The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  He cast her a sombre glance. ‘Extreme measures.’

  ‘What would you do if I showed an interest in another man?’ Hannah retorted, unable to resist taunting, ‘Turn the cheek and look the other way?’

  ‘I’d kill you.’ His voice held a dangerous softness that sent shivers feathering a path down her spine.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she remarked facetiously. ‘A few hours in Camille’s company, and we’re not only arguing, we’re threatening divorce and murder.’

  The Frenchwoman was a witch, Miguel acknowledged grimly, and, unless he was mistaken, a very dangerous one.

  ‘While we’re on this particular subject,’ Hannah continued, ‘what importance do you place on Camille’s deliberate mention of my bête noir?’

  ‘Luc Dubois?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ she conceded.

  ‘Do you still retain an interest in him?’

  ‘No,’ Hannah declared vehemently. Even now she found it difficult to accept the Frenchman had penetrated her guard. She, who could tag a man’s superficial charm in an instant, aware his main interest was her family’s wealth, not her. Except Luc had been incredibly patient, known which buttons to push, and when. She’d fallen into his arms like a peach ripe for the picking.

  ‘So sure, Hannah?’ Miguel pursued silkily.

  How could he ask that, when Luc didn’t even begin to compare with the man who was now her husband?

  ‘Yes.’ She turned towards him. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Gracias.’

  ‘Such is the recipe for a happy marriage.’

  ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, mi mujer,’ Miguel drawled.

  ‘Ah, but I love this honesty we share. It is très bonne, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I can think of a more apt description.’

  It didn’t take long to reach their tree-lined street and traverse the driveway. Minutes later she followed Miguel indoors.

  ‘Get the credit slips from your briefcase,’ he instructed as they reached the foyer. At her puzzled look, he elaborated, ‘The client who ran up debt all over town. I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ she said emphatically. ‘I can do it myself.’

  ‘Why?’ he queried steadily. ‘When I can do it so much more easily?’

  She flung him a baleful glare. ‘Because I’m independent.’

  ‘And stubborn,’ Miguel added.

  ‘No,’ she disagreed. ‘Self-sufficient.’

  ‘Tenacious.’

  ‘That, too,’ she admitted, then allowed, ‘If I have a problem, I promise I’ll call on you.’

  It would have to suffice, Miguel conceded. ‘Are we going to stand here bandying words, or do we go to bed?’

  She felt inclined to deny him. To turn her back and ascend the stairs alone. Yet to deny him was to deny herself. And she needed the reassurance of his touch, the possession of her body. To feel, in the darkness of the night, that she meant more to him than just part of his life as a convenient wife. To pretend for a while that the marriage was real, and what they shared was special, not just very good sex.

  ‘Oh, bed,’ she agreed. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Minx,’ he declared. ‘What if I’m tired?’

  ‘Are you?’ she asked seriously, then wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I wouldn’t think of overtaxing your strength.’

  He laughed, and the sound curled round her nerve-ends as he caught hold of her hand and led her upstairs. ‘Let’s see who cries wolf first, shall we?’

  This, Hannah breathed shakily minutes later as Miguel slid the zip fastening free from her gown, was like entering a sensual heaven. He had the touch, the knowledge, the skill, to divine a woman’s needs.

  And fulfil them, she added with a silent gasp as the gown slid in a silken heap to the floor. The light brush of his fingertips trailed an evocative path over sensitised skin as he eased the silken briefs down over her thighs.

  She stepped free of them and at the same time discarded the heeled shoes that added four inches to her height.

  He was wearing too many clothes, and she pushed his jacket from his shoulders, tugged at his tie, then freed shirt buttons with restless speed.

  His lips settled at the sensitive hollow at the edge of her neck, and sensation arrowed through her body as he used his tongue and his teeth to tease a tantalising kiss that had her arching towards him.

  His shirt fell onto the carpet, and her fingers feverishly attacked the buckle on his belt, then tended to the zip on his trousers.

  Miguel’s contribution to shucking his clothes was to step out of his shoes and pull off his socks.

  She reached for his briefs, and slid them free, awed by the state of his arousal. It fascinated her that such a part of man’s anatomy could drive a woman wild, and provide such pleasure.

  Unbidden, she drew the pads of her fingers lightly over its silken length, caressing with a sense of captive thrall.

  ‘Amada,’ Miguel growled softly. ‘If you don’t want to be tossed down onto the bed and possessed without delay, I suggest you stop that now.’

  She lifted her head and offered him an infinitely sweet smile. ‘Why?’

  He uttered a faint groan. ‘Madre de Dios.’ The words left his lips in a ragged supplication as he dragged her close.

  His mouth covered hers in a kiss that drugged her senses and tore at the very fabric of her soul.

  Control, she had none. There were only the man, the moment, and an intensity of emotions so overwhelming she simply held on and joined him as he took her to the heights and beyond before free-falling down to a state of exotic warmth and satiation.

  Her body felt like a finely tuned instrument that had been played by a virtuoso. Exultant, still clinging to the sweet sorcery of a master’s exquisite touch.

  She loved the feel of him, his sheer strength and passion, tempered by a control she sorely wanted to break. What would it be like to experience his unbridled lovemaking? To crash through the barriers of restraint and be taken with a raw primitive hunger that knew no bounds?

  Dear Lord. Just thinking about it sent renewed heat racing through her veins and had her moving restlessly against him.

  His lips brushed her temple, almost as if he were attuned to the depths of her innermost needs, and his arms tightened as she found his mouth with her own.

  This time it was she who nurtured his desire and sent it spiralling towards hungry passion in a mesmeric coupling that left them both slick with sensual sweat and fighting to regain a steady breath.

  ‘Witch,’ Miguel teased huskily as he buried his lips against her breast.

  ‘Hmm,’ Hannah murmured with bemused contentment, only to give a tiny gasp as he began teasing the tender peak, alternately with his tongue and the edge of his teeth, taking her to the brink between pleasure and pain.

  Then with one fluid movement he slid from the bed, scooped her into his arms, carried her into the en suite and stepped into the large shower stall.

  Seconds later warm water cascaded from four strategically positioned shower-heads, and Hannah slid to her feet as Miguel reached for the soap.

  Evocatively sensual, they lingered for a while, then Miguel closed the water dial, snagged two towels, and once dry, they returned to bed to sleep.

  Except after the first few hours Hannah was plagued by dreams that had her tossing restlessly until dawn, followed by a deep fitful sleep as light began filtering through the curtains.

  She was unaware of the soothing touch of the man who lay beside her, or that he curled her body close in to his more than once through the night.

  Nor was she aware that he woke early, and propped himself comfortably on his side to watch her sleep.

  She had delicate features, and the softest, silkiest skin of any woman he’d had the pleasure to touch, he mused gently. The tousled length of her hair lent an abandoned look, and her lashes were long, curling upwards at the ends. The mouth was lush, the lips softly curved in sleep. Capable hands, slender, displaying the band
of diamonds and splendid pear-shaped solitaire that claimed her as his own.

  She bore an air of fragility that was deceptive, for she possessed an inner strength, an innate honesty that decried artifice or deceit.

  He would have liked to rouse her into wakefulness, to feather light kisses over every inch of her skin until she reached for him, then make long, slow love.

  The generosity of her response never failed to move him, physically, mentally, emotionally.

  Miguel felt his senses stir, and knew if he remained in bed she wouldn’t sleep much longer. With a husky groan he rolled over and slid to his feet, then he walked naked into the en suite and stood beneath the shower.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HANNAH woke late, took one look at the digital clock and raced to the shower, then she dressed and applied basic make-up in record time before running lightly downstairs.

  Miguel was in the process of draining the last of his coffee when she entered the kitchen, and heat flared through her veins at the mere sight of him.

  It was as if she could still feel his touch, the masculine heat of his possession, the passion…

  Dear heaven, she cursed shakily. This was post-coital awareness at its most provocative!

  He looked at her and glimpsed the faint tremor that shook her lush mouth. Did she have any conception of her beauty? Something that went far beyond the visual, to the depths of her soul. At this precise moment she was remarkably transparent, and it moved him almost beyond measure.

  He watched as she collected a glass and poured herself some fresh orange juice, then she plucked a slice of toast from the rack and spread it with marmalade.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Hannah queried in the quest for normality. She took a bite of the toast and followed it down with black sweet coffee.

  He looked every inch the corporate executive, his tailoring impeccable, a dark silk tie resting against a pristine white shirt.

  ‘I reset the alarm,’ Miguel relayed imperturbably, and checked his watch. ‘Timed to go off around now.’ He cast her a quizzical glance. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘No time.’

  Dammit, he looked good. She wanted to slide her fingers through his hair, lower her head down to his, and kiss him until they both had to pause for breath.

  Dangerous thoughts, she perceived as she took a long swallow of coffee. If she gave in to them, she’d be even later for work, and that would never do!

  Instead, she finished the toast, downed the last of her coffee, then she extracted a banana and an apple from a silver fruit bowl, caught up her car keys and followed him through to the garage.

  Miguel unlocked the door, and regarded her steadily over the top of the Jaguar. ‘A restless night, no breakfast to speak of, and food on the run isn’t an ideal way to start the day.’

  She effected a light shrug. ‘So I’ll grab coffee and something to eat later.’

  He wanted to wring her slender neck. ‘See that you do.’ He pulled open the door and slid in behind the wheel.

  ‘Yes-sir.’

  He shot her a dark speaking glance, freed the electronic garage mechanism, then he fired the engine and eased the car towards the gates.

  Hannah’s soft curse feathered the air accompanied by an exasperated sigh. Work beckoned, and there was no time to dally if she was to open the boutique on time.

  Seconds later she exited the driveway and headed towards Toorak Road, her mood reflective as she bore with morning peak traffic.

  It would have been nice to have woken in Miguel’s arms, stirred by his touch, enticed into sex by his passion in an early-morning ritual. She missed the shimmering sensual heat, the electrifying hunger followed by a languid after-play, for it was then they talked awhile before sharing a leisurely shower.

  Camille’s features sprang all too readily to mind, intrusive and vaguely taunting.

  The power of pre-emptive thought? Hannah pondered as she dispelled the Frenchwoman from her mind and focused on the day ahead.

  The courier service was scheduled to deliver some new stock this morning, and she mentally selected a stunning ensemble as window display, its accessories, and the rearrangement and placement of existing stock.

  By the time she unlocked the boutique Camille temporarily ceased to exist.

  Twice during the next hour her hand hovered over the phone. She badly needed to hear Miguel’s voice, if only to say ‘hi’. Discussing what lay ahead in their respective days had become an early-morning habit. Dammit, she’d ring and ask him to meet her for lunch. Cindy could manage the boutique for an hour, longer if necessary.

  Without hesitation she keyed in the digits for his mobile phone, only to have the call go to voice-mail. She left her name and invitation, then busied herself with routine chores.

  Cindy, a friend with a flair for fashion who welcomed part-time work while her daughter was in school, arrived at ten, closely followed by the courier.

  Unpacking, checking invoices and preparing stock for display took time, and there were the serious clients who came to buy and not-so-serious passers-by who merely wanted to browse.

  Then there were the phone calls, none of which was Miguel. Until eleven-thirty, when Hannah had all but given up on him.

  ‘It’s the man,’ Cindy indicated as she extended the cordless handset.

  Hannah moved a few paces away. ‘I thought we might do lunch.’ She drew a slight breath, then released it. ‘I can get away any time between now and two.’

  ‘I’m tied up with meetings all afternoon,’ Miguel drawled. ‘Can it wait until tonight?’

  He sounded mildly amused, almost as if he sensed the reason behind her call. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Hasta luego, querida,’ he bade indolently, and cut the line.

  ‘Will you finish doing the window, or shall I?’ Cindy queried seconds later, and Hannah gestured towards the clothed mannequin.

  ‘Be my guest.’ A cleverly draped scarf, an elegant brooch would add the final touches, together with heeled shoes and matching handbag. Something that would take only minutes to complete.

  The end result was stunning, and Hannah was quick to add her compliment. ‘Why don’t you take a break for lunch?’ she suggested, checking her watch. ‘I can manage for a while.’

  Most of the regular clientele chose to do their shopping mid-morning or mid-afternoon. For the most part, the time between midday and two was spent lunching at any one of several trendy cafés or restaurants in and around the city and its élite suburbs.

  Cindy collected her bag and made for the door.

  ‘See you soon.’

  Hannah crossed to the CD player, removed the morning selection and inserted sufficient discs to provide soothing unobtrusive background music until closing time.

  The electronic buzzer heralded the arrival of a prospective client, and Hannah turned with a welcome smile in place, only to have it momentarily freeze as she caught sight of Camille.

  Tall, proportionately slender, the Frenchwoman exuded confidence and a degree of arrogance as she stepped forward. Dressed in designer clothes and wearing expensive perfume, she was elegance personified.

  ‘Bonjour, Hannah.’ She inclined a perfectly coiffed head, and scanned the carefully arranged racks.

  ‘I thought I might visit.’

  Somehow Hannah doubted clothes were Camille’s main purpose. ‘How nice of you to call in.’ At what point did politeness cross the line and become a white lie? She indicated a rack of imported designer labels. ‘Is there anything in particular I can help you with?’ She crossed the floor and extracted a gown that would look stunning on Camille’s tall frame.

  ‘Darling, I can get that in Paris.’ Her mouth pursed, and her eyes assumed a hardened gleam as she riffled through carefully spaced hangers with total disregard for their existing presentation.

  Hannah watched as the Frenchwoman pulled out a hanger, examined the garment with disdainful criticism, then returned it carelessly back onto the rac
k before moving a pace or two and repeating the process.

  There was little doubt as to the deliberateness of the action, and Hannah wondered just how long it would take for Camille to cut to the chase.

  Exhausting garments displayed on one side of the boutique, the Frenchwoman crossed the floor and began a similar examination of various silk shirts.

  ‘How does it feel being manipulated into a loveless marriage?’

  Four minutes, give or take a few seconds, Hannah calculated. If Camille wanted to conduct a verbal altercation, then so be it. She met the woman’s hard stare, and arched a delicate eyebrow. ‘Manipulated by whom?’

  Camille’s gaze narrowed. ‘It doesn’t bother you Miguel’s motivation was born out of duty? To his father, and the Sanmar conglomerate?’

  Hannah took time to ponder the Frenchwoman’s words. ‘For someone who has only been in Melbourne a short time, you seem to have acquired considerable information.’

  ‘Graziella is very discreet. However, my interest in Miguel was captured several weeks ago at a party in Rome,’ Camille enlightened with a secretive smile. ‘Miguel attended briefly with a business associate.’

  Hannah had instant recall. She’d flown in to buy new season’s stock, tying the visit in with one of Miguel’s Italian business meetings. She even remembered the evening in question, and a wretched migraine that had seen her creep into bed while issuing instructions for Miguel to go on to the party without her.

  ‘I made it my business to discover everything about Miguel Santanas,’ Camille continued relentlessly. ‘His marriage, his wife, her background.’

  This was far more complex than idle curiosity. Almost chilling, Hannah realised silently.

  ‘And your affair with Luc Dubois,’ the Frenchwoman revealed, intent on analysing Hannah’s expressive features. ‘Interesting man.’

  Interesting didn’t come close. The man was a practised rogue, and it still irked that it had taken her a few months to lose the fantasy and face reality.

  ‘I imagine this is leading somewhere?’ Hannah queried coolly.