The Bridal Bed

‘The car refused to start, the automobile club took ages to send someone out, I was late in to work, and I got soaked in the rain.’ She effected a light shrug. That about encapsulates it.’

‘I’ll organise for you to have the use of one of my cars while yours is being checked out.’

A surge of anger rose to the surface. ‘No. You won’t.’

‘Now you’re being stubborn,’ he drawled hatefully.

‘Practical.’ And wary of being seen driving his Porsche or Jaguar.

‘Stubborn,’ Sloane reiterated.

‘You sound like my mother,’ Suzanne responded with a deliberately slow, sweet smile.

‘Heaven forbid.’

Anger rose once more, and her eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘You disapprove of Georgia?’

‘Of being compared to anything vaguely parental where you’re concerned,’ Sloane corrected her with ill-concealed mockery.

Suzanne looked at him carefully, then honed a verbal dart. ‘I doubt you’ve ever lacked a solitary thing in your privileged life.’

One eyebrow rose, and there was a certain wryness apparent. ‘Except for the love of a good woman?’

‘Most women fall over themselves to get to you,’ she stated with marked cynicism.

‘To the social prestige the Wilson-Willoughby name carries,’ Sloane amended drily. ‘And let’s not forget the family wealth.’

The multi-million-dollar family home with its incredible views over Sydney harbour, the fleet of luxurious cars, servants. Not to mention Sloane’s penthouse apartment, his cars. Homes, apartments in major European cities. The family cruiser, the family jet.

And then there was Wilson-Willoughby, headed by Trenton and notably one of Sydney’s leading law firms. One had only to enter its exclusive portals, see the expensive antique furniture gracing every office, the original artwork on the walls, to appreciate the elegance of limitless wealth.

‘You’re a cynic.’

His expression didn’t change. ‘A realist.’

Their starter arrived, and Suzanne took her time savouring the delicate texture of the prawns in a superb sauce many a chef would kill to reproduce.

‘Now that you’ve had some food, perhaps you’d like a glass of wine?’

And have it go straight to her head? ‘Half a glass,’ she qualified, and determined to sip it slowly during the main course.

‘I hear you’ve taken on a very challenging brief,’ she said.

Sloane pressed the napkin to the edge of his mouth, then discarded it down onto the damask-covered table. ‘News travels fast.’

As did anything attached to Sloane Wilson-Willoughby. In or out of the courtroom.

He part-filled her glass with wine, then set it back in the ice bucket, dismissing the wine steward who appeared with apologetic deference.

Their main course arrived, and Suzanne admired the superbly presented fish and artistically displayed vegetable portions. It seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb the arrangement, and she forked delicate mouthfuls with enjoyment.

‘Am I to understand Georgia meets with your approval as a prospective stepmother?’

Sloane viewed her with studied ease. She looked more relaxed, and her cheeks bore a slight colour. ‘Georgia is a charming woman. I’m sure she and my father will be very happy together.’

The deceptive mildness of his tone brought forth a musing smile. ‘I would have to say the same about Trenton.’

Sloane lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, then regarded her thoughtfully over the rim. ‘The question remains... What do you want to do about us?’

Her stomach executed a painful backflip. ‘What do you mean, what do I want to do about us?’

The waiter arrived to remove their plates, then delivered a platter of fresh fruit, added a bowl of freshly whipped cream, and withdrew.

‘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.’