HELEN BIANCHIN - The Bridal Bed

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.