‘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.’
‘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 emphas
is 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.
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 clos
e 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.
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