tissue paper. Curling her fingers back when she saw the state of them.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s, um, just a dress…’
She’d wrapped it in tissue and returned it to the chest that contained her great-grandmother’s clothes. The special ones. The ones she couldn’t bear to part with. Designer gowns from Balenciaga, Worth, Chanel. Silk and velvet. Accessories from the art deco period. Bags, buckles, shoes. Even lingerie.
‘My great-grandmother was very stylish. Very elegant. A bit of a trend-setter in her day,’ she said with forced brightness. She must not cry. They were just things…‘They should have gone to the Melchester museum for their costume department. My mother had it on her list of things to do.’ She blinked. No tears…‘You always think there’s so much time…’ Then, not wanting to think about that, she turned to him. ‘What happened to your family?’
It was hard to say which of them was more shocked. Tom McFarlane, that she’d had the temerity to ask the question. Or her, for having dared pose it.
‘I have no family,’ he said without expression.
‘That’s not true!’ And her hands flew protectively to the child at her waist, as if to cover her ears.
Not any more.
And she wanted to reach out, take his hand and place it on their growing child so that he could feel what it meant. Would understand.
‘That’s the way I like it,’ he said, his expression so forbidding that, instead, she flinched. And then, before she could gather herself, speak, he gestured towards the tissue-wrapped dress in a manner that made it plain that the matter was closed.
‘What’s so special about this dress?’
After a long silence she turned to the trunk and, having rubbed her hands against the seat of her trousers to remove the dust, she unfolded the tissue to reveal the long lace veil.
Tom stared at the exquisite lace for a moment before turning to her and saying, ‘Why am I surprised?’ Then, ‘Is this for your wedding?’
‘Oh, please! I don’t think the virginal veil is quite me, do you?’ she asked, pulling a face, mocking herself. Mocking them both. Then, when he made no comment, ‘Geena wanted to see it.’ She shrugged. ‘Embarrassing as it was, the visualisation exercise jarred loose some ideas and I think she has some thought of interpreting this dress for the new maturer, pregnant me. It won’t do, of course.’
‘Why don’t you wait? Until after you’ve had the baby?’
‘
‘That really won’t be necessary,’ he replied. ‘I’ve had more than enough of weddings to last me a lifetime. In fact, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m trapped in some nightmarish time-loop in which the word “wedding” is a constantly recurring theme.’
She finally snapped. ‘Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever been stood up days before a wedding?’ she demanded. ‘Believe me, you’ll get over it.’
‘I have your guarantee?’ Then, ‘I’d forgotten. It happened to you too, didn’t it?’ And when, shocked, she didn’t reply, ‘I saw a piece about you in
‘Oh, that.’ She shrugged. ‘Yes, well, it was three weeks rather than three days in my case, but who’s counting?’
‘So tell me, Sylvie, how long did it take you to get over being left at the altar?’
‘A great deal longer than you, Tom. Let’s face it, you were over it the minute you put your hand up my skirt.’
The minute the words left her mouth, Sylvie regretted them. But she was angry with him, wanted to hurt him as he was hurting her. The pain that she’d felt as a nineteen-year-old, abandoned by the man she’d loved, was a world away from his hurt pride and she refused to indulge him in a session of mutual bonding over their shared experience of being dumped just before the wedding.
But, in her haste to deter his curiosity, she’d made a major mistake. Desperate to stop his thoughts-her thoughts-from dashing off in one direction, she had provoked another, equally powerful memory of that moment, inevitable as a lightning strike, when, compelled by some force outside all the norms of acceptable behaviour, they’d both totally lost it.
The searing heat of his mouth. An intimate and personal touch that had, in an instant, bypassed her will, overridden her mind, stolen everything. And, just for a moment, given her back something she’d thought lost for ever. Given her a lot more…
Equally powerful but without meaning, she reminded herself, even as his eyes seemed to darken, soften in response to the memories she’d so carelessly stirred up, as the electricity in the air raised the tiny hairs on her arms in a shiver of awareness.
She fought it, fought the need for his touch, her yearning for the soft whisper of words that she heard only in her dreams, knowing just how easy it would be to give in to the moment. Easy to say, but he was as close now as he had been then. Close enough that the scent of his wind-blown hair, newly laundered clothes, the faint musk of warm skin overrode the smell of camphor and hot dust.
Much too close.
Even in this dim light she knew her face would betray her thoughts, everything she was feeling, and he needed no more than the tiny betraying whimper of remembered joy, shatteringly loud, in the silence-an open invitation to repeat the experience, just in case his memory needed jogging-for his expression to change from thoughtful to something very different.
‘Is that right?’ he murmured, tightening his hold, bringing her round to face him so that his mouth was just inches from her own. ‘Maybe we should try that again. So that you can explain it to me.’
Not in this world, she thought, but there was no time to object before his lips touched hers, sending a thrill of pleasure-the heat that haunted her dreams-spiralling through her.
‘Step…’ he said, his hand sliding beneath her long, loose top, cool against her warm skin as he leaned into her, deepening the kiss, and she shivered, but not with cold.
No…
This was wrong.
Stupid.
Inevitable.
Inevitable from the first moment he’d walked into her office. She’d known it. He’d known it. Like iron filings to a magnet. Why else would he-would she-have gone to such lengths to avoid each other? It was the only wedding she’d ever coordinated where the groom had been totally absent.
But inevitable didn’t make it-
His tongue stroked her lower lip and every cell in her body responded as if to some unheard command, as if standing on tiptoe, reaching out for more.
‘By…’
– right.
‘Step…’
Oh…Confetti…
Her knees were water. Another minute and she’d be sprawled over one of the trunks in a rerun of that moment when that instant attraction had overcome every particle of common sense, every lesson that she’d ever learned about the fickleness of the human heart. When the heat had overcome the ice and turned it to steam.
To be overwhelmed, to forget yourself so completely might be excusable once.
Twice…
Her head felt like lead, she didn’t have the strength to move it, break contact, but then his hand slid forward on its inevitable journey towards her breast and instead encountered the mound of her belly and, as if drawn to him, her baby girl turned, reached out to him. And he was the one whose head went back as if struck.
For a moment his expression was desolate, empty, but then as if, all along, it had been no more than a demonstration that she was still in his power, his to take or leave as he pleased, he let his hand drop to his side.
‘Perhaps not,’ he said, but with a touch of self-mockery. She didn’t doubt that, as for her, the desire had been
