Last-Minute Bridesmaid

Nervous? Kate Lovat did not do nervous.

Kate Lovat was brave and strong and invincible and courageous.

Kate Lovat was going to exude an aura of total confidence and professionalism and Heath’s family would recommend her work to all of their friends.

Kate Lovat had just spent an hour on her make-up so that it looked natural, and much longer choosing a professional outfit which would impress even the toughest of clients.

She clutched the dress box to her chest as she boarded the escalator.

She needed high-profile clients like the Sheridans to adore the bridesmaids’ dresses she had created. After all, she had followed the brief Heath had emailed her to the letter.

Okay. Maybe she might have added a little something extra. After all, she had to stamp some Lovat flourish on her work. Otherwise, what would be the point of making something unique?

A smile crept up from her mouth to her eyes and a quick chuckle caught in her throat.

Watch out, Heath Sheridan. Ready or not, here I come. Get ready to be dazzled.

* * *

‘The trade fair figures are not what we wanted, Heath. The presentations were brilliant and every buyer I spoke to was impressed with the quality of the hardbacks, but they are dragging their heels when it comes to firm orders,’ Lucas explained, his exasperation clear even down the cellphone from a Malaysian hotel. ‘The book stores simply don’t want to hold a wide range of reference titles which only shift a few copies a year.’

Heath Sheridan scanned through the sales figures that had arrived onto his notebook computer in the past few minutes and quickly pulled together a comparison chart of how book sales were tracking in each region.

No matter how he mapped the data, the results were the same.

Sales were down in every category of reference book that had made Sheridan Press one of the few remaining commercially successful privately owned international publishing houses. The company had made its name one hundred and twenty years ago with high end, beautifully produced reference books. Biographies, dictionaries and atlases. Lovely books designed to last. And they did last. And that was the problem.

Over the past few weeks he had worked with Lucas and his talented marketing team to come up with a brilliant promotional campaign which focused on how Sheridan Press had invested in digital technology to illustrate the books which were still bound by hand so that every single reference book was a unique work of art. A superb combination of the latest technology with the finest hand-crafting techniques that four generations of the Sheridan family had created.

Shame that the booksellers did not see it that way.

That was precisely the kind of approach that his father had been looking for when he’d asked Heath to inject some new blood into the company—and save the jobs of hundreds of employees who made up Sheridan Press in the process.

Growing up, he had spent more time watching men embossing gold letters onto beautiful books than he had watching sports. These men had given their lives to the Sheridan family, just as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them.

He could not fail them. He would not fail them.

Heath exhaled long and slow before replying to his father’s Far East sales manager, who had lost just as much sleep as he had preparing for this sales trip. ‘I know that you and your team did the very best you could, Lucas—thank you for all of your hard work,’ Heath said, trying to inject a lighter tone to his voice. ‘Let’s see what Hong Kong brings! I can just see all of those new undergraduates heading off to university with some Sheridan books under their arms this fall.’

‘Absolutely.’ Lucas laughed out loud. ‘Call you when we get there. Oh—and don’t forget to take some time out to enjoy yourself at the wedding of the year. I’m glad I don’t have to come up with a best man’s speech for my own dad.’

‘Hey! I’m going to be a great best man. But, talking about enjoying yourself—why not take the team out to celebrate on Saturday? I’ll pick up the tab.’

‘Sounds good to me. Call you later in the week.’

The cellphone clicked off, leaving Heath in silence, his quick brain working through the ramifications of the call. Frustration and exasperation combined with resigned acceptance. This promotional tour of the Far East book fairs had to pay for itself in increased sales. This was precisely the market the investment in new technology was designed to attract.

He had been convinced that the techniques that had worked so brilliantly in the commercial fiction line of the Sheridan publishing empire, could be applied to the reference book section. He had taken over a tiny and neglected division straight out of university and transformed it into one of the seven top commercial publishers in the world. The profits from Sheridan Media had been keeping Sheridan Press afloat for years.

Surely it was time to reap the benefits of ten years of driving himself with a punishing workload. When was the last time that he had a holiday? And what about the series of failed relationships and missed family events?

There had to be a way to use all of that hard-won success to save the reference books. And save his relationship with his father at the same time.

His father had reached out to ask for his business advice. It was a small step—but a real step. And an important one in rebuilding their fragile family life. The media loved it and Heath had set up press releases and interviews which had rippled through the publishing world. New technology and traditional craftsmanship. Father and son. It was a golden ticket. Heath Sheridan was the equivalent of calling in the cavalry to save yet another much respected publisher from going to the wall.

He had jumped at the chance, excited by the possibilities. And excited by the opportunity to spend more time with Charles Sheridan. They had never had an easy-going relationship and this was the first time they had worked together as professionals.

Of course he hadn’t counted on being asked to be best man at his own father’s wedding. Especially considering who the bride was. That was an unexpected twist.

Asking for help or acknowledging any kind of problem had never been Charles Sheridan’s strong point. Maybe he should report back on what Lucas had told him.

Heath flipped open his phone when there was a polite cough and he looked up, blinking. The car had pulled to a halt and his driver was standing on the pavement, holding the door open for him while the rain soaked into the shoulders of his smart jacket.

Apologising profusely, Heath generously tipped the driver and stepped out of the executive car his father had sent to collect him from the airport. He stood long enough to take one quick glance up at the elegant stone building that was now the London office of Sheridan Press before the reporters realised who he was and ran out from the shelter of the arched entrance, cameras flashing.

Heath pulled his coat closer as protection against the heavy rain and smiled at the press.

Dealing with the media was all part of the job—as long as they produced column inches in the financial and trade press, then he was happy.

‘Mr Sheridan. Over here, sir. Mr Sheridan, is it true that you are taking over Sheridan Press when your father retires, Mr Sheridan?’

‘What can you tell us about rumours that the printing operation is going overseas, Mr Sheridan?’

‘How do you feel about being the best man at your father’s wedding? Is it third time lucky for Charles Sheridan?’

‘Thanks for coming out in this typically English summer weather, everyone.’ Heath smiled and waved at the cameras before turning to the female reporter who had asked the last question. ‘Alice Jardine is a lovely lady who my father has known for many years as a close friend. I wish them every happiness together. Of course I was delighted when my father asked me to be the best man at his wedding this weekend—it isn’t often that happens. As for the company? Business as usual, ladies and gentlemen. And no closures. Not while I am on the team. Thank you.’

And at that, by some unspoken signal, the main entrance doors slid open and Heath stepped inside with a quick smile and a wave.

But, just as he turned away from the press, a man’s voice echoed from over his shoulder, ‘Is it true that your late mother and Alice Jardine were good friends, Mr Sheridan? How do you feel about that?’

The doors slid shut and Heath carried on walking across the pale marble floor of the hallway, apparently deaf to the question, and it was only in the solitary space of the elevator that he slowly unclenched his fingers.

One by one. Willing each breath he took to slow down as the words of that last question repeated over and over again inside his head.

Feel?

How did he feel about the fact that the woman who had been his mother’s best friend was marrying his father?

How did he feel about the fact that Alice had been with his father while his mother lay dying in a hospice?

How did he feel?

Heath tugged hard at the double cuffs of his tailor-made shirt and fought back the temptation to hit something hard.

But that wouldn’t fit into his carefully designed image.

Heath Sheridan did not get ruffled or upset or display outrageous bursts of emotion and temper. Oh, no. He played it cool. He was a Boston Sheridan and the Boston Sheridans kept their feelings buried deep enough to be icebergs.

Well, this ice man was not going to melt and let the rest of the world feel the heat of the raging temper that was burning inside him at that moment, threatening to spill out into some ill-judged outburst.

So what if his father’s choice of bride hit one of his hot buttons?

He could deal with it. Was dealing with it. Would continue to deal with it.

Ironic that he should be asked that question outside the very house where his mother had spent the first twenty years of her life. The house had been built for his grandparents, who had been part of a group of aristocratic artist writers and intellectuals in the Arts and Crafts movement in the nineteen-thirties and the Art Deco features were original and stunning, especially in the library. Two storeys of hand-carved teak shelves were connected by a circular staircase which led onto an upper-level gallery, lit by a central domed roof.

Of course it had the wow factor for visitors to Sheridan Press, who were too much in awe to take notice of the fact that the recent catalogue of Sheridan books would fit neatly into one small part of the lower shelf.

Heath remembered playing hide-and-seek in the many stunning rooms, attics and cellars when he was a boy on rare visits to London with his parents, but now it was little more than a private meeting venue for his father and his circle of artist friends like Alice Jardine.

Closing his eyes, he could almost see his mother playing the piano in the drawing room below while he played with his grandparents in the patio garden outside the open French windows. The smell of lavender and beeswax. Old books and linseed oil. Because, above everything else, this house had always been filled with artists, the dinner table chatter was about art, the library full of books and exhibition catalogues about art and, of course, every available wall had been a living, constantly changing art gallery.

The thought of Alice walking these corridors where his mother had been so very happy was something that he was slowly coming to terms with. But he wasn’t there yet. And he wasn’t entirely sure that he ever would be.

That was something else he was going to have to work on.

In the meantime? He had a wedding to survive. A wedding where it was going to be crucial to pretend that all was rosy in the Sheridan family, and father and son were working together like the dream team they were pretending to be.

Heath strolled over to the lovely polished marquetry desk and sat down heavily on an antique chair, which creaked alarmingly at the weight.

His father and his new fiancée had ordered a relaxed country house wedding—and that was precisely what they were going to get—with his help.

Heath opened up his laptop and was just about to dive into the checklist for the wedding arrangements when his cellphone rang and he flipped it open and answered without even checking to see who was calling him.

‘Sheridan,’ he said, and jammed the phone between his solid wide jaw and his shoulder blade so that he could scroll down the project plan and highlight the key activities while taking the call at the same time.

‘Heath? Heath, is that you?’ a female voice called down the worst phone line that he had ever heard. Loud crackling noises and what sounded like thunder screamed out at him.

Heath instantly focused on the call. ‘Olivia, I was starting to get worried. Did you make your flight to London on time? Sorry about the British weather but the forecast is looking good for the next few days.’

The response was a loud clattering sound as though heavy objects were being dropped onto a metal floor, and Heath held the phone a few inches away from his ear until he heard his girlfriend’s voice, which gradually became clearer. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, but all the lines are down. I’m still in China. Heath?’

He closed his eyes and counted to ten before blinking. ‘Olivia, tell me that you’re joking.’

‘The tropical storm that hit three days ago has just been declared a typhoon,’ her echoing voice replied. ‘A typhoon! Would you believe it? Even the helicopters have been grounded.’

Heath pinched the top of his nose, and then quickly typed in search details for the weather in Southern China. Whirls of thick white cloud and misty shapes of land masses covered with warning symbols reflected back at him from the screen as he replied. ‘This looks serious. Are you okay? I mean, do you have somewhere safe to go until the weather clears?’

‘The valley has already flooded,’ she yelled, ‘so the whole team is being evacuated further up the mountain into the cave system.’ Then she paused for a second. ‘I have to be honest with you, Heath. Even if the weather had been good, I had already decided not to fly to London for your father’s wedding.’

Tension creased his brow as Heath tabbed though the images and he slumped back in the hard chair. ‘What do you mean? We talked about this a few weeks ago,’ he replied and clasped the fingers of one hand around the back of his neck and rubbed it back and forth as a cold hollow feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach.

‘No. You talked. And I tried to explain that I needed time away on my own to think about where our relationship was heading. It’s been almost a year now, Heath, and you are just as cold and guarded as you were the day I first met you. Your work is more important than me. Than us. I’m sorry, Heath, but I can’t keep this relationship alive on my own. I think it is better if we go our separate ways. I want something more. We both deserve a chance for happiness. And mine is not with you.’

She seemed about to say something when muffled voices and engine noise echoed down the phone. ‘I have to go. Please send Charles and Alice my apologies and tell them I’ll catch up the minute I get back. I’ll be thinking of you this weekend and we’ll talk more when I get back. And I am sorry, Heath, but this is goodbye. Have a great time at the wedding. Bye.’

And then the phone went dead.

Heath Sheridan stared at the completely innocent telephone for several seconds while he suppressed the urge to throw it out of the stained-glass window.

This is goodbye? Have a great time at the wedding?

What had just happened? Because, unless he had completely got it wrong...his girlfriend had just broken up with him. On the telephone. From China.

Okay. It was July and this would have been the first time that they had spent more than a couple of days together since New Year. He had frantically completed a major promotional tour for his bestselling thriller author before moving to Boston to work for Sheridan Press. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day, especially over the past few months.

And what about her work?

Olivia’s anthropology project with Beijing University had turned into a major excavation into cave art which would take years to complete. She had even had to send the dressmaker her dimensions for her bridesmaid’s dress by email. He knew this because he was the one who had taken the barrage of complaints from Kate Lovat about making a bridesmaid’s dress for a slim five-foot-three girl who would have to wear the dress without a single fitting.

Heath’s fingers froze on the keyboard.

Oh, no.

He was going to have to tell the bride that she was going to have to walk down the aisle of the village church on her family estate with three bridesmaids instead of four.

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

He was toast.

TWO

Kate stood in the doorway to the library room and took a breath.

The last time that she had seen Heath Sheridan was at a high school dance and it had certainly been a memorable occasion. Just thinking about that moment when she had jumped on him to say goodnight made her feel so embarrassed and intimidated. And that was without the height difference, which meant that he towered over her without even trying.

Kate shrugged off her nerves. That was years ago. This time they were equal. Two professionals with their own businesses.

Unfortunately for her poor heart, Heath Sheridan had the nerve to have actually become even more handsome than the man she remembered and Amber talked about constantly.

The star student who had made his name turning around the popular fiction division of the family publishing company should be round-shouldered and wear cardigans with leather patches at the elbow.

He had no right to be so tall and clear-skinned. And that hair! Lush dark brown hair which curled into the base of his neck and seemed to have a mind of its own. He had never been vain—she knew that from talking to Amber—but style and vanity were two very different matters and Heath Sheridan had style to spare.

Why shouldn’t he?

Amber wore gowns by top fashion houses and his family were on the top level of Boston society. It made perfect sense for him to be wearing a tailored black suit and shirt which fitted him so perfectly she knew instinctively that they had been made to measure.

Those strong shoulders, slim waist and hips would be a gift to any tailor.

Oh, my. And how she would like to dress him.

Suddenly the room become stiflingly hot and it had nothing to do with the weather!

‘Ah! There you are,’ Kate called out through a tight throat. ‘Special delivery for the man of the house, courtesy of Lovat courier services. Great to see you again, Heath.’

She waited for him to turn around and give her one of those fabulous grins that used to make her teenage knees wobble.

And she waited. And then she waited a little longer. But his gaze stayed totally locked onto whatever he was finding so fascinating on his computer screen. She could see that he was reading and typing so he was not asleep.

So she tried again.

‘Hi, Heath. Your one-woman dressmaker and delivery service is here.’

Kate looked at Heath and then looked at the pretty dress box that she had slaved for hours to create and then carted across London in a downpour.

She might forgive him for not turning around to greet her but there was no way that he was going to ignore the fabulous work that she had done.

‘Thank you, Kate. You were such a star to drop everything else that you were working on to create four amazing outfits at the very last minute as a personal favour,’ she murmured under her breath as she slung her shoulder bag higher over her shoulder.

‘Sorry I cannot find the time to even look at your work,’ she added with a mock lilt in her voice. ‘Don’t let the door swing on your way out.’

Heath did not even glance at her.

Right. Well, that answered that question. ‘Bye, Heath. See you around some time. Have a fabulous wedding. The bill is in the post.’

Still no reply.

What had she been thinking?

The fashion design company she had created from scratch and passion was in so much trouble. She should be back in her studio working on ballet costumes for her pal Leo, not spending what little free time she had stolen from the day getting dressed up to deliver wedding clothes as a favour for her friend’s stepbrother.

Her friend’s gorgeous, handsome, debonair and totally oblivious to the fact that she existed brother.

She was delusional. And more than a little pathetic.

‘Have a lovely wedding. I do hope everything goes well. Why don’t I just leave this last dress with you and call you later? Bye!’ she smiled and sang out in a sing-song voice.

Nothing. Not even a raised eyebrow.

Kate pressed a hand to each hip. Well, now he was just being rude.

Kate tossed her bag onto a chair and stomped over to the desk and, before Heath could do anything to stop her, closed the lid down on his laptop and swivelled the chair away from the desk.

And at that very moment he looked up and turned his head.

His mouth twisted into a half smile that screamed out that he had known that she was there the whole time. Eyes the colour of the burnt sugar coating on the top of a crème caramel dessert smiled at her, dazzling and driving any chance of sensible thought from her brain.

She half closed her eyes and scowled at him then rapped her knuckles twice on his forehead. Hard.

‘Hello. Is anyone at home?’ she said, ignoring his shouts of protest. ‘Remember me? The girl who has just gone out of her way to hand-deliver the last bridesmaid’s dress so that your new stepmum won’t be followed down the aisle by a girl in cargo pants?’

‘Kate. Yes. Of course. How long have you been waiting?’ Heath replied with a groan as he rubbed life back into his forehead.

‘Long enough to realise that you have not been listening to a word that I have said. In fact a person of delicate sensibilities might even call you rude and insulting.’

‘Oh, no. Did I just zone out on you?’

She nodded slowly, up and down, her lips pushed forward. ‘If that is what you call totally ignoring me for the past five minutes, then yes, you did.’

Then he did the smiley thing again and there was just enough of a twinkle in those eyes to drive away the clouds.

Wow, some men just ticked all the boxes. It was so unfair to the others.

‘I apologise. It is one of my many flaws and I had no intention of being rude or ignoring you. I spend most of my time in an open-plan publishing office with a team who are never off the phone. Being able to disconnect is actually an advantage. But not always.’

She leant back and scowled at him, ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ he whispered, and the corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile. ‘I do that a lot when I’m stressed. And I am stressed. This wedding is driving me crazy. Am I forgiven?’

‘I’m thinking about it,’ she retorted. ‘Well, that is such a pathetic excuse, but I suppose that it will have to do. But why is this wedding driving you crazy? Are you thinking of leaving the publishing world behind to retrain as a wedding planner?’

His eyes closed and he gave a pretend dramatic shudder. ‘I don’t know how they do it. This was supposed to be a small family wedding. Low-key. Intimate. You would think that it would be easy to manage. Think again.’ He raked both hands back through his hair and her breathing rate went up a notch just at the sight of it.

‘So why are you helping to organise this wedding?’

‘Family, duty. And the fact that my dad asked me to be his best man just when he was supposed to be in the middle of launching a new publishing line in Britain. It was only when I started asking questions that it soon became apparent that the whole event was in need of serious organisation.’