‘Can we go now?’ George was chanting again. ‘Is it time? I don’t want to wait another minute.’
‘It’s time,’ Sadie told him, keeping her bouquet in one hand as she held the other out to her mother. ‘And I don’t want to wait another minute, either.’
Arm in arm, with the little boy dancing around them, she and Sarah made their way out into the sunshine, taking the short walk towards the ancient wooden bridge, now beautifully decorated with flowers and ribbons that fluttered in the gentle breeze, leading to the open door of the tiny private chapel where Nikos waited for her.
Just for a moment, as she paused on the worn stone steps that led into the church, Sadie had a momentary flashback to the first time she had set foot inside the chapel. But that only lingered long enough for her to be able to drive it right out of her mind, knowing that such moments of doubt and insecurity were so far behind her now it was almost as if they had never happened. The promise of the happiness of her new life was now stretching out in front of her.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the old building, but as soon as they did her gaze went straight to the tall, dark and powerful figure of the man standing at the altar.
Standing at the altar, waiting to make her his wife.
Immediately it was as if there was no one else in the place. As if the world and everyone in it had faded away and there was only this one man. The man to whom she had given her heart so completely that it was no longer a part of her but his to keep, to hold with him for ever.
‘Nikos,’ she breathed, tears of pure joy blurring his beloved image just for a moment.
It was impossible for him to have heard the sound of his name on her lips, but all the same in that instant something made Nikos turn and glance towards the back of the chapel. And the transformation that came over his face when he saw her standing there made her heart soar, her feet feel as if they were not touching the floor but floating inches above the worn stone flags.
‘Sadie…’
She saw his lips move on her name, saw the smile that made his stunning eyes burn like bronze fire.
‘Sadie—kardia mou—my love, my heart…’
When he held out both his hands to her, opening his arms wide to welcome her home, she didn’t hesitate but practically flew the short distance down the aisle towards her future with the man she loved.
Elizabeth Power
ELIZABETH POWER wanted to be a writer from a very early age, but it wasn’t until she was nearly thirty that she took to writing seriously. Writing is now her life. Travelling ranks very highly among her pleasures, and so many places she has visited have been recreated in her books. Living in England’s West Country, Elizabeth likes nothing better than taking walks with her husband along the coast or in the adjoining woods, and enjoying all the wonders that nature has to offer.
For Carol, Sheila and Roy
‘OPENING nights are always nerve-racking, Ms Tyler,’ the red-haired young woman with the clipboard told Grace reassuringly, pinning a microphone to the pearl-grey lapel of her designer jacket. ‘But this gallery’s going to do well. I just know it is!’ Her raised eyes skimmed a wall of contemporary paintings, signed prints and ceramics in the tall, glass case immediately behind Grace. ‘We’re doing the exterior shots first, so you won’t be on for a while yet.’ She tugged gently at the lapel, running deft fingers over the smooth sheen of the expensive fabric, brushing off a pale strand from Grace’s softly swept-up hair. ‘There! The camera’s going to love you!’ the woman enthused.
Which was more than the press did! Grace thought, remembering the hard time they had given her after her split with her fiancé, wealthy banker’s son Paul Harringdale, four months ago. Then the tabloid’s comments about her had ranged from “butterfly-minded” and “fickle” to “the tall, slinky blonde who wasn’t capable of making the right decision if her life depended upon it”. It had all been cheap reporting—and the fact that that last remark had come from a journalist who had pursued her romantically without success wasn’t worth losing sleep over—but it had hurt nevertheless.
‘Good luck,’ someone said in passing as the doors opened and invited guests, critics and members of the art world started pouring in.
‘Thanks. I’ll need it,’ Grace laughed over her shoulder, realising it was her friend, Beth Wilson, a curvaceous and vertically challenged brunette, as she liked to call herself; at four-feet-eleven, she assured everyone that life for her was always looking up. Also loyal and efficient, she was the woman Grace had appointed to run her small London gallery while she carried on with her main objective in life, which was to try to keep afloat the nationally renowned textile company that her grandfather had founded and which had run into serious problems since his death just over a year ago. And with no moral support from Corinne.
Since inheriting her husband’s share of the company, Corinne Culverwell had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in being actively involved in the business. Now, with showers of congratulations and good wishes seeming to come at her from every angle, Grace darted a glance around her as the launch party got under way, wondering why her step-grandmother—a name that always seemed inappropriate for a woman who was barely three years older than herself—had claimed that a prior engagement at the last minute prevented her from coming tonight.
Directing two well-wishers to the table where the champagne was being served, Grace noticed the camera crew packing up outside. She had to stay focused, she told herself firmly, steeling herself for the interview that was now imminent. Stay calm. Relaxed.
‘Hello, Grace.’
A prickling tension stiffened her spine as those two softly spoken words dragged her round to face the man who had uttered them.
Seth Mason! She couldn’t speak—couldn’t even breathe for a moment.
She would have recognised him from his voice alone, a deep, rich baritone voice with no trace of any accent. Yet those masculine features—strongly etched and yet tougher-edged in their maturity—were unforgettable too. How often had her dreams been plagued by the stirring images of that hard-boned face, those steel-grey eyes above that rather proud nose? The slightly wavy, thick black hair still curling well over his collar, with those few stray strands that still fell idly across his forehead.
‘Seth…’ Her voice tailed away in shock. Over the years she had both longed and dreaded to see him again, yet she had never expected that she would. Especially not here. Tonight. When she needed everything to go right for her!
From his superior height, his penetrating gaze locked onto hers and his firm, well-defined mouth—the mouth that had driven her mindless for him as it had covered hers—twisted almost mockingly at her discomfiture.
‘How long has it been, Grace? Eight…nine years?’
‘I—I don’t remember,’ she faltered, but she did. Those few fateful meetings with him were engraved on her memory like her five-times table. It had been eight years ago, just after her nineteenth birthday, when she had thought that everything in life was either black or white. That life was mapped out for her in just the way she wanted it to go and that anything she wanted was hers for the taking. But she had learned some hard lessons since then and none more painful than the ones she had suffered from her brief liaison with this man—when she had discovered