Marriage Under Suspicion. Sara Craven

      Cover She found the suite without difficulty. There was a notice attached to the door handle, stating “Please do not disturb.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Endpage Copyright

      She found the suite without difficulty. There was a notice attached to the door handle, stating “Please do not disturb.”

      I bet, thought Kate, bitterness clenching her throat. She flung the door wide and marched in.

      

      Ryan had risen to his feet and was looking at her, head thrown slightly back, his eyes hooded. He said quietly, “Hello, Kate.”

      

      She had planned it all on the walk here. She was going to be dignified—civilized. She was not going to break down, or make a scene. But at the sight of him—his self-possession when she was falling apart—something exploded in her head. Her voice when it emerged was on the edge of a scream.

      

      “Don’t you dare say ‘Hello’ to me. Don’t you dare. I’m pregnant, do you hear me? Pregnant.”

      SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

      

      Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.

      Marriage Under Suspicion

      Sara Craven

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      THIS, Kate decided, as she crossed the deserted hotel lounge, had quite definitely been the morning from hell.

      She sank into a chair by the window, easing off her elegant black court shoes under the shelter of the table, and discreetly massaging the ball of one aching foot against the calf of her other leg.

      Outside on the sunlit lawn, the pretty pink and white striped marquee, with its distinctive octagonal shape, was being swiftly and efficiently dismantled.

      Kate, recalling how many hours and telephone calls had been required to track it down, surveyed the operation with genuine regret.

      Elsewhere in the hotel, all preparation on the carefully chosen menu for two hundred and fifty people had ceased; the champagne was being returned to the cellar, together with the claret and the chablis; and phones were buzzing as disappointed guests were told their presence would not be required after all.

      Kate sighed soundlessly, and opened the file in front of her, running a finger down a hastily assembled check list. Setting up a wedding was a long and complicated business. Cancelling it on the day itself was almost as complex, and probably twice as hectic.

      Damn Davina Brent, she thought irritably, scanning through the invoices from her sub-contractors. Why couldn’t she have decided a month—a week—even yesterday—that she didn’t want to go through with it?

      Quite apart from the drama and upset of the last few hours, she would also have saved her distraught family some massive but unavoidable bills.

      It was the first time since Kate and Louie, her friend from college days, had started Special Occasions that a bride had actually cried off on her wedding morning. In fact, in the three years that they’d been functioning, they’d had remarkably few hiccups, organising other people’s parties, receptions and special events.

      And certainly there’d been no prior hint that the beautiful Davina was likely to throw such a spectacular last-minute wobbly. During the preliminary discussions that Kate had had with her, and her unfortunate husband-not-to-be, and, indeed, ever since, she’d seemed very much in love.

      But then, thought Kate with an inward shrug, how could you tell what went on in other peoples’ lives—or heads?

      For a moment, she was very still, aware of an odd shiver tingling down her spine. A goose walking over my grave, she thought. Or an angel passing over.

      And jumped, as a glass was placed on the table in front of her. A martini, if she was any judge, and served just as she liked it, very dry, very cold, and with a twist of lemon. Only, she hadn’t ordered it.

      ‘There must be some mistake,’ she began, turning in her chair to face the waiter. Instead she found herself looking up into the unsmiling face of Peter Henderson, the erstwhile best man, now casually clad in jeans and sweater.

      ‘No mistake at all.’ His voice was terse. ‘You look as if you need a drink. I know I do.’ He indicated the whisky glass he was holding.

      ‘Thanks for the thought.’ Kate accorded him a brief, formal smile. ‘But I make a rule—no alcohol while I’m working.’

      He grimaced. ‘I thought, under the circumstances, you’d be off duty by now.’

      Kate gestured at the open file. ‘There are still a few loose ends to tie up.’

      ‘May I join you, or will I be getting in the way?’

      ‘Of course not. Sit down—please.’ Kate searched around under the table with a stockinged foot for her discarded shoes.

      ‘Allow me.’ Peter Henderson went down on one knee, and deftly replaced the errant footwear before seating himself in an adjoining chair.

      ‘Thank you.’ Kate was aware of a faint, vexed flush warming her face.

      ‘No problem.’ He surveyed her, his expression openly appreciative of the dark blonde hair, drawn sleekly back from her face, and the slender figure set off by her elegant raspberry-pink suit, and black silk shirt. He reached across the table, touching his glass to hers.

      ‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked lightly. ‘Love and happiness?’

      ‘Under the circumstances, that could be something of a minefield,’ Kate said drily. ‘Let’s stick to something brief and uncomplicated like “Cheers.’” She paused. ‘How is your brother?’

      His mouth tightened. ‘Not good. Shattered, in fact.’

      ‘I can believe it.’ Kate hesitated again. ‘I—I’m so sorry.’

      He