The Bridal Bed

“Which bed would you prefer?” Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“Which bed would you prefer?”

Sloane regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t want to share?”

“No,” Suzanne told him. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t dare. It was bad enough having to share the same villa, the same bedroom!

To share the same bed was definitely impossible. Unless she was into casual sex, for the sake of sex. And she wasn’t. To her, sex meant intimacy, sensuality, love.

“A word of warning, Suzanne,” Sloane said softly. “Don’t expect me to behave like a gentleman.”

Anything can happen behind closed doors!

Do you dare find out...?

Welcome to the final book in our sizzling, sensual

miniseries DO NOT DISTURB!

Meet the last of four different couples thrown

together by circumstances into a whirlwind of

unexpected attraction. Forced into each other’s

company whether they like it or not, they’re soon in

the grip of passion—and definitely don’t want to

be disturbed!

This month it’s the turn of popular Presents

What happens when Suzanne and her ex-fiancé

Sloane find themselves sharing The Bridal Bed...?

Turn the pages and find out!

The Bridal Bed

Helen Bianchin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IT SHOULD be Friday the thirteenth, Suzanne determined as she perused the perfectly printed legal document on her desk and noted yet another clause she knew wasn’t worded to her client’s best interest.

Midwinter had delivered metropolitan Sydney with a shocking day, and she’d woken to howling winds and heavy rain. Consequently she’d got wet traversing the external stairs leading from her tiny Manly flat down to the garage beneath.

Her car, which had up until now behaved impeccably, had decided not to start. A telephone call to the automobile association had elicited there was a backlog of calls, and it would be at least an hour before someone could come to her rescue. Two hours later the diagnosis had been a dead battery, and it had taken a further hour to organise a replacement and drive into the city.

Consequently she’d been late, very late arriving at the inner-city legal office where she worked as one of several junior solicitors. A fact that hadn’t sat well with two waiting clients who had been virtuously punctual. Nor had the senior partner been very happy that she’d missed an important staff meeting.

There had been files piled up on her desk, messages that required attention, and three rescheduled appointments lined up one after the other. Lunch hadn’t even been an option.

Mid-afternoon came and went as she struggled to catch up on a workload that threatened to spill over into work she would have to take home.

‘Suzanne, urgent call on line three.’ The receptionist’s voice sounded hesitant, diffident, and vaguely apologetic for breaching a ‘hold all calls’ instruction. ‘It’s your mother.’

Her mother never rang her at work. An icy hand clutched Suzanne’s heart as she snatched up the receiver. ‘Georgia? Is something wrong?’

A light, husky laugh echoed down the line. ‘Darling, everything’s fine. It’s just that I wanted you to be the first to hear my news.’

‘News, Mama?’ She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘You’ve won a fabulous prize? Bought a new car? Booked an overseas trip?’

There was a breathless pause. ‘Right on two counts.’

‘Which two?’

‘Well, sweetheart,’ Georgia began with a delicious chuckle, ‘the overseas trip is booked...Paris, would you believe? And I have won a fabulous prize.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ Really wonderful. Suzanne shook her head in silent amazement. Georgia was always taking lottery and raffle tickets, but had never won anything other than the most minor of prizes until now.

‘It’s not exactly a prize prize.’

The faintly cautious tone had Suzanne sinking back in her chair. ‘You’re talking in riddles, Mama. Is there a catch to any of this?’

‘No catch. At least, not the kind you mean.’

What had her cautious mother got herself into? ‘I’m listening.’

‘Bear with me, darling.’ Georgia’s voice hitched, then raced on in an excited rush. ‘It’s all so new, I still have a hard time believing it. And I wouldn’t have rung you at work, except I really couldn’t wait a minute longer.’

‘Tell me.’

There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I’m getting married.’

Initial joy was quickly followed by concern, and it was a frightening mix. Her mother didn’t date. There was a collection of friends, but no one man. ‘I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,’ Suzanne said slowly, and heard her mother’s light laughter in response. ‘Who is he, and where did you meet him?’

‘We met at your engagement party, darling.’

Three months. They’d only known each other three months. ‘Who, Mama?’

‘Trenton Wilson-Willoughby. Sloane’s father.’

Oh, my God. Heat rushed through her veins, then chilled to ice. ‘You’re not serious?’ Tell me you’re not serious, she pleaded silently.

‘You sound—shocked,’ Georgia responded slowly, and Suzanne quickly gathered her wits.

Recoup, regroup, fast. ‘Surprised,’ she amended. ‘It seems so sudden.’

‘Sometimes love happens that way. Sloane swept you off your feet in a matter of weeks.’

Like father, like son. ‘Yes,’ she agreed cautiously. Sloane had gifted her a sparkling diamond, whisked her down to Sydney from Brisbane, and moved her into his Rose Bay penthouse apartment before she’d had time to think, let alone catch her breath. Blinded by a riveting attraction and primitive alchemy.

‘When is the wedding taking place?’ A few months from now would give her plenty of time to—what? Explain that she was no longer living with Sloane?

‘This weekend, darling.’ Georgia sounded vaguely breathless and tremendously excited.

This weekend Today was Wednesday, for heaven’s sake. ‘Don’t you think—?’

‘It’s a bit sudden?’ her mother finished. ‘Yes, darling, I do. But Trenton is a very convincing man.’

Suzanne took a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘You’re quite sure about this?’

‘As sure as I can be.’ There was a funny catch in her voice. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

Oh, hell. She had to collect her thoughts together. ‘Of course I am. And give you my blessing. I’m just so happy you are happy.’ She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Where is the wedding taking place? Have you chosen what you’ll wear?’

Georgia began to laugh, and, Suzanne suspected, to cry. ‘Bedarra Island, Saturday afternoon. Would you believe Trenton has booked all the accommodation on the island to ensure total privacy? I’m wearing a cream silk suit, with matching shoes and hat. We want you and Sloane to be witnesses.’

Bedarra Island was a privately owned resort situated high in North Queensland’s Whitsunday group of tropical islands. A minimum three-hour flight, followed by a launch trip to Bedarra.

‘Trenton has organised for you both to fly up on Friday morning and stay until Monday.’

Oh, my. Trenton’s organisation would include the family jet, the charter of a private launch.

Sloane.

It was three weeks since she’d walked out of his apartment, leaving a penned note briefly spelling out her need for some time alone. It attributed nothing to the reality of an anonymous threat if she didn’t end the engagement.

A threat she hadn’t taken seriously until the young socialite who’d initiated it had almost run Suzanne’s car off the road to emphasise her intent, then identified herself and promised grievous bodily harm if Suzanne failed to comply.

The sequence of events had been very carefully planned, she reflected, to coincide with Sloane’s absence overseas. Bitter, vitriolic invective had merely added doubt as to the socialite’s mental stability, and extreme caution had motivated Suzanne to leave Sloane’s apartment and move all her clothes into a flat on the other side of the city.

However, she had underestimated Sloane. When she’d refused to take his calls on his return, he’d pulled rank and walked unannounced into her office. His icy anger when she had refused to elaborate on the contents of her note had been so chilling, it had been all she could do not to fall in a heap the second the door had closed behind him.

Now it appeared she had little option but to see him again.

Suzanne slowly replaced the receiver, then stared sightlessly at the wall in front of her. Georgia and Trenton. Could her mother possibly guess at the complications she’d created?

Allowing no time for hesitation, Suzanne punched in the digit to access an outside line, then completed the set of numbers that would connect with Sloane’s law chambers.

Not that the call did much good. All she received was a relayed message stating that Sloane Wilson-Willoughby was in court and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. Suzanne logged in her name and phone number on his message bank.

Damn. The silent curse did little to ease her frustration as she turned her attention to the documents requiring her perusal. She made a note of two clauses she felt were not entirely to her client’s advantage, pencilled in a notation to delete one, and re-phrase another. Then she had her secretary lodge the necessary call in order to apprise the client of her suggested alterations.

The afternoon was hectic, and the nerves inside her stomach became increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by. Each time the phone rang, she mentally prepared herself for it to be Sloane, only to have her secretary announce someone else.

Was he deliberately delaying the call? Just to make her sweat a little? Whatever, it was playing havoc with her nervous system.

At five her phone buzzed just as she ushered a client from her office, and she crossed to her desk and picked up the receiver.

‘Sloane Wilson-Willoughby on line two.’ The information was imparted in a faintly breathless voice, and Suzanne momentarily raised her eyes towards the ceiling.

Sloane tended to have that effect on people. Women, especially, responded to something in his deep, smoky voice. Once they sighted him in the flesh, the response went into overdrive and tended to make vamps and vixens out of the most sensible of females.

She should know. She’d been there herself. Part of her ached for the promise, the dream of what they might have had together.

Then she drew in a deep breath, released it, and picked up the receiver. ‘Sloane.’ To ask ‘how are you?’ seemed incredibly banal.

‘Suzanne.’ The polite acknowledgement seared something deep inside, and she resolutely kept her voice even as she sank back in her chair. ‘Georgia rang me. I believe Trenton has relayed their news?’

‘Yes.’ Brief, succinct, and unforthcoming.

He wasn’t making it easy for her. There was no way out of this, and it was best if she just got on with it.

‘We need to talk.’

‘I agree,’ Sloane indicated silkily. ‘Make it dinner tonight.’ He named a restaurant in a city hotel. ‘Seven.’

She needed to put in another hour in order to appease her employer. ‘I don’t think—’

‘It’s the restaurant or your flat.’ His voice acquired the sound of silk being razed by steel. ‘Choose.’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Seven-thirty.’ A public place where there were people was the lesser of two evils. The thought of Sloane appearing at her flat, demanding entry...

‘Wise.’

No, it was most unwise, but she didn’t appear to have much option.

Suzanne replaced the receiver and attempted to concentrate on notations she needed to finalise.

Consequently it was well after six when she left the office, and almost seven before she reached home.

Within half an hour she’d showered, dressed, swept her damp hair into a sleek twist, applied make-up with practised precision, and she was on her way out of the door, retracing a familiar route into the city.

Except this time the traffic was more civilised. And there was the advantage of valet parking. Even so, she was fifteen minutes late.

Suzanne pushed open the heavy glass door and entered the hotel lobby. It took only seconds to locate a familiar dark-suited figure standing several metres distant.

Her pulse tripped its beat and accelerated to a faster pace as she watched him unfold his lengthy frame from a deep-cushioned lounge chair.

Sloane Wilson-Willoughby stood four inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders and muscled frame of a superbly trained athlete. Inherited genes had bestowed ruggedly attractive facial features, piercing brown eyes, and thick dark brown hair. Evident was an aura of power, and the ease of a man well versed in the strengths and weaknesses of his fellow men.

He watched as she moved towards him, his appraisal swift, taking in the red power suit adorning her petite frame, the upswept hairstyle and the stiletto heels she invariably wore to add inches to her height. She possessed an innate femininity that was at variance with the professional image she tried so hard to maintain. Slight but very feminine curves, slender, shapely legs, silken-smooth honey-gold skin, deep blue eyes, and a mouth to die for.

He’d tasted its delights, savoured the pleasures of her body, and put an engagement ring on her finger. It had stayed there precisely ten weeks before she’d taken it off with an excuse he’d no more believed then than he did now.

‘Sloane.’ 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 the elegance of limitless wealth.

‘You’re a cynic.’

His expression didn’t change. ‘A realist.’

Their starter arrived, and Suzanne took her time savouring the delicate texture of the prawns in a superb sauce many a chef would kill to reproduce.

‘Now that you’ve had some food, perhaps you’d like a glass of wine?’

And have it go straight to her head? ‘Half a glass,’ she qualified, and determined to sip it slowly during the main course.

‘I hear you’ve taken on a very challenging brief,’ she said.

Sloane pressed the napkin to the edge of his mouth, then discarded it down onto the damask-covered table. ‘News travels fast.’

As did anything attached to Sloane Wilson-Willoughby. In or out of the courtroom.

He part-filled her glass with wine, then set it back in the ice bucket, dismissing the wine steward who appeared with apologetic deference.

Their main course arrived, and Suzanne admired the superbly presented fish and artistically displayed vegetable portions. It seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb the arrangement, and she forked delicate mouthfuls with enjoyment.

‘Am I to understand Georgia meets with your approval as a prospective stepmother?’

Sloane viewed her with studied ease. She looked more relaxed, and her cheeks bore a slight colour. ‘Georgia is a charming woman. I’m sure she and my father will be very happy together.’

The deceptive mildness of his tone brought forth a musing smile. ‘I would have to say the same about Trenton.’

Sloane lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, then regarded her thoughtfully over the rim. ‘The question remains... What do you want to do about us?’

Her stomach executed a painful backflip. ‘What do you mean, what do I want to do about us?’

The waiter arrived to remove their plates, then delivered a platter of fresh fruit, added a bowl of freshly whipped cream, and withdrew.

‘Unless you’ve told Georgia differently, our respective parents believe we’re living in pre-nuptial bliss,’ Sloane relayed with deliberate patience. ‘Do we spend the weekend pretending we’re still together? Or do you want to spoil their day by telling them we’re living apart?’

She didn’t want to think about together. It merely heightened memories she longed to forget. Fat chance, a tiny voice taunted.

Fine clothes did little to tame a body honed to the height of physical fitness, or lessen his brooding sensuality. Too many nights she’d lain awake remembering just how it felt to be held in those arms, kissed in places she’d never thought to grant a licence to, and taught to scale unbelievable heights with a man who knew every path, every journey.

‘Your choice, Suzanne.’

She looked at him and glimpsed the implacability beneath the charming facade, the velvet-encased steel.