by Anne Oliver
‘Put next week out of your mind, it’s too far away.’
Come Monday they’d go their separate ways. Back to real life and working ridiculous hours. Emma and the Blue Mountains would be nothing but a warm and pretty memory.
‘Think about this instead,’ he said, sliding his hands down her upper arms. ‘Neither of us wants to be tied down, and we both work our backsides off. We deserve some playtime.’
‘Playtime?’ She stared up at him, her eyes the colour of the mist-swirled mountains behind her. ‘No deal. Not with you.’
‘Why not? Afraid you might enjoy yourself?’
She rolled her lips together, as if to stop whatever she’d been about to say, then said, ‘I just don’t want to play with you, that’s all.’ She turned and began walking back the way they’d come.
‘Liar.’ Grabbing her arm, he walked around her, blocking her path until they stood face to face. ‘Tell me you didn’t enjoy that kiss just now.’
She studied him a moment. ‘I didn’t enjoy that kiss just now.’
He laughed. ‘You started it. That night at the restaurant. You blew me away with your enthusiasm and got me seriously thinking about you. And me. I haven’t stopped thinking about you and me—together—since.’
‘I told you, that kiss was an overreaction to a particular circumstance,’ she said primly. ‘And what are we—kids? “You started it”,’ she muttered with a roll of her eyes, but he thought he saw a hint of humour there too.
She looked so delightful he couldn’t resist—he planted a firm smacking kiss on those pouted lips then grinned. ‘I’d better get you back. Stella’ll be starting to think I’ve kidnapped you.’
Grabbing her hand, he tugged her alongside him along the path towards the hotel. The weekend had barely begun, plenty of time to convince her to change her mind.
‘So. Seen any good movies lately?’
She kept up a brisk pace beside him. ‘No.’
‘Me neither. Stella mentioned you swim every morning, come rain or shine. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘So … if I were to change my early-morning jog—’
‘One weekend.’ She jerked to a sudden halt and looked up at him. ‘And whatever happens happens?’
A strand of hair had come loose and blew across her eyes. He smoothed it back, tucked it behind her ear. ‘We’ll take things as they come. It’ll be good, I promise.’
Oh, yes, she knew. Emma stared into those beguiling eyes. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’ She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with Jake Carmody.
She resumed walking, hoping she was headed in the right direction. Everything seemed surreal. The moonlight distorting their combined shadows on the path in front of them. The sharp eucalpyt fragrance of the bushland. The way her body was responding to his proximity even now.
His seductive charm really knew no bounds. No wonder women swooned and fell at his feet. She firmed her jaw. Not this woman. Still, she didn’t have to swoon, exactly …
He was suggesting what amounted to nothing more than a weekend of sex and sin. Heat shimmied down her spine. A weekend on Pleasure Island. She had no doubt Jake could deliver, and couldn’t deny the idea called to her on more than one level. But was she game enough? Why not? It wasn’t a lifetime commitment, for heaven’s sake.
Since her father’s death eleven years ago she’d worked her butt off to make things better for them all. Jake had made it clear to her that it was past time she took something for herself. One weekend to be free and irresponsible. And this weekend, with Stella leaving home and the love rat a disappearing blot on her horizon, was it perhaps a good time to start?
They reached the hotel and she hesitated on the shallow steps out front. Her cheeks felt hot and super sensitive, as if a feather might flay away the skin.
She turned to say goodnight and met his gaze. The heat from that kiss still shimmered in his eyes, and it took all her will-power to keep from flinging herself at him and kissing him again.
Deliberately she stepped back, aware she hadn’t given him an answer and just as aware they both already knew what her answer would be. She turned towards the building.
A liveried porter swept the wide glass door open with a welcoming smile and warm air swirled out. ‘Good evening, madam.’
‘Good evening.’ She smiled back, wondering if her cheeks and lips were as pink and chapped as they felt. From the safety of distance, she turned to Jake once more. ‘Till tomorrow, then.’
‘Get a good night’s sleep.’
His smile was pure sin. You’ll need it—no mistaking that message in those hot dark eyes, and her heart turned a high somersault. It continued its gymnastics all the way up the three flights of stairs.
Stella was bundled in a fluffy white hotel robe on the couch, watching a TV cook-off, when she entered.
‘Traitor.’ But there was no sting in the word as Emma pulled out the fortune cookie note and dropped it on Stella’s lap. ‘For you.’ Because her legs were still wobbly, she flopped down on the couch beside her.
‘“Two hearts, one soul.” Ooh, I’ve gone all gooey inside.’ Smiling broadly, Stella tucked her legs up beneath her. ‘What does yours say?’
She shook her head, that overly warm sensation prickling her skin. ‘Never mind.’
Stella stuck out her hand, palm up. ‘Come on—give.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Emma dug into her pocket again, then glued her attention to the TV screen, but she wasn’t seeing it. ‘It’s not romantic, like yours. And that’s okay because I’m not a romantic like you.’ She pressed a fist to her lips to stem the flow.
‘“A caress is better than a career.” Of course it’s romantic, silly. It’s telling you to take time out and enjoy … To … Em.’
‘Where’s my computer, by the way? Jake said … never mind.’ Emma could feel Stella’s gaze on her and jerked herself off the couch without waiting for an answer. ‘I’m going to take a bath.’
‘Oh. My. Lord.’
‘What?’ She was in the process of ripping off her tracksuit jacket but stopped at her sister’s tone. ‘What’s wrong?’
Stella was staring at her. And pointing. ‘What have you done with my sister?’
‘What are you talking about?’ She shrugged her shoulders. Ran a hand around her neck. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Ha!’ Stella jabbed her finger in the air again. ‘I should be asking what Jake’s done with my sister.’
‘No. It’s nothing. Don’t you say one word to Jake or I’ll—’
‘Not nothing.’ Stella craned forward, studying Emma as if she was counting her eyelashes. ‘My big sister with fresh whisker burn around her mouth. And stars in her eyes. She’s never had stars in her eyes. Never.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Panicked, Emma swiped at her mouth, then sucked in her lips and backed away. Tugged her T-shirt over her head and threw it on her bed. ‘Do you know how cold it is outside? The air … A hot bath …’
‘Emma Dilemma.’ Stella grinned. ‘You’ve just had it on with best man Jake.’
‘No. It’s such a cliché to get it on with the best man. I kissed him, that’s all. No. He kissed me. We kissed each other. He started it. No biggie, okay?’
Stella shook her head. ‘My sister never gets flustered when she talks about a guy. Never.’
Emma fumbled through her suitcase. ‘He’s not a guy, he’s Jake. And I’m not flustered. It’s nothing.’
‘It’s something.’
She yanked her pyjamas from her overnighter and blew out a breath then turned to Stella who was watching her with her chin on the back of the sofa. ‘Okay, it’s something. But it’s just a weekend something. Or not. I haven’t decided yet.’
Stella smiled. ‘You know you’ll have this room all to yourself tomorrow night …?’
‘Not another word.’ Emma flung up a hand. ‘You breathe so much as a syllable of this conversation to Jake or anyone else and I’ll sabotag
e your wedding night.’
And, swiping up her cosmetics bag, she fled to the bathroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE wedding day dawned bright and clear. And cold. Clad in her complimentary terrycloth robe, Emma took her early-morning coffee onto the balcony to admire the cotton balls of cloud that hid the valley floor. From her vantage point she could see the garden below, where even now staff were setting out chairs, toting flower arrangements, twining white ribbon and fairy lights through the trees.
A few moments later Stella stumbled out, hair wild, eyes sparkling. ‘Good morning.’ She leaned a shoulder against Emma’s. ‘It’s just perfect. Isn’t it perfect? Not a cloud in the sky. By afternoon it’ll be warm and still sunny. Hopefully … Can you believe I’m getting married in a few hours’ time?’
Emma dropped a kiss on her sister’s cheek on her way back inside. ‘And there’s a lot to get through before that happens.’ She checked her watch. ‘Breakfast is due up in ten minutes. The hairdresser will be here in half an hour.’
With less than an hour to go, the bride’s dressing room on the first floor was pandemonium. Underwear, costumes, flowers. A blur of fragrance and colour. Sunshine streamed through the window. Champagne and orange juice in tall flutes sat untouched on a sideboard, along with a plate of finger food.
Stella was with Beth, the wedding planner, and her two assistants—one aiming a video camera and catching the memories. The excitement, the laughter, the nerves.
In one of the full-length mirrors Emma caught a glimpse of her reflection in a strapless bustier. Crimson, with black ribbon laces at the front, it looked like something Scarlett O’Hara would have approved of. She yanked the ribbon tight between her breasts and tied it in a double knot, staring closer.
Wow. She actually had breasts today. Enhanced by the bustier’s support, they spilled over the top like something out of a men’s magazine. The garment pulled in her waist and flared over her hips, leaving a strip of bare belly and the tiny triangle of matching panties tantalisingly visible. A pair of sheer black stockings came to mid thigh, held up by long black suspenders.
For an instant she almost saw Jake’s reflection standing behind her, his eyes smouldering as he leaned over her to dip a finger between—
The tap on her shoulder had her spinning in a panicked one-eighty. ‘What?’ Her breath whooshed out and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Stella. Sorry. I was—’
‘A million miles away.’
Not as far as that. ‘I’m here. Right here.’ She gave a bright smile, then forgot about her erotic meanderings as she gazed at the bride. ‘Oh, my! Gorgeous.’
Stella’s figure-hugging floor-length Guinevere gown was bottle-green crushed velvet. A dull gold panel insert in the bodice gleamed with tiny emerald beads, replicated on the wide belt cinching in her waist. Full-length sleeves flared wide at the wrist and fell in long soft folds. Her coronet of fresh freesias, tiny roses and featherlike greenery complemented her rich auburn hair.
‘You look stunning, Stell. Radiant and stunning. I can’t wait to see Lancelot’s face when he gets a load of you.’
‘Neither can I.’ She looked down at Emma, waved a hand. ‘Um … are you planning on wearing something over that? I’m sure the guys won’t mind, but this is my day and I know it’s selfish but I want all the attention.’
‘Getting there …’ With the help of Annie, one of the assistants, Emma stepped into a voluminous skirt and shimmied into the bodice. ‘I told you, Stella. You should have been Scarlett, not me.’
‘And I told you already, Scarlett’s the brunette. She’s playful and coquettish and I really, really wanted you to be that woman today. Whereas Guinevere was pale and intense and totally and unconditionally in love with Lancelot.’
‘Well, you’ll have that attention,’ Emma said, admiring her sister. ‘Ryan, not to mention the rest of the male population, won’t be able to take his eyes off you.’
Annie slipped buttons into the tiny loops at the back of Emma’s dress, then handed her black lace gloves and a parasol.
‘Don’t forget the bridal bouquet.’ Emma passed Stella a simple posy of flowers to match those in her hair. She paused with her sister at the top of the wide sweeping staircase. ‘We’re a clash of eras, aren’t we?’
‘We are. But it’s going to be fun. For both of us.’ Stella squeezed Emma’s hand. ‘Thank you for helping to make it a perfect day.’
‘It’s not over, it’s just beginning.’
The harp’s crystal clear rendition of ‘Greensleeves’ floated on the air as they arrived at the garden’s designated bride spot. At a signal from Beth, the music segued beautifully into Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.’
‘You’re up,’ Beth murmured to Emma. ‘And don’t forget to smile.’
She’d taken but a few steps along the petal-strewn manicured lawn when she saw Jake and Ryan up ahead. She forgot about smiling. The garden might look like a fairytale. The costumed guests might look magnificent or they might be naked for all Emma knew, because her peripheral vision had disappeared.
Rhett Butler had never looked so devastating. Black suit, dove-grey waistcoat and dark mottled cravat beneath a snowy starched shirt. His eyes met hers and he smiled. A slow, sexy, come-away-with-me smile.
‘Hi,’ he mouthed.
‘Hi,’ she mouthed back, and, Oh, help. Her knees went weak but she seemed to be moving forward. What was wrong with her? No man had ever captivated her this way.
Deliberately freeing her gaze, she aimed her smile at Ryan instead, looking regal in a black tunic and cowled top over silver-grey leggings and black knee-high boots. The Clifton family crest was emblazoned on his tunic—she could make out a lion and a medieval helmet in the black-and-gold embroidery.
Not that he was looking at her; his eyes were for his bride, a few steps behind. As they should be. Emma wondered for a quickened heartbeat how it would feel to have someone look at her that way, with shiny unconditional love. She rejected the thought even as it formed and concentrated on keeping her smile in place, her steps smooth and measured.
Jake’s eyes feasted on Emma. The deep colour complemented her lightly tanned complexion. A wide-brimmed hat shaded her face, and he couldn’t quite read her eyes, so he contented himself with admiring the seductive cleavage and the way the crimson fabric hugged every delectable curve as she moved closer.
His fingers flexed in anticipation of becoming more intimately acquainted with those curves. How long would it take him to get her out of that dress? To lay her down on the grass right here in the sunshine and plunge into her while the birds sang and the cool wind blew up from the valley….
Then she moved out of his line of sight to take her place beside the bride. Probably just as well, because any longer and it might become obvious to all where his thoughts were.
He turned his attention to Ry and Stella, and watched the couple blindly promise to handcuff themselves to each other till death did them part. A life sentence, no parole. His collar itched on Ry’s behalf, and he shifted his shoulders against the tight sensation inside his shirt.
They looked happy enough. But it never lasted. There were exceptions, of course. Ry’s parents—Henry VIII with a fake red beard and Anne Boleyn—were holding hands, eyes moist.
He glanced at the girls’ mother in her white Grecian goddess robe, looking, as always, eternally constipated. Her marriage disaster had turned her into a bitter and twisted woman. Nevertheless, she was still beautiful. He imagined Emma would look as beautiful in thirty years’ time.
But he didn’t want to contemplate Emma’s lovely face marred with that same perpetually pinched expression, those sparkling sapphire eyes clouded with sadness.
Who in their right mind would take the marriage risk? Only those temporarily blinded by that eternal mystery they called love. Not him, thank God.
Formal photographs followed in the gardens, then on to the decking overlooking the mountains as the sun lowered, turning the sky golde
n and the valley purple.
Emma couldn’t fault Jake’s behaviour. He was the perfect gentleman. The perfect Rhett. He only touched her when the photographer required him to do so. During the five-course meal he was seated next to Ryan at the top table, so conversation between them was limited, but there was a heated glance or two when the bridal couple’s heads didn’t block the view.
After the speeches guests chatted over music provided by a three-piece orchestra as the desserts began coming out of the kitchen. Anne Boleyn, aka the mother of the groom, made her way to the top table.
‘Beautiful ceremony, my darlings. It must be your turn next, Emma.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Emma smiled back, then lifted her champagne glass and swallowed more than she should considering her duties. ‘It’s not for me.’
‘Ah, you just have to find the right man.’
Smile still in place, Emma set her empty glass on the table with a thunk. ‘And isn’t that the killer?’
‘And Jake?’ Ryan’s mother smiled in his direction. ‘When’s some clever woman going to snap you up and make an honest man out of you?’
‘Alas for me, fair lady.’ He put his hand on his heart. ‘You’re already taken.’
Laughter from the bridal couple. ‘You never know, Em,’ Stella murmured into her ear as her new mother-in-law walked back to her chair. ‘He could be closer than you think.’
‘What I’m thinking is it’s about time you two cut that white skyscraper.’
The guests applauded as Stella and Ryan laughed into each other’s eyes and fed each other cake. Weddings, Emma thought. They always whipped up those romantic, dreamy, nostalgic emotions. It was hard not to be caught up in the euphoria.
She deliberately veered from those too-pretty thoughts and watched Karina knock back one glass of champagne after another. Emma pursed her lips, remembering the Pat Me sticker she’d discovered stuck to her backside after the hens’ night. She narrowed her gaze as Karina plastered herself all over one of Ryan’s cousins up against a wall. Weddings also came with too much booze and indiscriminate physical contact.
