LITMIR.BIZ

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appreciatively as she’d drawn in the heady aroma of rich coffee beans. ‘Have you set a date yet?’

      She’d taken a deep breath. She hadn’t been sure of how Pat would react to the news. ‘The second Saturday in October.’

      ‘Next year, you mean.’

      ‘This year.’

      ‘This year?’ Pat had jerked up straighter, shooting coffee all over her white top, chosen specifically to show off her deep Canadian tan. ‘But that’s only—’

      ‘Six weeks away. Yes, I know.’ She had forced a smile. Everyone, everyone had behaved as though she was planning to do something immoral rather than marry the man she loved. ‘Zeke doesn’t want to wait and neither do I. He can afford to pay to have everything brought swiftly together. He’s booked the reception at this wonderful London hotel, and the cars and the flowers and everything. And the church in the village is free, so…’

      ‘But your dress. My dress?’

      ‘That’s no problem. Zeke’s on first-name terms with several designers, and one of them—’ she’d mentioned a name that had brought Pat’s green eyes opening wider ‘—has just finished a special collection for a show in Paris all to do with weddings. One of the dresses—oh, Pat, you ought to see it—is just gorgeous, and he’s agreed to do your dress, too. So you see, everything is sorted.’

      Pat’s lips had still been agape and she’d suddenly become aware of it, shutting her mouth with a little snap as she’d leant back in her seat with her eyes glued on Marianne’s face. ‘And you are sure, you’re absolutely sure this is what you want?’ she’d asked slowly.

      ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘I hate to be the original wet blanket, but have you considered that little phrase, “Marry in haste, repent at leisure”?’ Pat had asked almost apologetically.

      ‘No need.’ Her voice had been firm. ‘I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life than I am about marrying Zeke.’

      Marianne sat up straight suddenly, swishing the water into a foamy wave that sloshed over the side of the bath onto the ankle-deep carpeting below. And she had been sure, one hundred per cent sure, that she and Zeke were going to be blissfully content and happy ever after, she told herself, wrapping a massive fluffy bath sheet round her sarong-style and padding through to the master bedroom.

      Once seated at her dressing table, she glanced at the row of costly perfume bottles and the set of mother-of-pearl jewellery boxes dripping with expensive items of jewellery without really seeing them, her mind winging back in time again.

      She had repeated that conversation with Pat to Zeke word for word when he’d arrived to take her out to dinner later the same day.

      Since the first afternoon they had met Zeke had insisted on driving down from London to her home village on the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells every evening, claiming that the thirty-plus miles from his offices in Lewisham barely gave the Ferrari time for a workout.

      And she hadn’t tried to dissuade him too hard, she admitted to herself now, in spite of worrying about him dashing backwards and forwards each day. She had needed to see him every evening, to feel his strong arms about her, his lips on hers. He had been like a drug, a sensual, handsome, powerful and wildly intoxicating drug. He still was. Although now she understood that the very thing you craved above all else could carry a crushing price with it.

      She should have known, from his reaction when she had innocently prattled on about Pat, that a serpent was rearing its head in her Garden of Eden.

      ‘So, our bridesmaid tried to warn you off me?’ Zeke had asked with dry amusement, his smoky grey eyes creasing at the edges as he’d smiled at her briefly before concentrating on the country road along which they’d been travelling. ‘I’ll have to have a word with her some time.’

      There had been something, the slightest inflexion in his deep voice, that had suggested he wasn’t quite so amused by Pat’s cautionary advice as he’d seemed to be, and Marianne had glanced at the hard, handsome profile for a moment before she’d said, ‘She didn’t mean anything by it, Zeke. Pat’s just a little protective of me, I guess, since Mum died.’

      ‘She doesn’t need to be,’ he had answered lightly, but still with the slight edge to his voice. ‘I’m all the protection you need.’

      She didn’t need any protection—she was more than capable of taking care of herself!

      The words had hovered on her lips but she’d bitten them back—probably a grave mistake in hindsight, she thought now—but she’d been unwilling to spoil the lovely summer evening by prolonging what had suddenly become an awkward conversation. Their first awkward conversation.

      ‘Pat will see how it is the moment she meets you,’ she had said instead, as she listened to the voice of love telling her he had raced down from London after a hectic, long day—he was always at his office by seven in the morning—and she couldn’t expect him not to be a little tetchy now and again. And perhaps she’d been unwise to repeat the conversation with Pat. But she’d thought he’d laugh at the ridiculous notion that their love could waver, like she had. Still, men viewed these things differently, especially strong, decisive, capable men like Zeke.

      She’d known he was as resilient and tough as they came; he’d had to be with the background he had come from. Abandoned by his single parent mother when he was just a few months old, he had spent most of his childhood in and out of foster homes, with two attempts at adoption failing. But he’d had a brilliant mind and an even more formidable will, and at the age of eighteen—armed with four grade A A-levels—he had decided to put himself through university, studying every day and working every night and weekend to pay his way.

      Three years later he had emerged into the world again with a first-class degree, and after two years of working all hours of the day and night he had earnt himself enough capital to start his own business.

      That had been the start of a spectacularly swift climb to wealth and power which had made him—at the age of thirty-five—one of the richest men in his field.

      Wise investments, shrewd business deals, ruthless takeovers and a reputation that he wasn’t someone to mess with had assured him of a place at the very top of the tree, and if she hadn’t seen the real Zeke—the tender, ardent lover and fascinating intellectual—he would have scared her to death.

      But all she’d known at their first meeting, in the village street on a sunny July afternoon full of the scents of summer, was that the most amazing, magnetic man she had ever met wanted to take her out to dinner. And, at direct variance with her shy, reserved, gentle nature, she had answered eagerly in the affirmative. And so it had begun.

      The sudden jarring call of the telephone cut in on her thoughts, and more out of habit than anything she rose and padded through to the breakfast room, where the answer-machine was situated.

      ‘Marianne?’ It was Zeke’s voice, impatient and slightly irritated. ‘Pick up the phone.’

      Her hand was actually halfway to the receiver when she stopped herself. Why did she always do what he said? she asked herself as her stomach lurched and trembled. She was a full-grown woman with a mind of her own. She didn’t have to pick up the phone if she didn’t want to.

      ‘Marianne?’ The deep dark voice was definitely terse now, and she pictured him in her mind’s eye, frowning at the inoffensive plastic that had dared to thwart him. ‘Hell, I haven’t got time for this. Are you in the bath or something? Look, I just wanted to check you’ve remembered to order that pâté Gerald Morton likes so much, the one from Harrods. I was going to remind you last night, but with all that happened—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Anyway, get them to send some round if you haven’t done so already.’

      She waited for a word of goodbye, something, anything, but there was just the sound of the receiver being replaced.

      ‘Damn Gerald Morton’s pâté.’ It was

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