Читать книгу The Bridal Bed - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 7

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.

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.

The interior portrayed the ultimate in luxury. Plush carpets, superior fittings—me jet was a wealthy man’s expensive possession.

A slim, attractive stewardess greeted them inside the cabin. ‘If you’d each care to be seated and fasten your seat belts, we’ll be ready for immediate takeoff.’ She moved to close the door and secure it, checked her two passengers were comfortable, then she acknowledged internal clearance via intercom with the pilot.

The jet’s engines increased their whining pitch, then the sleek silver plane eased off the bitumen apron and cruised a path to the runway.

Within minutes they were in the air, climbing high in a northerly flight pattern that hugged the coastline.

‘Juice, tea or coffee?’

Suzanne opted for juice while Sloane settled for coffee, and when it was served the stewardess retreated into the rear section.

‘No laptop?’ Suzanne queried as Sloane made no attempt to take optimum advantage of the ensuing few hours. ‘No documents to peruse?’

He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘The laptop and my briefcase are stowed in the baggage compartment. However, I thought I’d take a break,’ he revealed with indolent amusement.

‘I have no objection if you want to work.’

‘Thereby negating the need for conversation, Suzanne?’

She aimed a slow, sweet smile at him. ‘How did you guess?’

Sloane’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘We should, don’t you think, ensure our stories match on events during the past three weeks?’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Minor details like movies we might have seen, the theatre, dinner with friends.’

Separate residences, separate lives. Hectic work-filled days, empty lonely nights.

A particularly lacklustre social calendar, Suzanne conceded on reflection, and was unable to prevent a comparison to the halcyon days when she’d shared Sloane’s apartment and his life. Then there had been a succession of dinners, parties, and few evenings together alone at home. Long nights of loving, a wonderfully warm male body to curl into, and being awakened each morning by the stroke of his fingers, his lips.

Something clenched deep inside her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to clear the image.

‘Suzanne?’

Clarity of mind was essential, and she met his gaze, acknowledged the enigmatic expression, and managed a slight smile. ‘Of course.’ Her attendance at the cinema had been her only social excursion. She named the movie, and provided him with a brief plot line. ‘And you? I imagine you maintained a fairly hectic social schedule?’

‘Reasonably quiet,’ Sloane relayed. ‘I declined a dinner invitation with the Parkinsons.’ His level gaze held hers. ‘You supposedly had a migraine.’

‘And the rest of the time?’

His expression held a degree of cynical humour. ‘We dined à deux, or stayed home.’

Suzanne remembered too well what had inevitably transpired during the evenings they’d stayed in. The long, slow foreplay that had begun when they’d entered the apartment. Sipping from each other’s glass, offering morsels of food as they’d eaten a leisurely meal. A liqueur coffee, and the deliberate choice of viewing cable television or a video. The drift of fingers over sensitised skin, the soft touch of lips savouring delicate hollows, a sensual awakening that had held the promise of continued arousal and the ultimate coupling of two people who had delighted in each other on every plane.

Sometimes there had been no foreplay at all. Just compelling passion, the melding of mouths as urgent fingers had freed buttons and dispensed with clothes. Occasionally they hadn’t even made it to the bedroom.

Suzanne met his gaze and held it, fought against a compulsive movement in her throat as she contained the lump lodged there, and chose not to comment.

A hollow laugh died before it was born. Who was she kidding? There was no choice at all. If she opened her mouth, only the most strangled of sounds would emerge.

She saw the darkness reflected in his eyes, glimpsed the flare of passion and his banking of it, then wanted to die as his lips curved into a slow, sensual smile.

‘Memories, Suzanne?’

Try for lightness, a touch of humour. Then he’d never know just how much she ached inside. ‘Some of them were good, very good.’ He deserved that, if nothing else. Others were particularly forgettable. Such as the bitchiness of some of his social equals.

Oh, damn. She was treading into deeper water with every step she took. And she’d only been in his company an hour. What state would she be in at the end of the weekend, for heaven’s sake?

She fished a magazine from a strategically placed pocket, and began flipping through the glossy pages until she discovered an article that held her interest. Or at least she could feign that it did for the duration of the short flight to Brisbane.

It was a relief when the jet landed and cruised to a halt on the far side of the terminal. Suzanne glimpsed a limousine parked close to the hangar, and Sloane’s father boarded as soon as the jet’s door opened and the steps were unfolded.

‘Good morning.’

Trenton moved lithely down the aisle and closed the distance to greet them.

The family resemblance between father and son was clearly evident, the frame almost identical, although Trenton was a little heavier through the chest, slightly thicker in the waist, and his hair was streaked with grey.

He was a kind man, possessed of a gentle wit, beneath which was a shrewd and knowledgeable business mind.

Suzanne rose to her feet and allowed herself to be enveloped in a bear-hug.

‘Suzanne. Lovely to see you, my dear.’ He released her, and acknowledged his son with a warm smile. ‘Sloane.’ He indicated the limousine. ‘Georgia is making a call from the car.’ The smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled with humour as he placed a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. ‘A last-minute confirmation of floral arrangements for the wedding. Go down and talk to her while I check the luggage being loaded on board.’

Georgia was fixing her lipstick, a slight pink colouring her cheeks as Suzanne slid into the rear seat, and she leaned forward and brushed her mother’s cheek with her own. ‘Nervous?’

‘No,’ her mother denied. ‘Just needing someone to tell me I’m not being foolish.’

Georgia had been widowed at a young age, left to rear a child who retained little memory of the father who had been killed on a dark road in the depth of night by a joyriding, unlicensed lout high on drugs and alcohol. Life thereafter hadn’t exactly been a struggle, as circumspect saving and a relatively strict budget had ensured there were holidays and a few of life’s pleasures.

‘You’re not being foolish,’ Suzanne said gently.

Georgia appeared anxious as she lifted a hand and pressed fingers to Suzanne’s cheek. ‘I would have preferred to put my plans on hold until after your wedding to Sloane. You don’t mind, do you?’

It was difficult to maintain her existing expression beneath the degree of guilt and remorse she experienced for embarking on a deliberately deceitful course.

‘Don’t be silly, Mama,’ she said gently. ‘Sloane has briefs stacked back to back. We can’t plan anything until he’s free to take a few weeks’ break.’ She tried for levity, and won. ‘Besides, I doubt Trenton would hear of any delay.’

‘No,’ a deep voice drawled. ‘He wouldn’t.’

Trenton held out his hand and Suzanne took it, then stepped out of the car, watching as he gave Georgia a teasing look. ‘Time to fly, sweetheart.’

Suzanne boarded the jet, closely followed by her mother and Trenton, and within minutes the jet cruised a path to a distant runway, paused for clearance, then accelerated for take-off.

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.