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She slammed the door, gunned the motor. If there was pain on his face,
she didn't look back to see it.
EMmA MARRIED DREW in a quiet civil ceremony. There were no guests, no
advance press. She had told no one, not even Marianne. After all, she
was over twenty-one and needed no one's permission or approval.
It wasn't the wedding she had dreamed of No misty tulle and glowing
white silk. No flowers except the single pink rose Drew had given her.
No music, and no tears.
She told herself it didn't matter. She was doing exactly what she
wanted. It was selfish, perhaps, but she felt justified in committing
one purely selfish act. How could she have told Marianne or Bev without
telling her father? She hadn't wanted him there, standing beside her,
giving her away.
She would give herself away.
She'd done her best to cheer the dull, mechanical ceremony by wearing a
fussy silk dress, shades deeper than the rose she carried. Lacy at the
bodice and at the drifting, tea-length hem.
She thought of her father's wedding. The first wedding she had ever
seen. Bev looking gloriously happy. Brian smiling. Stevie, all in
white, singing like an angel. The memory brought tears to her eyes, but
she held them back as Drew took her hand.
He was smiling at her. Smiling as he slipped the simple diamond band on
her finger. His hand was so warm and steady. His voice was clear and
lovely as he promised to love, honor, and cherish. She so desperately
wanted to be cherished. When he kissed her, she believed it.
Then they were man and wife. She was no longer Emma McAvoy,
but Emma McAvoy Latimer. A new person. And, in vowing her love and her
life to Drew, she was beginning a new life.
It didn't matter that he had to race off directly after the ceremony to
the recording studio. She understood the demands and the need for
premium session time better than anyone. It had been her idea to be
married quickly, quietly, and in the middle of the making of his new
alb.u.m. It gave her time to prepare the hotel suite where they would
spend their wedding night. She wanted it to be perfect.
There were flowers now, banks of hothouse roses, orchids, narcissus. For
her own pleasure, she arranged them personally, setting tubs and vases
throughout the rooms, down to a basket of flowering hibiscus she set in
the bath.
A dozen candles waited to be lit, all white and scented with jasmine.
Champagne chilled in a crystal bucket. The radio was on low, to enhance
the mood.
She indulged in a long bath, fragrant with oils. She creamed and
powdered her body, and enjoying the female ritual, dabbed more scent at
every pulse point. Like the room, like the night, she wanted her body
to be perfect for him. She brushed her hair until her arm went numb.
Then slowly, drawing out the pleasure of it, dressed in the white silk
and lace peignoir.
When she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror she knew she looked
like a bride. Closing her eyes, she felt like a bride. Her wedding
night. The most beautiful night of her life. Now she would know what
