The Wedding-Night Affair. Miranda Lee

      “Sorry. I’ll try again.” Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Copyright

      “Sorry. I’ll try again.”

      She didn’t dare look up into his eyes. Instead she stared straight ahead and tried with all her might to tie a proper bow tie.

      

      “I...er...think you’ll have to get someone else to do this,” she said somewhat breathlessly.

      

      When he didn’t say a single word, she looked up, then desperately wished she hadn’t. He was too close. Far, far too close.

      

      His eyes searched hers with a harsh and haunted expression, betraying in that moment that he did still feel something for her.

      

      “Why did you leave me?” he demanded angrily. “Why, damn you?”

      

      “Oh, Philip,” was all she could manage.

      

      He gave no warning of his intention to kiss her; nothing, except perhaps for a moment’s darkening of his eyes. Then she was yanked up against him and his mouth crashed down on hers.

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      The Wedding-Night Affair

      Miranda Lee

      

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE door of Fiona’s office burst open and Owen strode in, his round face pink with excitement. ‘You’ve no idea who just rang and booked you for her son’s wedding!’ he exclaimed.

      Fiona rolled her eyes, torn between exasperation and affection for her business partner. He was a dear man and a dear friend, hard-working and honest as the day was long. Mid-thirties, still a bachelor, and not at all gay as some people supposed, despite his penchant for pastel-coloured shirts and brightly coloured bow ties. Fiona thought the world of him.

      He had this irritating habit, however, of accepting work on her behalf. Then he would race in to give her the details afterwards, and expect her to be thrilled to pieces.

      She never was. She liked to vet all potential clients personally before accepting a job.

      ‘You’re right, Owen,’ Fiona returned drily. ‘I have no idea. How could I, since I didn’t have the privilege of talking to this new client myself?’

      As usual, Owen didn’t look at all shame-faced. ‘Couldn’t, dear heart,’ he countered breezily. ‘You were on the phone when she rang, so Janey put the lady through to me.’

      ‘Janey could have put the lady on hold for a while till I was free,’ Fiona pointed out with mock sweetness.

      Owen clamped a hand over his heart in horror at such a suggestion. ‘Put Mrs Kathryn Forsythe on hold? Good God, Fiona, she might have hung up!’

      Fiona’s own hand fluttered up to cover her own heart. ‘Kathryn Forsythe?’ she repeated weakly.

      Owen beamed. ‘I can see you’re impressed. And so you should be! Do you have any idea what handling a Forsythe wedding will do for our business? Five-Star Weddings will be the toast of Sydney’s social set! After everything goes off with your usual smooth and spectacular brilliance, Kathryn Forsythe will sing your praises to everyone who matters and there’ll be a rush of society matrons banging on our doors to do their own daughter’s wedding. Or son’s, as is the case this time.’

      Fiona’s heart skipped another beat, before gradually returning to normal functions. What a fool she was to feel a thing after all this time—even shock!

      ‘Well, well, well,’ she mused aloud as she leant back in her black swivel chair and tapped her expertly manicured fingernails on the stainless steel armrests. ‘So Philip’s getting married at long last, is he?’

      It was about time, she supposed. He would have been thirty last birthday. The perfect age for him to be finding a suitable bride and siring a suitable heir for his branch of the Forsythe fortune.

      Owen looked slightly taken aback. ‘You know Philip Forsythe?’

      Fiona laughed a dry little laugh. ‘Know him! I was married to him once.’ Briefly...

      Owen dropped his rotund frame into one of the chairs she kept handy for clients. ‘Good grief!’ he gasped, then sagged, all his earlier enthusiasm swiftly abating. ‘There goes our first high society gig.’ Even his pink-spotted bow tie seemed to droop.

      ‘Don’t be silly. You can do it, can’t you? Just say I’m all booked up.’

      ‘That won’t work,’ Owen groaned. ‘Mrs Forsythe wants the same co-ordinator who organised Craig Bateman’s wedding.’

      ‘Really? But that was hardly a society do. Just a cricketer and his childhood sweetheart. Very western suburbs, actually.’