adrift, so she left her hair loose.
At seven she added a trendy black jacket, checked the flat, then she fastened her cabin bag, took it downstairs and secured it in the boot. Then she slid in behind the wheel and reversed her car out onto the road.
At this relatively early hour the traffic flowed freely, and she enjoyed a smooth run through the northern suburbs.
The city skyline was visible as she drew close to the harbour bridge, the tall buildings bathed in a faint post-dawn mist that merged with the greyness of a midwinter morning and hinted at rain.
Even the harbour waters appeared dull and grey, and the ferries traversing its depths seemed to move heavily towards their respective berths.
Once clear of the bridge, it took minimum time to reach the attractive eastern suburb of Rose Bay. Sloane’s penthouse apartment was housed in a modern structure only metres from the edge of the wide, curving bay.
A number of large, beautiful old homes graced the tree-lined street and Suzanne admired the elegant two-and three-storeyed structures in brick and paint-washed stucco, situated in attractive landscaped grounds, as she turned into the brick-tiled apron adjoining Sloane’s apartment building.
He was waiting for her, his tall frame propped against the driver’s side of his sleek, top-of-the-range Jaguar. Casual trousers, an open-necked shirt and jacket had replaced his usual three-piece business suit, and he looked the epitome of the wealthy professional.
The trousers, shirt and jacket were beautifully cut, the shoes hand-stitched Italian. He didn’t favour male jewellery, and the only accessory he chose to wear was a thin gold watch whose make was undoubtedly exorbitantly expensive. His wardrobe contained a superb collection, yet none had been acquired as a status symbol.
Suzanne shifted the gear lever into neutral, then she slid out from behind the wheel and turned to greet him. ‘Good morning. I’m not late, am I?’ She knew she wasn’t, but she couldn’t resist the query.
Independence was a fine thing in a woman, but Suzanne’s strict adherence to it was something Sloane found mildly irritating. His eyes were cool as they swept her slim form. Cream tailored trousers, cream top and black jacket emphasised her slender curves, and lent a heightened sense of fragility to her features. Clever make-up had almost dealt with the shadows beneath her eyes. He derived a certain satisfaction from the knowledge. She obviously hadn’t slept any better than he had.
‘I’ll take your car down into the car park,’ Sloane indicated as he removed the cabin bag from her grasp and stowed it in the open boot of his car.
Within minutes he’d transferred her vehicle, then returned to slide in behind the wheel of his own car. The engine fired, and he eased the Jaguar out onto the road.
‘The jet will touch down in Brisbane to collect Trenton and Georgia,’ Sloane drawled as the car picked up speed.
Suzanne endeavoured not to show her surprise. ‘I thought Trenton would travel with us from Sydney.’
‘My father has been in Brisbane for the past week.’ He paused to spare her a quick glance, then added with perfect timing, ‘Ensuring, so he said, that Georgia didn’t have the opportunity to get cold feet.’
Georgia had rarely, if ever, dated. There had been no male friends visiting the house, no succession of temporary ‘uncles’. Georgia had been a devoted mother first and foremost, and a dedicated dressmaker who worked from the privacy of her own home.
For as long as Suzanne could remember they’d shared a close bond that was based on affectionate friendship. Genuine equals, rather than simply mother and daughter.
At forty-seven, Georgia was an attractive woman with a slim, petite frame, carefully tended blonde hair, blue eyes, and a wonderfully caring nature. She deserved happiness with an equally caring partner.
‘From Brisbane we’ll fly direct to Dunk Island, then take the launch to Bedarra,’ said Sloane.
Suzanne turned her head and took in the moving scenery, the houses where everyone inside them was stirring to begin a new day. Mothers cooking breakfast, sleepy-eyed children preparing to wash and dress before eating and taking public transport to school.
The traffic was beginning to build up, and it was almost eight when Sloane took the turn-off to the airport, then bypassed the main terminal and headed for the area where private aircraft were housed. He gained clearance, and drove onto the apron of bitumen.
Suzanne undid her seat belt and reached for the door-handle, only to pause as he leaned towards her.
‘You forgot something.’
Her breath caught as Sloane took hold of her left hand and slid her engagement ring onto her finger.
She looked at the sparkling solitaire diamond, then lifted her head to meet his gaze.
‘Trenton and Georgia will think it a little strange if you’re not wearing it,’ he drawled with hateful cynicism.
The charade was about to begin. A slightly hysterical laugh rose and died in her throat. Who was she kidding? ‘This is going to be some weekend.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Sloane—’ She paused, hesitant to say the words, but needing quite desperately to set a few ground rules. ‘You won’t—’
Dammit, his eyes were too dark, too discerning.
‘Won’t what, Suzanne?’
‘Overact.’
His expression remained unchanged. ‘Define overacting.’
She should have kept her mouth shut. Parrying words with him was a futile battle, for he always won. ‘I’d prefer it if you kept any body contact to a minimum.’
His eyes gleamed with latent humour. ‘Afraid, Suzanne?’
‘Of you? No, of course not.’
His gaze didn’t falter, and she felt the breath hitch in her chest. ‘Perhaps you should be,’ he intimated softly.
A chill settled over the surface of her skin, and she controlled a desire to shiver. She should call this off now. Insist on using his mobile phone so she could ring Georgia and explain.
‘No,’ Sloane said quietly. ‘We’ll see it through.’
‘You read minds?’
‘Yours is particularly transparent.’
It irked her unbearably that he was able to determine her thoughts. With anyone else it was possible to present an impenetrable facade. Sloane dispensed with each and every barrier she erected as if it didn’t exist.
Suzanne fervently wished it were Monday, and they were making the return trip. Then the weekend would be over.
A sleek Lear jet bearing the W-W insignia stood waiting for them, its baggage hold open. Sloane transferred their bags, then spoke to the pilot before they boarded.
The interior portrayed the ultimate in luxury. Plush carpets, superior fittings—me jet was a wealthy man’s expensive possession.
A slim, attractive stewardess greeted them inside the cabin. ‘If you’d each care to be seated and fasten your seat belts, we’ll be ready for immediate takeoff.’ She moved to close the door and secure it, checked her two passengers were comfortable, then she acknowledged internal clearance via intercom with the pilot.
The jet’s engines increased their whining pitch, then the sleek silver plane eased off the bitumen apron and cruised a path to the runway.
Within minutes they were in the air, climbing high in a northerly flight pattern that hugged the coastline.
‘Juice, tea or coffee?’
Suzanne opted for juice while Sloane settled for coffee, and when it was served the stewardess retreated into the rear section.
‘No laptop?’ Suzanne queried as Sloane made no attempt to take optimum advantage of the ensuing few hours. ‘No documents to peruse?’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘The laptop and my briefcase are stowed in the baggage compartment. However, I thought I’d take a break,’ he revealed with indolent amusement.
‘I have no objection if you want to work.’
‘Thereby negating the need for conversation, Suzanne?’
She aimed a slow, sweet smile at him. ‘How did you guess?’
Sloane’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘We should, don’t you think, ensure our stories match on events during the past three weeks?’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Minor details like movies we might have seen, the theatre, dinner with friends.’
Separate residences, separate lives. Hectic work-filled days, empty lonely nights.
A particularly lacklustre social calendar, Suzanne conceded on reflection, and was unable to prevent a comparison to the halcyon days when she’d shared Sloane’s apartment and his life. Then there had been a succession of dinners, parties, and few evenings together alone at home. Long nights of loving, a wonderfully warm male body to curl into, and being awakened each morning by the stroke of his fingers, his lips.
Something clenched deep inside her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to clear the image.
‘Suzanne?’
Clarity of mind was essential, and she met his gaze, acknowledged the enigmatic expression, and managed a slight smile. ‘Of course.’ Her attendance at the cinema had been her only social excursion. She named the movie, and provided him with a brief plot line. ‘And you? I imagine you maintained a fairly hectic social schedule?’
‘Reasonably quiet,’ Sloane relayed. ‘I declined a dinner invitation with the Parkinsons.’ His level gaze held hers. ‘You supposedly had a migraine.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
His expression held a degree of cynical humour. ‘We dined à deux, or stayed home.’
Suzanne remembered too well what had inevitably transpired during the evenings they’d stayed in. The long, slow foreplay that had begun when they’d entered the apartment. Sipping from each other’s glass, offering morsels of food as they’d eaten a leisurely meal. A liqueur coffee, and the deliberate choice of viewing cable television or a video. The drift of fingers over sensitised skin, the soft touch of lips savouring delicate hollows, a sensual awakening that had held the promise of continued arousal and the ultimate coupling of two people who had delighted in each other on every plane.
Sometimes there had been no foreplay at all. Just compelling passion, the melding of mouths as urgent fingers had freed buttons and dispensed with clothes. Occasionally they hadn’t even made it to the bedroom.
Suzanne met his gaze and held it, fought against a compulsive movement in her throat as she contained the lump lodged there, and chose not to comment.
A hollow laugh died before it was born. Who was she kidding? There was no choice at all. If she opened her mouth, only the most strangled of sounds would emerge.
She saw the darkness reflected in his eyes, glimpsed the flare of passion and his banking of it, then wanted to die as his lips curved into a slow, sensual smile.
‘Memories, Suzanne?’
Try for lightness, a touch of humour. Then he’d never know just how much she ached inside. ‘Some of them were good, very good.’ He deserved that, if nothing else. Others were particularly forgettable. Such as the bitchiness of some of his social equals.
Oh, damn. She was treading into deeper water with every step she took. And she’d only been in his company an hour. What state would she be in at the end of the weekend, for heaven’s sake?
She fished a magazine from a strategically placed pocket, and began flipping through the glossy pages until she discovered an article that held her interest. Or at least she could feign that it did for the duration of the short flight to Brisbane.
It was a relief when the jet landed and cruised to a halt on the far side of the terminal. Suzanne glimpsed a limousine parked close to the hangar, and Sloane’s father boarded as soon as the jet’s door opened and the steps were unfolded.
‘Good morning.’
Trenton moved lithely down the aisle and closed the distance to greet them.
The family resemblance between father and son was clearly evident, the frame almost identical, although Trenton was a little heavier through the chest, slightly thicker in the waist, and his hair was streaked with grey.
He was a kind man, possessed of a gentle wit, beneath which was a shrewd and knowledgeable business mind.
Suzanne rose to her feet and allowed herself to be enveloped in a bear-hug.
‘Suzanne. Lovely to see you, my dear.’ He released her, and acknowledged his son with a warm smile. ‘Sloane.’ He indicated the limousine. ‘Georgia is making a call from the car.’ The smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled with humour as he placed a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. ‘A last-minute confirmation of floral arrangements for the wedding. Go down and talk to her while I check the luggage being loaded on board.’
Georgia was fixing her lipstick, a slight pink colouring her cheeks as Suzanne slid into the rear seat, and she leaned forward and brushed her mother’s cheek with her own. ‘Nervous?’
‘No,’ her mother denied. ‘Just needing someone to tell me I’m not being foolish.’
Georgia had been widowed at a young age, left to rear a child who retained little memory of the father who had been killed on a dark road in the depth of night by a joyriding, unlicensed lout high on drugs and alcohol. Life thereafter hadn’t exactly been a struggle, as circumspect saving and a relatively strict budget had ensured there were holidays and a few of life’s pleasures.
‘You’re not being foolish,’ Suzanne said gently.
Georgia appeared anxious as she lifted a hand and pressed fingers to Suzanne’s cheek. ‘I would have preferred to put my plans on hold until after your wedding to Sloane. You don’t mind, do you?’
It was difficult to maintain her existing expression beneath the degree of guilt and remorse she experienced for embarking on a deliberately deceitful course.
‘Don’t be silly, Mama,’ she said gently. ‘Sloane has briefs stacked back to back. We can’t plan anything until he’s free to take a few weeks’ break.’ She tried for levity, and won. ‘Besides, I doubt Trenton would hear of any delay.’
‘No,’ a deep voice drawled. ‘He wouldn’t.’
Trenton held out his hand and Suzanne took it, then stepped out of the car, watching as he gave Georgia a teasing look. ‘Time to fly, sweetheart.’
Suzanne boarded the jet, closely followed by her mother and Trenton, and within minutes the jet cruised a path to a distant runway, paused for clearance, then accelerated for take-off.
An intimate cabin, intimate company, with the emphasis on intimacy. It took only one look to see that Trenton was equally enamoured of Georgia as she was of him.
Any doubts Suzanne might have had were soon dispensed with, for there was a magical chemistry existent that tore the breath from her throat.
You shared a similar alchemy with Sloane, an inner voice taunted.
Almost as soon as the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign flashed off Trenton rose to his feet and extracted a bottle of champagne and four flutes from the bar fridge.
‘A toast is fitting, don’t you agree?’ He removed the cork and proceeded to fill each flute with vintage Dom Perignon, handed them round, then raised his own. ‘To health, happiness—’ his eyes met and held Georgia’s, then he turned to spare Sloane and Suzanne a carefree smile ‘—and love.’
Sloane touched the rim of his flute to that of Suzanne’s, and his gaze held a warmth that almost stole her breath away.
Careful, she cautioned. It’s only an act. And, because of it, she was able to direct him a stunning smile before turning towards her mother and Trenton. ‘To you both.’
Alcohol before lunch was something she usually chose to avoid, and champagne on a near-empty stomach wasn’t the wisest way to proceed with the day.
Thankfully there was a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches set out on a platter, and she ate one before sipping more champagne.
Sloane lifted a hand and tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear in a deliberately evocative gesture. It pleased him to see her eyelashes sweep wide, feel the faint quiver beneath his touch, and glimpse the increased pulse-beat at the base of her throat.
It would prove to be an interesting four days. And three nights, he perceived with a degree of cynical amusement.
Suzanne felt the breath hitch in her throat. Was she out of her mind? What had seemed a logical, common-sense option now loomed as an emotional minefield.
CHAPTER THREE
BEDARRA ISLAND resembled a lush green jewel in a sapphire sea. Secluded, reclusive, a haven of natural beauty, and reached only by launch from nearby Dunk Island.
Bedarra Island at first sight appeared covered entirely by rainforest. It wasn’t until the launch drew closer that Suzanne glimpsed a high-domed terracottatiled villa roof peeping through dense foliage, then another and another.
There were sixteen private villas, walking was the only form of transport, and children under fifteen were not catered for, she mused idly, having studied the brochure she’d collected the day after she’d become aware of their destination.
She stood admiring the translucent sea as the launch cleaved through the water. It looked such a peaceful haven, the ideal place to get away from the rush and bustle of city life.
Acute sensory perception alerted her to Sloane’s presence, and she contained a faint shivery sensation as he moved in close behind her, successfully forming a casual cage as he placed a hand at either side of her on the railing.
No part of his body touched hers, but she was intensely aware of the few inches separating them and how easy it would be to lean back into that hard-muscled frame.
She closed her eyes against the painful image of memory of when they had stood together just like this. Looking out over a sleeping city from any one of several floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse; in the kitchen, where she’d adored taking the domestic role; the large en suite. On any one of many occasions when he’d enfolded her close and nuzzled the sensitive slope of her neck, her nape, the hollow behind each earlobe.
Times when she had exulted in his touch and turned into the circle of his arms to lift her face to his for a kiss that was alternately slow and gentle, or hard and hungry. Inevitably, it had led them to the bedroom and long hours of passion.
Suzanne’s fingers tightened on the railing as the launch decreased speed and began to ease in against the small jetty. Was Sloane’s memory as vivid as her own? Or was he unmoved, and merely playing an expected role?
Damn. She’d have to get a grip on such wayward emotions, or she’d become a nervous wreck!
‘Time to disembark.’
She felt rather than heard him move, and the spell was broken as Georgia’s voice intruded, mingling with that of Trenton.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Georgia remarked simply as they trod the path through to the main complex and reception.
‘Secluded,’ Trenton concurred. ‘With guaranteed privacy, and no unwanted intrusion by the media.’
For which he was prepared to pay any price, Suzanne concluded, knowing only too well how difficult it was at times to enjoy a private dinner out without being interrupted by some society photographer bent on capturing a scoop for the tabloid social pages.
Exotic native timbers provided a background for the merging colour and tone of furnishings adorning the reception area.
The reception manager greeted them warmly, processed their check-in with practised speed, indicated their luggage would be taken to their individual villas and placed two keys on the counter.
Suzanne felt as if she’d been hit in the solar plexus by a sledgehammer. Fool. Of course she and Sloane were to share a villa. Why on earth not, given they were supposedly still engaged and living together?
‘We’ll meet in the dining room for lunch.’ Trenton collected one key and spared his watch a glance. ‘Say—half an hour?’
Together they traversed a curving path and reached Trenton and Georgia’s villa first, leaving Sloane and Suzanne to continue to their own.
Suzanne could hear the faint screech of birds high in the trees, and she wondered at their breed, whether they were red-crested parrots with their brilliant blue and green plumage, or perhaps the white cockatoo, or pink-breasted galah.
Sloane unlocked the door and she preceded him inside, waiting only until he closed the door behind him before turning towards him.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she demanded with suppressed anger.
‘That we’d share? Yes.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘You surely didn’t imagine we’d have separate accommodation?’
She watched as he moved into the room, and wanted to throw something—preferably at him. ‘And, of course, as Trenton has booked out the entire island there are no free villas.’
He turned and directed her a level look. ‘That’s true. Although even if there were we’d still share.’
‘The projected image of togetherness,’ Suzanne said with heavy cynicism, and glimpsed one eyebrow slant in silent query.
‘Something we agreed as being the favoured option, I believe?’
A temporary moment of insanity when she’d put her mother’s feelings to the forefront with very little thought for her own, she decided disparagingly. Then felt bad, for she’d do anything rather than upset Georgia.
The villa was spacious, open-plan living on two levels. And it was remarkably easy to determine via an open staircase that the upper level was given over to one bedroom, albeit that it was large and housed a queen and single bed, as well as an adjoining en suite bathroom.
Suzanne followed him upstairs, and discovered the bedroom was larger than she’d expected, with glossy timber floors and a high ceiling. A central fan stirred recycled air-conditioned air, and dense external foliage provided an almost jungle-like atmosphere that heightened the sensation of secluded tranquillity.
Her eyes skimmed over both beds, and quickly skittered towards the functional en suite. Four days of enforced sharing. It had hardly begun, and already she could feel several nerve-ends curling in protective self-defence.
‘Which bed would you prefer?’ she asked in civil tones, wanting, needing to set down a few ground rules. Rules were good, they imposed boundaries, and if they adhered to them they should be able to get through the weekend with minimum conflict.
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You don’t want to share?’
‘No.’ She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t dare. It was bad enough having to share the same villa, the same bedroom.
To share the same bed was definitely impossible. Unless she was into casual sex, for the sake of sex. And she wasn’t. To her, sex meant intimacy, sensuality, love. Not a physical exercise to be indulged in simply to satisfy a basic urge.
Sloane watched her expressive features, perceived each deliberation and recognised every one of them. ‘Pity.’
Suzanne’s lashes swept upwards, and her eyes sparked with anger. ‘You surely didn’t expect me to agree?’
‘No.’ His smile held wry humour, and there was a musing gleam evident in the depth of his appraisal. He reached out an idle finger and touched its tip to the end of her nose. The smile broadened. ‘But you rise so beautifully to the bait.’
Of all the... She drew in a deep breath, and expelled it slowly in an effort to defuse the simmering heat of her rage. ‘I think,’ she vouchsafed with the utmost care, ‘we had better agree not to ruffle each other’s feathers. Or we’re likely to come to blows.’
‘Verbal, of course.’
His faint mockery further incensed her. ‘Physical, if you don’t watch your step!’
‘Now there’s an interesting image.’ He gave a silent laugh, and his eyes were as dark as she imagined the devil’s own to be. ‘A word of warning, Suzanne,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t expect me to behave like a gentleman.’
This conversation had veered way off course, and she attempted to get back on it. With deliberate calm she turned her attention to one bed, then the other, entertained a brief image of Sloane attempting to fold his lengthy frame into the single one, and made a decision. ‘You can have the larger bed.’
‘Generous of you.’
‘Half the wardrobe is mine,’ she managed firmly. ‘With equal time and space in the bathroom.’
A lazy smile curved the edges of his mouth. ‘Done.’
She looked at him warily. His calm acceptance of her suggested sleeping arrangement was...unexpected.
There was a loud knock on the door, and Sloane moved indolently downstairs to allow the porter to deposit their bags, then, taking hold of one in each hand, he ascended the short flight of stairs.
‘I’ll unpack.’ A prosaic task that would take only minutes.
She was all too aware of Sloane’s matching actions as she hung a few changes of clothes on hangers in the wardrobe, lay underclothes into a drawer, and set out toiletries and make-up on one half of the vanity unit.
‘Anything for valet pressing?’
‘No.’ She watched as he extracted the appropriate bag, added two shirts, then filled in the slip and slung it down onto the bed.
‘When you’re ready, we’ll go join Georgia and Trenton in the dining room.’
She needed to run a quick brush through her hair and retouch her lipstick. ‘Give me a few minutes.’
In the en suite she regarded her mirror image with critical appraisal. Her eyes were too darkly pensive, her features too pale.
A few swift strokes of eyeshadow, blusher and lipstick added essential colour, and she made a split-second decision to twist the length of her hair into a careless knot atop her head.
Her hand automatically reached for the light parfum spray Sloane had gifted her. Her fingers hesitated, then retreated.
Oh, to hell with it. She wore perfume because she liked the fragrance, not because of any attempt to tantalise a man. If Sloane chose to think the fresh application was attributed to him, he was mistaken.
A quick spray to the delicate veins crossing each wrist, the valley between each breast. Better, much better, she determined as she emerged into the bedroom.
Sloane regarded her with one swift encompassing glance, then caught up his sunglasses and held out her own before standing to one side to allow her to precede him down onto the lower level.
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HELEN BIANCHIN
The wedding deception! Suzanne was thrilled that her mother was remarrying. But everyone expected her to attend the wedding with her own fiance, the very gorgeous Sloane - the bridegroom's son! How could Suzanne admit their engagement was off? But Sloane had a plan.For the weekend of the wedding, they'd play the part of a happy, soon-to-be married couple. Which meant sharing a suite - and a bed! And secretly, Sloane also intended bringing about the second family wedding of the weekend… .DO NOT Disturb! Anything can happen behind closed doors!
“Which bed would you prefer?” (#ubd29fbf5-5672-5ed4-921e-35c6ad77a46e)Title Page (#u04e85333-96ec-5bde-ab72-47baacb45e9a)CHAPTER ONE (#u0396e783-0f47-5395-af59-55a1a6ad2690)CHAPTER TWO (#udd854cad-4a41-5ee6-aa6f-c640780e654d)CHAPTER THREE (#u60fe8fbe-5d7c-596f-9f3c-bf3e4065a4d1)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Which bed would you prefer?”
Sloane regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t want to share?”
“No,” Suzanne told him. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t dare. It was bad enough having to share the same villa, the same bedroom!
To share the same bed was definitely impossible. Unless she was into casual sex, for the sake of sex. And she wasn’t. To her, sex meant intimacy, sensuality, love.
“A word of warning, Suzanne,” Sloane said softly. “Don’t expect me to behave like a gentleman.”
Anything can happen behind closed doors!
Do you dare find out...?
Welcome to the final book in our sizzling, sensual
miniseries DO NOT DISTURB!
Meet the last of four different couples thrown
together by circumstances into a whirlwind of
unexpected attraction. Forced into each other’s
company whether they like it or not, they’re soon in
the grip of passion—and definitely don’t want to
be disturbed!
This month it’s the turn of popular Presents
author Helen Bianchin to explore this delicious fantasy in a tantalizing romance you simply won’t want to put down.
What happens when Suzanne and her ex-fiancé
Sloane find themselves sharing The Bridal Bed...?
Turn the pages and find out!
The Bridal Bed
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IT SHOULD be Friday the thirteenth, Suzanne determined as she perused the perfectly printed legal document on her desk and noted yet another clause she knew wasn’t worded to her client’s best interest.
Midwinter had delivered metropolitan Sydney with a shocking day, and she’d woken to howling winds and heavy rain. Consequently she’d got wet traversing the external stairs leading from her tiny Manly flat down to the garage beneath.
Her car, which had up until now behaved impeccably, had decided not to start. A telephone call to the automobile association had elicited there was a backlog of calls, and it would be at least an hour before someone could come to her rescue. Two hours later the diagnosis had been a dead battery, and it had taken a further hour to organise a replacement and drive into the city.
Consequently she’d been late, very late arriving at the inner-city legal office where she worked as one of several junior solicitors. A fact that hadn’t sat well with two waiting clients who had been virtuously punctual. Nor had the senior partner been very happy that she’d missed an important staff meeting.
There had been files piled up on her desk, messages that required attention, and three rescheduled appointments lined up one after the other. Lunch hadn’t even been an option.
Mid-afternoon came and went as she struggled to catch up on a workload that threatened to spill over into work she would have to take home.
‘Suzanne, urgent call on line three.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded hesitant, diffident, and vaguely apologetic for breaching a ‘hold all calls’ instruction. ‘It’s your mother.’
Her mother never rang her at work. An icy hand clutched Suzanne’s heart as she snatched up the receiver. ‘Georgia? Is something wrong?’
A light, husky laugh echoed down the line. ‘Darling, everything’s fine. It’s just that I wanted you to be the first to hear my news.’
‘News, Mama?’ She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘You’ve won a fabulous prize? Bought a new car? Booked an overseas trip?’
There was a breathless pause. ‘Right on two counts.’
‘Which two?’
‘Well, sweetheart,’ Georgia began with a delicious chuckle, ‘the overseas trip is booked...Paris, would you believe? And I have won a fabulous prize.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ Really wonderful. Suzanne shook her head in silent amazement. Georgia was always taking lottery and raffle tickets, but had never won anything other than the most minor of prizes until now.
‘It’s not exactly a prize prize.’
The faintly cautious tone had Suzanne sinking back in her chair. ‘You’re talking in riddles, Mama. Is there a catch to any of this?’
‘No catch. At least, not the kind you mean.’
What had her cautious mother got herself into? ‘I’m listening.’
‘Bear with me, darling.’ Georgia’s voice hitched, then raced on in an excited rush. ‘It’s all so new, I still have a hard time believing it. And I wouldn’t have rung you at work, except I really couldn’t wait a minute longer.’
‘Tell me.’
There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I’m getting married.’
Initial joy was quickly followed by concern, and it was a frightening mix. Her mother didn’t date. There was a collection of friends, but no one man. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,’ Suzanne said slowly, and heard her mother’s light laughter in response. ‘Who is he, and where did you meet him?’
‘We met at your engagement party, darling.’
Three months. They’d only known each other three months. ‘Who, Mama?’
‘Trenton Wilson-Willoughby. Sloane’s father.’
Oh, my God. Heat rushed through her veins, then chilled to ice. ‘You’re not serious?’ Tell me you’re not serious, she pleaded silently.
‘You sound—shocked,’ Georgia responded slowly, and Suzanne quickly gathered her wits.
Recoup, regroup, fast. ‘Surprised,’ she amended. ‘It seems so sudden.’
‘Sometimes love happens that way. Sloane swept you off your feet in a matter of weeks.’
Like father, like son. ‘Yes,’ she agreed cautiously. Sloane had gifted her a sparkling diamond, whisked her down to Sydney from Brisbane, and moved her into his Rose Bay penthouse apartment before she’d had time to think, let alone catch her breath. Blinded by a riveting attraction and primitive alchemy.
‘When is the wedding taking place?’ A few months from now would give her plenty of time to—what? Explain that she was no longer living with Sloane?
‘This weekend, darling.’ Georgia sounded vaguely breathless and tremendously excited.
This weekend Today was Wednesday, for heaven’s sake. ‘Don’t you think—?’
‘It’s a bit sudden?’ her mother finished. ‘Yes, darling, I do. But Trenton is a very convincing man.’
Suzanne took a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’
‘As sure as I can be.’ There was a funny catch in her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’
Oh, hell. She had to collect her thoughts together. ‘Of course I am. And give you my blessing. I’m just so happy you are happy.’ She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Where is the wedding taking place? Have you chosen what you’ll wear?’
Georgia began to laugh, and, Suzanne suspected, to cry. ‘Bedarra Island, Saturday afternoon. Would you believe Trenton has booked all the accommodation on the island to ensure total privacy? I’m wearing a cream silk suit, with matching shoes and hat. We want you and Sloane to be witnesses.’
Bedarra Island was a privately owned resort situated high in North Queensland’s Whitsunday group of tropical islands. A minimum three-hour flight, followed by a launch trip to Bedarra.
‘Trenton has organised for you both to fly up on Friday morning and stay until Monday.’
Oh, my. Trenton’s organisation would include the family jet, the charter of a private launch.
Sloane.
It was three weeks since she’d walked out of his apartment, leaving a penned note briefly spelling out her need for some time alone. It attributed nothing to the reality of an anonymous threat if she didn’t end the engagement.
A threat she hadn’t taken seriously until the young socialite who’d initiated it had almost run Suzanne’s car off the road to emphasise her intent, then identified herself and promised grievous bodily harm if Suzanne failed to comply.
The sequence of events had been very carefully planned, she reflected, to coincide with Sloane’s absence overseas. Bitter, vitriolic invective had merely added doubt as to the socialite’s mental stability, and extreme caution had motivated Suzanne to leave Sloane’s apartment and move all her clothes into a flat on the other side of the city.
However, she had underestimated Sloane. When she’d refused to take his calls on his return, he’d pulled rank and walked unannounced into her office. His icy anger when she had refused to elaborate on the contents of her note had been so chilling, it had been all she could do not to fall in a heap the second the door had closed behind him.
Now it appeared she had little option but to see him again.
Suzanne slowly replaced the receiver, then stared sightlessly at the wall in front of her. Georgia and Trenton. Could her mother possibly guess at the complications she’d created?
Allowing no time for hesitation, Suzanne punched in the digit to access an outside line, then completed the set of numbers that would connect with Sloane’s law chambers.
Not that the call did much good. All she received was a relayed message stating that Sloane Wilson-Willoughby was in court and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. Suzanne logged in her name and phone number on his message bank.
Damn. The silent curse did little to ease her frustration as she turned her attention to the documents requiring her perusal. She made a note of two clauses she felt were not entirely to her client’s advantage, pencilled in a notation to delete one, and re-phrase another. Then she had her secretary lodge the necessary call in order to apprise the client of her suggested alterations.
The afternoon was hectic, and the nerves inside her stomach became increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by. Each time the phone rang, she mentally prepared herself for it to be Sloane, only to have her secretary announce someone else.
Was he deliberately delaying the call? Just to make her sweat a little? Whatever, it was playing havoc with her nervous system.
At five her phone buzzed just as she ushered a client from her office, and she crossed to her desk and picked up the receiver.
‘Sloane Wilson-Willoughby on line two.’ The information was imparted in a faintly breathless voice, and Suzanne momentarily raised her eyes towards the ceiling.
Sloane tended to have that effect on people. Women, especially, responded to something in his deep, smoky voice. Once they sighted him in the flesh, the response went into overdrive and tended to make vamps and vixens out of the most sensible of females.
She should know. She’d been there herself. Part of her ached for the promise, the dream of what they might have had together.
Then she drew in a deep breath, released it, and picked up the receiver. ‘Sloane.’ To ask ‘how are you?’ seemed incredibly banal.
‘Suzanne.’ The polite acknowledgement seared something deep inside, and she resolutely kept her voice even as she sank back in her chair. ‘Georgia rang me. I believe Trenton has relayed their news?’
‘Yes.’ Brief, succinct, and unforthcoming.
He wasn’t making it easy for her. There was no way out of this, and it was best if she just got on with it.
‘We need to talk.’
‘I agree,’ Sloane indicated silkily. ‘Make it dinner tonight.’ He named a restaurant in a city hotel. ‘Seven.’
She needed to put in another hour in order to appease her employer. ‘I don’t think—’
‘It’s the restaurant or your flat.’ His voice acquired the sound of silk being razed by steel. ‘Choose.’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Seven-thirty.’ A public place where there were people was the lesser of two evils. The thought of Sloane appearing at her flat, demanding entry...
‘Wise.’
No, it was most unwise, but she didn’t appear to have much option.
Suzanne replaced the receiver and attempted to concentrate on notations she needed to finalise.
Consequently it was well after six when she left the office, and almost seven before she reached home.
Within half an hour she’d showered, dressed, swept her damp hair into a sleek twist, applied make-up with practised precision, and she was on her way out of the door, retracing a familiar route into the city.
Except this time the traffic was more civilised. And there was the advantage of valet parking. Even so, she was fifteen minutes late.
Suzanne pushed open the heavy glass door and entered the hotel lobby. It took only seconds to locate a familiar dark-suited figure standing several metres distant.
Her pulse tripped its beat and accelerated to a faster pace as she watched him unfold his lengthy frame from a deep-cushioned lounge chair.
Sloane Wilson-Willoughby stood four inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders and muscled frame of a superbly trained athlete. Inherited genes had bestowed ruggedly attractive facial features, piercing brown eyes, and thick dark brown hair. Evident was an aura of power, and the ease of a man well versed in the strengths and weaknesses of his fellow men.
He watched as she moved towards him, his appraisal swift, taking in the red power suit adorning her petite frame, the upswept hairstyle and the stiletto heels she invariably wore to add inches to her height. She possessed an innate femininity that was at variance with the professional image she tried so hard to maintain. Slight but very feminine curves, slender, shapely legs, silken-smooth honey-gold skin, deep blue eyes, and a mouth to die for.
He’d tasted its delights, savoured the pleasures of her body, and put an engagement ring on her finger. It had stayed there precisely ten weeks before she’d taken it off with an excuse he’d no more believed then than he did now.
‘Sloane.’ She moved forward and accepted the touch of his hand at her elbow. And told herself she was impervious to the clean male smell of him mingling with the faint aroma of his exclusive brand of cologne. Immune to the latent sensuality that seemed to emanate from every pore.
He searched her pale features, and noted the faint smudges beneath eyes that seemed too large for her face. ‘Working hard?’
The deceptive mildness of his voice didn’t fool her in the slightest. She effected a light shrug and opted for flippancy. ‘Next you’ll tell me I’ve dropped weight.’
He lifted a hand and traced her jawline with his thumb. And saw her eyes dilate. ‘Two or three essential kilos, at a guess.’
His touch was like fire, and a muscle flickered in involuntary reaction. ‘Judge, advocate and jury rolled into one?’
‘Lover,’ Sloane amended.
‘Ex-lover,’ she corrected him, and saw the sensual curve of his lower lip.
‘Your choice, not mine.’
She deliberately moved back a pace, and met his gaze squarely. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘You wouldn’t prefer a drink first?’
She really wanted to keep this as short as possible. ‘No.’ She sought to qualify her decision. ‘I really can’t stay long.’
There was a tinge of wry humour evident in his voice as they walked towards the bank of lifts. ‘Dedication to duty, Suzanne?’
The humour stung. ‘Suffice it to say it’s been one of those days, and I have work to catch up on.’
A set of doors slid open and she preceded him into the lift. They were the only occupants, and he leaned forward to depress the button for the appropriate floor.
His suit sleeve brushed against her arm, and she tried to ignore the shivery sensation feathering over her skin. Her fine body hairs rose in protective self-defence, and she felt her pulse trip and surge to a faster beat.
Did he realise he still had this effect on her? Probably not, she reassured herself silently, for she strove very hard to project detached disinterest.
The restaurant was well patronised, and the maître d’ led them to a reserved table, saw them seated, and summoned the drinks waiter.
Suzanne viewed the menu with interest, and she ordered soup du jour, a seafood starter, and grilled fish as a main course.
‘Do we attempt to engage in polite conversation,’ Sloane drawled as soon as the waiter disappeared, ‘or shall we cut straight to the chase?’
Suzanne forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘Dinner was your idea.’
Evident was the leashed anger beneath his control. ‘What did you expect? A curt directive to meet me at the airport Friday morning?’
‘Yes.’
His smile was totally without humour. ‘Ah, honesty.’
‘It’s one of my more admirable traits.’
Their drinks were delivered, and Suzanne sipped the iced water, almost wishing it were something stronger. Alcohol might soothe her fractured nerves.
She watched as Sloane took an appreciative swallow of his customary spritzer before setting the glass onto the table, then leaning back in his chair.
‘You haven’t responded to any of my messages.’
It was difficult to retain his gaze, but she managed. ‘There didn’t seem much point.’
‘I beg to differ.’
He was a skilled wordsmith and a brilliant strategist. He was also icy calm. When all he wanted to do was reach forward and shake her.
‘We’re here to discuss our respective parents’ marriage to each other,’ she managed civilly. ‘Not conduct a post-mortem on our affair.’
‘Post-mortem?’ His voice was a sibilant threat. ‘Affair?’
He was playing with her, much as a predatory animal played with its prey. Waiting, watching, assessing each and every move, in no doubt of the kill. It was just a matter of when.
Suzanne rose to her feet and reached for her bag. ‘I’ve had one hell of a day. I have work to get through when I get home.’ Her eyes flashed angrily. ‘I don’t need you playing cat-and-mouse with me.’
A hand closed over her arm, and it took all her control not to shake it free.
‘Sit down.’
She would have liked nothing better than to turn and walk out of the door. But there was Georgia to consider. No matter how difficult the weekend might prove to be, she had to be present at her mother’s wedding. Anything else was unthinkable.
‘Please,’ Sloane added, and without a word she sank down into her chair.
Almost on cue the waiter delivered their soup, and she spooned it slowly, grateful for the ensuing silence.
When their plates were removed she picked up her glass and sipped the contents.
‘Tell me about your day,’ Sloane commanded with studied ease.
Suzanne looked at him carefully. ‘Genuine interest, or an adept attempt to keep our conversation on an even keel?’
‘Both.’
His faint, mocking smile was almost her undoing, and she felt like screaming with vexation. ‘I’d prefer to discuss the weekend.’
‘Indulge me. We have yet to begin the main course.’
At this rate she’d suffer indigestion. As it was, her stomach seemed to be tied in numerous knots.
‘The car refused to start, the automobile club took ages to send someone out, I was late in to work, and I got soaked in the rain.’ She effected a light shrug. That about encapsulates it.’
‘I’ll organise for you to have the use of one of my cars while yours is being checked out.’
A surge of anger rose to the surface. ‘No. You won’t.’
‘Now you’re being stubborn,’ he drawled hatefully.
‘Practical.’ And wary of being seen driving his Porsche or Jaguar.
‘Stubborn,’ Sloane reiterated.
‘You sound like my mother,’ Suzanne responded with a deliberately slow, sweet smile.
‘Heaven forbid.’
Anger rose once more, and her eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘You disapprove of Georgia?’
‘Of being compared to anything vaguely parental where you’re concerned,’ Sloane corrected her with ill-concealed mockery.
Suzanne looked at him carefully, then honed a verbal dart. ‘I doubt you’ve ever lacked a solitary thing in your privileged life.’
One eyebrow rose, and there was a certain wryness apparent. ‘Except for the love of a good woman?’
‘Most women fall over themselves to get to you,’ she stated with marked cynicism.
‘To the social prestige the Wilson-Willoughby name carries,’ Sloane amended drily. ‘And let’s not forget the family wealth.’
The multi-million-dollar family home with its incredible views over Sydney harbour, the fleet of luxurious cars, servants. Not to mention Sloane’s penthouse apartment, his cars. Homes, apartments in major European cities. The family cruiser, the family jet.
And then there was Wilson-Willoughby, headed by Trenton and notably one of Sydney’s leading law firms. One had only to enter its exclusive portals, see the expensive antique furniture gracing every office, the original artwork on the walls, to appreciate the elegance of limitless wealth.
‘You’re a cynic.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘A realist.’
Their starter arrived, and Suzanne took her time savouring the delicate texture of the prawns in a superb sauce many a chef would kill to reproduce.
‘Now that you’ve had some food, perhaps you’d like a glass of wine?’
And have it go straight to her head? ‘Half a glass,’ she qualified, and determined to sip it slowly during the main course.
‘I hear you’ve taken on a very challenging brief,’ she said.
Sloane pressed the napkin to the edge of his mouth, then discarded it down onto the damask-covered table. ‘News travels fast.’
As did anything attached to Sloane Wilson-Willoughby. In or out of the courtroom.
He part-filled her glass with wine, then set it back in the ice bucket, dismissing the wine steward who appeared with apologetic deference.
Their main course arrived, and Suzanne admired the superbly presented fish and artistically displayed vegetable portions. It seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb the arrangement, and she forked delicate mouthfuls with enjoyment.
‘Am I to understand Georgia meets with your approval as a prospective stepmother?’
Sloane viewed her with studied ease. She looked more relaxed, and her cheeks bore a slight colour. ‘Georgia is a charming woman. I’m sure she and my father will be very happy together.’
The deceptive mildness of his tone brought forth a musing smile. ‘I would have to say the same about Trenton.’
Sloane lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, then regarded her thoughtfully over the rim. ‘The question remains... What do you want to do about us?’
Her stomach executed a painful backflip. ‘What do you mean, what do I want to do about us?’
The waiter arrived to remove their plates, then delivered a platter of fresh fruit, added a bowl of freshly whipped cream, and withdrew.
‘Unless you’ve told Georgia differently, our respective parents believe we’re living in pre-nuptial bliss,’ Sloane relayed with deliberate patience. ‘Do we spend the weekend pretending we’re still together? Or do you want to spoil their day by telling them we’re living apart?’
She didn’t want to think about together. It merely heightened memories she longed to forget. Fat chance, a tiny voice taunted.
Fine clothes did little to tame a body honed to the height of physical fitness, or lessen his brooding sensuality. Too many nights she’d lain awake remembering just how it felt to be held in those arms, kissed in places she’d never thought to grant a licence to, and taught to scale unbelievable heights with a man who knew every path, every journey.
‘Your choice, Suzanne.’
She looked at him and glimpsed the implacability beneath the charming facade, the velvet-encased steel.
As a barrister in a court of law he was skilled with the command of words and their delivery. She’d seen him in action, and been enthralled. Mesmerised. And had known, even then, that she’d have reason to quake if ever he became her enemy.
A game of pretence, and she wondered why she was even considering it. Yet would it be so bad?
There wasn’t much choice if she didn’t want to spoil her mother’s happiness. The truth was something she intended to keep to herself.
‘I imagine it isn’t possible to fly in and out of Bedarra on the same day?’
‘No.’
It was a slim hope, given the distance and the time of the wedding. ‘There are no strings you can pull?’
‘Afraid to spend time with me, Suzanne?’ Sloane queried smoothly.
‘I’d prefer to keep it to a minimum,’ she said with innate honesty. ‘And you didn’t answer the question.’
‘What strings would you have me pull?’
‘It would be more suitable to arrive on Bedarra Saturday morning, and return Sunday.’
‘And disappoint Trenton and Georgia?’ He lifted his glass and took an appreciative swallow of excellent vintage wine. ‘Did it occur to you that perhaps Georgia might need your help and moral support before the wedding?’
It made sense, Suzanne conceded. ‘Surely we could return on Sunday?’
‘I think not.’
‘Why?’
He set the glass down onto the table with the utmost care. ‘Because I won’t be returning until Monday.’
She looked at him with a feeling of helpless anger. ‘You’re deliberately making this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?’
‘Trenton has organised to leave Sydney on Friday and return on Monday. I see no reason to disrupt those arrangements.’
A tiny shiver feathered its way down her spine.
Three days. Well, four if you wanted to be precise. Could she go through with it?
‘Do you want to renege, Suzanne?’
The silkily voiced query strengthened her resolve, and her eyes speared his. ‘No.’
‘Can I interest you in the dessert trolley?’
The waiter’s appearance was timely, and Suzanne turned her attention to the collection of delicious confections presented, and selected an utterly sinful slice of chocolate cake decorated with fresh cream and strawberries.
‘Decadent,’ she commented for the waiter’s benefit. ‘I’ll need to run an extra kilometre and do twenty more sit-ups in the morning to combat the extra kilo-joules.’
Even when she’d lived with Sloane, she’d preferred the suburban footpaths and fresh air to the professional gym housed in his apartment.
‘I can think of something infinitely more enjoyable by way of exercise.’
‘Sex?’ Was it the wine that had made her suddenly brave? With ladylike delicacy, she indicated his selection of crème caramel ‘You should live a little, walk on the wild side.’
‘Wild, Suzanne?’ His voice was pure silk with the honeyed intonation he used to great effect in the courtroom.
Knowing she would probably lose didn’t prevent her from enjoying a verbal sparring. ‘Figuratively speaking.’
‘Perhaps you’d care to elaborate?’
Her eyes were wide, luminous, and tinged with wicked humour. ‘Do the unexpected.’
Very few women sought to challenge him on any level, and none had in quite the same manner this petite, independent blonde employed. ‘Define unexpected.’
Her head tilted to one side. ‘Be less—conventional.’
‘You think I should play more?’ The subtle emphasis was intended, and he watched the slight flicker of her lashes, the faint pink that coloured her cheeks. Glimpsed the way her throat moved as she swallowed. And felt a sense of satisfaction. With innate skill, he honed the blade and pierced her vulnerable heart. ‘I have a vivid memory of just how well we played together.’
So did she, damn him. Very carefully she replaced her spoon on the plate. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what arrangements you’ve made for Friday morning.’
‘I’ve instructed the pilot we’ll be leaving at eight.’
‘I’ll meet you at the airport.’
‘Isn’t that carrying independence a little too far?’
‘Why should you drive to the North Shore, only to have to double back again?’ Suzanne countered.
Something shifted in his eyes, then it was successfully masked. ‘It isn’t a problem.’
Of course it wasn’t. She was making a problem out of sheer perversity. ‘I’ll drive to your apartment and garage my car there for the weekend,’ she conceded.
Sloane inclined his head in mocking acquiescence. ‘If you insist.’
It was a minor victory, one she had the instinctive feeling wasn’t a victory at all.
Sloane ordered coffee, then settled the bill. She didn’t linger, and he escorted her to the lobby, instructed the concierge to organise her car, and waited until it was brought to the main entrance.
‘Goodnight, Suzanne.’
His features appeared extraordinarily dark in the angled shadows, his tone vaguely cynical. An image of sight and sound that remained with her long after she slid wearily into bed.
CHAPTER TWO
THURSDAY proved to be a fraught day as Suzanne applied for and was granted two days’ leave, then she rescheduled appointments and consultations, attended to the most pressing work, delegated the remainder, and donated her entire lunch hour to selecting something suitable to wear to Georgia’s wedding.
Dedication to duty ensured she stayed back an extra few hours, and she arrived home shortly after eight, hungry and not a little disgruntled at having to eat on the run while she sorted through clothes and packed.
Elegant, casual, and beachwear, she determined as she riffled through her wardrobe, grateful she had sufficient knowledge of the Wilson-Willoughby lifestyle to know she need select the best of her best.
Comfortable baggy shorts and sweat-tops were out. In were tailored trousers, smart shirts, silk dresses, tennis gear. And the obligatory swimwear essential in the tropical north’s midwinter temperatures.
Some of Trenton Wilson-Willoughby’s guests would arrive with large Louis Vuitton travelling cases containing what they considered the minimum essentials for a weekend sojourn.
Suzanne managed to confine all she needed into one cabin bag, which she stored on the floor at the foot of her bed in readiness for last-minute essentials in the morning, then she returned to the kitchen and took a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator.
She crossed into the lounge, switched on the television and flicked through the channels in the hope of finding something that might hold her interest. A legal drama, a medical ditto, sport, a foreign movie, and something dire relating to the occult. She switched off the set, collected a magazine and sank into a nearby chair to leaf through the pages.
She felt too restless to settle for long, and after ten minutes she tossed the magazine aside, carried the empty can into the kitchen, then undressed and took a shower.
It wasn’t late late, but she felt tired and edgy, and knew she should go to bed given the early hour she’d need to rise in the morning.
Except when she did she was unable to sleep, and she tossed and turned, then lay staring at the ceiling for an age.
With a low growl of frustration she slid out of bed and padded into the lounge. If she was going to stare at something, she might as well curl up in a chair and stare at the television.
It was there that she woke, with a stiff neck and the television screen fizzing from a closed channel.
Suzanne peered at her watch in the semi-darkness, saw that it was almost dawn, and groaned. There was no point in crawling back to bed for such a short time. Instead she stretched her legs and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee.
Casual elegance denoted her apparel for the day, and after a quick shower and something to eat she stepped into linen trousers and a matching silk sleeveless top. Make-up was minimal, a little colour to her cheeks, mascara to give emphasis to her eyes, and a touch of rose-pink to her lips. An upswept hairstyle was likely to come adrift, so she left her hair loose.
At seven she added a trendy black jacket, checked the flat, then she fastened her cabin bag, took it downstairs and secured it in the boot. Then she slid in behind the wheel and reversed her car out onto the road.
At this relatively early hour the traffic flowed freely, and she enjoyed a smooth run through the northern suburbs.
The city skyline was visible as she drew close to the harbour bridge, the tall buildings bathed in a faint post-dawn mist that merged with the greyness of a midwinter morning and hinted at rain.
Even the harbour waters appeared dull and grey, and the ferries traversing its depths seemed to move heavily towards their respective berths.
Once clear of the bridge, it took minimum time to reach the attractive eastern suburb of Rose Bay. Sloane’s penthouse apartment was housed in a modern structure only metres from the edge of the wide, curving bay.
A number of large, beautiful old homes graced the tree-lined street and Suzanne admired the elegant two-and three-storeyed structures in brick and paint-washed stucco, situated in attractive landscaped grounds, as she turned into the brick-tiled apron adjoining Sloane’s apartment building.
He was waiting for her, his tall frame propped against the driver’s side of his sleek, top-of-the-range Jaguar. Casual trousers, an open-necked shirt and jacket had replaced his usual three-piece business suit, and he looked the epitome of the wealthy professional.
The trousers, shirt and jacket were beautifully cut, the shoes hand-stitched Italian. He didn’t favour male jewellery, and the only accessory he chose to wear was a thin gold watch whose make was undoubtedly exorbitantly expensive. His wardrobe contained a superb collection, yet none had been acquired as a status symbol.
Suzanne shifted the gear lever into neutral, then she slid out from behind the wheel and turned to greet him. ‘Good morning. I’m not late, am I?’ She knew she wasn’t, but she couldn’t resist the query.
Independence was a fine thing in a woman, but Suzanne’s strict adherence to it was something Sloane found mildly irritating. His eyes were cool as they swept her slim form. Cream tailored trousers, cream top and black jacket emphasised her slender curves, and lent a heightened sense of fragility to her features. Clever make-up had almost dealt with the shadows beneath her eyes. He derived a certain satisfaction from the knowledge. She obviously hadn’t slept any better than he had.
‘I’ll take your car down into the car park,’ Sloane indicated as he removed the cabin bag from her grasp and stowed it in the open boot of his car.
Within minutes he’d transferred her vehicle, then returned to slide in behind the wheel of his own car. The engine fired, and he eased the Jaguar out onto the road.
‘The jet will touch down in Brisbane to collect Trenton and Georgia,’ Sloane drawled as the car picked up speed.
Suzanne endeavoured not to show her surprise. ‘I thought Trenton would travel with us from Sydney.’
‘My father has been in Brisbane for the past week.’ He paused to spare her a quick glance, then added with perfect timing, ‘Ensuring, so he said, that Georgia didn’t have the opportunity to get cold feet.’
Georgia had rarely, if ever, dated. There had been no male friends visiting the house, no succession of temporary ‘uncles’. Georgia had been a devoted mother first and foremost, and a dedicated dressmaker who worked from the privacy of her own home.
For as long as Suzanne could remember they’d shared a close bond that was based on affectionate friendship. Genuine equals, rather than simply mother and daughter.
At forty-seven, Georgia was an attractive woman with a slim, petite frame, carefully tended blonde hair, blue eyes, and a wonderfully caring nature. She deserved happiness with an equally caring partner.
‘From Brisbane we’ll fly direct to Dunk Island, then take the launch to Bedarra,’ said Sloane.
Suzanne turned her head and took in the moving scenery, the houses where everyone inside them was stirring to begin a new day. Mothers cooking breakfast, sleepy-eyed children preparing to wash and dress before eating and taking public transport to school.
The traffic was beginning to build up, and it was almost eight when Sloane took the turn-off to the airport, then bypassed the main terminal and headed for the area where private aircraft were housed. He gained clearance, and drove onto the apron of bitumen.
Suzanne undid her seat belt and reached for the door-handle, only to pause as he leaned towards her.
‘You forgot something.’
Her breath caught as Sloane took hold of her left hand and slid her engagement ring onto her finger.
She looked at the sparkling solitaire diamond, then lifted her head to meet his gaze.
‘Trenton and Georgia will think it a little strange if you’re not wearing it,’ he drawled with hateful cynicism.
The charade was about to begin. A slightly hysterical laugh rose and died in her throat. Who was she kidding? ‘This is going to be some weekend.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Sloane—’ She paused, hesitant to say the words, but needing quite desperately to set a few ground rules. ‘You won’t—’
Dammit, his eyes were too dark, too discerning.
‘Won’t what, Suzanne?’
‘Overact.’
His expression remained unchanged. ‘Define overacting.’
She should have kept her mouth shut. Parrying words with him was a futile battle, for he always won. ‘I’d prefer it if you kept any body contact to a minimum.’
His eyes gleamed with latent humour. ‘Afraid, Suzanne?’
‘Of you? No, of course not.’
His gaze didn’t falter, and she felt the breath hitch in her chest. ‘Perhaps you should be,’ he intimated softly.
A chill settled over the surface of her skin, and she controlled a desire to shiver. She should call this off now. Insist on using his mobile phone so she could ring Georgia and explain.
‘No,’ Sloane said quietly. ‘We’ll see it through.’
‘You read minds?’
‘Yours is particularly transparent.’
It irked her unbearably that he was able to determine her thoughts. With anyone else it was possible to present an impenetrable facade. Sloane dispensed with each and every barrier she erected as if it didn’t exist.
Suzanne fervently wished it were Monday, and they were making the return trip. Then the weekend would be over.
A sleek Lear jet bearing the W-W insignia stood waiting for them, its baggage hold open. Sloane transferred their bags, then spoke to the pilot before they boarded.
The interior portrayed the ultimate in luxury. Plush carpets, superior fittings—me jet was a wealthy man’s expensive possession.
A slim, attractive stewardess greeted them inside the cabin. ‘If you’d each care to be seated and fasten your seat belts, we’ll be ready for immediate takeoff.’ She moved to close the door and secure it, checked her two passengers were comfortable, then she acknowledged internal clearance via intercom with the pilot.
The jet’s engines increased their whining pitch, then the sleek silver plane eased off the bitumen apron and cruised a path to the runway.
Within minutes they were in the air, climbing high in a northerly flight pattern that hugged the coastline.
‘Juice, tea or coffee?’
Suzanne opted for juice while Sloane settled for coffee, and when it was served the stewardess retreated into the rear section.
‘No laptop?’ Suzanne queried as Sloane made no attempt to take optimum advantage of the ensuing few hours. ‘No documents to peruse?’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘The laptop and my briefcase are stowed in the baggage compartment. However, I thought I’d take a break,’ he revealed with indolent amusement.
‘I have no objection if you want to work.’
‘Thereby negating the need for conversation, Suzanne?’
She aimed a slow, sweet smile at him. ‘How did you guess?’
Sloane’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘We should, don’t you think, ensure our stories match on events during the past three weeks?’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Minor details like movies we might have seen, the theatre, dinner with friends.’
Separate residences, separate lives. Hectic work-filled days, empty lonely nights.
A particularly lacklustre social calendar, Suzanne conceded on reflection, and was unable to prevent a comparison to the halcyon days when she’d shared Sloane’s apartment and his life. Then there had been a succession of dinners, parties, and few evenings together alone at home. Long nights of loving, a wonderfully warm male body to curl into, and being awakened each morning by the stroke of his fingers, his lips.
Something clenched deep inside her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to clear the image.
‘Suzanne?’
Clarity of mind was essential, and she met his gaze, acknowledged the enigmatic expression, and managed a slight smile. ‘Of course.’ Her attendance at the cinema had been her only social excursion. She named the movie, and provided him with a brief plot line. ‘And you? I imagine you maintained a fairly hectic social schedule?’
‘Reasonably quiet,’ Sloane relayed. ‘I declined a dinner invitation with the Parkinsons.’ His level gaze held hers. ‘You supposedly had a migraine.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
His expression held a degree of cynical humour. ‘We dined à deux, or stayed home.’
Suzanne remembered too well what had inevitably transpired during the evenings they’d stayed in. The long, slow foreplay that had begun when they’d entered the apartment. Sipping from each other’s glass, offering morsels of food as they’d eaten a leisurely meal. A liqueur coffee, and the deliberate choice of viewing cable television or a video. The drift of fingers over sensitised skin, the soft touch of lips savouring delicate hollows, a sensual awakening that had held the promise of continued arousal and the ultimate coupling of two people who had delighted in each other on every plane.
Sometimes there had been no foreplay at all. Just compelling passion, the melding of mouths as urgent fingers had freed buttons and dispensed with clothes. Occasionally they hadn’t even made it to the bedroom.
Suzanne met his gaze and held it, fought against a compulsive movement in her throat as she contained the lump lodged there, and chose not to comment.
A hollow laugh died before it was born. Who was she kidding? There was no choice at all. If she opened her mouth, only the most strangled of sounds would emerge.
She saw the darkness reflected in his eyes, glimpsed the flare of passion and his banking of it, then wanted to die as his lips curved into a slow, sensual smile.
‘Memories, Suzanne?’
Try for lightness, a touch of humour. Then he’d never know just how much she ached inside. ‘Some of them were good, very good.’ He deserved that, if nothing else. Others were particularly forgettable. Such as the bitchiness of some of his social equals.
Oh, damn. She was treading into deeper water with every step she took. And she’d only been in his company an hour. What state would she be in at the end of the weekend, for heaven’s sake?
She fished a magazine from a strategically placed pocket, and began flipping through the glossy pages until she discovered an article that held her interest. Or at least she could feign that it did for the duration of the short flight to Brisbane.
It was a relief when the jet landed and cruised to a halt on the far side of the terminal. Suzanne glimpsed a limousine parked close to the hangar, and Sloane’s father boarded as soon as the jet’s door opened and the steps were unfolded.
‘Good morning.’
Trenton moved lithely down the aisle and closed the distance to greet them.
The family resemblance between father and son was clearly evident, the frame almost identical, although Trenton was a little heavier through the chest, slightly thicker in the waist, and his hair was streaked with grey.
He was a kind man, possessed of a gentle wit, beneath which was a shrewd and knowledgeable business mind.
Suzanne rose to her feet and allowed herself to be enveloped in a bear-hug.
‘Suzanne. Lovely to see you, my dear.’ He released her, and acknowledged his son with a warm smile. ‘Sloane.’ He indicated the limousine. ‘Georgia is making a call from the car.’ The smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled with humour as he placed a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. ‘A last-minute confirmation of floral arrangements for the wedding. Go down and talk to her while I check the luggage being loaded on board.’
Georgia was fixing her lipstick, a slight pink colouring her cheeks as Suzanne slid into the rear seat, and she leaned forward and brushed her mother’s cheek with her own. ‘Nervous?’
‘No,’ her mother denied. ‘Just needing someone to tell me I’m not being foolish.’
Georgia had been widowed at a young age, left to rear a child who retained little memory of the father who had been killed on a dark road in the depth of night by a joyriding, unlicensed lout high on drugs and alcohol. Life thereafter hadn’t exactly been a struggle, as circumspect saving and a relatively strict budget had ensured there were holidays and a few of life’s pleasures.
‘You’re not being foolish,’ Suzanne said gently.
Georgia appeared anxious as she lifted a hand and pressed fingers to Suzanne’s cheek. ‘I would have preferred to put my plans on hold until after your wedding to Sloane. You don’t mind, do you?’
It was difficult to maintain her existing expression beneath the degree of guilt and remorse she experienced for embarking on a deliberately deceitful course.
‘Don’t be silly, Mama,’ she said gently. ‘Sloane has briefs stacked back to back. We can’t plan anything until he’s free to take a few weeks’ break.’ She tried for levity, and won. ‘Besides, I doubt Trenton would hear of any delay.’
‘No,’ a deep voice drawled. ‘He wouldn’t.’
Trenton held out his hand and Suzanne took it, then stepped out of the car, watching as he gave Georgia a teasing look. ‘Time to fly, sweetheart.’
Suzanne boarded the jet, closely followed by her mother and Trenton, and within minutes the jet cruised a path to a distant runway, paused for clearance, then accelerated for take-off.
An intimate cabin, intimate company, with the emphasis on intimacy. It took only one look to see that Trenton was equally enamoured of Georgia as she was of him.
Any doubts Suzanne might have had were soon dispensed with, for there was a magical chemistry existent that tore the breath from her throat.
You shared a similar alchemy with Sloane, an inner voice taunted.
Almost as soon as the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign flashed off Trenton rose to his feet and extracted a bottle of champagne and four flutes from the bar fridge.
‘A toast is fitting, don’t you agree?’ He removed the cork and proceeded to fill each flute with vintage Dom Perignon, handed them round, then raised his own. ‘To health, happiness—’ his eyes met and held Georgia’s, then he turned to spare Sloane and Suzanne a carefree smile ‘—and love.’
Sloane touched the rim of his flute to that of Suzanne’s, and his gaze held a warmth that almost stole her breath away.
Careful, she cautioned. It’s only an act. And, because of it, she was able to direct him a stunning smile before turning towards her mother and Trenton. ‘To you both.’
Alcohol before lunch was something she usually chose to avoid, and champagne on a near-empty stomach wasn’t the wisest way to proceed with the day.
Thankfully there was a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches set out on a platter, and she ate one before sipping more champagne.
Sloane lifted a hand and tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear in a deliberately evocative gesture. It pleased him to see her eyelashes sweep wide, feel the faint quiver beneath his touch, and glimpse the increased pulse-beat at the base of her throat.
It would prove to be an interesting four days. And three nights, he perceived with a degree of cynical amusement.
Suzanne felt the breath hitch in her throat. Was she out of her mind? What had seemed a logical, common-sense option now loomed as an emotional minefield.
CHAPTER THREE
BEDARRA ISLAND resembled a lush green jewel in a sapphire sea. Secluded, reclusive, a haven of natural beauty, and reached only by launch from nearby Dunk Island.
Bedarra Island at first sight appeared covered entirely by rainforest. It wasn’t until the launch drew closer that Suzanne glimpsed a high-domed terracottatiled villa roof peeping through dense foliage, then another and another.
There were sixteen private villas, walking was the only form of transport, and children under fifteen were not catered for, she mused idly, having studied the brochure she’d collected the day after she’d become aware of their destination.
She stood admiring the translucent sea as the launch cleaved through the water. It looked such a peaceful haven, the ideal place to get away from the rush and bustle of city life.
Acute sensory perception alerted her to Sloane’s presence, and she contained a faint shivery sensation as he moved in close behind her, successfully forming a casual cage as he placed a hand at either side of her on the railing.
No part of his body touched hers, but she was intensely aware of the few inches separating them and how easy it would be to lean back into that hard-muscled frame.
She closed her eyes against the painful image of memory of when they had stood together just like this. Looking out over a sleeping city from any one of several floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse; in the kitchen, where she’d adored taking the domestic role; the large en suite. On any one of many occasions when he’d enfolded her close and nuzzled the sensitive slope of her neck, her nape, the hollow behind each earlobe.
Times when she had exulted in his touch and turned into the circle of his arms to lift her face to his for a kiss that was alternately slow and gentle, or hard and hungry. Inevitably, it had led them to the bedroom and long hours of passion.
Suzanne’s fingers tightened on the railing as the launch decreased speed and began to ease in against the small jetty. Was Sloane’s memory as vivid as her own? Or was he unmoved, and merely playing an expected role?
Damn. She’d have to get a grip on such wayward emotions, or she’d become a nervous wreck!
‘Time to disembark.’
She felt rather than heard him move, and the spell was broken as Georgia’s voice intruded, mingling with that of Trenton.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Georgia remarked simply as they trod the path through to the main complex and reception.
‘Secluded,’ Trenton concurred. ‘With guaranteed privacy, and no unwanted intrusion by the media.’
For which he was prepared to pay any price, Suzanne concluded, knowing only too well how difficult it was at times to enjoy a private dinner out without being interrupted by some society photographer bent on capturing a scoop for the tabloid social pages.
Exotic native timbers provided a background for the merging colour and tone of furnishings adorning the reception area.
The reception manager greeted them warmly, processed their check-in with practised speed, indicated their luggage would be taken to their individual villas and placed two keys on the counter.
Suzanne felt as if she’d been hit in the solar plexus by a sledgehammer. Fool. Of course she and Sloane were to share a villa. Why on earth not, given they were supposedly still engaged and living together?
‘We’ll meet in the dining room for lunch.’ Trenton collected one key and spared his watch a glance. ‘Say—half an hour?’
Together they traversed a curving path and reached Trenton and Georgia’s villa first, leaving Sloane and Suzanne to continue to their own.
Suzanne could hear the faint screech of birds high in the trees, and she wondered at their breed, whether they were red-crested parrots with their brilliant blue and green plumage, or perhaps the white cockatoo, or pink-breasted galah.
Sloane unlocked the door and she preceded him inside, waiting only until he closed the door behind him before turning towards him.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she demanded with suppressed anger.
‘That we’d share? Yes.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘You surely didn’t imagine we’d have separate accommodation?’
She watched as he moved into the room, and wanted to throw something—preferably at him. ‘And, of course, as Trenton has booked out the entire island there are no free villas.’
He turned and directed her a level look. ‘That’s true. Although even if there were we’d still share.’
‘The projected image of togetherness,’ Suzanne said with heavy cynicism, and glimpsed one eyebrow slant in silent query.
‘Something we agreed as being the favoured option, I believe?’
A temporary moment of insanity when she’d put her mother’s feelings to the forefront with very little thought for her own, she decided disparagingly. Then felt bad, for she’d do anything rather than upset Georgia.
The villa was spacious, open-plan living on two levels. And it was remarkably easy to determine via an open staircase that the upper level was given over to one bedroom, albeit that it was large and housed a queen and single bed, as well as an adjoining en suite bathroom.
Suzanne followed him upstairs, and discovered the bedroom was larger than she’d expected, with glossy timber floors and a high ceiling. A central fan stirred recycled air-conditioned air, and dense external foliage provided an almost jungle-like atmosphere that heightened the sensation of secluded tranquillity.
Her eyes skimmed over both beds, and quickly skittered towards the functional en suite. Four days of enforced sharing. It had hardly begun, and already she could feel several nerve-ends curling in protective self-defence.
‘Which bed would you prefer?’ she asked in civil tones, wanting, needing to set down a few ground rules. Rules were good, they imposed boundaries, and if they adhered to them they should be able to get through the weekend with minimum conflict.
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You don’t want to share?’
‘No.’ She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t dare. It was bad enough having to share the same villa, the same bedroom.
To share the same bed was definitely impossible. Unless she was into casual sex, for the sake of sex. And she wasn’t. To her, sex meant intimacy, sensuality, love. Not a physical exercise to be indulged in simply to satisfy a basic urge.
Sloane watched her expressive features, perceived each deliberation and recognised every one of them. ‘Pity.’
Suzanne’s lashes swept upwards, and her eyes sparked with anger. ‘You surely didn’t expect me to agree?’
‘No.’ His smile held wry humour, and there was a musing gleam evident in the depth of his appraisal. He reached out an idle finger and touched its tip to the end of her nose. The smile broadened. ‘But you rise so beautifully to the bait.’
Of all the... She drew in a deep breath, and expelled it slowly in an effort to defuse the simmering heat of her rage. ‘I think,’ she vouchsafed with the utmost care, ‘we had better agree not to ruffle each other’s feathers. Or we’re likely to come to blows.’
‘Verbal, of course.’
His faint mockery further incensed her. ‘Physical, if you don’t watch your step!’
‘Now there’s an interesting image.’ He gave a silent laugh, and his eyes were as dark as she imagined the devil’s own to be. ‘A word of warning, Suzanne,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t expect me to behave like a gentleman.’
This conversation had veered way off course, and she attempted to get back on it. With deliberate calm she turned her attention to one bed, then the other, entertained a brief image of Sloane attempting to fold his lengthy frame into the single one, and made a decision. ‘You can have the larger bed.’
‘Generous of you.’
‘Half the wardrobe is mine,’ she managed firmly. ‘With equal time and space in the bathroom.’
A lazy smile curved the edges of his mouth. ‘Done.’
She looked at him warily. His calm acceptance of her suggested sleeping arrangement was...unexpected.
There was a loud knock on the door, and Sloane moved indolently downstairs to allow the porter to deposit their bags, then, taking hold of one in each hand, he ascended the short flight of stairs.
‘I’ll unpack.’ A prosaic task that would take only minutes.
She was all too aware of Sloane’s matching actions as she hung a few changes of clothes on hangers in the wardrobe, lay underclothes into a drawer, and set out toiletries and make-up on one half of the vanity unit.
‘Anything for valet pressing?’
‘No.’ She watched as he extracted the appropriate bag, added two shirts, then filled in the slip and slung it down onto the bed.
‘When you’re ready, we’ll go join Georgia and Trenton in the dining room.’
She needed to run a quick brush through her hair and retouch her lipstick. ‘Give me a few minutes.’
In the en suite she regarded her mirror image with critical appraisal. Her eyes were too darkly pensive, her features too pale.
A few swift strokes of eyeshadow, blusher and lipstick added essential colour, and she made a split-second decision to twist the length of her hair into a careless knot atop her head.
Her hand automatically reached for the light parfum spray Sloane had gifted her. Her fingers hesitated, then retreated.
Oh, to hell with it. She wore perfume because she liked the fragrance, not because of any attempt to tantalise a man. If Sloane chose to think the fresh application was attributed to him, he was mistaken.
A quick spray to the delicate veins crossing each wrist, the valley between each breast. Better, much better, she determined as she emerged into the bedroom.
Sloane regarded her with one swift encompassing glance, then caught up his sunglasses and held out her own before standing to one side to allow her to precede him down onto the lower level.
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HELEN BIANCHIN
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: The wedding deception! Suzanne was thrilled that her mother was remarrying. But everyone expected her to attend the wedding with her own fiance, the very gorgeous Sloane – the bridegroom′s son! How could Suzanne admit their engagement was off? But Sloane had a plan.For the weekend of the wedding, they′d play the part of a happy, soon-to-be married couple. Which meant sharing a suite – and a bed! And secretly, Sloane also intended bringing about the second family wedding of the weekend… .DO NOT Disturb! Anything can happen behind closed doors!