HELEN BIANCHIN - The Bridal Bed

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?’