“Let’s talk about you.”

“Fine,” Rafe said, his head whirling. Did sperm live for a full day? He was pretty sure it was possible…but the odds weren’t on his side.

Weren’t on his side? Was he mad? He should have been relieved. He didn’t really want to be a father, did he? Did he?

He looked at Isabel and realized he did. With her, anyway.

The realization took his breath away.

He reefed his eyes away and stared down at the pool. Stared and stared and stared. And then his eyes flung wide. Who would have believed it?

“Rafe? Rafe, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

The Secret Love-Child
Miranda Lee

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘PLEASE, Rafe. My reputation for reliability is on the line here.’

Rafe sighed. Les had to be really desperate to ask him to do this. His ex-partner knew full well the one job he’d hated when they’d been in the photographic business together was covering weddings. Where Les enjoyed the drama and sentiment of the bride and groom’s big day, Rafe found the whole wedding scenario irritating in the extreme. The pre-ceremony nerves got on his nerves, as did all the hugging and crying that went on afterwards.

Rafe was not a big fan of women weeping.

On top of that, it was impossible to be seriously creative when the criterion was simply to capture every single moment of the day on film, regardless. Rafe, the perfectionist, had loathed having to work with the possibilities that the weather might be rotten, the settings difficult and the bridal party hopelessly unphotogenic.

As a top-flight fashion and magazine photographer, Rafe now had control over everything. The sets. The lighting. And above all…the models. When you shot a wedding, you had control over very little.

‘I presume you can’t get anyone else,’ Rafe said, resignation in his voice.

‘The wedding’s on Saturday, exactly a fortnight from today,’ Les explained. ‘You know how popular Saturday weddings are. Every decent photographer in Sydney will already be booked.’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I understand. Okay, so what do you want me to do?’

‘The bride’s due at your place at noon today.’

Rafe’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was eleven fifty-three. ‘And what if I’d refused?’

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. You might be the very devil with women, but you’re a good mate.’

Rafe shook his head at this back-handed compliment. So he’d had quite a few girlfriends over the years. So what? He was thirty-three years old, a better-than-average-looking bachelor who spent his days photographing bevies of beautiful women, a lot of whom were also single. It was inevitable that their ready availability, plus his active libido, would keep the wheels turning where his relationships were concerned.

But he wasn’t a womaniser. He had one girlfriend at a time, and he never lied or cheated. He just didn’t want marriage. Or children. Was that a crime? It seemed to be in some people’s eyes.

Rafe wished his married friends—like Les—would understand that not everyone wanted the same things out of life.

‘Just give me some details before the bride actually arrives,’ he said a tad impatiently, ‘so I won’t look a right Charlie.’

‘Okay, her name is Isabel Hunt. She’s thirtyish, blonde and beautiful.’

‘Les, you think all your brides are beautiful,’ Rafe said drily.

‘And so they are. On the day. But this one is beautiful all the time. You’re going to enjoy photographing Ms Hunt, I promise you. Or should I say, Mrs Freeman. The lucky girl is marrying Luke Freeman, the only son and heir of Lionel Freeman.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me? Who the hell is Lionel Freeman, anyway?’

‘Truly, Rafe, you’re a complete philistine when it comes to subjects other than food, the Phantom and photography. Lionel Freeman was one of Sydney’s most awarded architects. Poor chap was killed in a car accident a couple of weeks back, along with his wife, so tread easily with the groom when you finally meet him.’

‘Poor bloke. What rotten luck.’ Rafe’s own father had been killed in a car crash when Rafe had been only eight. It had been a difficult time in his life, one he didn’t like dwelling on.

‘Oh-oh. I just heard a car pull up outside. The bride-to-be, I gather, and right on time. I hope she’s just as punctual on her wedding day. Now what about money, Les? What do you charge for a wedding these days?’

‘A lot less than you could command, my friend. But I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my fee. It’s already been agreed upon and the full amount paid up front. If you give me your bank account number, I’ll…’

‘No, don’t bother,’ Rafe broke in, not caring about the money this once. Les might need it. He wouldn’t be running around covering too many weddings with a broken leg. ‘You can owe me one. Just don’t ask again, buddy. Not where a wedding is concerned. Must go. The doorbell’s ringing. I’ll call you back after the bride’s gone. Let you know what I thought of her.’

Rafe hung up and headed downstairs, then hurried along towards the front door, curious now to see if Les was exaggerating about the bride-to-be’s blonde beauty.

She’d have to be something really special to surprise him. After all, he was used to beautiful blondes. He’d photographed hundreds. He’d even fallen madly in love with one once.

He’d been twenty-five at the time, and had just started climbing the fashion photographic ladder. Liz had been an up-and-coming cat walk model. Nineteen, nubile and too nice to be true. Only he hadn’t realised that in the beginning. He’d become so besotted with her he’d actually begged her to live with him. Which she had. But only till she’d milked him for everything he was worth, both personally and professionally. Within a year she’d moved on to an older, more influential photographer, leaving an emotionally bruised and embittered Rafe behind.

He was no longer bruised, or bitter. That had all happened years ago. But he hadn’t lived with a girlfriend since, no matter how much he might occasionally be tempted to. And he didn’t date blondes any more. Experience had taught him blondes often played sweet and vulnerable and not too bright, when they were actually smart as a whip, sneakily manipulative and ruthlessly ambitious.

Photographing them, however, was another question. A blonde was still his model of choice.

Rafe wrenched open the front door to his inner-city terrace home and tried not to stare. Wow! Les hadn’t exaggerated one bit.

What a pity she was going to be married, he thought as his male gaze swept over his visitor. Because if ever there was a blonde who might make him reassess his decision never to date one again, she was standing right in front of him.

Talk about exquisite!

Ms Isabel Hunt was the epitome of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine. Classically beautiful and icily blonde, with cheekbones to die for, cool long-lashed blue eyes and what looked like a perfect figure. Though, to be honest, she would have to remove the fawn linen jacket she was wearing over those tailored black trousers for Rafe to be sure.

‘Ms Hunt?’ he said, smiling warmly at her. What had been an irksome task in his mind now held the prospect of some pleasure. Rafe liked nothing better than photographing truly beautiful women. Of course, only the camera would tell if she was also photogenic. It was perverse that some of the most beautiful women in the flesh didn’t always come up so well on film.

‘Mr Saint Vincent?’ she returned, her own gaze raking over him. With not much approval, he noted. Maybe she didn’t like men who hadn’t shaved by noon.

She looked the fussy type. Her make-up was perfection and her clothes immaculate. That white shirt she had on underneath her jacket was so dazzlingly white, it could have featured in one of those washing-powder ads.

‘The one and only,’ he replied, his smile widening. Most women, he’d found, eventually responded to his smile. Rafe liked his photographic subjects to be totally relaxed with him. Being stiff in front of a camera was the kiss of death when it came to getting good results. ‘But do call me Rafe.’

‘Rafe,’ she said obediently, but coolly.

Ms Hunt, Rafe realised ruefully, was not a woman given to being easily charmed. Which perhaps was just as well. She was one gorgeous woman. Those eyes. And that mouth! Perfectly shaped and deliciously full, her lips were provocative enough in repose. How would he react if they ever smiled at him?

Don’t smile, lady, he warned her silently. Or we both could be in big trouble!

‘Would you object if I called you Isabel?’ he said recklessly.

‘If you insist.’

Was that contempt he saw flicker in her eyes? Surely not!

Still, Rafe decided to pull right back on the charm for now and get down to tin tacks.

‘Les rang me a little while ago with just the barest of details,’ he informed her matter-of-factly, ‘so why don’t you come inside and we can discuss a few things?’

He led her into the front room where he conducted most of his business. It wasn’t an office as such, more of a sitting room, simply and sparsely furnished. The walls, however, were covered with his favourite photos, all of women in various states of dress and undress. None actually nude, but some were close, and all were in black and white.

‘I don’t see any wedding photos,’ the bride-to-be noted curtly as he led her over to the nearest sofa.

‘I no longer work as a wedding photographer,’ he admitted. ‘But I was once Les’s partner, so don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’

She gave him a long hard look. ‘I suspect you’re more expensive than Les.’

Rafe sat down on the navy sofa opposite hers and leant back, stretching his arms along the back.

‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘But not this time. I’m doing this job as a favour to Les.’

‘What about the actual photos? Will I have to pay more for them?’

‘No.’

She glanced up at the prints on the wall again and almost rolled her eyes. ‘You do take coloured snaps, don’t you?’

Rafe was not a man easy to rile. He had a very even temper. But she was beginning to annoy him. Coloured snaps, indeed! He wasn’t some hack or hobby photographer. He was a professional!

‘Of course,’ he returned, priding himself on sounding a lot calmer than he was feeling inside. ‘I do a lot of fashion photography. And fashion wouldn’t be fashion without colour. But wedding photographs do look fabulous in black and white. I think you’d be pleased with the results.’

‘Mr Saint Vincent—’ she began frostily.

‘Rafe, please,’ he interrupted, determined not to lose it. My, she was a snooty bitch. Mr Luke Freeman was welcome to her. Rafe wondered if the poor groom knew exactly what type he was getting here. Talk about an Ice Princess!

‘The thing is, Rafe,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘I wouldn’t have chosen a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I wanted all the photographs done in black and white, would I?’

Rafe simply ignored her sarcasm. ‘What colour is the groom wearing?’

‘Black.’

‘And yourself?’

‘White, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he repeated drily, his eyes holding hers for much longer than was strictly polite.

She flushed. She actually flushed.

Rafe was startled. She couldn’t be a virgin. Not at thirty. And not looking like that. It was faintly possible, he supposed. Either that, or sex wasn’t her favourite pastime.

Rafe pitied the groom some more. It didn’t look as if his wedding night was going to be a ball if his bride was this uptight about sex.

‘I’m sorry but I really don’t want my wedding photos done in black and white,’ she pronounced coldly, despite her pink cheeks. ‘If you feel you can’t accommodate me on this, then I’ll just have to find another photographer.’

‘You won’t find anyone decent at this late stage,’ Rafe told her bluntly.

She looked frustrated and Rafe found some sympathy for her. He was being a bit stubborn, even if he was right.

‘Look, Isabel, would you tell a painter how to paint? Or a surgeon how to operate? I’m a professional photographer. And a top one, even if I say so myself. I know what will look good, and you won’t look just good shot in black and white. You’ll look magnificent.’

She was clearly taken aback by his fulsome compliment. But he’d never had the opportunity to photograph a bride as beautiful as this. No way was he going to let her muck up his creative vision. With the automatic cameras now available, any fool could take colour snaps. But only Rafe Saint Vincent could produce black and white masterpieces!

‘There will be any number of guests at your wedding taking coloured snaps, if you want some,’ he argued. ‘My job, however, is to give you quality photographic memories which will not only be beautiful, but timeless. I guarantee that you’ll still be able to show your wedding photographs to your grandchildren with great pride. They won’t be considered old-fashioned, or funny, in any way.’

‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she threw at him in almost scornful tones.

‘I’m very sure of my abilities. So what do you say?’

‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’

‘You won’t be disappointed if you hire me. Trust me on this, Isabel.’

She half rolled her eyes again.

Trust, Rafe realised, was something else Isabel Hunt did not do easily.

‘Why don’t you look at some of my more conventional black and white portraits?’ he suggested, pushing over the album portfolio which lay on the coffee-table between them. ‘You might find them reassuring. I confess the shots on my walls are somewhat…avant-garde. Meanwhile, I’m dying for a cup of coffee. I haven’t been up all that long. Late night last night,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Would you like one yourself? Or something else?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve not long had breakfast.’

‘Aah…late night, too?’ he couldn’t resist saying.

She looked right through him before dropping her beautiful but chilly blue eyes back to the album. She began flicking through it, insulting him with the little time she spent over each page.

He glowered down at the top of her head, and had to battle to control the crazy urge to bend over and wrench the pins out of her oh, so uptight French roll. His hands itched to yank her to her feet and shake her till her hair spilled down over her slender shoulders. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her till there was fire in her eyes, not ice. He wanted to see that blush back in her cheeks. But not from embarrassment. From passion.

He wanted… He wanted… He wanted her!

Rafe reeled with shock. To desire this woman was insane. And stupid. And masochistic.

First, she was going to be married in two weeks. Second, she was a blonde. Third, she didn’t even like him!

Three strikes and you’re out!

Now go get your coffee, dummy. And when you come back, focus on her simply as a fantastic photographic subject, and not the most challenging woman of the century.

CHAPTER TWO

ISABEL did not look up till she was sure she was alone, shutting the photo album with a snap.

The man was impossible! To hire him as her wedding photographer was impossible! Rafe Saint Vincent might be a brilliant photographer but if he wasn’t capable of listening to what she wanted, then he could just go jump.

Truly, men like him irritated the death out of her.

And attracted the devil out of her.

Isabel sighed. That was the main problem with him, wasn’t it? The fact she found him wickedly sexy.

Isabel closed her eyes and slumped back against the sofa. She’d thought she’d finally cured herself of the futile flaw of fancying men like him. She’d thought since meeting and becoming engaged to Luke that she would never again need what such men had to offer.

Luke was exactly what she’d been looking for in a husband. He was handsome. Successful. Intelligent. And extremely nice. A man who, like her, had come to the conclusion that romantic love was not a sound basis for marriage, that compatibility and common goals were far more reliable. Falling in love, they’d both discovered in the past, made fools of men—and women. Passion might be the stuff poems were written about, but it didn’t make you happy in the long run. Mind-blowing sex, Isabel now believed, was not the be-all and end-all when it came to a relationship.

Not that Luke wasn’t good in bed. He was. If her mind sometimes strayed to her own private and personal fantasies while he was making love to her, and vice versa, then Isabel hadn’t been overly concerned.

Till this moment.

It was one thing to fill her mind with images of some mythical stranger during sex with Luke. Quite another to go to bed with him on her wedding night thinking of the likes of Rafe Saint Vincent.

And she would, if he was around all that day, looking her up and down with those sexy eyes of his.

Isabel shook her head with frustration. She’d always been attracted to the Mr Wrongs of this world. The dare-devils and the thrill-seekers. The charmers and the slick, smooth-tongued womanisers who oozed the sort of confidence she found a major turn-on.

Of course, she hadn’t known they were Mr Wrongs to begin with. She’d thought they were interesting, exciting men. It had taken several wretched endings—especially the disaster with Hal—to force her to face the fact that her silly heart had no judgement when it came to the opposite sex. It picked losers and liars.

By her late twenties, desperation and despair had forced Isabel’s brain to develop a fail-safe warning system. If she was madly attracted to a man, then that was a guarantee he was another Mr Wrong.

So she didn’t have to know much about Rafe Saint Vincent to know his character. She only had to take one look at him. Les had provided her with some brief details about him—namely that he was a bachelor, and a brilliant photographer—but to be honest, aside from the warning bells going off in Isabel’s brain, Mr Saint Vincent’s appearance said it all, from his trendy black clothes to his earring and his designer stubble. The fact he lived in a terraced house in Paddington completed the picture of a swinging male single of the new millennium whose priorities were career, pleasure and leisure, and who was never going to buy a cow when he could have cartons of milk for free. Rafe might not be a criminal or a con man, like Hal had been, but he would always be a waste of time for a woman who wanted marriage and children.

Actually, every man Isabel had ever fancied had been a waste of time in that regard. Which was why, when she’d found herself staring thirty in the face, still without the home and family of her own she’d always craved, Isabel had decided enough was enough, and set about finding herself a husband with her head, not her heart.

And she had.

Isabel knew she could be happy with Luke. Very happy.

But the last thing she needed around on her wedding day was someone like Rafe Saint Vincent.

Yet she needed a photographer. What excuse could she give her mother for not hiring him? The black and white business wouldn’t wash. Her mother just loved black and white photographs, a hangover from the days when that was all there was. Her mother was not a young woman. In fact she was seventy, Isabel having been the product of a second honeymoon when Doris Hunt had turned forty.

No, there was nothing for it but to hire Rafe God’s-gift-to-women Saint Vincent. Isabel supposed there was no real harm in fantasising about another man while your husband was making love to you, even on your wedding night. Luke would never know if she never told him.

And she wouldn’t.

Actually, there were a lot of things about herself she’d never told Luke. And she didn’t aim on starting now!

Her eyes opened and lifted to the photographs on the wall again and, this time, with their creator out of the room, Isabel let her gaze linger.

They really were incredibly erotic, his clever use of shadow highly suggestive. Although the subjects were obviously either naked or semi-naked, the lighting was such that most private parts were hidden from view. There was the occasional glimpse of the side of a breast, or the curve of a buttock, but not much more.

Tantalising was the word which came to mind. Isabel could have stared at them for hours. But the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs had her reefing her eyes away and searching for something to do. Anything!

Fishing her mobile phone out of her bag, she punched in her parents’ number and was waiting impatiently for her mother to answer when her nemesis of the moment walked back into the room, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

She pretended she wasn’t ogling him, but her eyes snuck several surreptitious glances as he walked over and sat down in the same spot he’d occupied before. He was gorgeous! Tall and lean, just as she liked them. Not traditionally handsome in the face, but attractive, and oh, so sexy.

‘Yes?’ her mother finally answered, sounding slightly breathless.

‘Me, here, Mum.’ No breathlessness on Isabel’s part. She sounded wonderfully composed. Yet, inside, her heartbeat had quickened appreciably. Practice did make perfect!

‘Oh, Isabel, I’m so glad you rang before we left for the club. I was thinking of you. So how did it go with Mr Saint Vincent?’

‘Fine. He was fine.’

Isabel saw his dark eyes widen over the rim of his coffee-mug. Clearly, he’d been thinking she wasn’t going to hire him.

‘As good as Les?’ her mother asked. Les had been hired by her parents before, for their recent golden wedding anniversary party.

‘Better, I’d say.’

‘That’s a relief. I’ve waited a long time to see you married, love. I would like to have some decent photographs of the momentous event.’

Isabel’s eyes flicked up to the two most provocative photos on the wall and a decidedly indecent thought popped into her mind. What would it be like to be photographed by him like that? To be totally naked before him? To have him arranging filmy curtains or sliding satin sheets over her nude body? To have to stand—or lie—perfectly still in some suggestive pose for ages whilst he shot reel after reel of film, those sexy eyes of his focused only on her?

Just the thought of it sent her heartbeat even higher.

Fortunately, Isabel was not a female whose inner feelings showed readily on her face. She could look at a man and be thinking the hottest thoughts and still look cool. Sometimes, even uninterested. Which perhaps was just as well, or she’d have spent half of her life in bed.

She didn’t flirt easily. Neither was she capable of the sort of coy sugary behaviour some men seemed to find both a come-on and a turn-on. Most men found her slightly aloof, even snobbish. They often confused her ice-blonde looks and ladylike manner with being prudish and undersexed. Which perhaps explained why most of her lovers had been men who dared to do what a gentleman wouldn’t, men who simply rode roughshod over her seeming uninterest and simply took what they wanted.

Isabel looked at the man sitting opposite her and wondered what kind of lover he’d be.

Not that you’re ever going to find out, her conscience reminded her harshly.

‘I have to go, Isabel,’ her mother was saying. ‘Your father and I were just having a bite to eat before we go down the club. When will you be home? Will you be eating with us tonight?’

Isabel had been living with her parents during the last few weeks leading up to the wedding. She’d quit her flat, plus her job as receptionist at the architectural firm where Luke worked, content to become a career wife and home maker after their marriage. She and Luke were going to try for a baby straight away.

‘As far as I know,’ she told her mother whilst she continued to watch the man opposite with unreadable eyes. ‘Unless Luke comes back today and wants to go out somewhere. If he happens to ring, you could ask him. And tell him I’ll be back home by one at the latest.’

‘Will do. Bye, love.’

‘Bye, Mum.’

She clicked off the phone then bent down to tap it against the album on the coffee-table. ‘Very impressive,’ she said, giving him one of her super cool looks, the ones she fell back on when her thoughts were at their most shocking. Pity she couldn’t have rustled one up earlier when his barb about her wearing white at her wedding had sent a most uncharacteristic flush to her cheeks. Still, she was back in control now. Thank heavens.

She put down the phone and opened the album to a page which held a traditional full-length portrait of a woman in an evening gown. ‘I liked this portrait very much. If you feel you could reproduce shots like this, then you’re hired.’

‘I don’t ever reproduce anything, Isabel,’ he returned quite huffily. ‘I’m an artist, not a copier.’

Isabel’s patience began to wear thin. ‘Do you want this job or not?’ she threw at him.

‘As I said before, I’m doing this as a favour to Les. The question is…do you want me or not?’

Isabel’s eyes met his and she had a struggle to maintain her equilibrium. If only he knew…

‘I suppose you’ll have to do,’ she managed to say.

‘Such enthusiasm. When and where?’

How about here and now?

‘The wedding is at four o’clock at St Christopher’s Church at Burwood, a fortnight from today. And the reception is at a place in Strathfield called Babylon.’

‘Sounds exotic.’

It was, actually. Isabel had a secret penchant for the exotic. Though you’d never tell by looking at her. She always dressed very conservatively. But her favourite story as a child had been Aladdin, and she’d often dreamt of being a harem girl, complete with sexy costume and gauzy veils over her face.

‘Do you want me to come to your house beforehand?’ he asked. ‘A lot of brides want that. Though some are too nervous to pose well at that stage. Still, when I was doing weddings regularly, I developed a strategy for relaxing them which helped on some occasions.’

‘Oh?’ Isabel tried to stop her wicked imagination from taking flight once more, but it was a lost cause.

‘I’d give them a good…stiff…drink,’ he said between sips of his coffee.

How she kept a straight face, Isabel would never know.

‘I don’t drink,’ she lied.

‘Figures,’ he muttered, and she almost laughed.

He obviously thought she was a prude.

‘Don’t worry,’ she went on briskly. ‘I won’t be nervous. And, yes, I’m sure my mother will want you to come to the house beforehand. I’ll jot down the address and phone number for you.’ She pulled out a pen from her bag, plus a spare business card from her hairdresser, and wrote her parents’ details on the back.

‘What say you arrive on the day at two?’ she suggested as she handed it over to him, then stood up.

He put down his coffee, stared at the card, then stood up also.

‘Is this your regular hairdresser?’ he asked.

The question startled her. ‘Yes, why?’

‘Did they do your hair today?’

‘No. I did it myself. I only go to a hairdresser when I want a cut. I like to do it myself.’ Aside from the money it cost, she wasn’t fond of the way some hair-dressers had difficulty following instructions.

‘So you’ll be doing your hair on your wedding day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not like that, I hope,’ he said as he slipped the card into his shirt pocket.

Isabel bristled. ‘What’s wrong with it like this?’

‘It’s far too severe. If you’re going to have it up, you need something a little softer, with some pieces hanging around your face. Here. Like this.’

Before she could step away, or object, he was by her side, his fingers tugging at her hair and touching her cheeks, her ears, her neck.

It was one thing to keep her cool whilst she was just thinking about him, quite another with his hands on her. His fingertips were like brands on her skin, leaving heated imprints in her flesh and sending quivery ripples down her spine.

‘Your hair seems quite straight,’ he was saying as he stroked several strands down in front her ears. ‘Do you have a curling wand?’

‘No,’ she choked out, knowing she should step back from him but totally unable to. She kept staring at the V of bare skin in his open-necked shirt and wondering what he would look like, naked.

‘I suggest you buy one, then. They’re cheap enough.’

Her eyes lifted to find he was studying not her hair so much, but her mouth. For one long, horribly exciting moment, Isabel thought he was going to kiss her. She sucked in sharply, her lips falling apart as a shot of excitement zinged through her veins. But he didn’t kiss her, and she realised with a degree of self-disgust that she’d just been hoping he would.

But what if he had? came the appalling thought. What if he had?

Just the thought of risking or ruining what she had with Luke made her feel sick.

‘I must go,’ she said, and bent to pick up her bag, the action forcing his hands to drop away from her face. By the time she’d straightened he’d stepped back a little. But she had to get out of there. And quickly.

‘If I don’t hear from you,’ she added brusquely, ‘then I will expect you to show up at my parents’ home at two precisely, a fortnight from today. Please don’t be late.’

‘I am never late for appointments,’ he returned.

‘Good. Till then, then?’

He nodded and she swept past him, her bag brushing against him as she did so. She didn’t apologise, or look down. She kept going, not drawing breath till she was in her car and on the road home.

Relief was her first emotion once his place was well out of sight. Then anger. At herself; at the Rafe Saint Vincents of this world; and at fate. Why couldn’t Les have recommended a photographer like himself, a happily married middle-aged conservative bloke with three kids and a paunch?

When a glance in the rear-vision mirror reminded her she had bits of hair all over the place, courtesy of her Lord and Master, she pulled over to the kerb and pulled the pins out of her French roll, shaking her head till her hair fell down around her face like a curtain.

‘Maybe you’d like me to wear it like this!’ she stormed as she accelerated away again. ‘Lucky for me it isn’t longer, or you’d be suggesting I do a Lady Godiva act at my wedding. I could be the first bride ever to be photographed in the nude!’

She ranted and raved about him for a while, then at the traffic when it took her nearly twice as long to get home as it had to drive into the city. She was feeling more than a little stressed by the time she turned into her parents’ street, her agitation temporarily giving way to surprise when she spotted Luke’s blue car parked outside the house. She slid her navy car in behind it, frowning at Luke who was still sitting behind the wheel. When she climbed out, so did he, throwing her an odd look at her hair as he did so.

She felt herself colouring with guilt, which really annoyed her. She’d done nothing to be guilty about.

‘Luke!’ she exclaimed, trying not to sound as flustered as she was feeling. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you. Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I tried your mobile phone a while back,’ he said. ‘But you didn’t answer.’

‘What? Oh, I must have left the blasted thing behind at the studio. I took it out to ring Mum and tell her how long I’d be.’

Isabel wanted to scream. How could she have been so stupid as to leave it behind? Now she’d have to go back for it. And she’d have to see that man again, before the wedding.

‘Oh, too bad,’ she muttered, slamming the car door. ‘It can stay there till tomorrow. I’m not going back now.’

She could feel Luke’s puzzled eyes on her and knew she wasn’t acting like her usual calm self. She shook her head and threw him a pained look. ‘You’ve no idea the dreadful day I’ve had. The photographer I booked for the wedding’s had an accident and he made an appointment for me to meet this other man who’s not really suitable at all. Brilliant, but one of those avant-garde types who wants to do everything in black and white. I pointed out that I wouldn’t have selected a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I’d wanted all the shots done in black and white, but would he listen to me? No! He even told me how he wanted me to wear my hair. As if I don’t know what suits me best. I’ve never met such an insufferably opinionated man.’

Isabel knew she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop.

‘Still, what can you expect from someone who fancies himself an artiste. You know the type. Struts around like he’s God’s gift to women. And he wears this earring in the shape of a phantom’s head, of all things. What a show pony! Goodness knows what our photographs are going to turn out like, but it’s simply too late to get someone else decent. His name’s Rafe—did I tell you? Rafe Saint Vincent. It wouldn’t be his real name, of course. Just a career move. Nobody is born with a name like Rafe Saint Vincent. Talk about pretentious!’

Isabel finally ran out of steam, only to realise that Luke was not only staring at her as if she’d lost her mind, but that he wasn’t looking his usual self, either.

Always well-groomed, Luke was the sort of man who kept ‘tall, dark and handsome’ at number one on every woman’s most wanted list.

‘Luke!’ she exclaimed. ‘You look like you’ve slept in your clothes. And you haven’t even shaved. That’s not like you at all.’ Unlike other men she would not mention. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to stay in your father’s old fishing cabin up on Lake Macquarie for the whole weekend.’ And do some proper grieving, Isabel had hoped. The poor darling had to have been through hell this past fortnight since his parents’ tragic deaths. Yet he’d been so brave about it all. And so strong.

‘The cabin wasn’t there any more,’ he said. ‘It had been torn down a few years before.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ she murmured. But it explained why he was looking so disconsolate. ‘So where did you stay last night? In a motel? Or a tent?’ she added, hoping to jolly him up with a dab of humour.

‘No.’ He didn’t crack even the smallest of smiles. ‘Dad had built a brand-new weekender on the same site. I stayed there.’

‘But…’ Isabel frowned. ‘How did you get in? You didn’t break in, did you?’

‘No. There was a girl staying there for the weekend and she let me in.’

Isabel was taken aback. ‘And she let you sleep the night?’

Luke sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Isabel. I think we’d better go inside and sit down while I tell it to you.’

She tried not to panic. ‘Luke, you’re worrying me.’

When he took her arm and propelled her over to the front gate, she pulled out of his grip and lanced him with alarmed eyes. ‘You’re not going ahead with the wedding, are you?’

Isabel waited in an agony of anxiety for him to speak.

‘No,’ he finally answered, his expression grim. ‘No, I’m not.’

CHAPTER THREE

ISABEL stared at him, aghast. ‘Oh, no. No, Luke, don’t do this to me!’ Bursting into tears, she buried her stricken face in her hands.

‘I’m so sorry, Isabel,’ Luke said softly as he tried to take her into his arms.

‘But why?’ she wailed, gripping the lapels of his suit jacket and shaking them.

His eyes held apology. ‘I’ve fallen in love.’

‘Fallen in love!’ she gasped. ‘In less than a day?’

‘No one is more surprised than me, I can tell you. But it’s true. I came back straight away to tell you, and to call our wedding off.’

‘But love’s no guarantee of happiness, Luke,’ she argued in desperation. ‘I thought we agreed on that. It traps and tricks you. It really is blind. This girl you’ve supposedly fallen in love with—how do you know she’ll be good for you? How do you know she won’t make you miserable? You can’t possibly know her real character, not this quickly. She could be playing a part for you, pretending to be something she’s not. She might be a really bad person. A gold-digger, perhaps. A…a criminal even!’

‘She’s not any of those things,’ he returned, looking shocked by her arguments. ‘She’s a good person. I just know it.’

Isabel shook her head. One day! One miserable day! How could he know anything for sure? ‘I would never have believed you could be so naïve,’ she pronounced angrily. ‘A man like you!’

‘I’m not naïve,’ he denied. ‘Which is why I’m not rushing into anything. But I can’t marry you, Isabel, feeling as I do about Celia. Surely you can see that.’

Isabel was not in the mood to see anything of the kind. She wanted to cry some more. And to scream. She’d been so close to having her dream come true. So darned close!

‘Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,’ she grumbled, letting his lapels go. ‘I’d still marry you. I haven’t much time for the highly overrated state of being in love.’

And she’d thought he felt the same way.

‘Maybe that’s because you’ve never really been in love,’ Luke said.

Isabel’s laugh was tinged with bitterness. ‘I’m an expert in the subject. But that’s all right. You’ll live and learn, Luke Freeman, and when you do, give me a call. Meanwhile, let’s go inside, as you said. I need a drink. Not tea or coffee. Something much stronger. Dad still has some of the malt whisky I gave him for his birthday. That should do the trick.’

Isabel let herself into the house, Luke following.

‘But you don’t drink Scotch,’ he pointed out with a frown in his voice.

‘Aah, but I do,’ she threw over her shoulder at him as she strode into her parents’ lounge room, heading straight for the drinks cabinet in the corner. ‘When the occasion calls for it,’ she added, pouring herself half a glassful. ‘Which is now. Today. This very second.’

She knocked back half of it, steadfastly refusing to shudder like some simpering female fool while it burnt a red-hot path down her throat. ‘Ahh,’ she said with a lip-smacking sigh of satisfaction once it reached its destination. ‘That hits the spot. You want one?’ she asked Luke, but he shook his head.

Swirling the amber liquid in her glass, she walked over and settled in one of her mother’s large comfy armchairs, her feet curled up under her. Hooking her hair behind her ear with her left hand, she lifted the whisky to her lips and took another deep swallow. She glanced over at Luke, who was still standing near the doorway, looking startled by her behaviour.

Isabel supposed she wasn’t living up to the image he obviously had of her. Up till today it had been easy to play the role of the super-serene, super-sensible fiancée who was never fazed or upset by anything he did. Because he’d never done anything to really upset her.

Clearly, he didn’t know what to make of her as her real self, instead of Lady Isabel, the unflappable.

But did he honestly think he could roll up and tell her their wedding was off at this late stage with no trouble at all? Did he imagine she wouldn’t be hurt by his obviously being unfaithful to her last night?

The realisation that she had been mentally unfaithful to him today tempered her inner fury somewhat, and brought some sympathy and understanding for Luke’s actions. Marriages made with the head and not the heart might have worked in the past, she appreciated. But in this modern day and age, with all the abounding sexual temptations, such a union was a disaster waiting to happen.

Still, she would be surprised if it was true love compelling Luke to do this. More likely that good deceiver lust!

‘I suppose she’s beautiful, this Celia,’ she said drily.

‘I think so.’ Luke finally sat down as well.

‘What does she do?’

‘She’s a physiotherapist.’

A physiotherapist. Not only beautiful but clever and educated as well.

Isabel hadn’t embraced tertiary studies after leaving high school. Her exam results hadn’t been good enough. Oh, she wasn’t dumb, just not focused on her school work. She’d been far too interested in boys at the time, much to her parents’ dismay.

She had managed a brief receptionist course at tech. That, combined with her looks, had meant she’d been rarely out of a job. Over the years she’d become a top receptionist, computer literate and very competent.

Yet she’d never really been interested in a career as such. She’d always wanted marriage and motherhood. It irked Isabel that this Celia, however innocently, had stolen the one man who might have given her both.

‘And what was she doing, staying in your father’s weekender? Did he rent it out?’

‘No. She’s his mistress’s daughter.’

‘His what?’ Isabel’s feet shot out from under her as she snapped forward on the chair.

‘Dad’s mistress’s daughter,’ Luke repeated drily.

Isabel gaped. ‘No! I don’t believe you. Not your dad. With a mistress? That’s impossible. He was one of the best husbands and fathers I’ve ever met. He was one of the reasons I wanted to marry you. Because I believed you’d be just as good a family man.’

‘As I said…it’s a long story.’

‘And a fascinating one, I’m sure,’ Isabel mused. ‘It seems the Freeman men have a dark side I don’t know about.’

‘Could be,’ Luke agreed ruefully.

‘I wish I’d known about it sooner,’ she muttered, and swigged back the last of the whisky in her glass.

Luke shot her a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just a private joke. I have this perverse sense of humour sometimes. Come on, tell me all the naughty details.’

‘I hope you won’t be too shocked.’

She chuckled. ‘Oh, dear, that’s funny. Me, shocked? Trust me, darling. I can never be seriously shocked by anything sexual.’

Luke frowned at her. ‘Did I ever really know you, Isabel?’

‘Did I ever really know you?’ she countered saucily.

Their eyes met and they smiled together.

‘You’ll find someone else, Isabel,’ Luke said with total confidence.

‘I dare say I will. But not quite like you, darling. You were one in a million. Your Celia is one lucky girl. I hope you’ll be very happy together.’ Privately, she didn’t think they would be, but who knew? Maybe Luke was a better picker than herself when it came to falling in love. If he was really in love, that was.

‘Thanks, Isabel. That’s very generous of you. But we won’t be rushing to the altar. Which reminds me. I will, of course, be footing the bill for any expenses your parents have encountered with the wedding. I’ll send them a cheque which should cover everything, and with some left over. And I’ll be doing the right thing by you, too.’

She shook her head, then slipped the solitaire-diamond engagement ring off her finger. ‘No, Luke. I wasn’t marrying you for your money. I know you might have thought I was, but I wasn’t. I was just pleased you were successful and stable. I wanted that security for my children. And for myself.’

When she went to give him the ring, he refused to take it. ‘I don’t want that ring back, Isabel. It’s yours. I gave it to you. You keep it, or sell it if you want to.’

Isabel came close to crying again. He really was the nicest man. He’d have made a wonderful father.

She shrugged and slipped the ring onto her right hand. ‘If you insist,’ she said, using every bit of her will-power to keep it together. ‘But I won’t sell it. I’ll wear it. It’s a beautiful ring. Fortunate, though, that I didn’t find any wedding rings I liked yesterday, so at least we don’t have to return them.’

Isabel was still amazed by the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago Luke had been very happy with her. But, as they said in the classics, there was many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.

She sighed, then stared regretfully into her now empty glass. ‘I’d better go get you your credit card while you’re here.’ And while she could still stand. That whisky was really working now.

‘That can wait,’ Luke said before she could get up. ‘I want to finish discussing the rest of my financial obligations first.’

She frowned. ‘What other financial obligations could you possibly have?’

‘I owe you, Isabel. More than a ring’s worth.’

‘No, you don’t, Luke. I never lived with you. I have no claim on you other than the expenses for the wedding.’

‘That’s not the way I see it. You gave up your job to become my wife. You expected to be going on your honeymoon in a fortnight’s time and possibly becoming a mother in the near future. Aside from that, married to me, you would never have had to worry about money for the rest of your life. I can’t help you with the honeymoon or the becoming a mother bit now, but I can give you the financial security for life that you deserve.’

‘Luke, truly, you don’t have to do this.’

‘Yes. I do. Now listen up.’

Isabel listened up, amazed when Luke insisted she have his town house in Turramurra, as well as a portfolio of blue-chip stocks and shares which would provide her with an independent income for life. It seemed his father had been a very rich man. And now so was Luke.

She thought about refusing, but then decided that would just be her pride talking. At least now she wouldn’t have to worry about having to live here under her parents’ roof till she found another job. Her mother was going to be very upset when she found out the wedding was off.

She smiled a wry smile at this wonderful man she had hoped to marry. ‘I always knew you were a winner. But I’d have preferred you as my husband rather than my sugar-daddy.’

‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am about all this, Isabel,’ Luke apologised again. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world. You’re a great girl. But the moment I saw Celia, I was a goner.’

Isabel’s mind flew straight to the moment she first saw Rafe Saint Vincent today. She hadn’t been a goner. But she might have been, if he’d come on to her. Thank heaven he hadn’t.

‘She must be something, this Celia.’

‘She’s very special.’

And very beautiful, no doubt, Isabel deduced, with a body made for sin and eyes which drew you and held you and corrupted you. Just as Rafe’s eyes had today.

He’d fancied her. Isabel hadn’t liked to admit it to herself before this, but she’d sensed his male interest at the time. She’d sensed it from the first second they’d looked at each other. She always sensed things like that.

You could go back for your phone after Luke leaves. You could tell Rafe the wedding’s off. You could…

No, no, she screamed at herself. Not again. Never again!

‘Okay, so tell me all,’ she demanded of Luke, desperately needing distraction from her escalatingly dangerous thoughts. ‘And don’t leave out anything…’

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