were married six weeks later at the local church close to his mother’s house. Dominic was the best man and he performed his duties with a gravity that was incredibly touching and, later, at the small reception which they held at the house, he was cheered on to speak and, bright red, raised his glass to the best brother a man could have.
Phillipa didn’t stop teasing her sister that she had managed to beat her down the aisle. ‘And you’ll probably be preggers by the time I make my vows in my white sarong and crop top!’ she wailed, which, as it turned out, was exactly what happened.
On a hot day, watching her sister and her assortment of new-found friends, with the sound of the surf competing with the little band drumming out the wedding march as Phillipa took her vows, Violet leaned against her husband, hand on the gentle swell of her stomach, and wondered whether it was possible to be happier.
From those inauspicious beginnings, the relationship she never thought would happen had blossomed into something she could not live without, and the man who had fought against becoming involved had turned into the man who frequently told her how much he loved her and how much he hated leaving her side.
‘I’ve come to terms with the value of delegation,’ he had confided without a shade of regret, ‘and when my son is born...’
‘Or daughter...’
‘Or daughter...I intend to explore its value even more...’
Thinking about what else they explored now brought a hectic flush to her cheeks and, as if reading her mind, Damien leant to whisper in her ear, ‘Okay. The ceremony is over. What do you say to us staying for the meal and then heading back to the hotel? I think I need to remind myself of what your nipples taste like... I’m getting withdrawal symptoms...’
Violet blushed and laughed and looked up at him. ‘That would be rude...’ she said sternly, but already her mind was leaping ahead to the way her developing body fascinated him, the way he lavished attention on her breasts, even more abundant now, and suckled on her nipples, which were bigger and darker and a source of never-ending attention the minute her clothes were off. She felt the heat pool between her legs when she thought of them lying in the air-conditioned splendour of their massive curtained bed, his head on her stomach while he stroked her thighs with his hand, then tickled the swollen, engorged bud of her clitoris, which she would swear was even more sensitive now.
‘But I’m sure Phillipa will understand...’ she conceded as he planted a fleeting kiss on the corner of her mouth. ‘After all, we pregnant ladies can’t stay in the heat for too long...’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE MOST EXPENSIVE LIE OF ALL by Michelle Conder.
Nina Harrington
NINA HARRINGTON grew up in rural Northumberland, England, and decided at the age of eleven that she was going to be a librarian – because then she could read all of the books in the public library whenever she wanted! Since then she has been a shop assistant, community pharmacist, technical writer, university lecturer, volcano walker and industrial scientist, before taking a career break to realise her dream of being a fiction writer. When she is not creating stories which make her readers smile, her hobbies are cooking, eating, enjoying good wine—and talking, for which she has had specialist training.
Tea, glorious tea. A celebration of teas from around the world.
There is no better way to lift your spirits than a steaming hot cup of builders’ brew. Two sugars, lots of milk. White china beaker. Blend of Kenyan and Indian leaf tea. Brewed in a pot. Because one cup is never enough.
From Flynn’s Phantasmagoria of Tea
Tuesday
‘Ladies, ladies, ladies. No squabbling, please. Yes, I know that he was totally out of order but those are the rules. What happens in the Bake and Bitch club...?’
Dee Flynn lifted her right hand and waved it towards the women clustered about the cake display as though she was conducting a concert orchestra.
The women put down their tea cups, glanced at one another, shrugged their shoulders and raised their right hands.
‘Stays in the Bake and Bitch club,’ a chorus of sing-song voices replied, a second before they burst into laughter and sank back into their chairs around the long pine table.
‘Okay. I might not be able to snitch, but I still cannot believe that the faker tried to pass that sponge cake off as his own work,’ Gloria sniggered as she poured another cup of Darjeeling and dunked in a homemade hazelnut biscotti. ‘Every woman at the junior school bake sale knew that it was Lottie’s triple-decker angel drool cake and you can hardly mistake that icing. We all know how hard it is to make, after last week’s efforts.’
‘Hey! Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Lottie replied. ‘That was one of my best recipes and chiffon sponge is not the easiest to get right. You never know; I might have become one dad’s inspiration to greater things.’
A chorus of ‘Boo,’ and ‘Not likely,’ echoed around the table.
‘Well, never mind about dads wanting to show off at the school bake sale in front of the other fabulous baked creations you gals create. We have five more minutes before your cakes come out of the oven so there is just enough time for you to taste my latest recipe for a February special. This is the cake I am going to demonstrate next week.’
With a flourish reserved for the finest award-winning restaurants where she and Dee had trained, Lottie Rosemount waited until every one of the girls had stopped talking and was looking at the cake plate at the centre of the table, before whipping away the central metal dome and revelling in the gasp of appreciation.
‘Individual cupcakes. Dark chocolate and raspberry with white-chocolate hearts. And just in time for Valentine’s Day. What do you think?’
‘Think?’ Dee coughed and took a long drink of tea. ‘I am thinking that I have a week to come up with the perfect blend of tea to complement chocolate and raspberries.’
‘Tea? Are you joking?’ Gloria squealed. ‘Hell no. Those cupcakes are not meant to be washed down with tea around the kitchen table. No chance. Those are after-dinner bedroom dessert cakes. No doubt about it. If I am lucky, I might get to eat half of one before my Valentine’s Day dinner date gets really sweet—if you know what I mean. Girl, I want me some of those. Right now.’
A roar of laughter rippled like a wave around the room as Gloria snatched up a cupcake and bit into it with deep groans of pleasure, before licking her fingers. ‘Lottie Rosemount, you are a temptation. If I made those cupcakes I know that I would get lucky, and just this once I would not think about the risk of chocolate icing on the bedclothes.’
Dee sniggered and had just pulled down a tea caddy of a particularly fragrant pomegranate infusion when she heard the distinctive sound of the antique doorbell at the front door of the tea rooms.
Lottie looked up from serving the cupcakes. ‘Who can
