HELEN BIANCHIN - The Bridal Bed

‘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.