Lear jet bearing the W-W insignia stood waiting for them, its baggage hold open. Sloane transferred their bags, then spoke to the pilot before they boarded.
The interior portrayed the ultimate in luxury. Plush carpets, superior fittings—me jet was a wealthy man’s expensive possession.
A slim, attractive stewardess greeted them inside the cabin. ‘If you’d each care to be seated and fasten your seat belts, we’ll be ready for immediate takeoff.’ She moved to close the door and secure it, checked her two passengers were comfortable, then she acknowledged internal clearance via intercom with the pilot.
The jet’s engines increased their whining pitch, then the sleek silver plane eased off the bitumen apron and cruised a path to the runway.
Within minutes they were in the air, climbing high in a northerly flight pattern that hugged the coastline.
‘Juice, tea or coffee?’
Suzanne opted for juice while Sloane settled for coffee, and when it was served the stewardess retreated into the rear section.
‘No laptop?’ Suzanne queried as Sloane made no attempt to take optimum advantage of the ensuing few hours. ‘No documents to peruse?’
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘The laptop and my briefcase are stowed in the baggage compartment. However, I thought I’d take a break,’ he revealed with indolent amusement.
‘I have no objection if you want to work.’
‘Thereby negating the need for conversation, Suzanne?’
She aimed a slow, sweet smile at him. ‘How did you guess?’
Sloane’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘We should, don’t you think, ensure our stories match on events during the past three weeks?’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Minor details like movies we might have seen, the theatre, dinner with friends.’
Separate residences, separate lives. Hectic work-filled days, empty lonely nights.
A particularly lacklustre social calendar, Suzanne conceded on reflection, and was unable to prevent a comparison to the halcyon days when she’d shared Sloane’s apartment and his life. Then there had been a succession of dinners, parties, and few evenings together alone at home. Long nights of loving, a wonderfully warm male body to curl into, and being awakened each morning by the stroke of his fingers, his lips.
Something clenched deep inside her, and she closed her eyes, then opened them again in an effort to clear the image.
‘Suzanne?’
Clarity of mind was essential, and she met his gaze, acknowledged the enigmatic expression, and managed a slight smile. ‘Of course.’ Her attendance at the cinema had been her only social excursion. She named the movie, and provided him with a brief plot line. ‘And you? I imagine you maintained a fairly hectic social schedule?’
‘Reasonably quiet,’ Sloane relayed. ‘I declined a dinner invitation with the Parkinsons.’ His level gaze held hers. ‘You supposedly had a migraine.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
His expression held a degree of cynical humour. ‘We dined à deux, or stayed home.’
Suzanne remembered too well what had inevitably transpired during the evenings they’d stayed in. The long, slow foreplay that had begun when they’d entered the apartment. Sipping from each other’s glass, offering morsels of food as they’d eaten a leisurely meal. A liqueur coffee, and the deliberate choice of viewing cable television or a video. The drift of fingers over sensitised skin, the soft touch of lips savouring delicate hollows, a sensual awakening that had held the promise of continued arousal and the ultimate coupling of two people who had delighted in each other on every plane.
Sometimes there had been no foreplay at all. Just compelling passion, the melding of mouths as urgent fingers had freed buttons and dispensed with clothes. Occasionally they hadn’t even made it to the bedroom.
Suzanne met his gaze and held it, fought against a compulsive movement in her throat as she contained the lump lodged there, and chose not to comment.
A hollow laugh died before it was born. Who was she kidding? There was no choice at all. If she opened her mouth, only the most strangled of sounds would emerge.
She saw the darkness reflected in his eyes, glimpsed the flare of passion and his banking of it, then wanted to die as his lips curved into a slow, sensual smile.
‘Memories, Suzanne?’
Try for lightness, a touch of humour. Then he’d never know just how much she ached inside. ‘Some of them were good, very good.’ He deserved that, if nothing else. Others were particularly forgettable. Such as the bitchiness of some of his social equals.
Oh, damn. She was treading into deeper water with every step she took. And she’d only been in his company an hour. What state would she be in at the end of the weekend, for heaven’s sake?
She fished a magazine from a strategically placed pocket, and began flipping through the glossy pages until she discovered an article that held her interest. Or at least she could feign that it did for the duration of the short flight to Brisbane.
It was a relief when the jet landed and cruised to a halt on the far side of the terminal. Suzanne glimpsed a limousine parked close to the hangar, and Sloane’s father boarded as soon as the jet’s door opened and the steps were unfolded.
‘Good morning.’
Trenton moved lithely down the aisle and closed the distance to greet them.
The family resemblance between father and son was clearly evident, the frame almost identical, although Trenton was a little heavier through the chest, slightly thicker in the waist, and his hair was streaked with grey.
He was a kind man, possessed of a gentle wit, beneath which was a shrewd and knowledgeable business mind.
Suzanne rose to her feet and allowed herself to be enveloped in a bear-hug.
‘Suzanne. Lovely to see you, my dear.’ He released her, and acknowledged his son with a warm smile. ‘Sloane.’ He indicated the limousine. ‘Georgia is making a call from the car.’ The smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled with humour as he placed a hand on Suzanne’s shoulder. ‘A last-minute confirmation of floral arrangements for the wedding. Go down and talk to her while I check the luggage being loaded on board.’
Georgia was fixing her lipstick, a slight pink colouring her cheeks as Suzanne slid into the rear seat, and she leaned forward and brushed her mother’s cheek with her own. ‘Nervous?’
‘No,’ her mother denied. ‘Just needing someone to tell me I’m not being foolish.’
Georgia had been widowed at a young age, left to rear a child who retained little memory of the father who had been killed on a dark road in the depth of night by a joyriding, unlicensed lout high on drugs and alcohol. Life thereafter hadn’t exactly been a struggle, as circumspect saving and a relatively strict budget had ensured there were holidays and a few of life’s pleasures.
‘You’re not being foolish,’ Suzanne said gently.
Georgia
