Wedding Date with Mr Wrong. Nicola Marsh

his identity; he hadn’t known the woman behind CJU Designs. However, the element of surprise meant little when he’d been the one who ended up ousting her from her smug comfort zone.

      Her neck muscle spasmed and she rubbed it as she entered Nora’s room. She didn’t knock. No one knocked. Her mum’s door was perpetually open to whoever wanted to pop in for a chat.

      Vibrant, sassy, alive: three words that summed up Nora Umberto.

      But as she caught sight of her mum struggling to zip up her cardigan that last word taunted her.

      Alive. For how much longer?

      She swallowed the lump of sadness welling in her throat, pasted a smile on her face and strode into the room.

      ‘Hey, Mum, how you doing?’

      Nora’s brilliant blue eyes narrowed as she gestured at the zip with a shaky hand. ‘Great—until some bright spark dressed me in this today.’

      Her defiant smile made Callie’s heart ache.

      ‘Buttons are a pain, but these plastic zips aren’t a whole lot better.’

      Need a hand? The words hovered on Callie’s lips but she clamped them shut. Nora didn’t like being treated like an invalid. She liked accepting help less.

      Instead, Callie perched on the armchair opposite and ignored the increasing signs that her mum was struggling.

      ‘I’ll be away next week.’

      Nora instantly perked up. If Callie had to sit through one more lecture about all work and no play she’d go nuts. Not that she could blame her mum. Nora loved hearing stories of Rivera’s and dancing and going out, living vicariously through her.

      Callie embellished those tales, making her life sound more glamorous than it was. Her mum had enough to worry about without concern for a daughter who dated only occasionally, went Spanish dancing twice a week, and did little else but work. Work that paid the hefty Colldon bills.

      ‘Holiday?’

      Callie shook her head. ‘Work. In Torquay.’

      She said it casually, as if heading to the beachside town didn’t evoke visions of sun, surf and sexy guys in wetsuits.

      Particularly one sexy guy. Who she’d been lucky enough to see without a wetsuit many years ago on another sun-drenched beach.

      ‘You sure it’s work?’

      Nora leaned so far forward in her wheelchair she almost toppled forward, and Callie had to fold her arms to stop from reaching out.

      ‘You’ve got a glow.’

      ‘It’s an “I’m frazzled to be going away the week before Christmas” glow.’

      Nora sagged, her cheekiness instantly dimming. ‘You’ll be away for Christmas?’

      Callie leaned forward and squeezed her mum’s hand, careful not to scratch the tissue-thin skin. ‘I’ll be back in time for Christmas lunch. You think I’d miss Colldon’s cranberry stuffing?’

      Nora chuckled. ‘You know, I wouldn’t mind if you missed Christmas with me if your trip involved a hot young man. But work? That’s no excuse.’

      Ironic. Her trip involved a hot young man and work, and she had a feeling she’d need to escape both after a long week in Torquay.

      She stood and bent to kiss her mum’s cheek. ‘Sorry it’s a flying visit, but I need to go home and pack. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.’

      To her surprise, Nora snagged her hand as she straightened, holding on with what little strength she had.

      ‘Don’t forget to have a little fun amid all that work, Calista.’ She squeezed—the barest of pressure. ‘You know life’s too short.’

      Blinking back the sudden sting of tears, Callie nodded. ‘Sure thing, Mum. And ring me if you need anything.’

      Nora released her hand, managing a feeble wave. ‘I’ll be fine. Go work, play, have fun.’

      Callie intended to work. As for the fun and play, she didn’t dare associate those concepts with Archer.

      Look what had happened the last time she’d done that.

      * * *

      Archer didn’t jerk women around, and after the way Callie had reacted to him yesterday he shouldn’t push her buttons. But that was exactly what he’d done in hiring the fire-engine red Roadster for their trip to Torquay.

      She’d recognise the significance of the car, but would she call him on it?

      By the tiny crease between her brows and her compressed lips as she stalked towards him, he doubted it.

      The carefree, teasing girl he’d once known had disappeared behind this uptight, reserved shadow of her former self. What had happened to snuff the spark out?

      ‘Still travelling light?’ He held out his hand for her overnight bag.

      She flung it onto the back seat in response.

      ‘Oo-kay, then. Guess it’s going to be a long trip.’

      He glimpsed a flicker of remorse as she slid onto the passenger seat, her rigid back and folded arms indicative of her absolute reluctance to be here. To be anywhere near him.

      It ticked him off.

      They’d once been all over each other, laughing and chatting and touching, a hand-hold here, a thigh squeeze there. When she’d smiled at him he’d felt a buzz akin to riding the biggest tube.

      But you walked away anyway.

      That was all he needed. For his voice of reason to give him a kick in the ass too.

      But she hadn’t been forthcoming during their meeting yesterday, and he’d be damned if he’d put up with her foul mood for the next week.

      If he showed up at Trav’s wedding with her in this snit his mum would know Callie was a fake date and be inquisitive, effectively ruining his buffer zone.

      Yeah, because that was the only reason he minded her mood...

      He revved the engine, glanced over his shoulder and pulled into traffic. ‘You know it’s ninety minutes to Torquay, right?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      Her glance barely flicked his way behind Audrey Hepburnesque sunglasses that conveniently covered half her face.

      ‘You planning on maintaining the long face the entire way? Do I need to resort to I-spy and guess the numberplate to get a laugh?’

      ‘I’m here to work—’

      ‘Bull.’

      He swerved into a sidestreet, earning momentary whiplash and several honks for his trouble.

      ‘What the heck—?’

      He kissed her, pouring all his frustration with her frosty behaviour into the kiss.

      She resisted at first, but he wouldn’t back off. He might have done this to prove a point, but once his lips touched hers he remembered—in excruciating detail—what it had been like to kiss her.

      And he wanted more.

      He moved his mouth across hers—light, teasing, taunting her to capitulate.

      She remained tight-lipped—until his hand caressed the nape of her neck and slid into her hair, his fingertips brushing her scalp in the way he knew she liked.

      She gave a little protesting groan and he sensed the moment of surrender when she placed her palm on his chest and half-heartedly pushed. Her lips softened a second later.

      He didn’t hesitate, taking advantage of her compliance by deepening the kiss, sweeping his tongue into her mouth to find hers, challenging her to deny them,