Secret Wedding. Liz Fielding

      The lady was spoken for, it seemed, and for once Tom found himself wishing it were otherwise. Which didn’t improve his mood. “And what do you use your rearview mirror for, sweetheart?” he enquired softly as she switched off the phone and gave her attention to the more immediate problem of the car. “Fixing your hair—?”

      “Oh, please!” Then, “But what can you expect from a man who drives an outdated car except old-fashioned, chauvinistic ideas to match?”

      “Fixing your hair while you’re on the phone chatting to your boyfriend?” he concluded. “You won’t be his best girl when he sees the damage to his car.”

      She ignored the taunt. “Just give me your insurance details and shift that superannuated heap out of the way so that I can park,” she said. “I’m going to be late for my weekend workshop.”

      “Workshop? You’re going to the Mollie Blake thing? Me too.”

      “Really?”

      She sounded sceptical. He didn’t blame her.

      “Absolutely. Can’t wait,” he said, making a virtue out of a necessity. “So, why don’t we go inside and trade dents in comfort? I’m sure we can sort this out amicably over a drink.”

      “Can’t wait,” she echoed faintly.

      Tom parked, grabbed his bag from the boot. They reached the hotel doorway at the same time. As he pushed the door open and held it for her she turned automatically to thank him, and the light caught her face.

      That was when he remembered where he’d heard the voice before. Younger … Sweeter … She’d changed, changed beyond recognition, but a man wasn’t likely to forget the voice of the woman he’d married. Even if the marriage had lasted barely long enough for the registrar’s signature to dry on the certificate.