Epilogue
Leo, who had been walking up and down the library with the pushchair, stopped when Amy appeared in a rustle of silk with the photographer in tow. He stopped dead, a look of awe spreading across his face.
‘Leo!’ She performed a graceful twirl.
‘You look beautiful…’ He took a deep breath and stepped back, bowing at the waist in homage to the figure in ivory silk.
‘Isn’t it bad luck for you to see me in the dress before the wedding? Actually, you don’t look bad yourself.’ That had to be the understatement of the century.
‘That dress has been hanging in our bedroom for the past two weeks.’
‘Good point,’ she conceded, her nose wrinkling critically as she squinted at her reflection in the full-length mirror. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit too tight still up top?’ she queried, pressing her hands to her chest. ‘I know it’s already been let out, but the feeding is making me a bit…’
She tiptoed across to the pushchair. ‘Is she asleep?’
‘See for yourself.’
A big pair of golden-brown eyes looked up at her. ‘You know she’s bound to bawl during the service, but then I suppose without her we might not be getting married.’
Leo frowned. ‘Are you suggesting I only proposed to you because of our spectacularly beautiful daughter, our miracle baby?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Or that you said yes because of her?’
‘No, I said yes because…’ She gave a contented sigh and rubbed her hand lovingly across his lean cheek. ‘I love you, Leo,’ she said huskily. ‘This…us, everything…it all seems like a lovely dream sometimes.’
Leo glanced across at the photographer, who was scrolling through the photos on his camera, oblivious to their conversation.
‘And to answer your question, it is perfect up top, as you so quaintly phrase it, and in every other place too, as are you, cara.’
As Leo leant in and whispered in her ear she flushed and angled a warning glance in the direction of the photographer, who was still engrossed in what he was doing.
Leo rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘He’s in a world of his own.’ before raising his voice. ‘So how did it go? Lawrence?’
The photographer looked up with a vague expression. ‘Sorry?’
‘How did the shoot go? Is it in the bag now?’
‘It looks great to me.’
‘It looked great to you the last time too, but my wife—who I’m pretty sure is your worst nightmare client—had other ideas.’
‘Oh, no, she isn’t, not at all. She’s just a perfectionist.’
‘Ignore him, Lawrence,’ Amy interrupted, throwing her husband a killer look. ‘I just wanted it to be right, and it’s perfect now.’
‘I’ll send you the proofs for a final review,’ the photographer promised her.
Amy turned to face her husband as the other man left. ‘Now you have my full attention.’
‘You know you take multitasking to a crazy level. A wedding, a christening and a photoshoot.’
She grinned. ‘Sorry, I had no idea he was going to roll up this morning. We had arranged it for next week, but he got his calendar confused.’
‘Will I pass?’
‘You have baby sick on your shoulder.’
‘Oh, God!’ he groaned, turning to try and see his shoulder. ‘Will anyone notice?’
‘I can smell it.’
‘Well, you have cream on your behind.’
‘I do not!’ she said, trying to resist the temptation to look and failing. ‘Oh, no! I knew I should have waited to change until after the shoot.’
‘I can smell you as well, and you smell delicious. In fact, you make me hungry.’ She fell into his arms with a sigh as he framed her face, his long, tanned fingers pushing into her hair. ‘I love your witchy streak.’
‘Leo, I knew it was a bad idea to have this photoshoot today. I mean, who in their right mind writes a cookery book when they’re pregnant?’
He nuzzled her neck, the tiny moist bites sending sensual shudders throughout her body.
Fighting the urge to relax into his embrace, which the small sane portion of her brain told her would be fatal, she pressed her hands to his shoulders, but the sinewy strength felt so good she ended up holding on, not pushing him away.
‘You do.’
Amy blinked. She had forgotten the question as her finger trailed down his freshly shaven cheek.
‘Admit it, you would have gone totally crazy on bed rest for all those months with no distractions.’
She laughed and returned his kiss with enthusiasm. ‘It’s true, I would have.’
It hadn’t just been the inactivity; it had been the constant fear of losing the baby.
She had been utterly dismissive when Leo had first pitched the idea that she write a cookery book but, once she had begun, it had been a sanity-saver—a marvellous distraction.
She had never expected that it would be published, that had been a bonus, and she was still nervous about the outcome.
But today wasn’t about the book, or the mouthwatering photos that seemed to now be in the bag, it was about the commitment they were about to make in front of, if not the world, the people that mattered in their lives, plus her father, who, despite everything he’d done, still mattered to her.
Amy was just grateful that Leo hadn’t vetoed his invitation and understood she needed him there, even though the two men were never going to be friends.
In fact, Leo loved her so much that he’d also helped extricate her father—and Gourmet Gypsy—from all involvement with his former ‘friends’ from prison.
Now, George Sinclair was living a legitimate, albeit very quiet, life in forced retirement.
A cry made them both turn to the pushchair, where plump legs were kicking.
‘But oh…it was worth it, wasn’t it, Leo?’
Leo’s eyes went to the small bundle with a mop of dark hair. ‘Worth it? My God…she is just so perfect—’ His fervent agreement morphed into a laugh when the perfect dark-haired bundle in the pushchair started to wail. ‘That child has a real set of lungs on her.’
She saw the expression in his eyes as he looked at their daughter and felt a burning ache of love in her chest.
‘She needs changing—’
‘No, let me,’ he said, leaning past her. ‘Your dress.’
‘I thought it was already ruined.’
The baby on his shoulder calmed as he patted her back. ‘I was joking—you look perfect. You always look perfect.’
She laughed. ‘Now I know you’re lying.’
His expression grew solemn. ‘You, my love, my life, are my truth.’