Mistress Of The Groom. Susan Napier

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE tall, statuesque brunette wound her way sinuously through the glittering throng. Her formal black gown, cut low across her voluptuous breasts and deep to the base of her spine, flared out from her hips as she walked, the thin fabric shimmering as it slipped and slid against her long legs. Her hair was braided into a glossy black knot on the top of her head, adding to her already considerable height and emphasising the stark bareness of her white throat and shoulders.

      The colour of her dress and her total lack of jewellery were in dramatic contrast to the rest of the women in the crowded hotel restaurant. The sought-after invitations from Spectrum Developments had placed an emphasis on glitz and glamour, and the female guests had taken the ‘rainbow’ theme to heart in order to flaunt their social and financial status at what was already being called Auckland’s party of the year.

      The woman in black didn’t appear to be aware of her social solecism. Her head was held high, her pale, sharp features a mask of haughty calm as she ignored the whispers gathering in her wake, her icy blue gaze fixed on the small group of important men and vivacious women clustered around a towering figure at the far end of the room.

      She was almost there when the tall man at the centre of all the sycophantic attention turned to pick up his half-full glass from the elegantly set dining-table beside him and caught sight of her.

      His dark head lifted sharply, his nostrils flaring, his powerful muscles bunching within the sleek confines of his black-tie regalia as he shouldered through the mass of hangers-on to confront her approach. He looked like a stallion rearing at an unexpected intrusion into his territory—a massive black stallion, standing aggressively tall, radiating a restless antagonism, his spiky, short-cropped hair the same midnight colour as his superbly tailored jacket, his cobalt-blue eyes wild with untamed spirit, his blunt, masculine features hard and hostile.

      Her stride briefly faltered and his expression changed to one of smouldering anticipation. His broad, flat cheekbones gave him a primitive look, the dark bloom on the smooth-shaven jaw adding to the impression of unbridled masculinity. She knew he had only just turned thirty-three but he looked older, with ruthless lines of experience etched around his eyes and mouth.

      ‘Well, well, well...’ he drawled in a darkly insolent voice as she came to a halt in front of him. ‘If it isn’t Miss Sherwood. I didn’t realise you were on my invitation list. How tasteless of me to ask you to celebrate the man and the deal which sent your ailing little company to the wall.’

      Jane Sherwood tilted her chin to an even more imperious angle, bitterly regretting that her three-inch heels still didn’t give her nearly six-foot frame a height advantage over the sneering giant. They both knew damned well that she hadn’t received one of the prized, hand-blown glass rainbows which had accompanied the engraved invitations.

      ‘I wasn’t invited, Mr Blair.’ She echoed his parody of politeness with the full force of her loathing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the white-jacketed hotel employee she had evaded at the door pointing her out to one of the guests, a wiry, hatchet-faced blond man whose grim alertness stamped ‘security’ all over him. Jane recognised him as the trouble-shooter who was never far from his boss’s side, and as he began to forge towards them her nerves tightened another notch.

      A hush had descended over the immediate vicinity as Ryan Blair’s eyes crawled over the expensive designer dress.

      ‘Ah, so you’re the one being tasteless...although I must say you dress extremely well for someone on the brink

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