Vows & a Vengeful Groom / Pride & a Pregnancy Secret: Vows & a Vengeful Groom. Bronwyn Jameson
“On behalf of Matt and the Hammonds.”
Ric’s gaze flicked to Kim, who’d sat through the exchange in uncustomary silence. One hand twisted at the charm pendant she wore around her neck and her dark brows were drawn together in a frown. He didn’t have to say a word to garner her attention. Slowly her gaze lifted to his. Strikingly green. Pensive. Troubled.
“Marise wasn’t involved with business at House of Hammond,” she said. “And, no, she wasn’t a peacemaker.”
“So why was she meeting with Howard and flying on his plane?” Danielle exhaled on a note of frustration. “I guess we might never know.”
“Does it matter?” Ryan pocketed his phone, his scowl forbidding. “The gutter press will jump all over this and you can bet they’ll rehash that photo and every other sordid detail they can dig up.”
Sonya made a soft sound of distress. She knew—hell, they all knew—that the Hammond-Blackstone family tree could provide enough juicy fodder to satisfy the greedy press for weeks. They wouldn’t even have to get their hands dirty digging, since most of it had been emblazoned across the front page of every major scandal sheet at one time or another.
“How many cameras were outside the gates when you came in?” Garth asked him.
“Too many.”
“Can’t they leave us alone, at least for this one day?” Sonya asked.
“No,” Ric said wearily, “that’s not how they work. We’ll all have to be prepared for the intrusion and speculation and the rehashing of old history. This is going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets any better.”
Kimberley couldn’t stomach any more. With an excuse of needing to stretch her legs after her two long flights, she stalked outside to the terrace. Minutes later Ryan came to the open doors and said he had some business to attend to, and unless any news came through in the meantime he would see her in the morning.
She’d noticed his distraction in the living room. Whoever’s call or message he’d been checking his phone for every five minutes had not come through. No doubt he would chase that down with his usual ruthless determination.
Restless and wired, she strode over to the arced balustrade that presented Miramare’s multimillion-dollar view of Sydney Harbour to perfect advantage. Reflexively, her hands fisted over the sun-warmed wall and she had to force herself to relax her steely grip. She’d escaped the unrelenting tension of the living room and the endless eddying conversation about Marise and Howard.
She didn’t want to think about them, to picture them in cahoots, their well-groomed heads together, conspiring Lord knows what.
She didn’t want to think about them at all. She just wanted to close her eyes and let the late afternoon sun seep into her body, to relax her whirling mind and melt the icy ache from her belly. If only she could conjure herself onto one of the yachts far below, flying across the sea-blue water with the wind at their backs.
Of course all that was impossible. When she closed her eyes, she did see Marise and Howard together and she heard Perrini’s blunt summation. This is going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets any better. That comment had hustled her from the room before she exploded with a sharp rejoinder.
Worse? How could it get any worse?
A plane had crashed. People had died horribly, innocent people going about their everyday working lives. The pilot and copilot, a cabin attendant, a lawyer travelling with Howard—all real people whose families would be stunned and grieving and asking their own questions about fairness and fate. Perhaps some left loved ones with unanswered questions, but did it matter? Ryan was right about Marise. It didn’t matter what she’d been doing that night in the restaurant or why she was on Howard’s charter flight. What mattered was how Matt would suffer a brutal hammering from the press as they speculated over every aspect of his family history and his business and his marriage, at a time when he should be mourning the loss of his wife in peace.
What mattered was another child not understanding why his mummy hadn’t come home. He would forget her face and her cuddles and her laughter, but later he would grow inquisitive and seek answers. Sadly they would be clouded by every scandalous supposition printed and gossiped about and adopted as truth.
Kimberley knew all about that and the thought of her godson going through the same distress chiselled open a chasm of pain in her heart. She’d been the same age as Blake when her mother hadn’t returned from a break at their Byron Bay holiday home. Many years later she’d read all the conjecture over Ursula Blackstone’s apparent suicide, her inability to cope with two young children while stricken with grief and remorse over the abduction of her firstborn son. How her depression had deepened over the rift between her brother Oliver and her husband following a loud and belligerent confrontation at her thirtieth birthday party.
At least Blake had a father who loved him unconditionally, who would protect him and explain the truth about his mother. Matt was a good man, a fair man, and a wonderful father. His only mistake was marrying the lethally beautiful Marise.
Familiar footfalls on the sandstone terrace broke into her reverie. Damn. After ten years she shouldn’t remember such minute and significant detail, but her consciousness refused to forget the cadence of his stride. Or the intense scrutiny of his gaze on her face as he settled by her side.
“You can’t enjoy the view with your eyes closed,” he said after several seconds.
“I’ve seen the view a thousand times.” Kimberley kept her eyes firmly closed. “I was enjoying the solitude.”
“Pity.”
Perrini fell silent, but she felt the brush of his sleeve against hers as he leaned forward. She pictured his hands planted wide on the balustrade, his azure gaze narrowed as he surveyed the amazing view. It always blew visitors away, this picture-perfect vista that stretched down the harbour to the famous bridge and beyond.
“I thought you might have been thinking,” he said after a moment.
“About?”
“Marise and Howard. You didn’t offer an opinion inside.” He paused, a deliberate hesitation before delivering the million-dollar question. “Do you think they were having an affair?”
Reluctantly she opened her eyes and felt the impact of his perceptive gaze—narrowed and as blue as the harbour—ripple through her senses.
Double damn. She couldn’t escape this. She couldn’t walk away.
“Anything is possible,” she said, choosing her words with care.
Perrini’s expression tightened. “Stop pussyfooting around, Kim. You knew Marise better than any of us. What was she doing in Australia these past weeks?”
“She came over for her mother’s funeral. As far as I know she stayed to tie up some matters with the estate.”
“Over Christmas and New Year’s?”
“Her mother passed away in December—I doubt she had much choice. I believe her father isn’t well and her sister was away on a modelling assignment.”
“And if there was money involved in her mother’s estate,” he mused, “Marise struck me as a woman who’d be all over it.”
Kimberley exhaled through her nose. She would not respond. Speaking ill of Marise now seemed uncharitable and purposeless. She’d survived a plane crash, spent terrifying hours in the water, only to pass away among strangers. No one deserved that, not even a woman who’d deserted her husband and child for weeks on end with scant excuse for her absences.
Not even a woman who might have done so as cover for an affair.
“I don’t know Marise as well as you seem to think, so I don’t know what she might or might not have done,” she said. “But I do know what my father is capable of.”
“You