LITMIR.BIZ

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Lizzie hadn’t been ‘little’ for a very long time, and she was a good three inches taller than the young woman before her.

      ‘It’s just a silly joke,’ Peter said immediately. One that she and Peter had shared, as they had once shared everything. But shock had done something to her vocal cords, and her words were scarcely audible. His wife. The word echoed like the clang of doom. Wife... Wife... Wife...

      ‘Have you known Peter long?’ she managed, although her tongue was like a lump of wood in her mouth. Anything to stop that word...

      ‘About six months. We work together at the bank.’

      ‘Fran is an investment analyst,’ Peter said. ‘A graduate of Harvard Business School,’ he added, as if it mattered.

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘What do you do, Lizzie?’ Fran asked.

      ‘Nothing much.’ She wasn’t prepared to compete.

      ‘Lizzie keeps house for her father, Fran,’ Peter interposed.

      Fran glanced around, taking in the rambling red-brick house that had been extended through the centuries until it had become an impossible hotchpotch of styles—a nightmare to run, the bane and the love of Lizzie’s life. ‘Well, that must be a full-time job,’ she said. ‘Although I imagine your stepmother will take over now?’

      Peter spoke before she could say something stupid, betray herself. ‘Of course she will. Now that your father doesn’t need you, Lizzie, you’ll be able to leave home and get on with your life.’ And Lizzie flinched at this jarring reminder that when Peter had needed her she had put her father first. But he didn’t need her any more. Neither of them did. ‘Perhaps you should get a job,’ he advised, and she caught the harsh note of bitterness in the words.

      ‘Like Fran?’ she asked, still too shell-shocked to make her excuses and walk away.

      ‘You wouldn’t make much of an investment analyst, Lizzie,’ he said. ‘You never could weigh up the risks.’ Did he have to rub in the fact that he believed she had made the wrong choice? How deeply she must have hurt him to make him so cruel. ‘You’re just too much of a home body, I guess.’

      A home body! A flash of anger dulled the pain. He had never complained in the past. He had always enjoyed coming to the house, eating the food she cooked for him no matter what time of the day or night he arrived. ‘Maybe you should look for something in catering,’ he suggested, his memory clearly running along the same lines as hers.

      ‘I’ll certainly think about it.’ Lizzie was smiling so hard that she thought her face must crack in half. But under the tense, searching eyes of his new wife she sought for something witty to say—a disguise for her broken heart. If only her head wasn’t stuffed with cotton wool. Rescue came from an unexpected source.

      ‘Elizabeth, I’m sorry to rush you, but we have to leave quite soon.’ Noah’s hand on her shoulder made her jump.

      ‘Leave?’ she repeated, still too dazed for anything to make much sense.

      He didn’t answer her. ‘It’s Hallam, isn’t it? Noah Jordan. I’ve just been talking to your parents. I understand congratulations are in order.’

      ‘Thank you,’ he said, clearly relieved to break the tension. ‘May I introduce my wife Francesca?’

      Noah transferred his gaze to Peter’s new wife and took her hand, holding it, it seemed to Lizzie, for ever. Then he seemed to recollect himself. ‘I apologise for dragging Elizabeth away, but I’m taking her to see Tosca tonight—a treat for all the hard work she’s put into organising the wedding for Olivia.’ He glanced at Lizzie. His heavy-lidded eyes gave no hint of his intention, but there was something about the determined cut of his mouth that suggested she would be wise to follow his lead.

      ‘Tosca?’ Fran repeated. ‘That is absolutely my favourite opera,’ she declared, obviously relieved to have a topic of conversation that had nothing to do with the unknown politics of a small village. ‘I have a recording of my mother singing—’

      ‘Your mother is a singer?’ Lizzie felt Noah’s long fingers tighten against her shoulder as he asked the question.

      ‘Was. Not professional, of course, although she was very good. I have a recording of her singing and my father playing the piano.’ She gave an awkward little smile. ‘It’s about all I have of them. They died when I was very young.’

      Noah’s eyes were fastened on the girl’s face. ‘Then you must come with us tonight.’

      ‘We couldn’t possibly...’ Peter began, staring at Lizzie, his brows tugged together in a bewildered frown.

      ‘I have a box with two empty seats. It would be a pity to waste them.’

      ‘Oh, Peter, please!’ Fran begged. ‘Mr Jordan wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t mean it.’ She turned eagerly back to Noah. ‘Would you?’

      Noah offered a reassuring smile. ‘We’d love to have you as our guests.’ He turned to Lizzie. ‘Wouldn’t we, darling?’

      Darling? She was beginning to seriously hate that word. But before she could react he had slipped his arm about her waist. ‘Seven o’clock at the Coliseum. If we miss you in the foyer, I’ll leave a pass at the box office.’ He raised a hand, and before Lizzie knew what was happening she was being propelled across the lawn towards the house.

      ‘Lizzie...?’ Peter’s slightly puzzled voice trailed after her.

      ‘Don’t look back,’ Noah rapped out, quite unnecessarily. Lizzie had no desire to look back. The picture of Peter standing confused and unhappy beside his bride would haunt her for ever. The dreadful suspicion that he had married Francesca on the rebound simply to spite her... She half stumbled across the grass in her haste to get as far away from them as possible.

      As they reached the French windows that led to the drawing room, Noah turned her to him. Tears were turning his image into a watery blur as his fingers touched her chin and raised it a fraction, exposing her to the full force of a pair of seeking grey eyes. And while she stood there, held like a rabbit helpless in a pair of headlamps, he bent and kissed her.

      His lips were cool and firm and dry against hers, and she caught the faintest scent of something indefinable that seemed to be the very essence of Noah Jordan. Shock held her rooted to the spot. Peter had kissed her many times, tenderly, warmly. But Noah Jordan’s mouth was totally demanding, provoking a flicker of some undreamt-of desire...

      She clutched at his wide shoulders as her head was forced back over his arm, shutting her eyes tightly in a desperate attempt to blot out what was happening, the realisation that it would be all too easy to respond. That she wanted to... But then it was over, his hand at her back as he swept her into the drawing room.

      ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded, turning on him angrily in her confusion. ‘How dare you kiss me like that?’

      ‘It’s something people do at weddings,’ he said carelessly. ‘Kiss the bridesmaid. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

      She brushed aside his reference to the chaste salutes of family friends. ‘It wasn’t... the same.’

      ‘No?’ His expression was disquieting. ‘Perhaps not. I promise not to let it go to my head.’

      ‘You...’ She tugged at her arm. ‘Oh...let me go,’ she stormed. ‘I want—’

      He swung her back into his arms, forcing her to face him, meeting her angry expression head-on. ‘Everyone within a hundred yards could see what you wanted, Elizabeth. Including his wife. That’s why I kissed you—to save the face of a young woman who has been pitch-forked by that young fool into a very awkward situation. You’ve made the start of one marriage difficult enough. I don’t intend to let you upset another. So you’d better go and change. Right now.’

      So, she was right. Olivia had run to her brother

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