The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      He turned and directed her a level look. ‘That’s true. Although even if there were we’d still share.’

      ‘The projected image of togetherness,’ Suzanne said with heavy cynicism, and glimpsed one eyebrow slant in silent query.

      ‘Something we agreed as being the favoured option, I believe?’

      A temporary moment of insanity when she’d put her mother’s feelings to the forefront with very little thought for her own, she decided disparagingly. Then felt bad, for she’d do anything rather than upset Georgia.

      The villa was spacious, open-plan living on two levels. And it was remarkably easy to determine via an open staircase that the upper level was given over to one bedroom, albeit that it was large and housed a queen and single bed, as well as an adjoining en suite bathroom.

      Suzanne followed him upstairs, and discovered the bedroom was larger than she’d expected, with glossy timber floors and a high ceiling. A central fan stirred recycled air-conditioned air, and dense external foliage provided an almost jungle-like atmosphere that heightened the sensation of secluded tranquillity.

      Her eyes skimmed over both beds, and quickly skittered towards the functional en suite. Four days of enforced sharing. It had hardly begun, and already she could feel several nerve-ends curling in protective self-defence.

      ‘Which bed would you prefer?’ she asked in civil tones, wanting, needing to set down a few ground rules. Rules were good, they imposed boundaries, and if they adhered to them they should be able to get through the weekend with minimum conflict.

      He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You don’t want to share?’

      ‘No.’ 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. Not a physical exercise to be indulged in simply to satisfy a basic urge.

      Sloane watched her expressive features, perceived each deliberation and recognised every one of them. ‘Pity.’

      Suzanne’s lashes swept upwards, and her eyes sparked with anger. ‘You surely didn’t expect me to agree?’

      ‘No.’ His smile held wry humour, and there was a musing gleam evident in the depth of his appraisal. He reached out an idle finger and touched its tip to the end of her nose. The smile broadened. ‘But you rise so beautifully to the bait.’

      Of all the... She drew in a deep breath, and expelled it slowly in an effort to defuse the simmering heat of her rage. ‘I think,’ she vouchsafed with the utmost care, ‘we had better agree not to ruffle each other’s feathers. Or we’re likely to come to blows.’

      ‘Verbal, of course.’

      His faint mockery further incensed her. ‘Physical, if you don’t watch your step!’

      ‘Now there’s an interesting image.’ He gave a silent laugh, and his eyes were as dark as she imagined the devil’s own to be. ‘A word of warning, Suzanne,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t expect me to behave like a gentleman.’

      This conversation had veered way off course, and she attempted to get back on it. With deliberate calm she turned her attention to one bed, then the other, entertained a brief image of Sloane attempting to fold his lengthy frame into the single one, and made a decision. ‘You can have the larger bed.’

      ‘Generous of you.’

      ‘Half the wardrobe is mine,’ she managed firmly. ‘With equal time and space in the bathroom.’

      A lazy smile curved the edges of his mouth. ‘Done.’

      She looked at him warily. His calm acceptance of her suggested sleeping arrangement was...unexpected.

      There was a loud knock on the door, and Sloane moved indolently downstairs to allow the porter to deposit their bags, then, taking hold of one in each hand, he ascended the short flight of stairs.

      ‘I’ll unpack.’ A prosaic task that would take only minutes.

      She was all too aware of Sloane’s matching actions as she hung a few changes of clothes on hangers in the wardrobe, lay underclothes into a drawer, and set out toiletries and make-up on one half of the vanity unit.

      ‘Anything for valet pressing?’

      ‘No.’ She watched as he extracted the appropriate bag, added two shirts, then filled in the slip and slung it down onto the bed.

      ‘When you’re ready, we’ll go join Georgia and Trenton in the dining room.’

      She needed to run a quick brush through her hair and retouch her lipstick. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

      In the en suite she regarded her mirror image with critical appraisal. Her eyes were too darkly pensive, her features too pale.

      A few swift strokes of eyeshadow, blusher and lipstick added essential colour, and she made a split-second decision to twist the length of her hair into a careless knot atop her head.

      Her hand automatically reached for the light parfum spray Sloane had gifted her. Her fingers hesitated, then retreated.

      Oh, to hell with it. She wore perfume because she liked the fragrance, not because of any attempt to tantalise a man. If Sloane chose to think the fresh application was attributed to him, he was mistaken.

      A quick spray to the delicate veins crossing each wrist, the valley between each breast. Better, much better, she determined as she emerged into the bedroom.

      Sloane regarded her with one swift encompassing glance, then caught up his sunglasses and held out her own before standing to one side to allow her to precede him down onto the lower level.

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