she protest when the last time they’d been this close he’d had one hand on her naked back and the other had just found the gap between stocking and the lace of her Agent Provocateur French knickers and nothing about her response had suggested she was anything but happy about it…
‘I promise you,’ she snapped back, her cheeks flaming, ‘getting comfortable is the last thing on my mind.’ Then, lifting her hand in a gesture that indicated she’d like to move and that she wanted enough space to do it without the risk of physical contact, she said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, the sooner I get started, the sooner I’ll be out of here.’
And, finally, she’d managed to say something right because, without another word, he stepped back, allowing her to escape.
CHAPTER FIVE
TOM watched as, head held high, Sylvie Smith walked quickly away.
At their last meeting she’d arrived buttoned up for business in a designer suit, hair coiled up in some elegant style, make-up immaculate, but it hadn’t taken her long to start unbuttoning, loosening up. For those big silvery- blue eyes, smoked with heat, to be sending out an unmistakable message, apparently as incapable as him of resisting the attraction between them.
Today he’d caught her unawares, casually dressed in soft dusky-pink layers that all but disguised her condition, her hair caught back with a matching chiffon scarf. Not a button in sight.
She’d been less obviously flirtatious and yet the look had still been there, he thought, his gaze drifting down over hips that were curvier than he remembered, wide-legged trousers that flapped a little as she strode briskly in the direction of the morning room, drawing attention to her comfortable flat shoes.
But he didn’t need the short skirt and high heels to feel the same tug of heat that had caught him on the raw a year ago, when he’d walked into her office behind Candy.
When his marriage plans had fallen apart he’d responded by giving her a bad time. Not that she hadn’t deserved it.
Then, stupidly, he’d just responded.
He’d done his best to kill the flame, but six months on, his body, driven, denied for months, was on fire again.
The only difference was that this time she was the one getting married.
Concentrate…
Forget Tom McFarlane. Forget that she’d jumped every time the phone rang for weeks after she’d had to race away to save her client from wrecking her own party.
After she’d gone back to find his flat empty. That, after the passion, he’d still gone on his honeymoon for one…
Cold. He was cold…
Beneath the fire there was only ice, she reminded herself.
The raw sexual attraction that had been so unexpected, so new to her, had, for him, been no more than an instinctive male response to a situation charged with tension. An atavistic need to prove his masculinity in the face of rejection.
It hadn’t been
If she hadn’t believed it then, had clung to that hope despite reality, he’d certainly gone out of his way to make sure she understood his feelings this morning.
Her kind being women like Candy Harcourt. Two of a kind. Not.
The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know a thing about her. Didn’t want to know. Wasn’t interested.
Sylvie dragged her gaze away from the familiar distant view of the old village, nestled in the valley bottom alongside the river. The square Norman tower of the church. Forced herself, instead, to look at the photographs provided by the designer who was going to pull out all the stops to provide her with her dream dress.
There was just one problem.
No dream.
Not one with a possibility of coming true, anyway.
She was going to have to be content with the one she had. The one she’d already fulfilled when she’d taken control of her own destiny, refusing ever again to allow her fate to be dictated by circumstances over which she had no control. Or thought she had. She laid a hand against her belly as her baby moved as if to remind her that fate had a way of mocking those who thought they’d beaten her, turning the pages of the album with the other, hoping for something, anything.
A gut response that said ‘this one’.
It shouldn’t matter, but stupidly it did. If she was going to lay out her fantasy for the world to judge, it had to be real. Perfect.
The ‘gut response’ wasn’t working. It was fully occupied coping with her unexpected confrontation with Tom McFarlane. He looked thinner. Tanned, but thinner. Harder, if that was possible. His features chiselled back to the bone…
She shut her eyes in an attempt to block out the image. Concentrate on the dress. Style…She should stick with style because the wedding dress, as she always reminded her brides, should be an extension of your natural look.
Your wedding day was not a moment to experiment with a fashion statement.
Especially if the result was going to be splashed, in full colour, across the pages of
Geena Wagner, the designer showing at the Fayre, was incredibly talented and her gowns were all, without exception, beautiful.
Something like the flowing, beaded and embroidered silk chiffon kaftan-style dress might well have been her choice if she’d been thinking of a beach wedding.
She paused to make a note on her PDA for Josie. She had a bride who was considering that option.
Unfortunately, while the idea of a runaway wedding for two on some deserted beach might be deeply appealing, her task-and she’d had little choice but to accept it-was to include as many exhibitors as possible, which meant it would have to be a traditional wedding.
The whole village church, bells and choir job, with bridesmaids, ushers, fancy transport, a marquee fit for a maharajah and more flowers than Kew Gardens.
It should have been a piece of cake. She’d done it before. Sitting in this room, making lists, her mother offering suggestions. She wasn’t that girl any more…
At least she’d made a start with the flowers, she thought, reaching out for the tiny posy of violets that Lucy- taking her task very seriously-had gone out into the park to pick for her. Sweet-scented purple velvet flowers, heart-shaped leaves, tied with narrow purple ribbon. She lifted it to breathe in the scent and for a moment smiled.
Her bridal flowers would be a simple posy of violets. Maybe she could set a new trend for simplicity, she thought, returning to the photographs. A minimalist wedding. Very classy.
The strapless cleavage-enhancing dresses were almost too minimalist, but while perfect for a civil ceremony in some glamorous setting, wouldn’t work in the village church. Or maybe it just wouldn’t work for her.
And yet the look would have to be show-stopping.
She needed a theme, something that would tie everything together, or the feature risked being no more than a series of photographs of things…
She sighed, poked amongst the collection of goodies Lucy had found for her. Held a long amethyst earring against her neck. A scrap of smoky mauve chiffon. Ribbons, dried flower petals, invitation cards with envelopes
