Secret Wedding. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Keep the conflict simple. Make sure the reader knows what’s going on. Ask yourself … Is this strong enough to sustain the length of the story?
—Mollie Blake’s Writing Workshop Notes
“THANK YOU …” Mollie Blake took the door and waited for him to follow her into the light of the foyer, waited for him to fill in the blank of his name. But he hadn’t moved out of the shadows. Said nothing. “Are you all right?” The last thing she wanted was to get cosy with this man, but when he still didn’t move she became concerned. “Did you get whiplash or something?”
“Yes—that is, no …” Tom stopped, gathered himself. “I’m fine,” he said carefully. It was a lie.
He wouldn’t have known her if they’d passed in the street. Hadn’t quite remembered a voice not heard for more than five years. But the eyes … He would never forget the pair of liquid grey eyes that had once bewitched him.
Mary Harrington had been soft, sweet, an absurdly young twenty-year-old, with mousy hair, lingering baby fat, and shoulders rounded from her attempts to disguise her height. Over-protected by dominating parents, she’d been dangerously naïve.
Not his type of girl. No way.
Shy, and sweetly innocent, and never-been-kissed—at least not the way he’d kissed her. Maybe that had been part of the attraction for a girl kept on too short a leash. The danger.
And his excuse? That he’d been captivated by something fresh, untouched, that had shone from her? No one had believed that. Not for a minute.
“Mary.” He said her name. That was all.
Mollie caught her breath as every cell in her body went on red alert, responding with a familiar rush of adrenaline to the softness of her name on this man’s lips. Her real name. Mary. No one had called her that in so long. Only … She gave a choked cry as he stepped inside, let the door swing shut behind him.
“Tom?” She said his name hesitantly, half lifted her hand to his face, as if to touch it, reassure herself that he was real and not some figment of her imagination. Then, as the light fell full onto his face, the blood drained from hers and reality kicked in. The last time she’d seen him he’d been shouting to be heard over angry voices, her tears, as she’d been surrounded by her family and bustled away from the registry office they’d chosen for their secret runaway wedding. Swearing that he’d be back, that nothing, no one, could keep him away.
Five years ago.
But he was still a liar.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
She choked back the words gathering in her throat. The Where were you? I waited but you didn’t come words.
“Not long enough,” she replied, and he flinched as if she’d hit him—and how many times over the years had she dreamed of doing just that? There was no pleasure in it, she discovered as she turned and walked away, dropping her bag beside the hotel desk. Just an overwhelming sadness.
“Not one more tear,” she whispered shakily as she gripped the pen, filled in the form. “Not one.”
“I’m sorry, madam?”
“Nothing.” Nothing. What a joke! Everything, more like it. The weekend was a mess. Jerry’s car was mess. That was Tom Garrick for you. He could make a mess just crooking one of those expressive eyebrows. But she’d get the car fixed, just as she’d fixed her battered heart. It would look okay. Work efficiently. Only she would know the difference, that it would never be quite the same again, never be quite perfect.
“Mary—”
She swung round to face him.
“I’m busy, Mr Garrick.” She picked up her bag, but he beat her to her key and he clearly wasn’t going to surrender it until he’d got whatever it was he wanted. “Please, Tom! What do you want? What are you doing here?”
Tom heard the desperation in her voice. The unspoken plea for him to leave her alone. Well, he would. But not until he’d got some answers. He was entitled to answers.
“My publisher thinks I need to woo my women readers,” he said, relieving her of her bag and heading for the stairs. “He’s hoping that the brilliant Mollie Blake will pass on a few of her secrets.”
“Don’t count on it.”
He glanced back. “You think I’m wasting my time?”
“No, you’re wasting mine. Please give me my key.” He handed it over without a word. “And my bag.”
She stopped. “This is my room.” Pointedly, she did not unlock the door.
He wasn’t ready to move on yet. “Why didn’t you ever bother with a divorce?” he asked. “I was sure Daddy would insist.”
If he was hoping to provoke a reaction, crack the cool façade, he failed miserably. She slid the key in the lock, opened the door and, picking up her bag in the same smooth movement, shut it in his face. Despite everything, he knew that given the choice he’d still have rather been on the other side of it.
Mollie leaned back against the door, fighting the weakness, the temptation to fling it open and race after him, demand to know if it had been worth it. She shut her eyes, as if to shut him out of her mind, her heart. She wasn’t that gullible girl he’d married. No way.
According to the programme left in Tom’s room, there was to be a reception to meet the famous Mollie Blake before dinner. The noise of the crowd rose to meet him as he went downstairs, but that wasn’t why he paused. Mary was ahead of him, stunning in a long sea-green silk tunic worn over a pair of chiffon trousers that billowed transparently around her legs. And heels as high as the Andes.
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