Sloane was standing at the window, looking out into the darkness.
‘Bathroom’s all yours.’
He turned to face her, aware of the moment she’d entered the bedroom via the darkened glass reflection.
She looked about sixteen, her skin scrubbed clean, her hair tied back in a pony-tail. Did she have any idea how sexy she looked in that mid-thigh-length tee shirt? As a cover-up the soft cotton merely moulded her firm breasts and was more provocative than designer silk and lace.
‘How’s the hand?’
Oh, hell, she’d almost forgotten. ‘Fine.’
‘And your hip?’
Painful, and showing the promise of a nasty bruise. ‘OK.’ She moved towards the bed she’d nominated as her own, turned back the cover, and slid between the sheets. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Sweet dreams, Suzanne.’
She didn’t care for the mocking humour in his voice, and as soon as the bathroom door closed behind him she propped herself up on one hand and plumped the pillow vigorously with the other, then she shifted onto her left side and almost groaned out loud as her bruised hip came into contact with the mattress.
She was tired, and, if she closed her eyes and willed herself to believe she was comfortable, surely she should sleep.
Suzanne heard the shower run, then stop minutes later. The bathroom door opened, a shaft of light illuminated the room, then there was darkness, the soft pad of Sloane’s feet on the polished floorboards as he crossed to the bed, the faint slither of cotton percale, and the almost inaudible depression of mattress springs settling beneath a solid male frame.
Despite counting imaginary sheep and practising various relaxing techniques, Suzanne found sleep remained elusive.
Her hip ached. Throbbed, she corrected, deep into specific analysis in the darkness of night. Pain-killers would dull the pain’s keen edge and help her sleep.
If only she had some. Maybe there was a foil strip in her vanity bag, or, failing that, it was possible Sloane had some in his wet-pack.
Damn, damn, damn. If she lay wide awake for much longer, she’d be in a fine state by the end of Georgia and Trenton’s wedding festivities.
You would think, she ruefully decided as she slid carefully from the bed, that an over-abundance of emotional and nervous tension together with long walks, rock-clambering, and three sets of tennis, would fell the fittest of the physically fit.
Instead, she felt as if she’d trebled a daily dose of caffeine.
Suzanne crept to the bathroom, closed the door, then switched on the light and rummaged through her vanity bag to no avail. Her fingers delved into Sloane’s wet-pack, hesitated, then, driven more by need than courtesy, she separated compartments and almost cried out with relief when she discovered a slim pack of paracetamol.
She broke off two, part-filled a glass with water and swallowed them, then she replaced the glass and switched off the light. She’d allow a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, then she’d open the door and tiptoe back to bed.
It was a remarkably simple plan. Except in attempting to give Sloane’s bed a wide berth she veered too far and brushed against a chair.
A soft curse fell from her lips at the same time Sloane activated the bed-lamp.
‘What in sweet hell are you doing?’
Suzanne threw him a dark glance, and resorted to flippancy. ‘Rearranging the furniture.’
He slid into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard. His dark hair was slightly tousled and he was bare to the waist.
Probably bare beneath the waist as well, she reflected a trifle ruefully, all too aware of his penchant for sleeping nude.
It was too much. He was too much.
‘You should have turned on the light.’
Oh, sure. The last thing she’d wanted to do was to wake him. Coping with a darkly brooding male wasn’t a favoured option.
Suzanne pushed in the chair and took the few steps necessary to reach her bed, then slid carefully between the sheets.
‘Headache?’
She should have known he wouldn’t leave it alone. The look she cast him held such fulsome anger it was a wonder he didn’t burn. ‘Yes.’ In this instance she had no compunction in resorting to fabrication.
‘Want me to give you a neck and scalp massage?’ Oh, God. ‘No.’ Would he detect the faint desperation in her voice? She hoped not. ‘Thank you.’
‘Seduction isn’t part of the deal,’ he drawled with musing cynicism, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again.
He read her far too easily, and it rankled unbearably. ‘Well, now, that’s a relief,’ she said with pseudo-sweetness.
‘Unless you want it to be,’ Sloane added with killing softness.
The thought of that hard male body curved over her own in a tasting, teasing supplication of each and every pleasure spot filled her with such intense longing it was all she could do to respond, let alone keep her voice even.
‘If you come anywhere near me,’ she warned in a tense whisper, ‘I’ll render you serious bodily harm.’
His husky chuckle further enraged her. ‘It might almost be worth it.’
Without thought Suzanne picked up the spare pillow and threw it at him, watching in seemingly slow motion as he fielded it and unhurriedly tossed the bed-covers aside.
‘Dammit—don’t.’ She turned and scrambled to the furthest side of the bed, only to give a sharp cry as her hip dragged painfully against the mattress.
It was no contest. She simply didn’t have a chance as Sloane’s hands caught hold of her shoulders and turned her back to face him.
For a long moment she gazed at him in open defiance, aware that the slightest move, the faintest word would invite crushing retribution.
His eyes were impossibly dark, their depths unfathomable as he reached for the edge of the bedcovers and wrenched them off with one powerful pull of his hand, then drew her down onto the mattress.
His head lowered and she felt one hand grasp hold of her thigh, then slide to her hip.
Her gasp of pain was very real, and he paused, his mouth only inches from her own. She saw his eyes narrow, glimpsed the tiny lines fanning out from each outer edge, and felt him tense for a few long seconds before he slid the hem of her nightshirt to her waist.
It was a long bruise, red, purpling, and growing more ugly with every hour.
He swore, words she’d never heard him use before, and she flinched as he traced the line of her hip-bone, then probed the surrounding flesh.
‘You walked through the rainforest,’ Sloane said with deadly softness, ‘played three sets of tennis, nursing this?’
‘It didn’t hurt much then.’
His eyes appeared as dark obsidian shards, infinitely forbidding. ‘It does now.’ He levered himself off the bed and descended the stairs to the lower floor.
She heard the chink of glass, the bar-fridge door close, then he was back with a chilled half-bottle in his hand.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Applying the equivalent of an ice-pack.’
‘A magnum of champagne?’ Suzanne queried in disbelief, and shivered as the cold frosted glass touched her skin.
‘It’ll serve the purpose. Now, lie still.’
She didn’t plan on moving. Besides, fighting him would prove a futile exercise.
‘What did you find to take in the bathroom?’
‘Paracetamol,’ she said huskily as he adjusted the bottle. ‘Two. In your wet-pack,’ she added. An icy numbness settled in, minimising the pain, and she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to look at him.
The proximity of his male body was a heady entity, despite the skimpy black silk briefs providing a modicum of decency. As a concession to her?
She could smell the clean scent of expensive soap and male deodorant on skin only inches away from her own. All her senses were acutely attuned, almost in recognition of a rare and special alchemy existent in two separate halves that were meant to make a perfect whole.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
The pain slowly ebbed, and her eyelids grew heavy. Gentle fingers soothed, kneaded, and dispensed with the tight knots in the muscles of her shoulders, back and thighs.
Heaven, she acknowledged as she relaxed and let him work his magic. She made only a token protest when he lifted her into his arms and transferred her to the other bed.
His bed. Her eyes sprang open, and she made to scramble to the edge as he climbed in beside her.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ she said helplessly as he curved an arm beneath her shoulders and drew her close.
‘Just shut up and let it be.’ He pillowed her head against his chest, then curled an arm round her waist.
He was deliciously warm, and she cautiously moved one arm so that it rested across his midriff.
It was like coming home. Déjà vu, she reflected. With one exception. Lacking was the satiation of lovemaking.
The temptation to begin a tactile exploration was strong. Just the slight movement of her fingers and she could trace the outline of his ribcage, tease one brown nipple, then trail a path to his navel.
He possessed a strong-boned frame, with symmetrical muscle structure, textured skin that emanated its own musky male aroma. Clean and slick with sweat at the height of sexual possession, it became an aphrodisiac that drove her wild. Sensual heat, raw and primal. As primitive as the man himself.
Don’t even think about it, an inner voice cautioned. Unless you want to dice with dynamite.
Soon he’d fall asleep, then she’d gradually ease free and slip into her own bed.
It was the last coherent thought she had, and she woke to find warm sunshine filtering through the curtains, the smell of fresh coffee teasing her nostrils. One quick glance was all it took to determine she was alone in the bed. Another to see Sloane’s broad back curved over a newspaper spread out on the buffet bar.
At that precise moment he turned towards her, almost as if he was acutely attuned to her every move, and his warm smile melted her bones.
‘Good morning.’
Suzanne felt awkward, sleep-rumpled, and she dragged a hand over her tousled hair. ‘Hi.’
He had the advantage, dressed and freshly shaven, and she watched him step from the stool and cross to the edge of the bed. ‘How is the bruise?’
She caught hold of the sheet in a compulsive movement, almost as if she expected him to insist on a personal inspection. She flexed her leg. ‘It doesn’t seem to hurt as much.’
‘Want to try another makeshift ice-pack?’
In the clear light of day, she didn’t want to be beholden to him in any way. Too late. You slept with him, remember? Sleep being the operative word... but how much more beholden could you get?
‘I doubt it’s necessary,’ Suzanne said quickly. Thinking on her feet seemed a vast improvement to staying in bed, and she managed it in one dignified movement. Dignity was the key, she assured herself, and being dressed would be better than wandering around in an over-large tee shirt.
She collected underwear, tailored cream linen trousers and a light cotton top en route to the en suite, emerging ten minutes later feeling refreshed after a quick shower. And in control. Well, she corrected wryly, as much in control as she could hope for in the circumstances!
Sloane checked his watch. ‘It’s almost eight. If you’re ready, we’ll go down to the restaurant.’
Lipstick was all it would take, and perhaps a light touch of blusher. ‘Give me a minute.’
Georgia and Trenton were already seated beneath the large airy veranda when Suzanne and Sloane arrived.
‘We went for a walk along the beach. It was so quiet and peaceful. Heaven,’ Georgia enthused warmly.
Suzanne caught the sparkle in her mother’s eyes, glimpsed the soft curve of her mouth as she smiled, and deduced that while the island possessed a magic all its own, heaven to Georgia was the man at her side.
‘No pre-wedding nerves?’ she queried teasingly as she accepted the waitress’s offer to fill her cup with coffee.
‘A few,’ her mother conceded. ‘Last-minute doubts about what I’ve chosen to wear for the ceremony. Whether my heels are too high, and hoping I’ll remember to tread carefully so as not to trip. And whether I should wear the hat the salesgirl insisted was just perfect.’ Her mouth shook slightly, then widened into a helpless smile. ‘I can’t decide whether to wear a bright lipstick or go for something pale.’
Suzanne looked at Trenton and grinned. ‘Ah, serious stuff, huh?’
He spread his hands wide and responded with an easy smile. ‘My assurance that I don’t give a damn what she wears doesn’t appear to hold much weight.’
‘The mysterious vagaries of the female mind,’ Sloane remarked, and met Suzanne’s mocking glare with gleaming humour.
‘Men,’ Suzanne denounced him, ‘simply have no idea.’ She shot her mother a stunning smile. ‘After we finish here, I’ll come and give you my considered opinion, shall I?’
‘Oh, darling. Please. I’d be so grateful.’
‘You can safely say goodbye to a few hours,’ Sloane inferred aloud to his father, and Suzanne couldn’t suppress the bubble of laughter that emerged from her throat.
‘At least.’ And was totally unprepared for the brush of his fingers across one cheek, and the warm intimacy of his smile.
‘Then I suggest we go eat, so you can get started.’
Why, when she lapsed into a comfort zone, did he do something to jolt her out of it? Her eyes clouded. It’s an act, just an act. For Georgia and Trenton’s benefit.
The breakfast smorgasbord was a delight, comprising several varieties of cereal, fresh fruit, yoghurt, as well as croissants and toast. Sausages, steak, eggs, hashbrowns, mushrooms. A veritable feast.
It was almost nine when they emerged into the sunshine, and the two men opted to retire to the lounge on the pretext of discussing business, while Suzanne and Georgia made their way to the villa Georgia shared with Trenton.
The design was identical to that of their own villa, although the soft furnishings were different, Suzanne noticed as they entered the air-conditioned interior.
Georgia crossed the lounge. ‘Come upstairs, darling.’
Suzanne followed and stood to one side as her mother opened the wardrobe, the drawers, and reverently draped each item of apparel over the bed.
‘Let’s do the fashion parade thing,’ Suzanne suggested, shaking her head as Georgia wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s the only way I can get the complete picture.’
Fifteen minutes later Suzanne stood back and expressed her admiration. ‘Perfect. Everything.’
‘Even the hat?’
‘Especially the hat,’ she assured her mother. ‘It’s stunning.’
Georgia’s eyes moistened with gratitude. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Really.’
Suzanne stood still, her head tilted to one side as she regarded the slim, beautiful woman in front of her. ‘Now, let’s take off the hat, get rid of the shoes, and we’ll try each lipstick and decide which one suits best.’
The deep rose, definitely. Pale was too pale, and the coral too bright.
‘OK,’ Suzanne declared as Georgia carefully divested herself of her wedding suit, and hung it back on padded hangers beneath its protective bag. ‘All done.’ She grinned, and caught hold of her mother’s hands. ‘You’re going to knock ’em dead.’
A warm smile tugged the edges of Georgia’s mouth. ‘How nice of you to say so, darling.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Now, shall we have a cold drink, and talk girl-talk?’ A light laugh spilled out, and her eyes danced. ‘Isn’t that what the prospective bride and her maid of honour are supposed to do?’
Suzanne fetched a bottle of mineral water from the bar-fridge, poured the contents into two glasses and handed one to her mother.
‘Here’s to health and happiness. A wonderful day. A wonderful life,’ she added gently.
Georgia touched the rim of
Suzanne’s glass in silent acknowledgement. ‘You, too, sweetheart.’
They each took an appreciative sip. ‘It’ll be nice that we’ll be living in the same city,’ Georgia said a trifle wistfully. ‘I can meet you for lunch. We’ll attend a lot of the same functions, too, I imagine. And we’ll be able to shop together.’
An arrow of pain pierced Suzanne’s stomach. The lunch and the shopping part were fine, but attending the same social functions wouldn’t be a good idea. In all probability Sloane would be there, and she would rather die than have to watch him with another woman at his side.
‘Tell me where you’re staying in Paris.’ The honeymoon was a safe topic. ‘The shops there are supposed to be marvellous. The Eiffel Tower,’ she enthused. ‘Make sure you take plenty of photos, and write up a diary. I want to hear everything.’
Georgia laughed. ‘Not quite everything, darling.’
Suzanne’s eyes danced with impish humour. ‘Well, no, I guess not.’
Her mother possessed a rare integrity. And charm. Something that came from the heart. Trenton Wilson-Willoughby was a very fortunate man. But then, she guessed he knew that. It explained why he wanted his ring on Georgia’s finger without delay.
‘Do you remember when we lived in St Lucia in Brisbane?’ Georgia reminisced. ‘That adorable little terrace house?’
‘And the cat who called both adjoining houses home?’ Suzanne queried, laughing. ‘We fed him mince for breakfast, the man next door gave him fresh fish for lunch, and dear old Mrs Simmons dished out tinned salmon for his tea. He was such a gorgeous bundle of grey fluff.’
The school years, carefree for the most part, with increasing study as she decided on the legal fraternity as her profession. University, law school. Dating. Friends.
Hers had been a happy childhood, despite the lack of a father-figure, and there were many memories to cherish. She and Georgia were so close, friends and equals rather than mother and daughter. They had shared so much.
And now it was going to change. Don’t go down that path, Suzanne mentally chided herself. Today was meant to be happy, joyous.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE launch deposited the wedding guests, together with the photographer and celebrant, each of whom had undergone a security check at Dunk Island before boarding the chartered launch to ensure no unwanted media were able to intrude.
The Helen Bianchin Collection Page 199
