My father was being presented with another business award. His engineering company made obscure components for weapons systems, and as he joked, guns would never go out of fashion. My mother was in fairly good shape, one of her better periods, and we drifted around the sunny garden party held on some banker’s private estate. My mother tucked her arm through mine, and took the opportunity to smooth my hair as she did so. “Here they come now,” she hissed. “That’s Gabriel Bridgewater, the son and heir.” It felt as though I’d been struck in the chest. Hard. I literally struggled for breath. I thought she said the sun and air. It was more appropriate. He radiated sunshine, almost glowing with good health. And his smile… I felt it like a blast of heat. I had never seen a man so beautiful before. His strong jawline, smoke grey eyes and dark, almost black hair, the colour of wet coal, he looked like a fallen angel.
