Liz Fielding - The Bride's Baby

A book in the Bride for All Seasons series, 2008

SYLVIESMITH checked the time. Her appointment had been for two oclock. The time on her laptop now read two forty-five-because she hadnt just sat there in the luxurious reception of Tom McFarlanes penthouse office suite twiddling her thumbs and drinking coffee.

Chance would have been a fine thing.

The message couldnt have been plainer.

She was the enemy and so shed been left to twiddle her thumbs without the courtesy of a cup of coffee to help fill the time.

Not a problem. Her nerves were already in shreds without adding a surfeit of caffeine to the mix. And she hadnt twiddled her thumbs either. She didnt have time to waste thumb-twiddling. Didnt have time to waste, full stop.

Instead shed occupied herself finalising the details of an Indian-style wedding she was coordinating for a supermodel. Shed even managed to track down an elephant that was for hire by the day.

Shed also soothed the nerves of a fading pop diva who was hoping to revive her career with a spectacular launch party for her new album.

All of which had helped to keep her from dwelling upon the approaching meeting. When-if-it ever happened.

She knew she was the last person in the world Tom McFarlane wanted to see. Understood why hed want to put off the moment for as long as was humanly possible. The feeling was mutual.

The only thing she didnt understand was why, when hed been so obviously avoiding her for the last six months, he was putting them both through this now.

She checked the time again. Ten to three. Enough was enough. Her patience might be limitless-it was that, and her attention to detail, that made her one of the most sought-after event planners in London-but her time was not.

This meeting had been Tom McFarlanes idea. The very last thing shed wanted was a meeting with a man she hadnt been able to get out of her mind since shed first set eyes on him. A man who had been about to marry her old school friend, and darling of the gossip mags, Candida Harcourt.

All she wanted was his cheque so that she could settle outstanding bills and put the whole sorry nightmare behind her.

She closed down her laptop, packed it away, then crossed to the desk and the receptionist who had been studiously ignoring her ever since shed arrived.

I cant wait any longer, she said. Please tell Mr McFarlane that Ill be in my office after ten oclock tomorrow if he has any queries on the account.

Oh, but-

I should already be somewhere else, she said, cutting short the womans protest. Not strictly true-her staff were more than capable of dealing with any crisis involving the album launch party, but sometimes you had to make the point that your time-if not quite as valuable as that of a billionaire-was still a limited commodity. And maybe, on reflection, hed be as glad as she was to avoid this confrontation and just put a cheque in the post. If I dont leave now-

The receptionist didnt answer but a prickle of awareness as the womans gaze shifted to somewhere over her right shoulder warned her that they were no longer alone.

Turning, she found her view blocked by a broad chest, wide shoulders encased in a white linen shirt. It was open at the neck and the sleeves had been rolled back to the elbow to reveal brawny forearms, strong wrists.

A silk tie had been pulled loose as if its owner had been wrestling with some intractable problem. She didnt doubt that, whatever it was, hed won.

Despite the fact that shed spent the last six months planning Tom McFarlanes wedding, this was only the second time shed actually seen him face to face.

Make that forehead to chin, she thought, forced, despite her highest heels, to look up. Shed known this was going to be a difficult afternoon and had felt the need to armour herself with serious clothes.

The chin was deeply cleft.

She already knew that. Shed seen photographs long before shed met the man. Tom McFarlane wasnt much of a socialite, but no billionaire bachelor could entirely escape the attention of the gossip magazines, especially once his marriage to the daughter of a minor aristocrat-one whod made a career out of appearing in the glossies-had been announced.

The cleft did nothing to undermine its force; on the contrary, it emphasised it and, for the second time, her only thought was, What on earth was Candy thinking?

Stupid question.

From the moment shed bounced into her office demanding that SDS Events organise her wedding to billionaire businessman Tom McFarlane, Sylvie had known exactly what Candy had been thinking.

This was the fulfilment of her life plan. The one with which, years ago, shed enlivened a school careers seminar by announcing that her career plan was to marry a millionaire. One with a house in Belgravia, a country estate and a title. The title was negotiable; one should apparently be flexible-the size of the bank account was not.

Why waste her time sweating over exams when she had no intention of going to university? Students saddled with overdrafts and loans held no interest for her. All her effort was going to be put into perfecting her natural assets-at which point shed performed a pouty, cheesecake pose-and making the perfect marriage.

Everyone had laughed-that was the thing about Candy, she always made you laugh-but no one had actually doubted that she meant it, or that she was capable of achieving her goal.

Shed already looked like coming close a couple of times. Maybe, rising thirty, shed realised that time was running out and shed jettisoned everything but the core plan although, inflation being what it was, shed upgraded her ambition to billionaire.

A better question might have been, What on earth had Tom McFarlane been thinking?

An even dumber question.

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a smile from Candy Harcourts sexy mouth was enough to short-circuit the brain of any man who could muster more than one red blood cell. She might have bypassed her exams but she hadnt stinted on the midnight oil when it came to enhancing her career assets which were, it had to be admitted, considerable.

Gorgeous, funny-who could possibly resist her? Why would any man try?

And while Tom McFarlane might give the impression that hed been rough-hewn from rock-and eyes that were, at that moment, glittering like granite certainly added to the impression of unyielding force-she had absolutely no doubt that he was a male with red blood cells to spare.

Something her own red blood cells had instantly responded to with the shocking eagerness of a puppy offered something unspeakable to roll in.

As their eyes had met over Candys artfully tumbled blonde curls, the connection had short-circuited all those troublesome hormones which had been in cold storage for a decade and theyd instantly defrosted.

She was not a puppy, however, but a successful businesswoman and shed made a determined effort to ignore the internal heatwave and stick to the matter in hand. Fortunately, the minute hed signed her contract, Tom McFarlane-who obviously had much more important things to do-had made his excuses and left.

Just thinking about those ten long minutes left the silk of the camisole she was wearing beneath her linen jacket sticking to her skin. But shed got through it then and she could do it again.

It was part of the job. As an event planner she was used to handling awkward situations-and this certainly came under the heading of awkward. She just needed to concentrate on business, even if, feeling a little like the space between the rock and the hard place, it took all her composure to stiffen her knees, stand her ground, keep the expression neutral.