The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHINЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THURSDAY proved to be a fraught day as Suzanne applied for and was granted two days’ leave, then she rescheduled appointments and consultations, attended to the most pressing work, delegated the remainder, and donated her entire lunch hour to selecting something suitable to wear to Georgia’s wedding.

      Dedication to duty ensured she stayed back an extra few hours, and she arrived home shortly after eight, hungry and not a little disgruntled at having to eat on the run while she sorted through clothes and packed.

      Elegant, casual, and beachwear, she determined as she riffled through her wardrobe, grateful she had sufficient knowledge of the Wilson-Willoughby lifestyle to know she need select the best of her best.

      Comfortable baggy shorts and sweat-tops were out. In were tailored trousers, smart shirts, silk dresses, tennis gear. And the obligatory swimwear essential in the tropical north’s midwinter temperatures.

      Some of Trenton Wilson-Willoughby’s guests would arrive with large Louis Vuitton travelling cases containing what they considered the minimum essentials for a weekend sojourn.

      Suzanne managed to confine all she needed into one cabin bag, which she stored on the floor at the foot of her bed in readiness for last-minute essentials in the morning, then she returned to the kitchen and took a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator.

      She crossed into the lounge, switched on the television and flicked through the channels in the hope of finding something that might hold her interest. A legal drama, a medical ditto, sport, a foreign movie, and something dire relating to the occult. She switched off the set, collected a magazine and sank into a nearby chair to leaf through the pages.

      She felt too restless to settle for long, and after ten minutes she tossed the magazine aside, carried the empty can into the kitchen, then undressed and took a shower.

      It wasn’t late late, but she felt tired and edgy, and knew she should go to bed given the early hour she’d need to rise in the morning.

      Except when she did she was unable to sleep, and she tossed and turned, then lay staring at the ceiling for an age.

      With a low growl of frustration she slid out of bed and padded into the lounge. If she was going to stare at something, she might as well curl up in a chair and stare at the television.

      It was there that she woke, with a stiff neck and the television screen fizzing from a closed channel.

      Suzanne peered at her watch in the semi-darkness, saw that it was almost dawn, and groaned. There was no point in crawling back to bed for such a short time. Instead she stretched her legs and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee.

      Casual elegance denoted her apparel for the day, and after a quick shower and something to eat she stepped into linen trousers and a matching silk sleeveless top. Make-up was minimal, a little colour to her cheeks, mascara to give emphasis to her eyes, and a touch of rose-pink to her lips. An upswept hairstyle was likely to come adrift, so she left her hair loose.

      At seven she added a trendy black jacket, checked the flat, then she fastened her cabin bag, took it downstairs and secured it in the boot. Then she slid in behind the wheel and reversed her car out onto the road.

      At this relatively early hour the traffic flowed freely, and she enjoyed a smooth run through the northern suburbs.

      The city skyline was visible as she drew close to the harbour bridge, the tall buildings bathed in a faint post-dawn mist that merged with the greyness of a midwinter morning and hinted at rain.

      Even the harbour waters appeared dull and grey, and the ferries traversing its depths seemed to move heavily towards their respective berths.

      Once clear of the bridge, it took minimum time to reach the attractive eastern suburb of Rose Bay. Sloane’s penthouse apartment was housed in a modern structure only metres from the edge of the wide, curving bay.

      A number of large, beautiful old homes graced the tree-lined street and Suzanne admired the elegant two-and three-storeyed structures in brick and paint-washed stucco, situated in attractive landscaped grounds, as she turned into the brick-tiled apron adjoining Sloane’s apartment building.

      He was waiting for her, his tall frame propped against the driver’s side of his sleek, top-of-the-range Jaguar. Casual trousers, an open-necked shirt and jacket had replaced his usual three-piece business suit, and he looked the epitome of the wealthy professional.

      The trousers, shirt and jacket were beautifully cut, the shoes hand-stitched Italian. He didn’t favour male jewellery, and the only accessory he chose to wear was a thin gold watch whose make was undoubtedly exorbitantly expensive. His wardrobe contained a superb collection, yet none had been acquired as a status symbol.

      Suzanne shifted the gear lever into neutral, then she slid out from behind the wheel and turned to greet him. ‘Good morning. I’m not late, am I?’ She knew she wasn’t, but she couldn’t resist the query.

      Independence was a fine thing in a woman, but Suzanne’s strict adherence to it was something Sloane found mildly irritating. His eyes were cool as they swept her slim form. Cream tailored trousers, cream top and black jacket emphasised her slender curves, and lent a heightened sense of fragility to her features. Clever make-up had almost dealt with the shadows beneath her eyes. He derived a certain satisfaction from the knowledge. She obviously hadn’t slept any better than he had.

      ‘I’ll take your car down into the car park,’ Sloane indicated as he removed the cabin bag from her grasp and stowed it in the open boot of his car.

      Within minutes he’d transferred her vehicle, then returned to slide in behind the wheel of his own car. The engine fired, and he eased the Jaguar out onto the road.

      ‘The jet will touch down in Brisbane to collect Trenton and Georgia,’ Sloane drawled as the car picked up speed.

      Suzanne endeavoured not to show her surprise. ‘I thought Trenton would travel with us from Sydney.’

      ‘My father has been in Brisbane for the past week.’ He paused to spare her a quick glance, then added with perfect timing, ‘Ensuring, so he said, that Georgia didn’t have the opportunity to get cold feet.’

      Georgia had rarely, if ever, dated. There had been no male friends visiting the house, no succession of temporary ‘uncles’. Georgia had been a devoted mother first and foremost, and a dedicated dressmaker who worked from the privacy of her own home.

      For as long as Suzanne could remember they’d shared a close bond that was based on affectionate friendship. Genuine equals, rather than simply mother and daughter.

      At forty-seven, Georgia was an attractive woman with a slim, petite frame, carefully tended blonde hair, blue eyes, and a wonderfully caring nature. She deserved happiness with an equally caring partner.

      ‘From Brisbane we’ll fly direct to Dunk Island, then take the launch to Bedarra,’ said Sloane.

      Suzanne turned her head and took in the moving scenery, the houses where everyone inside them was stirring to begin a new day. Mothers cooking breakfast, sleepy-eyed children preparing to wash and dress before eating and taking public transport to school.

      The traffic was beginning to build up,