Sister Of The Bride Read online

  She tossed her napkin on to the table and pushed her chair back. ‘If that’s what you want, you should let your chauffeur continue minding the children. I’m sure Marcus has no idea how they should be brought up—which should suit you to a T.’

  Before she could leave the table, his hand clamped around her wrist, the pressure forcing her back into her seat. ‘For such a little thing, you have quite a temper,’ he observed, wry humour lightening his tone.

  Acutely conscious of the strong fingers encircling her wrist, she made herself remain still. Unfortunately she had little control over the nerve impulses which jumped the length of her arm in response to his touch. ‘In the first place, I’m average height. You’re the one who’s ridiculously tall.’

  ‘True—such things are relative,’ he drawled. ‘And in the second place?’

  ‘In the second place... Dam it, there is no second place. You’re right. I have no business telling you how to bring up your children.’ Her lashes dropped, veiling her swimming eyes. ‘It’s a bad habit of mine. I’m surprised my former boss didn’t warn you.’

  His look became speculative. ‘She had nothing but praise for your skills, although she did mention that you never back away from a fight where a child’s welfare is involved.’

  ‘Well, now you know it’s true—but it doesn’t mean I’m always right,’ she admitted, dredging the confession from the depths of her soul.

  His index finger made a circular motion across the pulse point at her wrist, as if he was measuring the beat, although he seemed barely aware that his hand still rested there. Unfortunately her pulsebeat was well aware of the fact, and responded accordingly.

  ‘In this case, I’ll admit you have a point,’ he said softly.

  The admission so startled her that her lashes fluttered over her astonished gaze. ‘You will?’

  ‘I’m well aware that the trade assembly bid is taking a lot of my time. If it wasn’t a temporary thing, I’d be more concerned, but I’ve been telling myself the children will benefit in the long run. But when you’re six years old, even six months must seem like an eternity.’

  ‘Especially when your father is all you’ve got,’ she added in a strained whisper.

  He removed his hand slowly, almost with reluctance—which must have been her imagination. Steepling his fingers in front of himself on the table, he said, ‘What is your expert solution?’

  ‘There isn’t an easy one,’ she admitted, noting the weariness in his eyes. ‘You have heavy responsibilities—to your employees and their families as well as to your own family. But it would help if you could spend a little more time with Trudy and Lisa. Seeing them only after school at your office is positively Victorian. Don’t you go on family picnics or outings together?’

  ‘We used to,’ he supplied in a clipped tone, which warned her that she was trespassing on dangerous ground.

  She had a sudden uncomfortable vision of Ryan and Clair sharing a picnic rug while the two golden-haired toddlers played around their feet.

  A tightness around her heart threatened her composure, but she resisted it. He had been married after all. Family gatherings were to be expected. ‘You stopped taking the children out after your wife died?’ she asked, her throat closing with emotion.

  He reached for his wine glass, cupping it between strong hands. His knuckles whitened, threatening to snap the stern. But his control was absolute enough to ensure that he did not. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Terise,’ he said coldly, ‘but the family outings stopped well before my wife died. She didn’t enjoy them so there was no point.’

  His head lifted and the brilliance in his eyes seared her. ‘You seem to be unusually curious about my relationship with my late wife, so let’s get something clear from the outset. Your job is to care for the children. The rest of my life doesn’t concern you. Understood?’

  What would he have said if he’d known that his life did concern her—because getting revenge for Clair was still uppermost in her mind. But he didn’t deserve any forewarning, so she kept her head high and met his look squarely as she said, ‘I understand perfectly.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  USED to a hectic teaching schedule, Terise found her new job left her with almost too much time on her hands. The twins were at school for half of each day. Looking after their needs and shopping for them rarely filled the hours until it was time to collect them.

  In desperation she volunteered to help Maggie Oken with some of her duties. The housekeeper was grateful—both for the help and for Terise’s company.

  ‘Normally we’d have a caterer for tomorrow’s dinner party, but thanks to you helping with the preparations I can handle it splendidly,’ she confided as they worked side by side in the well-appointed kitchen.

  ‘It’s such a small party—only five people,’ Terise commented. ‘I’m not sure if I’m expected to participate.’

  ‘You are—Mr Westmore told me this morning,’ Maggie informed her. ‘Better wear something smart. The guest of honour is a delegate from the world trade assembly.’

  Terise nodded. ‘So I understand. I’d better go shopping before I pick up the children. Do you have any suggestions on shops I could try?’

  The housekeeper eyed her enviously. ‘I know where I shop. But with your figure you could go to any designer in Sydney.’

  Terise laughed. ‘I may have the figure, but not the budget, I’m afraid.’

  ‘In that case you’d do well to check out some of the factory outlets in the inner city. A smart shopper can pick up a designer dress for a song.’

  Terise filed the information in her head. It was just what she would do. As well as the all-important delegate who had a vote in securing Sydney as the site of the world trade assembly, the guests at tomorrow’s dinner party were executives from Ryan’s organisation. If she must attend, Terise wanted to look the part. Luckily her first fortnight’s salary was already in the bank. Her living expenses were almost non-existent, so she could afford to splash out on some new clothes.

  ‘Thanks, Maggie,’ she said sincerely. ‘This job wouldn’t be nearly so enjoyable without your company.’

  A faint tinge of red coloured the other woman’s cheeks. ‘It’s a nice change to have another woman around for me too,’ she confided. ‘I’ve been on my own here for years.’

  The housekeeper had been in Ryan’s employ for even longer than Marcus, Terise recalled. ‘Wasn’t Mrs Westmore company for you?’ she asked in surprise.

  The housekeeper sniffed, and wiped floury hands on a towel before reaching for the kettle. ‘She was fine as long as I remembered I was only an employee. You’d have thought she was a duchess or something.’

  ‘But Clair wasn’t like that,’ Terise blurted out before she could stop herself. ‘I mean, I knew her before her marriage, and she didn’t seem stuck up at all.’

  ‘Then you didn’t know her very well. Once she had her hands on Mr Westmore’s money she thought it put her above everyone else. Oh, she was happy enough when she was out socialising, and she loved shopping, but she’d never ask me for the time of day—let alone advice on anything.’

  A leaden sensation invaded Terise. She knew she should put a stop to this conversation—especially as it was obvious that the housekeeper hadn’t liked Clair and it was colouring her judgement. But there was no other way to get at the truth. ‘She was a good mother, though,’ she said, in a carefully neutral tone.

  ‘She was a wonderful mother,’ Maggie admitted, but Terise’s relief was short-lived. ‘She loved the twins as babies, billing and cooing in their cots. But once they were old enough to get into scrapes and demand her attention she lost interest in motherhood.’

  ‘Yet the children still miss her terribly.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. I’ve heard that children can ask to go back to a bad home because it’s all they know. Trudy and Lisa probably think all mothers were like theirs. If you ask me——’

  ‘Did you ask her, Terise?’

  Th
e male voice cut across the conversation like a whipcrack, silencing Maggie and spinning Terise around with shock. Ryan filled the doorway, his grey eyes burning with an anger more fierce than any she’d ever seen. Shaken, she weighed her answer. Dissembling would bring his wrath down on Maggie, whose only crime was satisfying Terise’s curiosity. ‘Yes, I asked her,’ she whispered.

  ‘We were both gossiping, Mr Westmore,’ Maggie insisted, her face pale. ‘It was thoughtless—but harmless, surely?’

  His face tightened into a remorseless mask. ‘Gossip is seldom harmless. Especially when the subject can no longer defend herself.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘Then we understand each other, Maggie.’ He turned to Terise, his expression glacial. ‘In my study, Terise. Now. We have some talking to do.’

  She knew who would do the talking, and she could hardly blame him for being angry. As he saw it, his marriage was not a topic for casual conversation. But it didn’t stop her own anger from flaring.

  More than ever she wanted to know what had gone on between Clair and Ryan. Why had Maggie’s description been so unflattering? Had Clair become a different person as the wife of a wealthy man? Or had the marriage simply brought out traits which Terise was unwilling to acknowledge?

  What was Ryan’s role in all this?

  Her back rigid with tension, she followed him to his study, seating herself in a chair before he could arraign her in front of his desk like a recalcitrant school-child. In her teaching career she’d used the same psychology herself, and she refused to let him try it on her.

  To her mild surprise he sat down opposite her, rather than taking a position of power behind the vast desk. Seated, he was still a good head taller, but she lifted her chin to meet his angry expression.

  ‘What the hell did you mean by that little scene?’

  She schooled her voice to calmness. ‘Exactly what Maggie told you. We were simply gossiping.’

  ‘In clear contravention of my express wishes?’

  ‘Your express wish was that I concern myself with the welfare of the children. I can’t do it unless I know more of their background—which includes their relationship with their mother. I can hardly pretend she didn’t exist, can I?’

  Ryan regarded her pensively, one eyebrow lifting. ‘Were you seeking background for the children’s sake?’

  She refused to take the coward’s way out. ‘Not this time.’

  Some of the tension seeped out of him. ‘I can’t damn you for your honesty, although I won’t condone your behaviour. But I take your point about the children’s background. From now on any information you require is to come from me. I trust that’s clear enough to prevent any further misunderstandings?’

  Her breath escaped in a hissing sigh. ‘Yes, it’s clear enough.’ At the same time her heart sank. She could hardly expect honest answers from him to the questions she needed to ask. Such as why Clair had been so unhappy, until she had left in desperation, only to lose control of her car less than an hour away from Ryan’s Bowral home.

  ‘Is there anything you particularly wish to know?’ he asked, his voice impressively steady, although she had a good idea of the extent to which he must be bracing himself.

  He was hardly likely to tell her anything she could use against him, she thought, uncomfortably aware of a sudden reluctance to probe what were obviously sensitive areas—even though it was the reason she’d taken this job. So she asked instead about the children. How they had coped with their loss. How Ryan had helped them handle their grief.

  It was difficult to harden her heart against the torment she heard in his answers. She found herself aching to tear down the wall around his emotions, distantly aware that her concern wasn’t exclusively for the children. What was going on here?

  ‘If that’s all, I’ll get back to work.’ The discussion was clearly at an end.

  She stood up. ‘Would you mind me taking some time off this afternoon to go shopping? I need some new clothes for the dinner party tomorrow.’

  He frowned. ‘Your schedule is your own affair, once the twins’ needs are met. But there’s an easier solution closer to hand.’

  Her brows drew together in puzzlement. ‘What kind of solution?’

  ‘My wife’s clothes were given to charity, but there were several designer outfits on order, which arrived some time afterwards, and I’ve done nothing about them. If they’re to your liking, you may as well have them.’

  A lump swelled in her throat. ‘I don’t think...’ He had been furious to catch her gossiping about his marriage. Now he was prepared to give her clothes designed for his late wife. Was it an olive branch, now that the dressing down was over? The man was bewilderingly complex.

  He gestured impatiently. ‘It’s up to you. But the clothes are brand new—not even unpacked. It makes more sense for you to have them than to let them go to waste. Come, I’ll show you.’

  He opened a door off the study into his private apartment. There was a ballroom-sized bedroom, with French doors opening on to a sunny glass-roofed terrace. It would be an inviting place to enjoy breakfast, she thought.

  Beyond the bedroom, a luxurious marble-tiled bathroom was visible through a half-open door. Beside it was another door, which Ryan flung wide to reveal a walk-in wardrobe. Most of the contents were masculine, but one side held dress bags clustered together. He swept them off the rack and carried them to the bedroom, where he spread them on the bed.

  ‘Choose anything you like. I’ll have Maggie send the rest to charity,’ he said, with a dispassion she could hardly credit him with feeling.

  He propped himself against the doorframe while she gingerly unzipped the first bag. Her gasp of admiration was involuntary. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  The dress was a fully lined Chanel shirtmaker, in a soft cream wool with dramatic black trimming and signature gold buttons. She set it carefully aside and opened the next bag. Swathed in tissue wrapping was a fluidly draping suit of fine jersey, carrying an Italian designer label. Clair certainly hadn’t stinted herself.

  The last garment eclipsed them both, she saw as she held up a bewitching cocktail dress in superbly draping black velvet. Tiny diamonds studding the low neckline were the only adornment. She had little doubt that they were real.

  She looked questioningly at Ryan. They were all so lovely, yet she felt like a usurper even handling them. ‘Try the Chanel first,’ he instructed, his eyes unreadable.

  Suddenly shy, she ducked her head. ‘Now?’

  ‘You can use my dressing-room.’

  With the door closed between them, she tried the dress on, telling herself that it was no more than a working uniform, to enable her to fit in with his business guests. Yet she was achingly conscious of him, separated from her by the flimsiest of barriers. Her fingers were clumsy as she fastened the gold buttons.

  The dress fitted perfectly, skimming the gentle curves of her hips in flattering style. The buttons ended just above the knee, leaving a slit of fabric to open provocatively with every move.

  Ryan’s inspection seemed as impersonal as a doctor’s, until she caught sight of something burning in his eyes. Was he regretting offering her the dress? The thought sent a wave of pain surging through Terise. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said as her eyes started to blur.

  He regarded her with hard intensity, the burning fading—or had she imagined it in the first place? ‘You’re right. The black is more your style.’

  One of them had misread the other. Still, it was easier to carry the black velvet dress into the dressing-room than to argue a point she wasn’t sure she had any right to question.

  It took her only a moment to change. As soon as the velvet—soft as a kitten’s fur—settled over her body, she knew that this was the dress. The gently puffed sleeves tapered to narrow wrists and the slightest of ruching edged a deep V-yoke, making her look incredibly fragile and—dared she think it?—beautiful. At least she felt beautiful, and it was an almost magical experien
ce. Clair had been the family beauty. Could her mantle pass to Terise with a dress?

  The look on Ryan’s face when she emerged told her that it was just possible. In fact it was more than a possibility, she realised, catching her breath. No man had ever looked at her with such undisguised admiration.

  Surely it couldn’t be desire that she read in the taut lines of his face and the bunched muscles at his jaw? Terise was the schoolmarm—the bookish one. Looks such as the one on his face weren’t directed at her. At least they hadn’t been until now.

  He moved closer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair away from her face. At the featherlight contact fire tore along her veins. Before she could organise her chaotic thoughts, he stepped away. ‘The dress is yours.’

  She wanted it more than she had ever wanted any other garment in her life—if only for the way it made Ryan look at her. But conscience was stronger. ‘It’s lovely but I can’t take it.’

  His eyes became hooded. ‘Then I’ll tell Maggie to burn it.’

  Her reaction was involuntary, the words almost leaping from her throat. ‘You can’t—it would be a crime.’

  ‘A greater crime to let someone else wear it after you,’ he said, in a husky baritone which stripped her nerve-endings raw.

  She had no doubt that he would carry out his vow if she continued to refuse the dress. It wasn’t as if it had ever belonged to Clair, she told herself, knowing that the battle was already lost. ‘Very well, I’ll wear it—but only for the dinner party,’ she conceded.

  He made a dismissive gesture, as if her reasoning was of no consequence to him. His mask of non-emotion was firmly back in place. ‘Take them all. There will be other occasions when you’ll need to be suitably dressed.’

  Only the certainty that he would destroy the lovely garments if she refused made her gather them up. ‘As you wish.’

  She had no intentions of wearing them for anything other than official engagements. Letting Ryan provide clothes for her formed no part of her battle plans—even if she had weakened momentarily at his reaction to her in them.