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The Wedding-Night Affair
Miranda Lee
She'd fallen in love again - with her ex-husband! Fiona was the successful co-owner of Five Star Weddings - the wedding coodinators as far as Sydney's society set was concerned. Which was how she got to organize her ex-husband Philip's forthcoming marriage. Fiona quickly realized she still loved Philip, but she was determined to resist the chemistry that still bubbled between them.Her job was to make sure that the wedding of the year went without a hitch… even after the bride made a stunning revelation - and Fiona found herself agreeing to be Philip's stand-in wife! They're gorgeous, they're glamorous… and they're getting married!


“Sorry. I’ll try again.” (#ucb90d88e-a1fd-5e04-b9f1-d33c4efcdb9a)Title Page (#ue005349b-f2d8-52ac-9448-794ee375c59f)CHAPTER ONE (#uccda06e0-3e46-5e13-9686-25c168d11651)CHAPTER TWO (#u139cadb7-0f12-5616-8c5d-2e4dc76d197e)CHAPTER THREE (#ud654c545-e9b1-5a49-9dea-10c650f24e9d)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)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Sorry. I’ll try again.”
She didn’t dare look up into his eyes. Instead she stared straight ahead and tried with all her might to tie a proper bow tie.
“I...er...think you’ll have to get someone else to do this,” she said somewhat breathlessly.
When he didn’t say a single word, she looked up, then desperately wished she hadn’t. He was too close. Far, far too close.
His eyes searched hers with a harsh and haunted expression, betraying in that moment that he did still feel something for her.
“Why did you leave me?” he demanded angrily. “Why, damn you?”
“Oh, Philip,” was all she could manage.
He gave no warning of his intention to kiss her; nothing, except perhaps for a moment’s darkening of his eyes. Then she was yanked up against him and his mouth crashed down on hers.
Harlequin Presents
Invites you to see how the other half marries in:


They’re gorgeous, they’re glamorous...
and they’re getting married!
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Coming next month:
The Impatient Groom
by
Sara Wood
#2054


The Wedding-Night Affair
Miranda Lee





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
THE door of Fiona’s office burst open and Owen strode in, his round face pink with excitement. ‘You’ve no idea who just rang and booked you for her son’s wedding!’ he exclaimed.
Fiona rolled her eyes, torn between exasperation and affection for her business partner. He was a dear man and a dear friend, hard-working and honest as the day was long. Mid-thirties, still a bachelor, and not at all gay as some people supposed, despite his penchant for pastel-coloured shirts and brightly coloured bow ties. Fiona thought the world of him.
He had this irritating habit, however, of accepting work on her behalf. Then he would race in to give her the details afterwards, and expect her to be thrilled to pieces.
She never was. She liked to vet all potential clients personally before accepting a job.
‘You’re right, Owen,’ Fiona returned drily. ‘I have no idea. How could I, since I didn’t have the privilege of talking to this new client myself?’
As usual, Owen didn’t look at all shame-faced. ‘Couldn’t, dear heart,’ he countered breezily. ‘You were on the phone when she rang, so Janey put the lady through to me.’
‘Janey could have put the lady on hold for a while till I was free,’ Fiona pointed out with mock sweetness.
Owen clamped a hand over his heart in horror at such a suggestion. ‘Put Mrs Kathryn Forsythe on hold? Good God, Fiona, she might have hung up!’
Fiona’s own hand fluttered up to cover her own heart. ‘Kathryn Forsythe?’ she repeated weakly.
Owen beamed. ‘I can see you’re impressed. And so you should be! Do you have any idea what handling a Forsythe wedding will do for our business? Five-Star Weddings will be the toast of Sydney’s social set! After everything goes off with your usual smooth and spectacular brilliance, Kathryn Forsythe will sing your praises to everyone who matters and there’ll be a rush of society matrons banging on our doors to do their own daughter’s wedding. Or son’s, as is the case this time.’
Fiona’s heart skipped another beat, before gradually returning to normal functions. What a fool she was to feel a thing after all this time—even shock!
‘Well, well, well,’ she mused aloud as she leant back in her black swivel chair and tapped her expertly manicured fingernails on the stainless steel armrests. ‘So Philip’s getting married at long last, is he?’
It was about time, she supposed. He would have been thirty last birthday. The perfect age for him to be finding a suitable bride and siring a suitable heir for his branch of the Forsythe fortune.
Owen looked slightly taken aback. ‘You know Philip Forsythe?’
Fiona laughed a dry little laugh. ‘Know him! I was married to him once.’ Briefly...
Owen dropped his rotund frame into one of the chairs she kept handy for clients. ‘Good grief!’ he gasped, then sagged, all his earlier enthusiasm swiftly abating. ‘There goes our first high society gig.’ Even his pink-spotted bow tie seemed to droop.
‘Don’t be silly. You can do it, can’t you? Just say I’m all booked up.’
‘That won’t work,’ Owen groaned. ‘Mrs Forsythe wants the same co-ordinator who organised Craig Bateman’s wedding.’
‘Really? But that was hardly a society do. Just a cricketer and his childhood sweetheart. Very western suburbs, actually.’
‘I know. But it was featured in one of the glossies, remember? It seems Mrs Forsythe was flipping through that particular issue at her hairdresser’s and was most impressed by the photographs. The studio’s name and number was printed underneath. Bill Babstock, if you recall. Anyway, when she rang to book Bill for her son’s wedding, dear Bill very sensibly suggested she hire a professional wedding co-ordinator, then gave you the most glowing recommendation. When Mrs Forsythe rang just now, I did explain that you were very busy, but she promptly said that she’d heard you were the best and she wanted only the best for her son’s wedding. So naturally I promised her you.’
‘Naturally,’ Fiona repeated in rueful tones.
Owen threw his hands up in the air. ‘How was I to know you’d once been married to her infernal son? I mean...when I gave the woman your full name to jot down, she didn’t react adversely. It was as though she didn’t recognise it at all!’
Fiona thought about that for a moment ‘No, she wouldn’t. Everyone called me Noni back then. And my surname was Stillman. Fiona Kirby wouldn’t have meant a thing to her.’
Owen frowned ‘Kirby’s not your maiden name?’
‘No, it’s my second husband’s name.’
Owen gaped at her. ‘Second husband! Good grief, girl, I’ve known you six years, and whilst you’ve had more admirers than I’ve had bow ties you’ve never even got close to the altar. On top of that, you’re only twenty-eight! Now I find you’ve got two husbands hidden in your past and the first belongs to one of Australia’s richest families! Who was the other one? A famous brain surgeon? An international pop star?’
‘No, a truck driver.’
‘A truck driver!’ he repeated disbelievingly.
‘First name Kevin. Lived out at Leppington. Nice man, actually. I did him a favour when I divorced him, believe me.’
‘And Philip Forsythe? Was he a nice man too?’
‘Actually, yes, he was. Very.’ She’d never held any real bitterness towards Philip. Or even Philip’s father, who’d been surprisingly kind and gentle. It was his mother Fiona despised, his mother who’d looked down her nose at Noni and never given her brief marriage to Philip a chance.
‘I suppose you did Philip Forsythe a favour when you divorced him too?’ came her partner’s caustic comment.
‘How very perceptive of you, Owen. That’s exactly what I did.’ But it wasn’t a divorce, she almost added. It was an annulment...
Fiona bit her tongue just in time. Such an announcement would lead to some sticky questions which she had no intention of answering.
‘Let’s face it, Owen,’ she went on, ‘I’m not good wife material. I like my own way far too much. I also hate to think we might lose this lucrative commission. Are you absolutely sure you can’t convince Mrs Forsythe to let you do it? Maybe we could say I’m ill.’
Owen sighed. ‘I won’t lie, Fiona. Lies always come back and bite you on the bum. Besides, I could hear the determination in her voice. She wants you for her son’s wedding, and you alone.’
‘That’s a change,’ Fiona muttered under her breath.
‘What was that?’
Fiona looked up. ‘I said that’s a shame. As you said, this wedding would be worth a lot to us, both money-wise and reputation-wise.’ She frowned and gnawed at her bottom lip. ‘I wonder...’
Owen tried not to panic as he watched his partner’s large brown eyes narrow into darkly determined slits. He knew that stubborn, focused look. When Fiona got the bit between the teeth, woe betide anyone who got in her way. Most times, Fiona’s driven and obsessive personality didn’t worry him. It was a plus, business-wise. She got things done.
This time, however, he feared getting things done might get things seriously undone.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ he said, leaping out of the chair and jabbing a pudgy finger her way. ‘Don’t even think about it!’
‘Think about what?’
‘Trying to trick Kathryn Forsythe. I can see you now, putting on glasses and a blonde wig then waltzing in there with some funny accent, hoping your ex-mother-in-law won’t recognise you.’
‘But she won’t recognise me, Owen,’ Fiona said with blithe confidence. ‘And I won’t need to change a thing about my appearance. When Philip’s mother knew me ten years ago I was a blonde. A ghastly straw colour done in a big mass of waves and curls. I also wore more make-up than a clown, carried twenty pounds too many and dressed like I was auditioning for a massage parlour. No top could be too tight; no skirt too short.’
Owen could only stare, first at the shoulder-length black hair which swung in a sleek, smooth, glossy curtain around his partner’s striking but subtly made up face, then at the very slender body which was always displayed within a stylish but subtle outfit.
In appearance and dress, Fiona was the epitome of elegance and class, had been ever since he’d known her. The image she’d just painted of herself at the time of her marriage to Philip Forsythe certainly didn’t match the woman she was today. Owen could not visualise her as some brassy voluptuous blonde bombshell.
Even if it was so—and he supposed it was—why would the likes of Philip Forsythe marry such a creature? He didn’t know the man personally, but the bachelor sons of that particular family only ever married glamorous model-types, or the daughters of other equally rich families.
Unless, of course, it was for the sex.
Owen had to admit Fiona exuded a strong sexual allure which even he felt at times. Yet she wasn’t his type at all. He fancied cuddly older women who laughed a lot, played a top game of Scrabble and cooked him casseroles. He never looked at a woman under forty, or a size fourteen.
Still, most men were madly attracted to Fiona. Once they slept with her, they became seriously smitten. She had dreadful trouble getting rid of her lovers after she tired of them.
And she always tired of them in the end.
Owen had often thought her a little cruel towards his sex, despite her always claiming that she never made a man any promises of permanency and had no idea why they presumed a deeper involvement than what was on offer. Perhaps the secret of that cruelty lay in those two marriages to those two supposedly ‘nice’ men.
‘As for a funny accent,’ Fiona was saying with a dismissive wave of her hand, ‘I won’t need to adopt one of those, either. The way I talk now is a lot different to the way I used to talk, believe me. I made Crocodile Dundee sound cultured back in those days. No, Owen, Mrs Forsythe won’t recognise me. And Mr Forsythe senior won’t have the chance. He passed away a couple of years back.’
‘Did he? I didn’t know that.’
‘Cancer,’ Fiona informed him. ‘It didn’t get all that much coverage in the papers. The funeral was private and closed to the public.’
There’d only been the one photo, Fiona recalled. That had been of Kathryn climbing into a big black car after the funeral was over. None of Philip.
Philip was not like his mother, or the rest of the Forsythes. He shunned publicity, and the media. Not once in the past ten years had Fiona ever caught a glimpse of him, either on television, or in the papers or magazines.
‘And what was he like?’ Owen asked.
‘What?’ Fiona looked up blankly. ‘Who?’
‘The groom’s father,’ Owen repeated drily.
‘Actually...he was very nice.’
‘Goodness, Fiona, your past seems peppered with very nice men. How is it, then, that down deep you’re a man-hater?’
Fiona was startled for a moment, then defensive. ‘That’s a bit harsh, Owen, and not true at all. I love you, and you’re a man.’
‘I’m not talking about me, Fiona. I’m talking about the men you’ve dated, then discarded without so much as a backward glance. They thought you really cared for them but the truth is you just used them. That’s not very nice, you know.’
Fiona stiffened for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Sorry you think that, Owen, but they all knew the score. As for really caring for me, I doubt that very much. After an initial burst of pique at having their egos dented, they moved on to the next female swirftly enough. Now, let’s get back to the subject at hand, which is that Kathryn Forsythe won’t recognise me. Philip will be the only one who might. Though I stress the word might. Still, it’s the mother who matters, isn’t it? She’s the one I’m meeting. Believe me when I assure you she won’t know me from Adam.’
Owen stared at his partner and his friend and felt terribly sorry for her, because she was nice. Underneath all that delusionary and self-destructive bitterness, she was a genuine person, decent and kind, hard-working and generous. She cared about her clients and their worries. She always remembered everyone’s birthday in the office, and was the softest touch when it came to charities. She never walked past one of those people selling useless badges and biros in the street, always stopping with a smile and a donation.
Goodness knows what had happened in those marriages of hers to make her hard where men were concerned, because she wasn’t hard in any other department of her life. Determined, yes. And ambitious. But that was different. That was business.
Which reminded him. He had a business to protect here. He could not allow Fiona to carelessly endanger what they’d taken years to build together.
‘We can’t rely on Mrs Forsythe not recognising you, Fiona,’ Owen said firmly. ‘If you don’t reveal who you are up front and it comes out later, then she’s going to be furious and your name will be mud. Which means our name will be mud. I see no other solution than for you to keep the appointment I made for you, confess your identity with tact and diplomacy, then offer her my services once again. At least that way, even if she decides against using Five-Star Weddings, she won’t be inclined to blacken our name.’
Fiona leant back even further in her chair and mulled over Owen’s suggestion. It made sound business sense, she supposed. And she would still have the satisfaction of seeing Kathryn Forsythe’s face when she revealed her true identity.
In a way, it would be better than tricking her, showing the hateful woman in person that the one-time object of her snobbish scorn was no longer as ignorant as sin and as common as muck. Philip’s derided and despised first wife could pass muster in the best of circles these days!
Fiona now knew how to dress, how to talk and how to act on whatever occasion was thrown at her. She owned a half-share in a blossoming business, a beautiful flat overlooking Lavender Bay, and a wardrobe full of designer clothes. She had a vast knowledge of food and wine. She had an appreciation of art and music of all kinds. She could even ski!
But, best of all, she could have just about any man she wanted, if and when she wanted them, for as little or as long as she wanted them.
For a moment Fiona wondered ruefully what would happen if she ran into Philip again. Would he recognise her? If he did, what would he think of Fiona as compared to Noni? Would he want Fiona as he’d once wanted Noni?
It was an intriguing speculation.
As much as she was over her love for Philip at long last, she still felt an understandable curiosity about the man. What did he look like now? And what was the woman like he’d finally decided to marry?
‘Very well, Owen,’ she agreed, and snapped forward in her chair. ‘I’ll go and throw myself on Mrs Forsythe’s mercy. But first, do tell. Why is it Kathryn’s job to organise her son’s wedding? Doesn’t the lucky bnde have a mother?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Apparently not.’
‘So who is this undoubtedly beautiful and well-brought-up creature who’s to be welcomed into the bosom of the Forsythe family?’
‘I have no idea. We didn’t get that far.’
‘So when’s the appointment for?’
‘Tomorrow morning at ten.’
‘On a Saturday? You know I never see anyone on a Saturday! For pity’s sake, Owen, I have a wedding on tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Rebecca can handle it.’
‘No,’ Fiona said sharply. ‘She’s not ready.’
‘Yes, she is. You’ve trained her very well, Fiona. You just don’t like delegating. Much as I admire your dedication and perfectionism, the time has come to give Rebecca some added responsibility.’
‘Maybe,’ Fiona said, ‘but not this time. The bride’s mother is expecting me. I refuse to let her down on such an important day.’
‘Maybe you could do both,’ Owen suggested hopefully. ‘The appointment and the wedding.’
‘I doubt it, not if Mrs Forsythe still lives way out at Kenthurst, which by the look on your face she does. That’s a good hour’s drive through traffic from my place, and far too far from tomorrow’s wedding down at Cronulla. You’ll have to ring back and change the appointment to Sunday, Owen. Make it for eleven. I’m not getting up early on a Sunday morning for the likes of her.’
‘But...but...’
‘Just do it, Owen. Tell the woman the truth: that Fiona has a wedding to organise tomorrow and can’t make it. She’ll probably admire my...what was it you said?...my dedication and perfectionism?’
Owen groaned. ‘You’re a hard woman.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’m as soft as butter.’
‘Yeah, straight out of the freezer.’
‘Trust me, Owen, I know what I’m doing. The Forsythes of this world have more respect for people who don’t chase or grovel. Be polite, but firm. I’ll bet it works a charm.’
It did, to Owen’s surprise. ‘She was only too accommodating about it all,’ he relayed ten minutes later, still startled. ‘And she wants you to stay for Sunday lunch. Fortunately for us, her son and his bride-to-be can’t make it that day. Thank heavens for that, I say. And thank heavens the groom doesn’t live at home.’
Fiona already knew Philip didn’t live at home. The phone book had been very informative of his whereabouts over the years. There weren’t too many P. Z. Forsythes in this world, and only one in Sydney. Fifteen months after they’d broken up—around the time he would have finished his law degree—he’d bobbed up at an address in Paddington, only a hop, step and a jump from the city.
The following year he’d moved further out to Bondi. More recently he’d moved again, to an even more salubrious address at Balmoral Beach, which, though over the bridge on the north side, still wasn’t far from town.
Back in his Paddington days, Fiona had used to regularly ring him, just so she could hear his voice, hanging up after he answered. Once, not long after his move to Bondi, she’d rung him on a Saturday night and pretended to be wanting someone called Niger, just so she could extend the conversation for a few seconds, then had got the shock of her life when Philip called out to some Nigel person.
‘He’ll be with you in a sec, honey,’ Philip had said, before putting the phone down. The sounds of a party in the background had been crushingly clear. Laughter. Music. Gaiety.
Fiona had hurriedly hung up and vowed never to do that again.
And she hadn’t. She had, however, never got out of the habit of checking Philip’s address every time a new phone directory arrived, which was how she knew about his move to Balmoral.
Fiona glanced up from her thoughts to find her partner frowning down at her. She smiled up at him. A rather sardonic smile, but a smile all the same. ‘Stop looking so worried, Owen.’
‘I want to know how you’re going to handle telling Mrs Forsythe the truth about yourself.’
‘With kid gloves, I assure you. I can be tactful and diplomatic, you know. I can even be sweet and charming when I want to be. Don’t I always have the mother of the bride eating out of my hand?’
‘Yeah. But Mrs Forsythe isn’t the mother of the bride. She’s the mother of the groom, and you’re the groom’s first wife!’
CHAPTER TWO
FIONA pulled over to the kerb and consulted the street directory one more time to make sure she knew the way to Kenthurst She’d gone there only twice, after all, ten years before.
Kenthurst was not a suburb one passed through by accident, or on the way to somewhere. It was more of an ‘invitation only’ address.
A semi-rural and increasingly exclusive area on the northern outskirts of Sydney, Kenthurst boasted PICTURESQUE countryside with lots of trees, undulating hills and fresh air. The perfect setting for secluded properties owned by privileged people who liked peace and privacy.
Wealthy Sydney businessmen had once built summer houses up in the Blue Mountains or down in the southern highlands to escape the heat and the rat-race of the city. Now they were more inclined to build air-conditioned palaces on five to twenty-five acres out Kenthurst or Dural way, and live there most of the time.
Philip’s father had done just that, though he’d also owned a huge Double Bay apartment where he’d stayed overnight when business kept him late in town, or when he’d taken his wife to the theatre or the opera. It was an enormous place, covering the whole floor of a solid pre-war three-storeyed building, lavishly furnished with antiques, and with a four-poster bed in the main bedroom which had belonged to a French countess. Fiona knew this for a fact because she’d slept in it.
Well... not exactly slept.
She wondered if Philip had ever ‘slept’ with his bride-to-be in that same bed, if he’d taken her to the same mindless raptures he’d taken her own silly self.
Now, now, don’t go getting all bitter and twisted, she lectured herself sharply. Waste of time, honey. Concentrate on the job at hand, which is getting to Kathryn’s house by eleven.
Fiona didn’t want to be late. She didn’t want to give the woman the slightest excuse for looking down her nose at her again.
Gritting her teeth, Fiona bent her head to concentrate on the directory. Once the various street turnings were memorised, she angled her freshly washed and polished Audi away from the kerb and back onto the highway.
A small wry smile lifted the corner of her mouth as she drove on. The car wasn’t the only thing that had been washed and polished to perfection that morning, mocking her claim that she would not get up early on a Sunday for the likes of Kathryn Forsythe.
Pride had had her up at six. By nine there hadn’t been an inch of her body which wasn’t attended to, from the top of her sleekly groomed head to her perfectly pedicured toenails. Fiona had told herself that even if there was only the remotest chance of having to remove her shoes and stockings—or any other part of her clothing—she was going to be as perfect underneath as she was on the surface.
Oddly enough, it had been the surface clothes which had ended up causing her the most trouble. Downright perverse, in Fiona’s opinion, when she had a wardrobe chock-full of the best clothes money could buy.
The fact that it was winter should have made the choice of outfit easier. But it hadn’t. The black suits she favoured for work had seemed too funereal, her grey outfits a little washed out, now that her summer tan had long faded. Chocolate-brown and camel were last year’s colours. She certainly wasn’t going to show up in them! Which had left cream or taupe. Fiona never wore loud colours. Or white.
Certainly not white, had come the bitter thought.
She had dithered till a decision had simply had to be made. Time was beginning to run out.
In desperation, she’d settled on a three-piece trouser-suit in a lightweight cream wool. It had straightleg trousers, a V-necked waistcoat and a long-sleeved lapelled jacket. The buttons on the waistcoat were covered, but rimmed in gold, so a necklace would have been overdone for daytime.
But she had slipped eighteen carat gold earrings into her pierced ears and a classically styled gold watch onto her wrist—both gifts from one-time admirers. Her shoes and bag were tan, and made of the softest leather. They’d cost a small fortune. Make-up had been kept to a minimum, her mouth and nails a subtle brown. Her perfume was another gift from an admirer, who’d said it was as exotic and sensual as she was.
Finally, she’d been fairly satisfied with her appearance, and just before ten had left her flat, ready to face the woman who’d almost destroyed her.
‘But I rose again, Kathryn,’ Fiona said aloud as she turned off the highway and headed for Kenthurst. ‘Just like the phoenix.’
Fiona laughed, well aware that the likes of Noni w ould not even have known what the phoenix was. ‘You’ve come a long way, honey,’ she complimented herself. ‘A long, long way. Worth a few nerves to show Philip’s darling mama just how far!’
The sun broke through the clouds at that point, bouncing off the shiny polished surfaces of the silver car and into her eyes. Fiona reached for the designer sunglasses which she kept tucked in the car door pocket, slipped them on, and smiled.
Fifteen minutes later she was driving slowly past the Forsythe place, her confident smile long replaced by a puzzled frown.
It had changed in ten years. And she wasn’t talking about the high brick wall which now surrounded the property. Somehow, it looked smaller than she remembered, and less intimidating. Yet it was still a mansion; still very stately, with its imitation Georgian facade; still perched up on a hill high enough to have an uninterrupted three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the surrounding countryside.
Fiona stopped the car, stared hard at the house, then slowly nodded up and down. Of course! How silly of her! It wasn’t the house which had changed but herself, and her perceptions. After all, she was no stranger to mansions these days, and no longer overawed by the evidence of wealth.
Her confident smile restored, Fiona swung the Audi around and returned to the driveway, where the iron gates were already open, despite the security camera on top of the gatepost and an intercom system built into the cement postbox.
It seemed careless to leave the gates open, but perhaps Kathryn had opened them in readiness for her arrival. Her watch did show two minutes to eleven. Fiona drove on through, a glance in the rear-vision mirror revealing that the gates remained open behind her.
Oh, well. She shrugged. Kathryn Forsythe’s security wasn’t her problem, but it seemed silly to go to the trouble and expense of having all that put in without using it. Such rich remote properties would be a target for break-ins and burglaries. Maybe even kidnappings. You couldn’t be too careful these days.
Admittedly, Philip’s branch of the family wasn’t as high-profile as his two uncles’. His uncle Harold was a captain of industry, owning several food and manufacturing companies as well as a string of racehorses, whilst his uncle Arnold was a major player in the media and hotels, along with expensive hobbies such as polo and wine.
Philip’s father, Malcolm, had been the youngest of the three Forsythe boys and had gone into corporate law, the law firm he’d established handling all the legal transactions for his older brothers’ business dealings. Philip had once told her that his father was probably richer than his two brothers, because he didn’t waste money on gambling and other women.
All three Forsythe brothers had married beautiful girls from well-to-do society families, thereby increasing their wealth and securing a good gene pool for their children. Harold had sired a mixed brood of five children, and Arnold three strapping sons. Malcolm had only had the one child, Philip.
Surprisingly, none of the brothers had ever divorced, despite rumours of serious philandering by Harold and Arnold. All three Forsythe wives were regularly photographed by the Sunday papers and gossip magazines, showing off their tooth-capped smiles along with their latest face-lifts. They seemed to spend half their lives at fashion shows, charity balls and racing carnivals.
Fiona had once been impressed by it all.
Not any more, however.
Her brown eyes were cool as they swept over the groomed lawns and perfectly positioned trees, her pulse not beating one jot faster as she drew closer to the house. A little different from the first time she’d come up this driveway, her heart pounding like a jackhammer, her stomach in sickening knots. Back then she’d been as nervous as the heroine in Rebecca, driving up to Manderley with her wealthy new husband at her side.
Fiona could well understand that poor young bride’s feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. She’d felt exactly the same way back then. Ironic that on her unexpected return to Manderley she was now the first wife.
The house grew larger on approach. But of course it was large. Wide, white and two-storeyed, with a huge pitched grey slate roof and long, tall, symmetrically placed windows. It looked English in design, and somewhat in setting, with its clumps of English trees and ordered gardens. Nothing, however, could disguise the Australian-ness of the bright clear blue sky, or the mountains in the distance, also blue with the haze from the millions of eucalypti which covered them.
The tarred and winding driveway finally gave way to a more formal circular section, with a red gravel surface and a Versailles-like fountain in the middle. The Audi crunched to a halt in front of the white-columned portico and almost immediately the front door opened and the lady of the house stepped out into the sunshine.
Fiona frowned as she stared over at Philip’s mother.
Kathryn was still as superbly groomed as she remembered. And just as elegant, in a royal blue woollen dress, with pearls at her throat and not a blonde hair out of place.
But she looked older. Much older. Probably even around her real age.
She had to be coming up for sixty, Fiona supposed. Ten years ago she’d been in her late forties, though she’d looked no more than thirty-five.
She appeared frail as well now, as though the stuffing had been knocked out of her. There was a slight stoop about her shoulders and a sadness in her face which struck an annoyingly sympathetic chord in Fiona.
Her whole insides revolted at this unlikely response. Sympathy for Kathryn Forsythe? Never!
Steeling herself against such a heresy, Fiona pulled the keys out of the ignition, practically threw them in her handbag, climbed out and swung the door shut. Sweeping off her sunglasses, she turned to face her one-time enemy, waiting coolly to be appraised and not recognised.
Kathryn’s lovely but faded blue eyes did sweep slowly over her from head to toe, but, as Fiona had predicted to Owen, there was not a hint of recognition, let alone rejection. Nothing but acceptance and approval. One could even go so far as to say...admiration.
Oddly, this did not give Fiona the satisfaction she’d hoped for. She didn’t feel triumphant at all. Suddenly, she felt mean and underhand.
‘You must be Fiona,’ Kathryn said in a softly gentle voice, smiling warmly as she came forward and held out a welcoming hand.
Fiona found herself totally disarmed, smiling stiffly back and taking the offered hand while her mind fairly whirled. She’s only being nice to you because you look the way you do, she warned herself. Don’t ever think this woman has really changed, not down deep, where it matters. She’s still a terrible snob. If she ever found out who you really were, she’d cut you dead, and, yes, she’d be furious. Make no mistake about that. So put on a good act here, darling heart, make your abject apologies and get the hell out of Manderley!
‘And you must be Mrs Forsythe,’ she returned in her now well-educated voice, a far cry from the rough Aussie drawl she’d once used, with slang and the odd swear-word thrown in for good measure.
‘Not to you, my dear. You must call me Kathryn.’ Philip’s mother actually linked arms with her, gathering her to her side and giving her a little squeeze.
Fiona froze. The Kathryn Forsythe of ten years before would never have done such a thing, not even to her friends and relatives. Philip’s mother had been a reserved and distant woman with an aversion to touching.
‘After all,’ Kathryn went on, before Fiona could recover from her shock to form a single word, ‘we’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next few weeks, aren’t we?’
Fiona should have put her right then and there, but she hesitated too long and the moment was lost.
‘So how did your wedding go yesterday, dear?’ Kathryn asked as she steered Fiona over towards the house. ‘You had lovely weather for it, considering it’s August.’
‘It...um...it went very well,’ Fiona replied truthfully, while she tried to work out how to tactfully escape this increasingly awkward situation.
‘I can imagine everything you do goes very well, my dear,’ Kathryn complimented her. ‘I’m already impressed with your punctuality and your appearance. A lot of people these days don’t seem to care how late they are for an appointment, or how they look when they get there. I’ve always felt that clothes reveal a lot about a man, and everything about a woman. You and I are going to get along very well, my dear. Very well indeed.’
Now that sounded more like the old Kathryn, Fiona thought.
To be strictly honest, however, she now shared some of those sentiments. She couldn’t abide people who were late for business appointments. Neither was she impressed with the slovenly dressed, or the grunge brigade. Fiona had found that people who didn’t care about their own appearance were usually not much good at their jobs.
You mean you judge a book by its cover these days, darling? an annoying inner voice pointed out drily.
The sound of a car speeding up the driveway interrupted her distracting train of thought.
‘That will be my son,’ Kathryn said, just as a black Jaguar with tinted windows roared into view. It braked hard inches before the gravel section, then passed sedately by them before purring to a cat-like halt on the other side of her Audi.
Panic had Fiona jamming her sunglasses back over her suddenly terrified eyes and praying Philip wouldn’t recognise her with them on.
‘I thought you said Phi...your son...couldn’t come today,’ she pronounced tautly.
Fortunately, Kathryn didn’t seem to notice her agitation. ‘He rang a while back on his mobile to say that Corinne—she’s his fiancée—had woken with a migraine this morning and begged off going on the harbour cruise luncheon they were supposed to attend. He didn’t fancy going alone so decided to pop home for lunch instead. He rang off before I could remind him you would be here as well.’
Fiona found herself staring over at the car. From the side, she couldn’t see the driver, because of the tinted windows. Several fraught seconds ticked away without Philip making an appearance, and she found herself waiting breathlessly for that moment when the driver’s door would open.
Fiona began to feel sick to her stomach. It had been a dreadful mistake coming here today, she was beginning to realise. A dreadful, dreadful mistake!
As though in slow motion, the door finally opened and his dark head came into view, followed by his shoulders—his very broad shoulders. Once fully upright, he turned to glance at them over the bonnet of the car.
Was she imagining it or was he staring at her? Surely not. She had to be imagining it. He couldn’t have recognised her, not with her sunglasses on!
She was being paranoid. Besides, he was wearing sunglasses too. Impossible to see where his eyes were being directed, or to determine their expression with those masking shades on.
Which was a reassuring factor from her own point of view, because the moment he strode round the front of his car and started towards them Fiona’s eyes began eating him up in exactly the same way they had the very first day he’d walked into Gino’s fish and chip shop ten years before.
Yet he was only wearing jeans and a grey sweater. Nothing fancy. Just casual clothes.
Philip the man, she was forced to accept, was even more impressive than Philip the youth, the promise of future perfection now fulfilled. His long, lanky frame was all filled out, his once boyishly handsome face fined down to a more mature and classical handsomeness, his thick unruly brown hair now elegantly tamed and groomed.
At twenty, Philip had been dishy.
At thirty, he was downright dangerous.
Kathryn disengaged her arm from Fiona’s as Philip approached, moving forward to give her son an astonishing hug. ‘It’s so nice to see you, son. I hope you didn’t drive too fast, now.’
‘I never drive too fast, Mother dearest. Can’t afford to get any blemishes on my record.’
‘My son’s a lawyer,’ his mother proudly explained, with a smiling glance over her shoulder at Fiona.
Philip’s gaze swung to Fiona as well, who felt as if there was a vice around her chest, squeezing tightly.
‘So, who have we here, Mother?’ he said quite nonchalantly. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
A little of the pressure eased, though a perverse dismay was added to the emotions besieging Fiona at that moment. So he hadn’t recognised her! She shouldn’t have been disappointed. But, stupidly, she was. He’d once claimed he would never forget her, that he would love her till the end of time.
‘The end of time’ apparently expired after ten years, came the pained thought. If truth be told, it had probably begun to run out the moment she’d exited his life.
Philip’s father had been so right about his son’s so-called love. It had had about as much substance as fairy-floss.
‘Your memory for some things is appalling these days, Philip,’ his mother said, blissfully unaware of the irony within those words. ‘Fiona is the wedding co-ordinator from Five-Star Weddings that I was telling you about on Friday. I’m sure I mentioned I was having lunch with her today. Fiona, this is Philip, the absent-minded groom. Philip, this is Fiona. Fiona Kirby, wasn’t it, dear?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘How do you do, Mrs Kirby?’ he greeted her.
‘Miss,’ she corrected sharply, and his eyebrows lifted above the sunglasses.
‘My mistake. Sorry. Ms Kirby.’
‘Oh, don’t call her that, Philip,’ his mother said with a soft laugh. ‘We’re already on a first-name basis, aren’t we, my dear? As I said to Fiona, we’ll be spending quite a deal of time together in the near future so we might as well be friends.’
Fiona wanted to scream and make a dash for the car. Friends? She was no more capable of being friends with Philip and his mother than she was of being friends with a pair of serial killers.
Yet for the moment she was trapped. Owen would kill her if she alienated such an influential family as the Forsythes, thereby damaging the reputation of Five-Star Weddings. And, frankly, she wouldn’t blame him. She’d been very foolish indeed to come here in person and risk all for the sake of her infernal pride.
‘You’ve already decided on Five-Star Weddings to do the wedding?’ Philip asked his mother, a frown bunching his forehead.
‘I certainly have. The moment I met Fiona I knew she was the right person to do the job.’
‘Did you indeed? How interesting. I, however, would like to see what she has in mind before any decisions are made and any contracts signed.’
‘Lawyers!’ Kathryn exclaimed, with a roll of her eyes and an apologetic glance towards Fiona. ‘They see trouble at every turn.’
‘Not at all,’ Philip countered smoothly. ‘I simply don’t believe in rushing into anything, especially when it comes to business dealings. The world is full of conartists and shysters. I know nothing of Five-Star Weddings other than what you told me over the phone. And absolutely nothing about Ms Kirby here, except what I can see for myself. As attractive as her outer package might be, in reality she might be anybody!’
Fiona stiffened, then saw red. Be damned with what Owen thought. Be damned with everything. She was not going to let Philip stand there and insult her.
Sweeping off her sunglasses, she glared up at him, her cold fury only increasing when he still didn’t recognise her.
‘Five-Star Weddings has an impeccable record and reputation, Mr Forsythe,’ she stated through clenched teeth. ’As do I. Might I remind you that your mother solicited this appointment, not the other way around? Nevertheless, I can show you many personal letters of recommendation, plus extensive portfolios of weddings I have arranged. Believe it or not, I am heavily booked at the moment, and only came here as a favour for my business partner, who agreed to this appointment without consulting me.
‘Under the circumstances, it would be better if you found someone else, Kathryn,’ she directed at Philip’s mother. ‘Lovely to have met you.’
Kathryn grabbed her arm before she could make good her escape. ‘Please, don’t go!’ she cried, before rounding on her son, her voice trembling and full of reproach. ‘What on earth’s got into you, Philip? I’ve never known you be so rude before!’
‘I wasn’t being rude. I was trying to be sensible. Anyway, given that Ms Kirby says she overbooked, it’s better you do hire someone else.’
‘But I don’t want someone else! I want Fiona. She’s the one who was recommended. On top of that, I like her. You’d do the job personally, wouldn’t you, dear, if I paid you double your usual fee?’
‘Well, I... I...’
‘Mother, for pity’s sake, you don—’
‘Philip!’ his mother interrupted sternly, the stubborn and autocratic Kathryn of ten years ago emerging for a few moments. ‘You and Corinne asked me to organise your wedding and I am only too happy to do so. But with your proposed wedding date only ten weeks off, and your bride-to-be overseas for most of that time, I will need help. I want Fiona to be that help. Please don’t be difficult about this.’
Philip stood there silently for several tense seconds, his shoulders squared, his mouth grim.
Fiona didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It really was a bizarre situation.
Suddenly, Philip swept off his sunglasses and stared deep into her eyes, his own no longer masked.
They had always been his most attractive feature, his eyes. A vivid blue and deeply set, with a dark rim around the iris which gave them an added intensity, both of colour and expression. The first time he’d looked at her all those years ago, across the shop counter, her knees had gone to jelly.
He stared at her now and she stared boldly back, her knees only marginally shaky.
His gaze raked her face, his expression puzzled and searching. For what? she thought angrily. Was he finally being bothered by a faint glimmer of familiarity? Was his subconscious teasing him with all those times he’d looked deeply into her eyes and told her she was the most incredible, adorable, irresistible girl in the world?
Quite abruptly, his eyes cooled to a bland, infuriatingly unreadable expression.
‘I apologise,’ he said, but insincerely, she believed. ‘I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your reputation. I have to confess to a certain cynicism these days, especially in matters of business. I’m sure Five-Star Weddings is without peer in its field and I’m sure you’re one of its star co-ordinators.’
‘She certainly is,’ his mother joined in, looking both relieved and pleased. ‘You should have heard the photographer rave. He said Fiona was the very best in the business.’
‘I’m sure,’ Philip murmured. ‘Still, perhaps Fiona could humour me a little by coming inside and telling us some more about herself. But first, I’m dying for some decent coffee, Mother dearest. Do you think you could make me some? I know it’s Brenda’s day off, but you make much better coffee than she does anyway.’
‘Flatterer!’ Kathryn returned, but she was beaming.
‘What about you, Fiona?’ Philip said, with the sort of suave smoothness she both desired and despised in a man. ‘You look like a coffee girl to me.’
‘Coffee would be nice,’ she agreed, with a smooth smile of her own. She would have liked to tell him where to shove his coffee, but things had moved beyond her making any further fuss, or flouncing off in some dramatic exit. She had to see this unfortunate scenario through now, or Owen would kill her! But come tomorrow she was going to fall mysteriously ill and be unable to take on any new clients.
‘I’ll take Fiona through to the terrace,’ Philip informed his mother.
‘Oh, yes, do,’ she replied. ‘It’s lovely out there today. I won’t be long.’
Kathryn hurried off to do her son’s bidding. Another vast change in the woman’s character. She’d never been sweet and accommodating in the past. She’d expected everyone else to do her bidding.
‘This way,’ Philip murmured, taking Fiona’s elbow rather forcefully and steering her speedily inside, across the spacious marble foyer and down the wide cool hallway which bisected the bottom floor of the house.
Fiona barely had time to scoop in a couple of steadying breaths before she was ushered through a pair of white French doors onto an enormous sun-drenched terrace which stretched the length of the house.
It was an area she’d never been, or seen before. Probably new, she decided.
As Philip directed her towards the closest grouping of outdoor furniture Fiona replaced her sunglasses and glanced around, her wedding co-ordinator’s eye automatically taking over. Kathryn wouldn’t need to book a special place for the reception, she realised. This setting could look magnificent, with the right kind of marquee and the right lighting.
There wasn’t just the one terrace. There were two. The top one conveniently had shelter, with a pergolastyle roof which had slats one could open or shut. The next terrace, much longer and wider than the first, was tiled in terracotta and incorporated a large rectangular swimming pool, lined at each end by Corinthian columns of grey marble. It reminded Fiona of a photograph she’d once seen of a pool in ancient Rome. All that was missing was the nude statues.
At each end of the terraces lay an extensive garden, which was distinctly tropical, full of ferns and palms and rich green shrubs of all kinds. Oddly, it didn’t look out of place, exuding an exotic and sensual pull on the senses, making one long for the warm, balmy evenings of summer.
Fiona could easily envisage a near-naked Philip, stretched out along the edge of the pool, his eyes shut, one hand languidly trailing through the cool blue water. She could almost feel the coolness of that water on her heated skin as she imagined swimming towards him, stopping right next to him, then taking that wickedly idle hand and lifting it to her hot... wet...flesh.
Philip scraping out a chair for her on the flagstones snapped Fiona out of her erotic daydream with the abruptness of a drowning man gasping to the surface. Disorientated for a moment, she found herself staring down at the strong male hands gripping the back of the white wrought-iron chair and remembering how good he was with those hands, how well they had known her body and how completely they had been able to coerce her to his will.
Surely they couldn’t still do that, she thought, then panicked as her body experienced a deep and violent burst of desire.
Self-disgust followed, but a fraction too late in her opinion. Clenching her teeth, Fiona wrenched her eyes away from those offending hands and swiftly sat down. She didn’t watch Philip stride round to select the chair directly opposite, not looking back at him till he was seated.
‘Right,’ he said, his voice cut and dried as he slid his sunglasses back on. ‘Now, let’s stop all this pretence, Noni. What in hell are you up to?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘OH!’ FIONA gasped, sitting up straight. ‘You did recognise me.’
‘Keep it down, for pity’s sake,’ he hissed. ‘I don’t want my mother to hear any of this. And, yes, of course I recognised you. How could you possibly imagine I wouldn’t? I knew it was you the moment I drove up. You weren’t quite quick enough putting on those sunglasses. Still, I can understand why my mother didn’t twig. That’s some make-over, Noni. Most impressive. But back to the point. What are you up to? Why this sick little charade?’
Any momentary elation Fiona had felt at Philip’s having recognised her quickly faded at his sarcastic and accusing tone. She automatically moved back into survival mode.
‘I’m not up to anything,’ she defended coolly. ‘It’s exactly as I said earlier. My business partner made this appointment with your mother without my knowledge. I tried to get out of it. I explained to Owen that you and I had been married briefly years ago, and that I couldn’t possibly do your wedding, but he still insisted I show up today in person. He said the future of Five-Star Weddings was at stake. He wanted me to apologise and recommend him instead, but when Kathryn didn’t recognise me I hesitated too long, and then you showed up unexpectedly and...well...’ She shrugged.
‘Things got even more complicated,’ Philip finished drily.
‘Yes,’ Fiona agreed.
There was a short, sharp silence while he just stared at her.
‘You must have suspected my mother wouldn’t recognise you,’ he said curtly, ‘looking as you look today.’
‘It did briefly cross my mind.’
He laughed. ‘More than briefly, I’ll warrant. So...did you enjoy fooling her? Did you get a kick out of it?’
She contemplated lying, but couldn’t see any point. ‘I thought I would,’ she confessed ruefully.
He frowned. ‘But you didn’t?’
‘No,’ she confessed, still a little confused by her reaction to his mother. ‘No, I didn’t She’s not the same woman I remember, Philip. Somehow, I couldn’t find it in my heart to hold any more malice towards her.’
His frown deepened. ‘What do you mean...malice?’
‘Oh, Philip, don’t pretend you don’t know what she did all those years ago, how she made me feel.’
‘I know she made things difficult for you. But, believe me, she would have made things difficult for any girl I wanted to marry back then. The bottom line is it wasn’t my mother who ended our marriage, Noni. It was you.’
She opened her mouth to defend what she’d done, then stopped herself. Once again, she couldn’t see the point It was over. Philip was getting married again. No doubt to some rich, beautiful girl he loved to death and of whom his mother heartily approved.
As for herself. Well...she had her career.
‘I was very young,’ Fiona said flatly. ‘So were you. We were from two different worlds. Our marriage would never have worked. I did the right thing.’ She looked away from him then, afraid that she might do something appalling like burst into tears.
When she looked back, several seconds later, she was once again under control. ‘What’s done is done,’ she stated brusquely. ‘Let’s not hash over ancient history, Philip. Just tell me what you want me to do about your mother and your wedding.’
He didn’t answer her straight away, considering her at length from behind his sunglasses till her irritation table rose to dangerous levels.
‘Will you be in trouble with your partner if you lose this job?’ he finally asked.
‘Probably,’ she snapped
‘Then do it.’
Fiona automatically shrank from the idea.
‘Come now, Noni, it’s no big deal. It’s not as though we mean anything to each other any more,’ he said dismissively. ‘As you just said, our marriage—such as it was—is ancient history. We don’t have to tell anyone who you really are. I’ve never told Corinne about you, and Mother will never recognise you. On top of that, you’ve been offered double your usual fee. You’d be a fool to knock it back.’
His cold pragmatism put her mind—and her emotions—back on track. He was right, of course. She’d be a fool to say no. And she was no longer a fool, either over money or men.
‘You’ll have to practise calling me Fiona,’ she pointed out drily.
‘No trouble. Fiona suits you better these days, anyway.’
Fiona gritted her teeth. ‘And you’ll have to practise not being sarcastic.’
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was just saying it as it was.’
Fiona bristled. ‘You don’t like the way I look?’
‘Does it matter what I like? My mother thinks you’re the ant’s pants. That must give you great satisfaction.’
‘It does, actually.’
‘Then that’s all that matters. She’s the one you’ll be working with most of the time. The groom has very little to do with wedding preparations.’
‘True.’ She’d never agree otherwise.
‘Of course I am a little curious as to how you achieved this stunning transformation, and how you came to be a partner in a highly successful business. The last I heard of you, you were married to some truck driver.’
Fiona’s mouth dropped open. ‘How...how did you know about that?’
His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained a mystery behind those increasingly irritating sunglasses. Yet, at the same time, she was grateful for her own.
‘Curiosity sent me looking for you after I finished university,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t find you but I did find your father. He seemed happy to tell me about your marriage to a trucking mate of his, a man named Kevin Kirby. That’s why I called you Mrs Kirby when we were introduced just now. But you soon put me straight about that! Since you’re a little young to be a widow, I gather there was a divorce?’
‘You gather right.’
‘Your decision again, Fiona?’
‘It was, actually.’
‘What went wrong?’ he asked. ‘You certainly couldn’t say you were from two different worlds on that occasion.’
‘No. I certainly couldn’t,’ she returned, her voice as hard as her heart. ‘The bare truth is that Kevin wanted me to stay home and have children, and I didn’t. Our divorce was quite amicable. He’s now married again with a couple of kids.’
‘And you’re on your way to your first million,’ he mocked.
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ she snapped.
‘Nothing, I guess. If that’s all you want out of life. Is that all you want nowadays, Fiona? Money?’
‘A little respect goes down well. But money’s good. The money I earn for myself, that is.’
‘Ahh. A truly independent woman. Very admirable. I dare say you live alone these days?’
‘I do.’
‘But you date, of course. Celibacy would not be your strong point.’
‘Nor yours, Philip,’ she shot back at him.
He laughed. ‘Touché. So, are you sleeping with this business partner of yours? What was his name? Owen something or other?’
‘I have no intention of answering any questions about my personal life,’ came her cool reply.
‘You’re not asking Fiona impertinent questions, are you, son?’ Kathryn said wearily as she seemed to materialise beside Fiona’s shoulder, bending to slide a tray onto the table. It held an elegant white coffee pot with three equally elegant white coffee mugs surrounding it. A matching jug held cream, no doubt, and the crystal sugar bowl sparkled in the sun.
‘Don’t take any notice of him, dear,’ Kathryn went on as she sat down between them. ‘Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. They like giving people the third degree, even innocent ones. I sometimes feel sorry for the witnesses Philip cross-examines.’
‘You’re a criminal lawyer?’ Fiona exclaimed, taken aback. She’d presumed he’d gone into corporate law, in his father’s company. That had certainly been his father’s plan for him.
‘Philip’s beginning to make a name for himself in court, aren’t you, dear?’ his mother said proudly.
‘I’ve had some modest successes recently.’
Kathryn laughed softly. ‘Now who’s being modest? How do you take your coffee, Fiona?’
‘Oh... um... white, with one sugar, please,’ she answered, a little distractedly, almost adding ‘the same as Philip.’ Goodness, she was a mess!
‘Just to put your mind at rest, Mother,’ Philip said casually while Kathryn was pouring the coffee. ‘It’s perfectly all right by me for Fiona to do the wedding. Now that I’ve had a chance to talk to her, I’m more than impressed with her credentials, but especially her professional attitude. I recognise a high achiever when I hear one. I’m sure she’ll do a top job. As for her fee, and the contract, I’ll take care of that personally. You live too far out of town to be bothered with that. I presume you have an office somewhere in the city, Fiona? Perhaps a business card as well?’
Fiona hated the thought of him dropping in to the office, but what could she do? She could hardly say as much in front of his mother. ‘Not in the city exactly,’ she told him, ‘but not far out. We rent a suite of rooms above a couple of shops at St Leonard’s, along the Pacific Highway. And, yes, of course I have a business card.’
‘Of course,’ he murmured, and she shot him a savage glance, which, unfortunately, he couldn’t really see. But she was about to remedy that!
Taking off her sunglasses, she scooped up her handbag from where she’d dropped it beside her chair, snapped it open and dropped the glasses inside. Then she opened the side pocket where she kept her business cards and took out three, handing one to Kathryn and two to Philip.
‘Perhaps you could give one to your fiancée,’ she suggested with a sickly-sweet smile. ‘Which reminds me, Kathryn, you said something earlier about the wedding date only being ten weeks away, and the bride going to be absent overseas for a lot of that time? Is that right?’
‘Yes, Corinne does voluntary work for one of those world charities for children. Her best friend is employed by them as a nurse. Unfortunately, Corinne organised this trip to Indonesia before Philip asked her to marry him, and she doesn’t want to let her friend down.’
‘How very commendable,’ Fiona remarked, while privately thinking it was still an odd time to be going away. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then there’s no time to waste, is there? I should meet with the bride very soon and find out exactly what she wants. It doesn’t give us much time.’
‘I’ll get Corinne to ring you tonight,’ Philip offered. ‘On which number? Your mobile?’
‘No. I have a firm rule never to use my mobile on a Sunday unless I have a wedding on. Otherwise I never have any peace. Here, give me the card back and I’ll jot down my home number.’ She extracted a pen from her bag and added her personal number to the two already on the card.
‘What time would be best for you?’ Philip asked after she’d handed the card back to him.
‘Any time before eight-thirty.’
‘Going out, are you?’
Actually, Fiona rarely went out on a Sunday night. She liked to curl up on front of the telly and watch one of the Sunday night movies which always started at eight-thirty. During the ads she did her nails and got her clothes ready for the working week ahead. Today she’d already done her manicure, and tonight they were re-running one of her all-time favourite films.
The slightly mocking tone in Philip’s voice, however, stung her into lying.
‘Yes, I am, actually,’ she said, and found another of those sweet smiles for him.
‘Anywhere special?’
‘Not really. Just visiting a friend.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘I think Mark’s a little old to be called a boyfriend.’
‘How old is he?’ Philip persisted.
‘Late thirties.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Philip, really!’ his mother exclaimed, and threw Fiona a look of helpless exasperation. ‘See what I mean? Lawyers! They can’t help themselves.’
‘I’m just making conversation,’ Philip said, sounding innocent. But Fiona knew he wasn’t doing any such thing. He was deliberately trying to goad her. And he’d succeeded.
But no way was he going to know that.
‘It’s perfectly all right, Kathryn,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘I don’t mind. Mark’s a doctor,’ she directed, straight at Philip. ‘A surgeon. We met at a dinner party...oh, about six months ago. We’ve been dating ever since.’
Actually, it had only been three months. It just seemed like six. Mark had all the superficial qualities she found attractive in a man, being tall, dark-haired and good-looking, as well as well-read and intelligent. He was also more than adequate in bed.
But his vanity was beginning to grate and, even worse, he was starting to hint that it was time he settled down and passed on his ‘perfect’ genes. She’d been going to break with him this week, but now revised that decision. Mark was best kept around till Philip was safely married and out of her life once more.
Fiona felt confident she no longer loved Philip, but there was still an unfortunate chemistry there between them. She could feel it sparking away every time she looked at him. She suspected Philip could feel it too, and resented it as bitterly as she did. That was why he was taking pot-shots at her personal life.
‘So where did you meet Corinne?’ Fiona asked, deflecting the conversation away from her personal life and back onto Philip’s.
‘I can’t rightly remember. At some charity do she organised, I think.’
‘It sounds like she does a lot of charity work.’
‘She does.’
Which meant she didn’t have a real job. A rich man’s daughter, obviously. Well, what had she expected? Philip moved in those kinds of circles.
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty-four.’
Just as she’d thought. Young. ‘Blonde?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Again, just as she’d thought. Philip had told her once how much he liked blonde hair.
‘Pretty, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Very.’
‘She’ll make a lovely bride,’ Kathryn joined in warmly. ‘It’s a pity her mother isn’t alive to see her. I went to school with her mother, would you believe? But she died when Corinne was a little girl. Corinne’s father is George Latham. He’s a state senator You might have heard of him?’
Who hadn’t? George Latham was not a shrinking violet, either in size or personality. He was also filthy rich. Or his family was. Yep, Fiona had this wedding tagged correctly. It would be society though and through Owen would be so pleased.
A sudden beeping had Philip standing up and fishing an extraordinarily small mobile phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and, flipping it open, placed it to his ear. ‘Philip Forsythe,’ he said as he walked off to one side.
Both women picked up their coffee cups and began to sip, but Fiona could still hear Philip’s side of the conversation quite clearly.
‘That’s great... No, no, I wouldn’t mind at all, actually... All right, Corinne... See you soon, my darling.’
He walked swiftly back to the table, but stayed standing while he snapped the phone shut and slid it back into his pocket.
‘That was Corinne,’ he said. ‘She’s feeling a bit better and wants me to come over and babysit. I couldn’t really say no, given she’s leaving in a week or so. Sorry about lunch, Mother, but you and Fiona will still have a lovely time together, planning the wedding of the year.’

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