The Bridesmaid's Best Man
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‘Is that you in there, Haggis?’ he called through the door. ‘You’d better hurry up, man.’
He heard a startled exclamation and a loud splash, followed by coughing and spluttering. The person inside shouted something, but the words were indistinct. One thing was certain though—the voice was not Haggis’s. It was distinctly, unmistakably feminine.
‘Who is it?’ Mark shouted, his voice extra loud with shock. ‘Who’s in there?’
Sophie spluttered and gasped as she struggled out of the slippery bath, her shocked heart pounding so wildly she feared it might collapse with fright.
She’d been asleep for most of the day, had woken feeling much better, and hadn’t been able to resist the chance to relax in warm water scented with the lavender oil that she’d found in the bottom of the bathroom cupboard. But now her relief that it was Mark Winchester’s deep voice booming through the door, and not some stranger’s, was short lived. Mark sounded so angry.
She grabbed at a big yellow towel on the rail behind the door. ‘It’s me, Mark! Sophie Felsham.’
‘Sophie?’
She could hear the stunned disbelief in his voice.
‘When did you get here?’ he cried.
Oh, help. He was annoyed. And he sounded impatient.
So many times she’d pictured her first meeting with Mark in Australia, and she’d been wrong on every occasion!
With frantic fingers, she wrapped the towel around her and managed a fumbling knot. ‘I’m so sorry, Mark! There was no one home, and I didn’t know what to do.’
When there was no response from the other side of the door, she called again, hoping desperately that he would understand. ‘I’ve come out here to see you. So we can talk.’
Then, because it was ridiculous to communicate through a locked door, she opened it.
Oh, gosh.
Bad idea.
Her heart stopped beating.
Mark was…
Totally, totally naked.
Her face burst into flames. ‘I—I’m s-sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I d-didn’t realise.’
Mark didn’t flinch. There was something almost godlike in the way he stood very still, and with unmistakable dignity, but his silence and his very stillness betrayed his shock. And then a dark stain flooded his cheekbones.
An anguished, apologetic cry burst from Sophie and she slammed the door shut again.
Sagging against it, she covered her hot face with her hands. She hadn’t seen a skerrick of warmth in Mark’s eyes.
Could she blame him? She wished she could drop through a hole and arrive back in London on the other side of the globe.
She’d never been so embarrassed.
And yet, as Sophie cringed, a part of her heart marvelled at how fabulous Mark had looked. In those scant, brief seconds, her senses had taken in particulars of his tall, dark, handsome gorgeousness—the hard planes of his chest, the breathtaking breadth of his shoulders, the powerful muscles in his thighs.
Although she’d tried to keep her eyes averted, she hadn’t been able to avoid seeing the rest of him—and how very male Mark was.
But alien, too, with his dark, stubbled jaw, and suntanned limbs, with the red dust of the Outback clinging to him.
Mark cursed and his heart thundered as he flung open wardrobe doors, grabbed clean clothes and dragged them over his dusty body. It would be some time before he recovered from the sight of Sophie Felsham, in his bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel—and the equal shock of standing in front of her like a dumbstruck fool. Stark naked.
Then again, Sophie Felsham wearing anything at Coolabah Waters would have stunned Mark.
He swallowed. He’d never dreamed she would arrive here before they’d had a chance to talk.
Why had she come? What did she expect from him?
Leaving his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose over his jeans, he hurried barefoot down the passage to the kitchen, expecting to find Haggis peeling spuds at the sink, or slicing onions.
He was going to demand answers.
But the kitchen was empty.
It smelled great, however. There was something cooking in the oven—beef and mushrooms, if Mark wasn’t mistaken.
And then he saw a piece of paper propped against the teapot. Frowning, he snatched it up.
Mark,
My only sister, Deirdre, is seriously ill in Adelaide and I need to visit her. I’ve tried to call you, but the sat phone doesn’t seem to be working. Sorry, mate, but I know you’ll understand. I’ve left frozen meals for you and I’ve left Deirdre’s number beside the phone.
Apologies for the haste,
Angus.
P.S. A young English woman called. She’s coming to visit you. Good luck with that one.
The note was dated four days ago. Mark scratched the back of his neck and wondered when the surprises would stop. He crushed the sheet of paper and tossed it back onto the dresser. He was still trying to come to terms with the twist of fate that had allowed Haggis’s trip south to coincide with Sophie’s arrival when he heard light footsteps behind him.
‘The bathroom’s free.’
He swung around, and there was Sophie again. He inhaled sharply.
Her hair was still damp, as if she’d dried it hastily with a towel. Wispy, dark curls clung to her forehead and her soft, pale cheeks. She was dressed in a simple white T-shirt, a slim red skirt, and she wore sandals covered in white daisies.
‘Hello again, Mark,’ she said shyly.
She hadn’t used any make-up, and she looked pale and wide eyed. Incredibly pretty. Impossibly young. Her figure was so slender it didn’t seem feasible that it would expand and swell with pregnancy. With his baby.