The Morning After The Wedding Before

‘You’ve been thinking about me, too.’ He caught her hand, held it in a relaxed grip.

‘No.’

His thumb whisked over her knuckles. ‘Admit it, Emma.’

She made one final, albeit half-hearted attempt to pull away, but his gaze held hers and he lifted her hand to his chest. His heart thumped strong and deep.

‘You’ve been wondering about our first kiss all day,’ he continued in that low, seductive tone. ‘Like when …’

Still massaging the base of her scalp, he leaned in, touched warm, firm lips to hers.

Oh, my.

‘And where …’

Heat flowed like honey as he slid the tip of his tongue over her bottom lip.

‘And how …’

About the Author

When not teaching or writing, ANNE OLIVER loves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favourite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege … and a dream come true. Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children. Visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at [e-mail]

Recent titles by the same author:

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT A REBEL HER NOT-SO-SECRET DIARY

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Morning

After the

Wedding Before

Anne Oliver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Sue.

You’re loyal, generous, compassionate and caring,

touching people’s lives in the best way, and a

true friend on life’s amazing and unpredictable journey.

Thank you for always being there! Anne

CHAPTER ONE

EMMA Byrne refused to give in to the nerves zapping beneath her ribcage like hysterical wasps. She was a sophisticated city girl, she wasn’t afraid of walking into a third-rate strip club. Alone.

But she paused on the footpath in King’s Cross, Sydney’s famous nightclub district, and racked her brain for an alternative solution as she eyed the bruiser of a bouncer propped against the tacky-looking entrance.

Six p.m. on a balmy autumn Monday evening and the Pink Mango was already open for business. Sleazy business. She gulped down the insane urge to laugh—she’d been naïve enough to think the Pink Mango was an all-night deli.

But she’d promised her sister she’d deliver the best man’s suit to Jake Carmody, and she would. She could.

Pushing the big sunglasses she’d found in her glove box farther up her nose, she slung her handbag and the plastic suit bag over one stiff shoulder and marched inside. The sound system’s get-your-gear-off bump and grind pounded through hidden speakers. The place smelled like beer and cheap cologne and smut. Her nostrils flared in distaste as she drew in a reluctant breath.

Her steps faltered as a zillion eyes seemed to look her way. You’re imagining it, she told herself. Who’d give you a second glance in a dive like this? Especially given her knee-length buttoned-up red trench coat, knee-high boots and leather gloves, all of which she’d left on the back seat of her car since last winter. Which, when she thought about it, could very well be the reason she was garnering more than a few stares …

Better safe than sorry. Thank heavens for untidy cars and a convenient parking spot.

Ignoring the curious eyes, she turned her attention to the décor instead. The interior was even tackier than the outside. Cheap lolly pink and gold and black. The chairs and couches were covered in a dirty-looking fuchsia animal print. A revolving disco ball spewed gaudy colours over the circulating topless waitresses with smiles as fake as their boobs.

At least they had boobs.

Most of the early-evening punters were lounging around a raised oval stage leering over their drinks at a lone female dancer wearing nothing but a fuzzy gold string and making love to a brass pole. A hooded cobra was tattooed on one firm butt cheek.

Far out. Despite herself, Emma couldn’t seem to tear her fascinated gaze away. What men like … She’d never have that voluptuousness, nor the chutzpah to carry it off.

Maybe that was the reason Wayne had called it quits.

Shaking off the self-doubt, she blew out a deep, slow breath and turned away from the entertainment. Just what she didn’t need right now. A reminder of her physical inadequacies.

I don’t care if you and Ryan are getting married next weekend, little sister, you owe me big-time for doing this.

‘I’ve got an appointment to get my nails done,’ Stella had told her with more than a touch of pre-wedding desperation in her voice. ‘Ryan’s in Melbourne for a conference till tomorrow and you don’t have anything special on tonight, do you?’

Stella knew Emma had no social life whatsoever since the break-up with Wayne. Of course she’d be free. Wouldn’t have mattered if she wasn’t. As the maid of honour, how could she refuse the bride’s request? But a strip joint had not been part of the deal.

A man in an open shirt with a thick gold chain over an obscene mat of greying chest hair watched her from behind a desk nearby. His flat, penetrating gaze—as if he was imagining her naked and finding her not up to par—made her stomach heave. A bead of sweat trickled down her back—it was stifling inside this coat.

But he seemed to be the obvious person to speak to, so she moved quickly. She straightened her spine and forced herself to look him in the eyes. Not easy when those eyes were staring at her chest.

But before she got a word out he twirled one fat finger and said, ‘If you’ve come about the job, take off that coat and show us what you’ve got.’

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and, appalled, she tightened her belt. ‘I beg your pardon? I’m n—’

‘You won’t need a costume here, darlin’,’ he drawled, eyeing the garment bag over her shoulder. ‘We’re one down tonight so you can start on the tables. Cherry’ll show you. Oi, Cherry!’ His smoke-scratched voice blasted through the thick air.

Emma cringed as people looked their way, glad of her dark glasses. She summoned her frostiest tone. ‘I’m here to speak to Jake Carmody.’

He shook his head. ‘Won’t make a scrap of difference, y’know. Seen plenty just like you pass through the door hiding behind a disguise, expecting to make a quick buck on the side.’

‘Excuse me? Just tell me where I can find Mr Carmody so I can finish my business with him and be out of here.’

Those pale flat eyes checked her out some more as a woman approached toting a tray of drinks. She was wearing eighties gold hot pants and a transparent black blouse. Beneath her make-up Emma saw that she looked drawn and tired and felt a stirring of sympathy. She knew all about working jobs out of sheer necessity, and was grateful she’d never been quite so desperate.

‘Lady here wants to see the boss. Know where he is?’

The boss? ‘There must be some mistake …’ Emma trailed off. His PA had told her she’d find him at this address, but … he was the boss of this dive?

The woman called Cherry gave a weary half shrug. ‘In the office, last I saw.’

He jerked a thumb at a narrow staircase on the far side of the room. ‘Up the stairs, first door on the right.’

‘Thank you.’ Lips pressed together, and aware of a few gazes following her, she made her way through the club, keeping as far away from the action as possible.

The boss?

Despite the heat, she shivered inside her coat. His lifestyle was none of her business, but she’d never in a million years have expected the guy she remembered to be involved in a lower-than-low strip joint. He already had a career, didn’t he? A degree in business law, for goodness’ sake. Please don’t let him have chucked in years of study and a respectable livelihood for this …

Sleaze Central’s business obviously paid better. Money over morals.

She knew Jake from high school. He was one of Ryan’s mates, and the two guys had often turned up at home to catch up with her more sociable sister and listen to music. Emma had been either working one of her after-school jobs or experimenting with her soap-making, but there’d been a few times when Stella had persuaded her to chill out with them.

Jake the Rake, Emma had privately thought him. A chick magnet. Totally cool, ever so slightly dangerous, and way too experienced for a girl like her. Maybe that was why she’d always tried to avoid him whenever possible.

Hadn’t stopped her from being a little in love with him, though. She shook it away. Obviously her young eyes had been clouded by naïveté and love was definitely not in her life plan. Not ever again.

She heard him before she reached the door. That familiar deep, somewhat lazy voice that seemed to roll over the senses like thick caramel sauce. She was well and truly over her youthful crush on him, wasn’t she? He was on the phone, and as she paused to listen his tone changed from laid-back to harassed.

The door was open a crack and she knocked. She heard a clatter as he slammed the phone down, a short, succinct rude word and then an impatient, ‘Come in.’

He didn’t look up straight away, which gave her a moment to slide her sunglasses on top of her head and look him over.

Sitting at a shabby desk littered with papers, he was writing something, head bent over a file. He wore a sky-blue shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up over sinewy bronzed forearms. Unlike the rest of this dive, his clothing was top of the line. Her gaze lifted to his face and her heart pattered that tiny bit faster. God’s gift with a sinner’s lips …

An unnerving little shiver ran through her and she jerked her eyes higher. His rich, dark hair was sticking up in short tufts here and there, as if he’d been ploughing his hands through it. Her fingers itched to smooth it down—

Good grief, she was lusting after a man who owned a seedy striptease venue—a man who not only used women but exploited them. Wanting to touch him made her as low as him and as bad as those pervs downstairs. But, despite her best efforts to ignore them, little quivers continued to reverberate up and down the length of her spine.

‘Hello, Jake.’ She impressed herself with her aloof greeting and only wished she felt as cool.

He glanced up. His frown was replaced by stunned surprise. As if he’d been caught in a shop window with his made-to-measure pants down. She blinked the disconcerting image away.

‘Emma.’ Putting his pen down slowly, he closed the file he’d been working on, took his sweet time to stand—all six-foot-plus of gorgeous male—and said, ‘Long time no see.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ignoring the tantalising glimpse of masculine hair visible at the neck of his shirt, the way his broad shoulders shifted against the fabric. ‘Well … we’ve all got busy lives.’

‘Yeah, it’s all go these days isn’t it? Unlike high school.’ He came round to the side of the desk with a smile that was like a lingering caress and did amazing tingly things to her body.

She took a step back. She needed to get out. Fast. ‘I can see you’re busy,’ she hurried on, keeping her gaze focused on his black coffee eyes. ‘I j—’

‘Are you here for a job?’

What? She felt her jaw drop, and for a moment she simply stared while her brain played catch-up and heat crawled up her neck. The sod. The dirty rotten sod. ‘I phoned your office—your other office—and your PA told me you were here.’

Her lip curled on the last word and she tossed the garment bag onto the desk, sending papers flying every which way. ‘Your suit for the wedding. If it needs altering the tailor says he needs at least three days’ notice, which is why I’m dropping it off tonight. Ryan’s interstate, and Stella had an appointment, so I—’

‘Emma. I was joking.’

Oh. She glimpsed the twinkle in his eye and took another step back. Twinkles were dangerous. And why wouldn’t he joke? Because no way did she measure up to those voluptuous creatures downstairs. ‘I don’t have time to joke today. Or anything else. So … um … you’ve got the suit. I’ll be off, then.’

He watched her a moment longer, as if saying What’s your hurry? Beneath the harsh single fluorescent light she saw the bruised smudges and feathery lines of stress around his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Well, good, she thought. He deserved to be stressed for making her feel like an inadequate fool. As if her self-esteem wasn’t suffering enough after Wayne ending their relationship, and in this place …

‘So, it’s Gone with the Wind for us two, eh? Hope I can do Rhett Butler justice.’ He glanced at the bag, then aimed that sexy grin at her. ‘And you’re to be my Scarlett for the day.’

She stiffened at the darkly delicious—no, bad thought. But her blood pulsed a bit more heavily through her body. ‘I’m not your anyone. Why they had to choose a famous couples-themed wedding’s beyond me.’

He shrugged. ‘They wanted something sparkling and original and wildly romantic—and why not? Might as well have some fun on the big day. Everything’s downhill from there.’ His long, sensuous fingers curled around the edge of the desk and he aimed that killer smile again. ‘Thanks for dropping it off. Can I get you a drink before you leave?’

Good heavens. ‘No. Thank you.’

Crossing his arms, Jake leaned a hip against the desk, inhaling the fresh, unfamiliar fragrance that had swirled in with her. She was an energising sight for tired eyes. What he could see of her.

Tall and slim as a blue-eyed poppy. Even angry she looked amazing, with that ice-cold sapphire gaze and that way she had of pouting her lips. All glossy and plump and …

He fought a sudden mad impulse to walk over and taste them. Probably shouldn’t have made that wisecrack about a job here. But he’d not been able to resist getting a rise out of her. On the few occasions she’d been persuaded to join them she’d always been so damn serious. Obviously that hadn’t changed.

The muffled thump from downstairs vibrated through the floor. He rasped his hands over his stubbled jaw. ‘If I’d known you were coming I’d’ve arranged for you to drop the suit at my office. My other office.’

She drilled him some more with that icy stare. And he felt oddly bruised, as if she’d punched him in the gut with her … gloved hand.

‘I have to go,’ she said stiffly.

He pushed off the desk. ‘I’ll walk you down.’

‘No. I’d really rather you didn’t.’

The tone. He knew well enough not to mess with it and crossed his arms. ‘Okay. Thanks again for dropping the suit by. Appreciate it.’

‘Glad to hear that, because it’s a one-off.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow night at the wedding dinner.’

‘Seven-thirty.’ She hitched her bag higher. ‘Don’t be late.’

‘Emma …’ She glanced back and he thought once again of poppies. About lying in a field of them on a summer’s day. With Emma. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

She didn’t reply, but she did hesitate, staring at him with those fabulous eyes and allowing him to indulge in the cheerful poppy fantasy a few seconds longer. And he could have sworn he felt a … zap. Then she nodded once and her head snapped back to the doorway.

He watched her leave, admiring the way she moved, all straight and sexy and classy. He wondered for a moment why he’d never pursued anything with her back in the day. He’d seen her look his way more than once when she’d thought he wasn’t watching.

His lingering smile dropped away. He knew why. Emma Byrne didn’t know the meaning of fun, and she certainly didn’t know how to chill out. She wore serious the way other women wore designer jeans.

Jake, on the other hand, didn’t do serious. He didn’t do commitment. He enjoyed women—on his terms. Women who knew the score. And when it was over it was over, no misunderstandings. No looking back. But, hoo-yeah … He couldn’t deny this lovely, more mature, more womanly Emma turned him on. Big time.

The door closed and he listened to her footsteps fade, stretching his arms over his head, imagining her walking downstairs. In that neck-to-ankle armour—which only added to the sexual intrigue. Did she even realise that? He should have escorted her down, he thought again. But the lady, and everything about her body language, had said a very definite no.

Shaking off the lusty thoughts, he rolled down his shirtsleeves. Damn Earl, the SOB who’d fathered him, for dying and leaving him this mess to sort out. No one knew of Jake’s connection to this club, with the exception of Ry and his parents and more recently his PA.

And now Emma Byrne.

‘Hell.’ He checked the time, then shoved his phone in his pocket. He didn’t have time for that particular complication right now—he had an important business meeting to attend. Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he headed downstairs.

CHAPTER TWO

AND she’d told him not to turn up late.

‘She’d better have a good excuse,’ Jake muttered the following evening as he swung a left in his BMW and headed for Sydney’s seaside suburb of Coogee Beach, where Emma lived with her mother and Stella. As Ryan’s best man he’d had no choice but to elect himself to conduct the search party.

Or maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to run into Jake Carmody again so soon.

She’d always been big on responsibility, he recalled, and tonight was her sister’s night, so he figured she wouldn’t opt out without a valid reason. But she hadn’t answered her mobile and concern gnawed at his impatience. He tapped the steering wheel while he waited at a red light. A trio of teenagers skimpily dressed for a night on the town crossed in front of him, their feminine voices shrill and excited.

Maybe Emma wasn’t the same girl these days. Maybe she had decided to swap those self-imposed obligations for some fun at last. After all, apart from those few minutes yesterday, when neither of them had actually been themselves, how long had it been since he’d seen her?

His gut tensed an instant at the memory. He knew exactly when he’d last seen her. Seven months ago at Stella and Ryan’s engagement party. He knew exactly what she’d been wearing too—a long, slinky strapless thing the colour of moon-drenched sea at midnight.

Or some such garment. He forced his hands to loosen on the wheel. Unclenched his jaw. So what if he’d noticed every detail, down to the last shimmering toenail? A guy could look.

He’d arrived in time to see her leave hand in hand with some muscled blond surfie type. Wayne something or other, Stella had told him. Apparently Emma and Wayne were a hot item.

Maybe Surfer Boy was the reason she’d lost track of time …

Frowning at the thought, he pulled into the Byrnes’ driveway overlooking the darkening ocean. The gates were open and he came to a stop beside an old red hatchback parked at the top of a flight of stone steps.

Perched halfway down the sloping family property was the old music studio, where he remembered spending afternoons in the latter days of high school. Early-evening shadows shrouded the brick walls but muted amber light shone through the window. Emma lived there now, he’d been informed, and she was obviously still at home. In the absence of any other car on the grounds, it seemed she was also alone.

Swinging his car door open, he pulled out his phone. ‘Ry? Looks like she hasn’t even left yet.’ He strode to the steps, flicking impatient fingers against his thigh. ‘We’ll be there soon.’

Pocketing the phone, he continued down the stairs. If he could make it on time to this wedding dinner after the hellish day he’d had, trying to stay on top of two businesses, so could Emma. She was the bridesmaid, after all.

Some sort of relaxation music drifted from the window, accompanying the muted shoosh-boom of the breakers on the beach. He slowed his steps, breathing in the calming fragrant salt air and honeysuckle, and ordered himself to simmer down.

The peal of the door chime accompanied by a sharp rapping on her front door jerked Emma from her work. She refocused, feeling as if she was coming out of a deep-sleep cave. She checked her watch. Blinked. Oh, no. She’d assured Stella she’d be right along when the family had left nearly half an hour ago.

Which officially made her the World’s Worst Bridesmaid.

She stretched muscles cramped from being in one position too long and assured herself her lapse wasn’t because her subconscious mind was telling her she didn’t want to see Jake. She would not let him and that crazy moment yesterday when their eyes had met and the whole world seemed to fade into nothing affect her life. In any way.

Rap, rap, rap.

‘Okay, okay,’ she murmured. She slipped the order of tiny stacked soap flowers she’d been wrapping back into its container and called, ‘Coming!’

Running her hands down the sides of her oversized lab coat, she hurried to the door, swung it open. ‘I …’

The man’s super-sized silhouette filled the doorway, blocking what was left of the twilight and obscuring his features, but she knew instantly who he was by the way her heart bounded up into her throat.

‘Jake.’ She felt breathless, as if she’d just scaled the Harbour Bridge. Ridiculous. Scowling, she flicked on the foyer light. She tried not to admire the view, she really did, but her eyes ate up his dark good-looks like a woman too long on a blond boy diet.

Tonight he wore tailored dark trousers and a chocolate-coloured shirt open at the neck. Hair the colour of aged whisky lifted ever so slightly in the salty breeze.

‘So here you are.’ His tone was brusque, those black-coffee eyes focused sharply on hers.

‘Yes, here I am,’ she said, trying to ignore the hot flush seeing him had brought on and reminding herself where she’d seen him last. The flashback to the strip club made her feel like a gauche schoolgirl and it should not. But she was the one at fault tonight—and the reason he was standing in her doorway.

She gave him a careless smile, determined not to let yesterday spoil this evening. For Stella’s sake. ‘And running late,’ she rushed on. ‘I assume that’s why you’re here?’ Why else?

One eyebrow rose and she knew he wasn’t impressed. ‘You had some people concerned.’ He said it as if he didn’t count himself amongst those people—where had yesterday’s twinkle gone?—while he stepped inside and scanned the dining room table covered in the hand-made goat’s milk soaps she’d been working on.