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“Trust me, Rowena,” he said softly.
A brave prince, she thought. Brave to take me on, and all the baggage I bring with me.
She looked down at their hands, feeling the strength of his seep into her veins. A helping hand, a loving hand, a hand she could hold on to. It wouldn’t slip away from her, would it?
Trust me.
But could she trust herself to do right by him? She was no longer sure what right was. Only that Keir’s hand felt right in hers. Was that enough on which to let the past go and forge a future together?
Dear Reader,
For many years my husband and I shared a communication that crossed all barriers between us and opened up doors we hadn’t known existed. We explored each other’s private inner worlds in ways that brought us much closer together. Frank became more and more involved with the stories I was writing, contributing ideas and slants I would never have thought of myself. We enjoyed developing them together, bouncing thoughts off each other, stretching for the optimum result in whatever story we were creating.
Frank suffered a stroke, then a heart attack just before Christmas 1994. He passed away on 14 March 1995.
He wanted me to go on writing. So I sent my first solo book to London. My editor loved it. She said the hero was wonderful. I smiled. The hero is everything my husband was to me. The book is called Their Wedding Day, and you are just about to read it.
Do enjoy the book and think of Frank while you are reading it.
Best wishes
Emma Darcy
Their Wedding Day
Emma Darcy
ROWENA couldn’t let go without putting up a fight. A seven-year marriage didn’t end overnight. There had to be some way to fix it, some way to stop what was happening. She had to see for herself this woman who had turned Phil’s heart so cold to her and their children. She had to know what she was up against.
Despite the steady determination she had fostered from their home in Killarney Heights to Phil’s work place at Chatswood, nerves fluttered sickeningly through Rowena’s stomach as she drove into the basement car park of the Delahunty building. Her eyes quickly scanned the row of reserved spaces for staff. She didn’t want Phil to be here. If someone told him she had come, he might try to prevent her from confronting the situation head on.
His red Mazda convertible was nowhere in sight. Rowena breathed a long, tremulous sigh of relief. As she manoeuvred the family Ford sedan into a parking bay, it suddenly slid through her mind that Phil might have lied to her about the flashy sports car being an impulse buy. Had he been re-imaging himself to impress the other woman? If so, what kind of love needed sexy status symbols?
Rowena wouldn’t concede it was love, no matter what Phil said. This was another one of his flirtations, an ego boost that had somehow gone too far, probably pushed by the woman. Phil was a very attractive man. He earned a high income as Delahunty’s chief property buyer. He was a catch in most women’s eyes.
But she was his wife, and the flirtations had never meant anything before. A bit of fun. Phil had always assured her of that. Although it hadn’t been fun for her, and it certainly wasn’t fun now.
The
