She rippled her fingers to give him the effect.

He stared at them for a moment, then, snapping his gaze back to her face, said, ‘What happens if there isn’t a breeze?’

Did it matter? It wasn’t going to happen…

Just answer the question, Sylvie, she told herself. ‘The c-contractor uses fans.’

‘You are joking.’

Describing the effect to someone who was anticipating a thrilling spectacle on her wedding day was a world away from explaining it to a man who thought the whole thing was some ghastly joke.

‘Didn’t you discuss any of this with Candy?’ she asked.

His broad forehead creased in a frown. Another stupid question, obviously. You didn’t become a billionaire by wasting time on trivialities like confetti cannons.

Tom McFarlane had signed the equivalent of a blank cheque and left his bride-to-be to organise the wedding of her dreams while he’d concentrated on making the money to pay for it.

No doubt, from Candy’s point of view, it had been the perfect division of labour. She’d certainly thrown herself into her role with enthusiasm and there wasn’t a single ‘effect’ that had gone unexplored. It was only the constraints of time and imagination-if she’d thought of an elephant, she’d have insisted on having one, insisted on having the whole damn circus-that had limited her self-indulgence. As it was, there had been more than enough to turn her dream into what was now proving to be Tom McFarlane’s-and her-nightmare.

A six-figure nightmare, much of it provided by the small specialist companies Sylvie regularly did business with-people who trusted her to settle promptly. Which was why she was going to sit here until Tom McFarlane had worked through his anger and written her a cheque. Even if it took all night.

Having briefly recovered her equilibrium, she felt herself begin to heat up again, from the inside, as he continued to look at her and she began to think that, actually, all night wouldn’t be a problem…