The Bride's Baby Read Online Free PDF

Really. That was just pointless. Besides the fact that she was now, seriously, running out of time as well as breath. Her staff didn’t need her to hold their hands, but the pop diva was paying for that kind of service.
    Sylvie was really annoyed with herself about that. Not the time—that was all down to Tom McFarlane. But the breath bit.
    It wasn’t even as if he’d tried. Done a single thing to account for her raised pulse rate or the pitifully twisted state of her hormones.
    Apart from looking at her.
    It was, apparently, enough.
    ‘I’m qu-quite happy to dispose of it for you,’ she said quickly. She could at least spare him the indignity of having to haul it to the recycling centre. Then, when that offer wasn’t leapt on with grateful thanks, ‘Or I can arrange to have it delivered.’
    It wasn’t as if he could be in a hurry for any of it.
    ‘If that’s more convenient for you,’ he said. Her relief was short-lived. ‘I assume you’re not planning to charge me for storage?’
    ‘Er, no…’
    He nodded. ‘I’m leaving the country tonight—my diary has been cleared, the honeymoon villa paid for—but I can hold on to the cheque until I get back next month and we can finish this then.’
    What?
    ‘I’ll give you a call when I get back, shall I?’
    Give her a call…?
    Everyone had their snapping point. His had been the wedding cake. This was hers.
    ‘You have got to be joking! I’ve already rearranged my afternoon for you and been kept waiting nearly an hour for my trouble. And I’ve got a party this evening.’
    ‘Your social life is not my problem.’
    ‘I don’t have a social life!’ she declared furiously.
    ‘Really?’ His glance was brief but all-encompassing, leaving her with the feeling that she’d been touched from head to foot in the most intimate way. And enjoying every moment of it.
    Then he lifted one brow the merest fraction as if he knew…
    ‘Really,’ she snapped. Every waking moment of her life was spent making sure other people had a good time. ‘This is business. And my van, unlike me, can’t do two things at once.’
    For some reason, that made him smile. And she’d been right about that too. Something about the way one corner of his mouth lifted, the skin crinkled around his eyes. The eyes heated…
    ‘No problem,’ he said, bringing her back to earth. ‘For a reasonable fee, I’ll hire your company one of mine.’
     
    Beneath the riotous collage of balloons, streamers and showers of confetti with which Sylvie’s van—the one presently engaged elsewhere—was painted, you could just about make out that its original colour was, like her mood, black.
    Tom McFarlane’s van was an identical model. Equally glossy and well cared for and equally black. In his case, however, the finish was unrelieved by anything more festive than his company’s gold logo—TMF enclosed in a cartouche—so familiar from that wretched cake.
    They’d ridden in his private lift down to the parking basement in total silence. With no choice but to go along with him, she was too angry to trust herself to attempt small talk.
    Her sympathy was history. Sylvie no longer cared what he was feeling.
    Smug self-satisfaction, no doubt, at putting her to the maximum possible inconvenience just because he could.
    He led the way past an equally black and gleaming Aston Martin that was, no doubt, his personal transport. Fast and classy with voluptuous cream leather upholstery, it fitted his specification perfectly.
    For a car or a wife.
    Shame on Candy for dumping him; he deserved her!
    They reached the van. He unlocked it, slid open the driver’s door and held out the keys.
    She stared at them.
    She’d been tempted to insist on driving the van herself, if only to reclaim a little of the control which he’d wrested from her the moment she’d arrived at his office. If he was really serious about charging her for using it—and nothing about him so far suggested he had a sense of humour; his