HELEN BIANCHIN - The Bridal Bed

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.