by Miranda Lee
‘That’s what I thought. Oh, and afterwards, he’s taking me to lunch.’
‘Oh-oh.’
‘It’s not like that, Owen. Believe me. It’s just plain old male curiosity masquerading as politeness.’
‘I hope so, dear heart. We don’t want any nasty complications, do we? So try not to look too sexy tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be ndiculous, Owen. I never look sexy in my work clothes.’
Owen rolled his eyes. Was the woman blind? Why did she think she had men panting after her all the time? ‘Still, I suggest you leave that darling black suit you bought recently at home,’ he advised. ‘In fact, leave all your black clothes at home. Go for grey. Or even brown. Now brown’s a passion-killer, if ever there was a colour.’
Fiona laughed. ‘You don’t have to worry, Owen. It won’t matter what I wear. I’m no longer Philip’s type.’
‘Yeah, but is he still your type?’
‘Only superficially.’
‘That the part I’m worried about.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘Do you or do you not want Five-Star Weddings to handle this wedding? Make up your mind!’
‘A Forsythe wedding, at double our usual fee? You have to be joking! I’d turn a blind eye to just about anything for that!’
‘Then do shut up, Owen, and just hang up. You’re tying up the line and I’m expecting the bride to give me a call any moment.’
He hung up.
Fiona sighed irritably and flopped the receiver back into its cradle, rolling back over and staring up at the ceiling.
‘Damn you, Philip,’ she muttered, after a minute or two. ‘And damn you too, Owen. I’ll wear black if I want to!’
Hauling herself off the bed, she scooped up her tan shoes and carried them over to the walk-in robe. There, she placed them neatly in the empty spot on the shoe-rack, then began to undress, carefully hanging up her suit on specially padded hangers. Once down to her undies, she wandered back into the bedroom and into the en suite bathroom. There, she stripped off totally, popped her undies and stockings into the basin and turned on the hot tap.
Hand-washing her smalls was a habit she’d got into many years before, when she’d lived in a one-room bedsit which hadn’t had a laundry. She still did it that way, despite her present well-appointed apartment having an internal laundry with an excellent washing machine and dryer.
Fiona was down to the rinsing part when she caught a glimpse of her naked body in the vanity mirror, her full breasts jiggling left and right with the washing action. Philip’s sneaky remark about her needing a few more pounds popped back into her mind.
He was wrong, she thought tartly. Okay, so she was a good deal lighter than when he’d known her, but she still had a decent bust, a rounded derrière and great legs. Admittedly, her arms were on the slim side, as were her neck and shoulders. Her face no longer had that rounded look, either, but she thought it suited her, with more cheekbones showing and her jawline better defined. Her mouth and eyes looked bigger as well.
Still, maybe Philip liked fat women. Owen did.
Maybe Corinne was fat Or at least pleasantly plump.
No, she couldn’t be. Kathryn had said she would make a lovely bride, and Kathryn definitely belonged to the you can never be too rich or too thin line of thinking.
No, Corinne wasn’t going to be fat. Just shapely. And pretty. Very, very pretty.
The telephone rang again, catching Fiona with her hands still in the sink. Quickly drying them, she hurried, still naked, back into the bedroom, and snatched up the receiver.
‘Fiona Kirby,’ she answered briskly.
‘It’s Philip, Ms Kirby. Philip Forsythe.’
Fiona stiffened at both his relaxed drawl and at his deliberate use of both their surnames. Clearly darling Corinne was within listening distance.
Fiona immediately pictured them in bed, as naked as she was, limbs twined, their bodies still warm and sated from their lovemaking.
‘Yes, Mr Forsythe?’ she drawled back, but there was a brick of ice in her chest.
‘Corinne wanted me to make the initial contact for her. She felt a little shy about it. Here she is now...’
Fiona could see him handing his fiancée the receiver, the cord stretching across his bare chest to reach her. His ear would still be so close that he would hear what she had to say.
‘Hello? Fiona? This is Corinne.’ A pleasant voice. Soft. Lilting. Sweet.
Fiona plastered a smile on her face so that she sounded happy. ‘Hi, there, Corinne. Kathryn’s been telling me such nice things about you.’
‘Has she? How kind of her. Oh, but then, she is a darling, isn’t she?’
‘She certainly is. Now, since time is of the essence, Corinne, I think we should get together as soon as possible. I can’t really make a proper plan for the wedding ceremony and reception afterwards till I know what kind of dress you’ll be wearing, not to mention the colour you’ve chosen for the bridesmaids. Everything pivots around that.’
‘Oh. Well, actually, I’m not sure what kind of wedding dress I want to wear yet. Carmel’s promised to come with me when I choose. She always knows what looks best on me. Carmel’s my very best friend. We do simply everything together. But I can tell you that there’s only going to be the one bridesmaid. That’ll be Carmel, of course. And she’s decided to wear black.’
‘Only one bridesmaid?’ Fiona repeated, startled. The black bit didn’t bother her. Bridesmaids wearing black had come into vogue over the last few years.
‘Yes, that’s right. Carmel’s my only close girlfriend and I don’t have any sisters. Neither does Philip, so it seems silly to have a big wedding party just for the sake of it.’
‘I see. Well, of course you’re the bride, Corinne. I’m here to do whatever you want. It’s just that Kathryn implied it would be a big wedding.’
‘Oh, it will be, guest-wise. Daddy’s inviting all his political cronies. And the Forsythe family seems to just go on and on for ever! Oh, Philip, stop that,’ she giggled. ‘You know it’s true. Those cousins of yours have a baby every week or so. Sorry about that, Fiona. Philip’s making faces at me.’
‘Really?’ Fiona gritted her teeth. ‘So ! When would be a convenient time for both you and Carmel to come dress-shopping this week?’
‘Any day this week, really Carmel’s on holiday and staying at my place. What’s that, Philip? Oh, Philip says not tomorrow, of course. He’s coming to see you tomorrow. What, Philip?’
Fiona hung on grimly while a male voice muttered in the background. At least they weren’t in bed together. Philip sounded too far away for that.
‘Philip says he’s going to take you out to lunch as a thank-you for dropping everything and doing our wedding. Tell you what, Fiona. Get him to take you to Moby Dick’s. It’s a new place down at the waterfront at The Rocks. Simply scrummy food. You’ll like it.’
Fiona grimaced. Darn, but the girl was sweet. And with not a jealous bone in her body.
If Philip was my fiance, Fiona thought savagely, I wouldn’t let him within cooee of another woman, let alone some unknown female who could be anybody.
Which I am.
‘Unfortunately, I simply won’t have time for a long lunch, Corinne. It’ll have to be a quick coffee down at the local café. So, how about Tuesday? I’ll pick you and Carmel up at your place around ten?’
‘That’d be great.’ And she gave Fiona an address in Mosman.
‘Is that where you are now?’ some masochistic devil made her ask.
A light, tinkling laugh. ‘Oh, no. I’m staying with Philip at his family’s Double Bay apartment for the weekend.’
‘Ahh. I see...’ Which she did.
Fiona closed her eyes and could have wept.
It was wickedly unfair. How could she be this jealous over a man she no longer loved?
In desperation, she searched her heart and found a less threatening reason for her intense reactions today.
It’s not really jealo
usy you’re feeling, she decided, but envy. You envy Philip’s getting over what happened ten years ago. You envy his being able to want normal things, like a wife and a family. You envy his finding someone really nice to share his life with.
And he has found someone nice. Clearly Corinne was a sweetie. Fiona wanted to hate her, but it was herself she hated, for being so screwed up.
‘Philip wants to talk to you again, Fiona,’ Corinne suddenly piped up, and Fiona’s heart squeezed tight again. ‘Here he is. I’m off to make some coffee. See you Tuesday, Fiona.’
‘Looking forward to it, Corinne.’
Fiona held her breath till Philip came on the line.
‘I may be a little later than noon,’ he said straight away, in a businesslike voice. ‘I have to be in court first thing in the morning. I shouldn’t be held up, but things don’t always run smoothly there. So if I’m a bit late, don’t worry.’
‘Fine,’ she returned crisply. ‘But, as I was just saying to Corinne, no lunch, thanks. I’m very busy at the moment, as I told you earlier. I haven’t time to waste sitting round waiting to be served. I eat on the run most days.’
‘When you eat at all, that is,’ he drawled.
‘What is this obsession with my weight?’ she snapped. ‘I’ll have you know I’m the perfect weight for my height. Whether you believe me or not, I used to be overweight. If you could see me right at this moment, you would see for yourself than I’m perfectly healthy.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning I’m standing here in my birthday suit and I have more than enough flesh on my bones to satisfy most men.’
‘I’m sure you do, Fiona,’ he mocked. ‘I’m sure you do. But I’m not most men, and I’m really not interested in your body anymore. All I want from you, sweetheart, is closure.’
‘Closure!’ What on earth was he talking about?
‘That’s right. I know it’s one of those irritating New Age words, but it rather covers our situation well. There’s a couple of questions that I’ve always wanted to ask you, and a couple more that have arisen since speaking to you today. I want to hear the answers to those questions right from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. So I suggest you make time for lunch with me tomorrow, madam. Otherwise, Five-Star Weddings won’t be getting the lucrative commission for my wedding to Corinne, or the considerable kudos and publicity which will inevitably go with it. Do you get my drift?’
Fiona said nothing. She was furious, yet at the same time flustered. What questions?
‘So glad you’ve finally seen some sense and stopped arguing,’ he grated out. ‘Just make sure you don’t go giving me any trouble tomorrow. About lunch, that is. Oh, and make sure you come prepared to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
And he hung up.
CHAPTER SIX
OWEN was standing talking to Janey at Reception when Fiona walked in the next morning. He took one horrified look at her, grabbed her nearest arm and pulled her aside.
‘You’re wearing black!’ he whispered. ‘I thought I told you not to wear black!’
Not just any old black, either, Owen groaned silently. But that brand-new black suit of hers, with the tighter than usual skirt, and the nipped-in-at-the-waist jacket which made her bottom look bigger and gave even Owen lewd ideas. When combined with the black satin cami underneath, shiny black hose and those lethal stiletto heels, she looked all respectability on top, but with the promise of smoulder underneath.
One of Fiona’s darkly winged brows lifted, and she eyed him with that don’t-cross-me-or-you’ll-be-sorry look. It had extra impact that morning, perhaps because she was wearing more eye make-up than usual. And more lipstick. And more perfume, he noted worriedly.
Her lack of jewellery wasn’t a plus because its absence seemed to emphasise her striking dark beauty. Owen stared at the sleek curtain of black hair which was hooked somewhat carelessly behind an ear on one side, then at the long pale column of her throat, bare of all adornment. He thought she’d never looked more seductive.
‘I’ll wear whatever colour I like,’ she said frostily. ‘And whatever I like. Please don’t go jumping to false and quite stupid conclusions here, Owen. I haven’t dressed this way for Philip Forsythe. Mark is picking me up after work tonight. We’re going out to dinner.’
Owen frowned. ‘But I thought you said you were going to give Mark the heave-ho.’
Her smile was wry. ‘I really should stop gossiping to you over my morning coffee. Still, it’s a woman’s privilege to change her mind, isn’t it? I am still a woman,’ she added waspishly, ‘despite some people seeming to think I’m a cross between a robot and a scarecrow.
‘Janey,’ she rapped out, whirling to face the startled receptionist. ‘Send Rebecca straight into me as soon as she arrives. Oh, and there will be a Mr Forsythe dropping by to see me around noon. When he arrives, please let me know he’s here, but have him wait till I come and get him. Okay?’
Eyes like iced chocolate swung back to Owen. ‘I’m afraid I won’t have time for a morning tea-break this morning, Owen. I have too much work to do. My partner will insist on signing me up for more work than any normal human being can handle. There again, I’m not human, am I? I’m a machine!’
Owen watched her stalk off down the corridor, the premonition of doom dampening yesterday’s optimism over getting the Forsythe wedding. All he could do was try to prevent anything dreadful happening, and protect the business come what may.
‘Janey,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t let Fiona know when Mr Forsythe arrives. Show him into my office first. I’ll take him along to Fiona after a few minutes.’
‘Okey dokey, boss,’ Janey said, and smiled a conspiratorial smile.
She did just that, and shortly before noon Philip Forsythe was ushered quietly into Owen’s office.
The sight of the groom instantly increased Owen’s worries. The man was everything Fiona went for, only more so. Better built. Better-looking. And a better dresser.
Still, so he should be, Owen thought ruefully, with all that Forsythe money behind him.
Owen was an expert in clothing of all kinds, and he knew exactly what that sleek navy suit had cost. Combine it with the blue handmade silk shirt, designer printed tie and exclusive Italian shoes, and you had an outfit the price of which would have fed a family of four for a year.
Owen rose from behind his desk and stretched a hand across in welcome. The hand that shook his in return was firm, and strong, and unwavering. Owen hoped his love for his fiancée was just as firm and strong and unwavering.
‘How do you, Mr Forsythe?’ he greeted him. ‘I’m Owen Simpson, Fiona’s partner in Five-Star Weddings. I’ll take you along to Fiona in a minute. I’d just like to have a few words before I do, if you don’t mind. Do please sit down.’
A couple of minutes passed in idle chit-chat, during which they exchanged banal pleasantries and got down to first names before Owen brought up what was bothering him.
‘I have to admit to some concern with this hiding of Fiona’s true identity, Philip. What will happen if your mother suddenly recognises her wedding co-ordinator as her long-lost daughter-in-law?’
‘Believe me,’ the groom said very drily, ‘that won’t happen.’
‘How can you be so sure? Is Fiona so very different these days?’
The corner of his client’s mouth lifted into a small sardonic smile. ‘As different as two people can get.’
‘But you recognised her.’
Owen was stunned by the stark emotion which flitted across the far too handsome face. Admittedly, the flash of pain was only momentary, but it was strong, and deep.
‘Ahh, yes... I recognised her,’ he admitted on a raw note. ‘Instantly.’
Alarm bells started ringing in Owen’s brain. If ever he’d heard the sounds of a tortured soul, it had been then. Whatever had happened ten years ago, to end Philip’s marriage to Fiona, it had not been due to lack of emotional involvement on this man’s part. It woerie
d Owen that Philip’s one-time love for his ex-wife might be too easily revived.
Fiona’s assertion that she was no longer Philip’s physical type could very well be true, but he wasn’t willing to risk it.
On top of that, he felt it was his male duty to warn Philip exactly what sort of girl Fiona was these days when it came to men. Owen had an old-fashioned attitude to marriage, and a strong aversion to infidelity of any kind.
Admittedly, Fiona had never tangled with a married man’s affections before—or an engaged one, for that matter—but even he could see this was an unusual situation. They’d been married before, for pity’s sake, already been to bed together. Fiona would know exactly what this man liked when it came to matters of the boudoir.
‘You know, Philip, I was quite shocked to learn the other day that Fiona had been married,’ he piped up. ‘Not once, but twice! Did you...er...know about her second marriage?’
‘I did, actually,’ came the taut reply.
Oh, yes, he still felt something for Fiona. Owen was sure of it. And she still felt something for him, the wicked little minx. She hadn’t tarted herself up today for some dinner with Mark. Mark was on the way out. Owen knew the signs.
‘Well, Fiona’s certainly not the marrying kind of girl these days,’ Owen said, with a knowing little laugh. ‘In the six years I’ve known her, that girl’s had more men-friends than Henry the Eighth had wives. She tires of them just as quickly too. Still...maybe she’s always been like that, eh, what? Maybe after two divorces she finally learned not to promise to love, honour and cherish till death do us part—because she knew what she really meant was till six months us do part.’
Forsythe didn’t say a word, but his expression was hard, his blue eyes cold.
‘I doubt she’ll ever marry again,’ Owen added. ‘She doesn’t want children for starters. Not much point in marriage without children, is there?’
‘Not much,’ the ex bit out.
‘And it’s not as though a girl has to marry to have a sex-life these days. Certainly not girls who look like Fiona. She has men panting after her all the time. Pity most of them are stupid enough to fall in love with her, though. There’s no future in falling in love with career girls like Fiona. They have only one use for men and it isn’t to marry them.’
