The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN
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She moved forward and accepted the touch of his hand at her elbow. And told herself she was impervious to the clean male smell of him mingling with the faint aroma of his exclusive brand of cologne. Immune to the latent sensuality that seemed to emanate from every pore.
He searched her pale features, and noted the faint smudges beneath eyes that seemed too large for her face. ‘Working hard?’
The deceptive mildness of his voice didn’t fool her in the slightest. She effected a light shrug and opted for flippancy. ‘Next you’ll tell me I’ve dropped weight.’
He lifted a hand and traced her jawline with his thumb. And saw her eyes dilate. ‘Two or three essential kilos, at a guess.’
His touch was like fire, and a muscle flickered in involuntary reaction. ‘Judge, advocate and jury rolled into one?’
‘Lover,’ Sloane amended.
‘Ex-lover,’ she corrected him, and saw the sensual curve of his lower lip.
‘Your choice, not mine.’
She deliberately moved back a pace, and met his gaze squarely. ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’
‘You wouldn’t prefer a drink first?’
She really wanted to keep this as short as possible. ‘No.’ She sought to qualify her decision. ‘I really can’t stay long.’
There was a tinge of wry humour evident in his voice as they walked towards the bank of lifts. ‘Dedication to duty, Suzanne?’
The humour stung. ‘Suffice it to say it’s been one of those days, and I have work to catch up on.’
A set of doors slid open and she preceded him into the lift. They were the only occupants, and he leaned forward to depress the button for the appropriate floor.
His suit sleeve brushed against her arm, and she tried to ignore the shivery sensation feathering over her skin. Her fine body hairs rose in protective self-defence, and she felt her pulse trip and surge to a faster beat.
Did he realise he still had this effect on her? Probably not, she reassured herself silently, for she strove very hard to project detached disinterest.
The restaurant was well patronised, and the maître d’ led them to a reserved table, saw them seated, and summoned the drinks waiter.
Suzanne viewed the menu with interest, and she ordered soup du jour, a seafood starter, and grilled fish as a main course.
‘Do we attempt to engage in polite conversation,’ Sloane drawled as soon as the waiter disappeared, ‘or shall we cut straight to the chase?’
Suzanne forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘Dinner was your idea.’
Evident was the leashed anger beneath his control. ‘What did you expect? A curt directive to meet me at the airport Friday morning?’
‘Yes.’
His smile was totally without humour. ‘Ah, honesty.’
‘It’s one of my more admirable traits.’
Their drinks were delivered, and Suzanne sipped the iced water, almost wishing it were something stronger. Alcohol might soothe her fractured nerves.
She watched as Sloane took an appreciative swallow of his customary spritzer before setting the glass onto the table, then leaning back in his chair.
‘You haven’t responded to any of my messages.’
It was difficult to retain his gaze, but she managed. ‘There didn’t seem much point.’
‘I beg to differ.’
He was a skilled wordsmith and a brilliant strategist. He was also icy calm. When all he wanted to do was reach forward and shake her.
‘We’re here to discuss our respective parents’ marriage to each other,’ she managed civilly. ‘Not conduct a post-mortem on our affair.’
‘Post-mortem?’ His voice was a sibilant threat. ‘Affair?’
He was playing with her, much as a predatory animal played with its prey. Waiting, watching, assessing each and every move, in no doubt of the kill. It was just a matter of when.
Suzanne rose to her feet and reached for her bag. ‘I’ve had one hell of a day. I have work to get through when I get home.’ Her eyes flashed angrily. ‘I don’t need you playing cat-and-mouse with me.’
A hand closed over her arm, and it took all her control not to shake it free.
‘Sit down.’
She would have liked nothing better than to turn and walk out of the door. But there was Georgia to consider. No matter how difficult the weekend might prove to be, she had to be present at her mother’s wedding. Anything else was unthinkable.
‘Please,’ Sloane added, and without a word she sank down into her chair.
Almost on cue the waiter delivered their soup, and she spooned it slowly, grateful for the ensuing silence.
When their plates were removed she picked up her glass and sipped the contents.
‘Tell me about your day,’ Sloane commanded with studied ease.
Suzanne looked at him carefully. ‘Genuine interest, or an adept attempt to keep our conversation on an even keel?’
‘Both.’
His faint, mocking smile was almost her undoing, and she felt like screaming with vexation. ‘I’d prefer to discuss the weekend.’
‘Indulge me. We have yet to begin the main course.’
At this rate she’d suffer indigestion. As it was, her stomach seemed to be tied in numerous knots.
‘The car refused to start, the automobile club took ages to send someone out, I was late in to work, and I got soaked in the rain.’ She effected a light shrug. That about encapsulates it.’
‘I’ll organise for you to have the use of one of my cars while yours is being checked out.’
A surge of anger rose to the surface. ‘No. You won’t.’
‘Now you’re being stubborn,’ he drawled hatefully.
‘Practical.’ And wary of being seen driving his Porsche or Jaguar.
‘Stubborn,’ Sloane reiterated.
‘You sound like my mother,’ Suzanne responded with a deliberately slow, sweet smile.
‘Heaven forbid.’
Anger rose once more, and her eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘You disapprove of Georgia?’
‘Of being compared to anything vaguely parental where you’re concerned,’ Sloane corrected her with ill-concealed mockery.
Suzanne looked at him carefully, then honed a verbal dart. ‘I doubt you’ve ever lacked a solitary thing in your privileged life.’
One eyebrow rose, and there was a certain wryness apparent. ‘Except for the love of a good woman?’
‘Most women fall over themselves to get to you,’ she stated with marked cynicism.
‘To the social prestige the Wilson-Willoughby name carries,’ Sloane amended drily. ‘And let’s not forget the family wealth.’
The multi-million-dollar family home with its incredible views over Sydney harbour, the fleet of luxurious cars, servants. Not to mention Sloane’s penthouse apartment, his cars. Homes, apartments in major European cities. The family cruiser, the family jet.
And then there was Wilson-Willoughby, headed by Trenton and notably one of Sydney’s leading law firms. One had only to enter its exclusive portals, see the expensive antique furniture gracing every office, the original artwork on the walls, to appreciate