One

How had it all gone so horribly wrong?

Rebecca Grainger wrapped her arms around her stomach, nausea welling up. If she could only stop thinking about it, then maybe the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach would subside. The wedding was her priority, Rebecca told herself. Focus on that. She'd already been paid for arranging it—in full—the cheque flung at her last night.

Last night. That kiss. No, don't think about last night.

Concentrate on the wedding. An Asteriades event. A desperate glance swept the tables laden with glittering silver cutlery and Baccarat glasses, the slim crystal vases each bearing six glorious long-stemmed white roses on the tables.

Naturally she'd had unlimited resources at her disposal, and no expense had been spared for Damon Asteriades's wedding. The vaulted ballroom ceiling ofAuckland's San Lorenzo Hotel had been draped in soft white folds of fabric to give the dreamy, romantic mood of a bower. Garlands of ivy and hothouse white roses festooned the walls, filling the ballroom with heady scent. Brass wall-mounted sconces held torches that added an intimate glow, while the vast room had been heated to allow women to show off an astonishing array of flimsy designer gowns even though the winter air blew cold outside.

In the centre of the otherwise empty dance floor, Damon Asteriades performed a graceful manoeuvre, twirling his new bride to the melodious strains of the "Blue Danube" waltz, his dark head close to her pale blond hair. He was one hundred per cent gorgeous Greek male from the top of his overlong jet-black hair to the tips of his tanned fingers, with a Greek male's hotheaded certainty that he was always right. And right now Rebecca wished he were a million light-years away.

"My son is a fool."

At the voice of Soula Asteriades—Damon's mother and widow of the powerful Ari Asteriades—Rebecca smiled and said, "Damon wouldn't care for that description."

"And look at you, Rebecca! My dear, did you have to wear scarlet? Like a red flag to a bull?" Soula sighed. "That wicked dress will only fuel the tales that grow in each retelling."

Rebecca laughed and glanced down at the extravagant Vera Wang dress she wore. "Let them gossip. I don't care. At least I'm not stealing the bride's thunder and wearing white."

"But you should've been. You would've made a beautiful bride. If only Ari had been here—he might have knocked some sense into the boy's head."

Shocked, Rebecca stared at the older woman. "Soula?"

"This wedding is a mistake, but now it's too late. My son has made his choice and he must live with it. That's my last word." Soula disappeared into the throng surrounding them.

Disconcerted, Rebecca turned her attention to the dance floor. Damon chose that moment for an uncharacteristic display of public affection—brushing a kiss across the top of his bride's head. The bride tilted her face up, revealing astonishment but none of the sparkling joy expected. Rebecca couldn't help wishing that Damon was where she was right now—in hell.

She couldn't bear to watch. She closed her eyes. Her head ached with a combination of inner tension, the strain of the day and the residue of last night's wine. She wanted the wedding over. Done. So that she could rid her mouth of the bitter taste of betrayal.

"Come. Time for us to join them."

Rebecca's painful thoughts were jogged by a touch on her cold, clammy arm, and she became abruptly aware that the music from the stylish ensemble on the raised dais was fading. Savvas, the bridegroom's brother and best man, stared at her expectantly.

She forced a smile. "Sorry, Savvas. I was miles away." He gave her a wide grin. "Stop worrying, everything's magnificent. The flowers, the menu, the cake, the dress. Women will be queuing for you to organise their perfect day."

Rebecca blinked at Savvas's enthusiasm. Organising yet another Auckland high-society wedding was the last thing she wanted; yet she was thankful that he'd put her distraction down to anxiety about the success of the function. No one—not Savvas, nor anyone else—knew why she had fretted all day. Or why the memory of these particular nuptials would cast a pall over every wedding for years to come.

Oh, God, how could she have been so stupid last night!

"Come." Savvas tugged her hand insistently.

She dug her sandal-clad toes in, not budging. "I don't dance at weddings I've organised." Over Savvas's shoulder she met the bridegroom's narrow-eyed gaze, read the disdain.

It hurt.

More fool her. She dragged her attention back to Savvas.

He chuckled, oblivious to the tension that strung her tighter than the violinist's bowstring, his blue eyes lighting up with merriment, eyes so like his brother's that her heart jolted. No, she reprimanded herself, don't go there!

"No excuses. You're not working tonight, you must dance. Come. It's traditional, the maid of honor and best man join in next. Look, everyone's waiting."

A rapid glance around told Rebecca he was right. Hordes of exquisitely dressed couples had flocked to the edge of the dance floor and stood waiting for them. Even Damon's mother was there, her eyes sympathetic. Rebecca raised her chin. Instinctively she touched the opal pendant that rested just above her breasts.

And then her gaze collided with blue. A cold, icy blue. Damon Asteriades was glaring now, disapproval evident in the hard slash of his mouth, his bride clamped in his arms.

His bride.

Fliss.

Her best friend.

Rebecca tossed her head, slid her chilled hand into the crook of the arm Savvas offered and, forcing a parody of a smile onto her lips, allowed him to lead her onto the floor, the flouncy skirt of her scarlet dress swirling around her legs.

Copyright © 2007 by Tessa Radley.