So, two petite teenaged Brandon cousins had been selected to serve as Ava’s bridesmaids along with her fiancé’s younger sister, and three excited little flower-girls and two sulky page-boys had completed the entourage. When Jane had seen the extravagantly flounced pale peach-coloured bridesmaids’ dresses coming down the aisle she had had one more reason to be glad not to be part of the fateful wedding party. With her height and colouring she would have looked disastrously overdecorated in all those pallid ruffles.
After the ceremony a lavish reception was to have been held on a hotel rooftop, with a helicopter booked to whisk the happy couple away to their honeymoon. The Brandons had spared no expense for their only child’s wedding, another reason why Ava had felt obligated to sacrifice herself to their wishes.
In the event, there was no marriage, no reception, no honeymoon, and Jane considered herself fortunate not to have been slapped with the bills by the furious parents of the bride.
She had sweated through the opening part of the very traditional ceremony, deaf to the poetry and grace of the lyrical words, glad of the large picture hat and embroidered net veil that she had chosen to wear with her tailored cream suit.
From under the deep brim she had watched Ava enter the church door on her strutting father’s arm. Just before she had taken her first step down the aisle Ava had glanced across at Jane, and her frightened, apologetic eyes and valiant, wobbly smile had said it all: she was trusting Jane to do what she herself had been unable to do.
They had been friends since kindergarten, blood-sisters since High School, and Jane had always been the natural leader of their various exploits, the one who boldly carried out Ava’s wishful thinking. Whenever they had landed in some scrape it had been Jane who had cheerfully shouldered the blame, shielding Ava from the full fury of adult outrage.
The years had passed but their respective roles had remained essentially the same.
Jane’s mouth had dried when the minister had finally uttered the words that she had been waiting for, the pronouncement that was usually mere ritual.
‘Therefore, if anyone can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let them now speak or else hereafter forever hold their peace...’
He paused. The few seconds of silence seemed to stretch into eternity. Jane watched Ava’s fragile, laceclad shoulders stiffen and settle as if accepting a blow. In the periphery of her vision she saw a stir in the opposite pew and was released from her frozen inaction.
She leapt to her feet and stepped out into the aisle just as the minister drew his breath to continue.
‘Stop! I know of an impediment to this marriage. There’s a good reason why it shouldn’t go ahead!’
Stunned silence.
The wedding party turned as one.
Kirstie Brandon moaned and swayed in the front pew. Jane ventured boldly down the aisle, her gaze fixed on the slack-jawed minister, conscious of Ava’s trembling relief but afraid to look her way in case she caught the eye of the rigidly stupefied man at her side. The minister was quite young, the hint of panic in his shocked expression indicating that the interruption was unprecedented in his limited experience and he wasn’t quite certain how he was going to handle it. Jane knew... The solemnisation must be deferred until such time as the truth be tried...
She had lifted her chin, her cold, pale face a blur behind the opaque veil. ‘You can’t marry this couple—their vows would be a lie before God!’ Her voice rang with the sincerity of her conviction. ‘You’re going to ask them to promise to love and honour and forsake all others, but one of them is already committed to someone else!’
Sensation!
The steering wheel dug into Jane’s forehead as she rolled her head in negation of the real-life nightmare that had haunted her for three years. She had vaguely realised that she was going to make some powerful enemies that day, but she hadn’t realised how truly implacable and remorseless Ryan Blair would be in his lust for revenge. Fortunately, although she was still persona non grata as far as the Brandons were concerned, so was Ryan Blair. The humiliation of the failed wedding had been something the Brandons had attempted to expunge from existence, and in doing so they had held themselves aloof from the ensuing hostilities.
For more than a year, long enough to allow Jane’s fears of reprisal to fade, Ryan Blair had dropped out of sight, fighting desperately behind the scenes to regain the financial footing that he had lost after the simultaneous collapse of his wedding and the Brandon joint venture project, which had apparently been going to bring a vital infusion of funds into his company. He had moved to Sydney to restructure and rebuild his fortune, keeping such a low profile that when he burst back on the Auckland scene, wielding serious economic clout and considerable political. influence, it had come as a nasty surprise.
Ryan Blair had come storming back with a vengeance. Time, far from tempering his attitude to Jane’s untimely interference in his personal life, seemed to have forged it into an unyielding hatred. From the moment he had resettled in Auckland he had not allowed Jane a day’s respite. He had stolen her clients, head-hunted her staff, undercut her percentages, bought up her mortgages, blocked her financing, competed for every tender—so successfully that she knew he must have inside information from her office—and made attending business functions a misery by pointedly snubbing her and her companions completely.
Disaster had seemed to dog her every business decision. Unsourceable rumours had begun circulating about her private life, her mental stability, the viability of her company. Within two years her formerly superbly controlled life had been turned into total chaos.
Jane heard a tap-tapping and raised her head to see a tentatively smiling man knocking on her window, gesturing for her to wind it down. She did so, thinking that he was a kindly passer-by intending to ask if she was ill.
‘Miss Jane Sherwood?’
She frowned, the thick black eyebrows that gave her a perpetually serious look rumpling in puzzlement. ‘Yes.’
He consulted the piece of paper he was holding. ‘Jane Sherwood of Flat 5, 8 Parkhouse Lane? Formerly proprietor of Sherwood Properties?’
She experienced the sinking feeling that was becoming all too familiar these days. ‘Yes, but—’
She was cut off as he thrust the paper through the half-open window at her and at the same time deftly whipped her keys out of the ignition.
‘John Forster of Stanton Security. This vehicle is under a repossession order. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the car, Ma’am, so that it can be returned to its rightful owner.’
While she was squinting at the small-print, which told her that all vehicles registered to or leased by Sherwood Properties were now the legal property of the mortgagee, he opened the door and invited her to step out onto the pavement.
‘But how do I get home? I live on the other side of town and I haven’t got enough money with me for a taxi or a bus—’ Jane began to protest.
‘What’s going on here?’
To her horror she saw Ryan Blair step into view behind the stocky repossession agent. That appalling kiss hadn’t been enough; he obviously wanted everyone to think that they had gone off somewhere together.
‘Nothing—’
‘I’m repossessing the car. The lady claims she hasn’t got any way of getting home.’
Jane blushed vividly as her denial mingled with the horrible man’s blunt announcement. She raised her chin and glared.
‘I’ll drive you home.’
Her eyes widened before her thick black lashes fell defensively. ‘Go to hell!’ she snarled.
‘Look, lady, you got a lift home—take it!’ the stocky man advised. “Cos you’re sure not going anywhere in this car. See my mate over there? He’s going to hitch it