PROLOGUE
Charlotte Goode stood in the shade of a pale pink castle-shaped wedding cake the size of a dolls’ house. While the bride, Leesa , not two metres away, gawped back at her, eyes glassy, mouth wide with shock. No wonder, for the bride’s eye-wateringly expensive dress, with its vintage lace bodice, and voluminous layers of imported French tulle, was dripping in great globs of rich, gooey mud-brown cake and pale pink buttercream frosting. The remains of which were stuck to the nooks and crannies of Charlotte’s fiercely clenched hand. For mere moments earlier, Charlotte had shoved her hand deep into the guts of that fairy-tale cake and grabbed a hearty fistful—in much the same way the bad guy in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom had reached into that guy’s chest and come out with his bloody beating heart—before hoicking back her hand and letting the cake fly… TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT... |