The Bride's Baby Read Online Free PDF Page A

confetti in their entwined initials, candles, crackers with their names and the date on them, filled with little silver gifts for the guests—she’d managed to negotiate the return of the gifts. Every kind of personalized nonsense, each imprinted with their names and the date of the wedding that never was.
    There wasn’t a single thing that Candy had overlooked in her quest for the most extravagant, the most talked-about wedding of the season.
    The list went on and on but the only other invoice to provoke a reaction was the one for the bon-bonnière.
    ‘Well, here’s something different,’ he said, stretching for a touch of wry humour. ‘A French tradition for wasting money instead of a British one.’
    Seeing light at the end of the tunnel, she was prepared to risk a smile of her own but instead she caught her breath as, his guard momentarily down, she caught a glimpse of the grey hollows beneath his eyes, at his temple.
    Maybe he heard because he looked up, a slight frown puckering his brow.
    ‘What?’ he demanded.
    She shook her head, managed some kind of meaningless response that appeared to satisfy him, but after that she kept her head down and finally it was all done but for the last invoice. The one for her own fee, which she’d reduced by twenty per cent, even though the cancellation had caused nearly as much work as the actual day would have done.
    ‘It’s as well you don’t offer a money back guarantee,’ he said.
    ‘My company’s services carry a guarantee,’ she assured him.
    ‘But not one that covers parts replacement.’
    Which was almost a joke but this time she didn’t even think about smiling. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr McFarlane. The bride is entirely your responsibility.’
    ‘True,’ he said, surprising her. ‘But maybe you’re missing out on a business opportunity,’ he continued as, finally, he wrote the cheque. ‘It would be so much simpler if one could pick and choose from a list of required qualities and place an order for the perfect wife.’
    ‘Like a washing machine? Or a car?’ she asked, wondering what, exactly, had been his specification for a wife. And whether he’d adjust it in the light of recent events.
    Go for something less glamorous, more hard-wearing.
    ‘Performance, style, finish…’ She had been dangerously close to sarcasm but he appeared to take her analogy seriously. ‘That sounds about right.’ Then, as he tore the cheque from the book, ‘But forget economy. Fast women and fast cars have that in common. They’re both expensive to run. And you take a hit on the trade-in.’ He didn’t hand her the cheque but continued to look at it. ‘Good business for you, though.’
    ‘I’m not that cynical, Mr McFarlane,’ she assured him as, refusing to sit there like a dummy while he made her wait for him to hand it over, she set about gathering her papers.
    She tucked them back into the file and stowed them in her case, taking all the time in the world over it, just to prove that she was cool.
    That nothing was further from her mind than a speedy exit from his office so that she could regain control over her breathing and her hormones, both of which had been doing their own thing ever since she’d been confronted at close quarters by whatever it was that Tom McFarlane had in such abundance. And she wasn’t thinking about his money.
    When everything was done she looked up and said, ‘No one, no matter who they are, gets more than one SDS wedding.’
    ‘Speaking personally, that’s not going to be a problem.’
    And he folded the cheque in two and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
    No…
    ‘Once has been more than enough.’
    He stood up and hooked his jacket from the back of the chair before heading for the door.
    No…Wait…
    ‘Shall we go, Miss Smith?’ he prompted, opening it, waiting for her.
    ‘Go?’ She stood up very slowly. ‘Go where?’
    ‘To pick up all this expensive but completely useless junk that I’m about to pay for.’
    Oh. No.