Free The Accidental Bride by Portia Da Costa Page A

background, and the cops argued some ethical point, and then dismissed it, Lizzie and John kissed on, taking pleasure in the simple act, tasting each other, and embracing. It wasn’t sex yet, but Lizzie had no doubt it soon would be.
    But then the phone rang, and the slight tension Lizzie had sensed in him, and had believed she’d banished, was suddenly back again.
    John broke away from her, frowning.
    ‘Shouldn’t we answer that? It might be important?’ Lizzie asked him, wanting to gnash her teeth and shout, their beautiful moments snatched away by the damned phone. John’s frown turned to a glare at the extension in the sitting room, as it trilled on, and then abruptly fell silent, asif whoever was calling was now satisfied that they’d already knackered everything up.
    With a sigh, he rose to his feet. ‘Actually, there are a couple of calls I really should make before we turn in.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll just slip to the office for a few minutes. Why don’t you go to bed, and wait for me, and I’ll drop by in a little while to tuck you in, and read you a story.’
    His smile had been naughty, and the way he’d slid his hand to her breast and briefly cupped it had been even naughtier, but still she’d sensed his unease.
    And now, later, here she was, climbing into bed, and wondering, wondering, wondering about those phone calls. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about. John had taken all sorts of calls while they’d been on holiday, even though he’d promised he’d keep business to a minimum. And some of those conversations had taken place at odd times of the day and night, because his business interests spanned the globe. Someone who worked for him, or from whom he was buying something, or to whom he was selling something; well, there was always someone that John might speak to at any time, night or day, in respect of the care and feeding of his empire.
    So why did these calls feel different?
    Don’t be idiotic, Lizzie. It surely wasn’t Clara. Why would it be?
    Yet, as she switched out the main lights and clicked on the television for some dodgy late-night documentaries on Quest, Lizzie had a horrible spooked feeling. Staring blankly at the technological wonders of a high-speed train she’d probably never ride, she mentally flicked through the Google images she’d found of Clara, like shuffling a deckof evil cards. None of the pictures she’d discovered so far had been high res enough to see John’s ex crystal-clearly, but they’d certainly been sufficient to show Lizzie that her ‘rival’ was a beauty. Elegant, refined … bewitching.
    John spun his chair. He didn’t want to make the call, but he had to. If he didn’t, she’d just keep ringing and ringing until one of these days, Lizzie would pick up the phone instead of him.
    Not that I don’t think you’re a match for her, sweetheart. Because you are. A thousand times over. But Clara can be ruthless in the pursuit of what she wants.
    And he had a fairly shrewd idea of what his ex-lover wanted from him now. Even though he sincerely hoped he might be mistaken.
    Tapping the desk, he considered trying to reach Tom again, as a sage, brotherly sounding board, but when he punched in the number, as was so often recently, his brother’s phone went to voicemail.
    Was he with the new man again? John hoped so. And he hoped this man, whoever he might be, was treating his brother right. John wasn’t the only Wyngarde Smith sibling who’d had a chequered love life, although he doubted that Tom’s was anywhere near as disastrous as his own had been. Or had been up until now.
    But trying to reach Tom was just staving off the inevitable. John straightened his chair, facing his desk. Facing the unpleasant task like a grown up instead of a recalcitrant boy.
    It would be early evening where she was now. He picked up the phone. Entered the number again. Listened to the ring, willing it to go on and on, with no answer. The