YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED to be jealous of your twin.
Especially when you knew she’d just been through a rough time and she deserved every bit of happiness. And especially when it was her wedding day.
Immi really hoped that Andie was feeling so loved-up with Cleve that her twin-sense was temporarily muted and she had no idea that one of her bridesmaids was having a serious wobble.
Though, actually, Immi had a feeling that all three of the bridesmaids were having a serious wobble right now. Posy, the baby of the family, had a smile so bright and brittle that it was practically cracking. The same was true of Portia, the oldest of the Marlowe girls: the family rebel who was behaving so perfectly that she might as well have ‘faking it’ written across her forehead in bright red lipstick.
Maybe she should suggest a midnight rendezvous on the beach, where the three of them could sit and talk—just as they had when they’d been children, snuggling up beneath a duvet and having whispered conversations late into the night. Maybe they could help each other with their problems. But Posy seemed to have closed off to everyone since she’d joined the ballet corps and Portia wasn’t given to talking about personal stuff.
And what did Immi have to whine about anyway? She had a job she loved, helping to run Marlowe Aviation, the family firm; and she was in the run-up to her wedding to Stephen Walters, who was all set to be promoted to her father’s second-in-command at work.
Except Stephen didn’t look at her the way that Cleve looked at Andie.
And Immi had a nasty feeling that she didn’t look at him the way that Andie looked at Cleve: as if there was nobody else on the surface of the planet.
She shook herself. It was probably just the stress of organising her own wedding making her so antsy. There were only two months to go and it had snowballed into a massive affair. Everything was completely under control—organising was what Immi did best—but now she’d seen how gorgeous her sister’s quiet, understated wedding was, it brought home to her that the bridezilla stuff wasn’t what she really wanted for herself, either.
The doubts had been creeping in for weeks. She’d overheard Stephen’s best man Jamie saying that all he had to do was keep his nose clean until Imogen said ‘I do’ and he got the corner office. At the time, she’d tried to dismiss it as banter, but now she wondered if there was something more to it. Stephen had said he was too busy to take time off for Andie’s wedding, and because it was only a small affair he was sure nobody would mind if he didn’t make it. But was a man as ambitious as Stephen Walters really too busy to attend the wedding of the boss’s daughter—his own fiancée’s twin? Or did he have other reasons for not wanting to be here?
Oh, for pity’s sake. She had to stop overthinking things.
And she really had to stop the paranoia. What had happened eight years ago wasn’t going to repeat itself. So what if it was a cliché, marrying the boss’s daughter? Stephen said he loved her. Wanting all the extra frills was just being selfish. Immi was done with being selfish. She’d put her family through enough worries. No more.
* * *
Imogen Marlowe looked amazing, Matt thought.
The first time he’d met her, she’d been wearing a power suit, all businesslike and slightly intimidating and determined to find out exactly what was going on with her twin. The second time he’d met her, early this morning, she’d been barefoot, wearing ankle-grazer faded jeans teamed with an oversized sweater, with a streak of mud on her face from where she’d been raiding the garden for flowers—the beautiful white marguerite daisies that she’d turned into raffia-tied bouquets for the bride and the bridesmaids, and the osteospermum that graced the tables in tin cans with an organza ribbon tied in a bow around them.
Right now, she looked the epitome of cool elegance in a teal-coloured vintage couture gown. The dress was sleeveless, with straps a finger width wide and a neckline that just skimmed her collarbones. A large round brooch made from tiny white seed pearls and four large black pearls was pinned on a vertical bow in the centre of the empire line bodice, and she wore a matching pearl collar. Her dark hair was cut in an immaculate, sharp bob and her make-up was discreet and understated.
And Matt really, really wanted to untie that bow and unwrap her from that dress. Find out exactly what that material was hiding.
He shook himself. Maybe it was the wedding making him soppy. The best man and the bridesmaid, indeed.
But, as the best man, he was supposed to dance with the bridesmaid.
At that very second, human speech seemed to have deserted him. Which was crazy. What was it about this woman that made him feel all tongue-tied?
‘That’s a gorgeous dress, Imogen,’ he said in the end, knowing it sounded lame but not having a clue what else to say.
‘Thank you. It’s one of Sofia’s—my sister Posy’s godmother. And the amazing costume jewellery belonged to her too.’ She gestured to the brooch and the collar.
‘I kind of guessed that.’ He smiled. ‘It’s nice that all four of you sisters are wearing one of her dresses.’
‘It’s almost like her still being here with us,’ Immi agreed. ‘I remember coming to the villa as a child and Sofia always let us play dress-up with her amazing clothes. Though I guess that was because we always treated her stuff with respect—we didn’t smear chocolate everywhere or rip things.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t ever remember seeing this dress when I was little, but it’s so stunning: like an eighteenth-century mantua dress, but updated to have a modern profile.’
‘Mantua?’ he asked.
She gestured to the bow. ‘An open-fronted dress with a matching train and petticoat, and the train’s lifted up to show the petticoat.’
‘Mantua. I’ll remember that.’
‘I only know that because my guilty secret is watching historical dramas,’ she said, giving him a rueful smile that made his heart feel as if it had done a backflip. ‘Portia knows more about that stuff than I do, really.’
Portia was the Hollywood reporter, he remembered. The oldest sister.
‘And it’s good of Posy to let us all borrow the dresses and jewellery. Strictly speaking, they all belong to her now—along with the villa.’
‘But sisters always share. At least, mine do,’ he said.
‘You have sisters?’ She looked surprised.
‘Four. All younger than me.’
‘So you’re used to all the talking, then.’
It was his turn for the rueful smile. ‘Just a bit. Um, as the bridesmaid and the best man, I’m guessing we ought to...?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, and let him lead her onto the temporary dance floor.
* * *
This was bad, Immi thought. Seriously bad.
Matt Stark was Cleve’s best man—a guy who lived in the cottage down the road and had kept an eye on the Villa Rosa since Sofia’s death. According to Andie, he was a computer genius who’d made a fortune from a computer program that helped people run their homes by voice control—everything from turning a house alarm on or off to opening curtains, changing the thermostat on a heating system or dimming a light. Immi had been introduced to Matt’s mother Gloria earlier, and understood at that moment exactly what had driven her son to make the program: Gloria was in a wheelchair, crippled by arthritis, and Matt’s computer system