The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN

between father and son was clearly evident, the frame almost identical, although Trenton was a little heavier through the chest, slightly thicker in the waist, and his hair was streaked with grey.

      He was a kind man, possessed of a gentle wit, beneath which was a shrewd and knowledgeable business mind.

      Suzanne rose to her feet and allowed herself to be enveloped in a bear-hug.

      ‘Suzanne. Lovely to see you, my dear.’ He released her, and acknowledged his son with a warm smile. ‘Sloane.’ He indicated the limousine. ‘Georgia is making a call from the car.’ The smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled with humour as he placed a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. ‘A last-minute confirmation of floral arrangements for the wedding. Go down and talk to her while I check the luggage being loaded on board.’

      Georgia was fixing her lipstick, a slight pink colouring her cheeks as Suzanne slid into the rear seat, and she leaned forward and brushed her mother’s cheek with her own. ‘Nervous?’

      ‘No,’ her mother denied. ‘Just needing someone to tell me I’m not being foolish.’

      Georgia had been widowed at a young age, left to rear a child who retained little memory of the father who had been killed on a dark road in the depth of night by a joyriding, unlicensed lout high on drugs and alcohol. Life thereafter hadn’t exactly been a struggle, as circumspect saving and a relatively strict budget had ensured there were holidays and a few of life’s pleasures.

      ‘You’re not being foolish,’ Suzanne said gently.

      Georgia appeared anxious as she lifted a hand and pressed fingers to Suzanne’s cheek. ‘I would have preferred to put my plans on hold until after your wedding to Sloane. You don’t mind, do you?’

      It was difficult to maintain her existing expression beneath the degree of guilt and remorse she experienced for embarking on a deliberately deceitful course.

      ‘Don’t be silly, Mama,’ she said gently. ‘Sloane has briefs stacked back to back. We can’t plan anything until he’s free to take a few weeks’ break.’ She tried for levity, and won. ‘Besides, I doubt Trenton would hear of any delay.’

      ‘No,’ a deep voice drawled. ‘He wouldn’t.’

      Trenton held out his hand and Suzanne took it, then stepped out of the car, watching as he gave Georgia a teasing look. ‘Time to fly, sweetheart.’

      Suzanne boarded the jet, closely followed by her mother and Trenton, and within minutes the jet cruised a path to a distant runway, paused for clearance, then accelerated for take-off.

      An intimate cabin, intimate company, with the emphasis on intimacy. It took only one look to see that Trenton was equally enamoured of Georgia as she was of him.

      Any doubts Suzanne might have had were soon dispensed with, for there was a magical chemistry existent that tore the breath from her throat.

      You shared a similar alchemy with Sloane, an inner voice taunted.

      Almost as soon as the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign flashed off Trenton rose to his feet and extracted a bottle of champagne and four flutes from the bar fridge.

      ‘A toast is fitting, don’t you agree?’ He removed the cork and proceeded to fill each flute with vintage Dom Perignon, handed them round, then raised his own. ‘To health, happiness—’ his eyes met and held Georgia’s, then he turned to spare Sloane and Suzanne a carefree smile ‘—and love.’

      Sloane touched the rim of his flute to that of Suzanne’s, and his gaze held a warmth that almost stole her breath away.

      Careful, she cautioned. It’s only an act. And, because of it, she was able to direct him a stunning smile before turning towards her mother and Trenton. ‘To you both.’

      Alcohol before lunch was something she usually chose to avoid, and champagne on a near-empty stomach wasn’t the wisest way to proceed with the day.

      Thankfully there was a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches set out on a platter, and she ate one before sipping more champagne.

      Sloane lifted a hand and tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear in a deliberately evocative gesture. It pleased him to see her eyelashes sweep wide, feel the faint quiver beneath his touch, and glimpse the increased pulse-beat at the base of her throat.

      It would prove to be an interesting four days. And three nights, he perceived with a degree of cynical amusement.

      Suzanne felt the breath hitch in her throat. Was she out of her mind? What had seemed a logical, common-sense option now loomed as an emotional minefield.

      CHAPTER THREE

      BEDARRA ISLAND resembled a lush green jewel in a sapphire sea. Secluded, reclusive, a haven of natural beauty, and reached only by launch from nearby Dunk Island.

      Bedarra Island at first sight appeared covered entirely by rainforest. It wasn’t until the launch drew closer that Suzanne glimpsed a high-domed terracottatiled villa roof peeping through dense foliage, then another and another.

      There were sixteen private villas, walking was the only form of transport, and children under fifteen were not catered for, she mused idly, having studied the brochure she’d collected the day after she’d become aware of their destination.

      She stood admiring the translucent sea as the launch cleaved through the water. It looked such a peaceful haven, the ideal place to get away from the rush and bustle of city life.

      Acute sensory perception alerted her to Sloane’s presence, and she contained a faint shivery sensation as he moved in close behind her, successfully forming a casual cage as he placed a hand at either side of her on the railing.

      No part of his body touched hers, but she was intensely aware of the few inches separating them and how easy it would be to lean back into that hard-muscled frame.

      She closed her eyes against the painful image of memory of when they had stood together just like this. Looking out over a sleeping city from any one of several floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse; in the kitchen, where she’d adored taking the domestic role; the large en suite. On any one of many occasions when he’d enfolded her close and nuzzled the sensitive slope of her neck, her nape, the hollow behind each earlobe.

      Times when she had exulted in his touch and turned into the circle of his arms to lift her face to his for a kiss that was alternately slow and gentle, or hard and hungry. Inevitably, it had led them to the bedroom and long hours of passion.

      Suzanne’s fingers tightened on the railing as the launch decreased speed and began to ease in against the small jetty. Was Sloane’s memory as vivid as her own? Or was he unmoved, and merely playing an expected role?

      Damn. She’d have to get a grip on such wayward emotions, or she’d become a nervous wreck!

      ‘Time to disembark.’

      She felt rather than heard him move, and the spell was broken as Georgia’s voice intruded, mingling with that of Trenton.

      ‘It’s beautiful,’ Georgia remarked simply as they trod the path through to the main complex and reception.

      ‘Secluded,’ Trenton concurred. ‘With guaranteed privacy, and no unwanted intrusion by the media.’

      For which he was prepared to pay any price, Suzanne concluded, knowing only too well how difficult it was at times to enjoy a private dinner out without being interrupted by some society photographer bent on capturing a scoop for the tabloid social pages.

      Exotic native timbers provided a background for the merging colour and tone of furnishings adorning the reception area.

      The reception manager greeted them warmly, processed their check-in with practised speed, indicated their luggage would be taken to their individual villas and placed two keys on the counter.

      Suzanne felt as if she’d been hit in the solar plexus by a sledgehammer.