Elaine was fascinated by the drama, concerned at the reddened patch on Hannah’s cheek, applied an ice-pack, and insisted on staying until closing time.
Of Camille there was neither sign nor word, and Hannah suffered Rodney escorting her to the car park, then following so close behind his bumper was almost touching her car.
Miguel greeted her at the door, and she cast him an exasperated look as he took her face between both hands and conducted a tactile examination of the affected cheek.
There was a slight bruise just beginning to appear over the cheekbone, and his gentle probing made it difficult not to wince.
‘Talk to me,’ Miguel commanded. ‘Does it hurt when you move your jaw?’
She effected a light shrug, and saw his gaze narrow. ‘Not too much.’
He took hold of her arm and led her into the study, closed the door, then he turned to face her.
‘Now, suppose you tell me how you happened to lunch with Camille?’
Oh, my, the third degree. The simple truth was the only way to go. ‘I rang and invited her.’
His features assumed a brooding study. Without a word he crossed to the desk and leaned a hip against its edge.
‘What in heaven’s name possessed you to do that?’
The query was silk-smooth and dangerous, and she viewed him with open defiance.
‘I tired of being a victim. Camille was running all the action. I figured it was about time she was told enough was enough.’
‘Even knowing I had already instigated legal action and the matter was in hand?’ His gaze was direct and analytical. ‘Aware,’ he continued with an infinite degree of cynicism, ‘that the woman was unpredictable, and therefore dangerous?’
‘I wasn’t alone with her,’ Hannah defended. ‘And, thanks to you, the inestimable Rodney was on hand.’
His gaze speared hers. ‘Did it occur to you what might have happened if he hadn’t been there?’
She drew herself up to her full height and glared at him. ‘If you’re done with the inquisition, I’m going to have a shower and change.’
Miguel uncoiled his length and reached her before she had taken more than a step. His hands closed over her shoulders, then he cupped her chin and tilted her head. ‘Give me your word there’ll be no more attempts at independent heroics.’
He was close, much too close. A pulse thudded at the base of her throat, and she just stood still, looking at him as he examined her features with daunting scrutiny.
The breath seemed to catch in her throat, and her eyes clung to his, bright, angry, yet intensely vulnerable. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’
His husky imprecation acted like a catalyst.
‘Are you done?’ She tried to wrench away from him and failed. ‘Let me go, damn you!’
His eyes assumed an inexorable bleakness. ‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour.’ He brushed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip, felt it quiver, and wanted to shake her. ‘We’re due at the theatre at seven-thirty.’
Oh, Lord. She almost groaned out loud. The play. The producer was a personal friend. Not to appear would be the height of impoliteness.
‘I’m not hungry.’
Emotional upheaval and nerves were hell and damnation. Heaven knew she’d experienced enough of both in the past week to last her for ages.
‘If you’re not in the dining room in half an hour, I’ll come get you.’
Her eyes widened, deepening to a brilliant sapphire. ‘Don’t play the heavy husband,’ she warned, and saw his eyes harden.
‘Hannah.’ His voice held a silky warning she chose not to heed.
‘Don’t,’ she retaliated angrily. ‘Just—don’t.’
Miguel released her without a further word, and she walked from the room.
A leisurely shower did much to restore her equilibrium, and, donning fresh underwear, she pulled on smart jeans and a top, blow-dried her hair, then she went downstairs.
Sofia had prepared a succulent beef stew with crunchy bread rolls and a salad. The pervasive aroma tempted Hannah’s appetite, and she ate with enjoyment.
She thought of a few topics of conversation, then abandoned each of them.
‘Nothing to say?’
She glanced at him, met his gaze and held it, then she forked some rice and speared a plump prawn. ‘What would you suggest? My contretemps with Camille has been done to death.’
‘Renee rang. She assured me it was of no importance, and indicated she’ll have the opportunity to speak with you tonight.’
Hannah looked at him sharply. ‘You didn’t tell her about today?’
‘No. Why would I worry her unnecessarily?’
Her mother would freak if she discovered the extent of Camille’s campaign and the repercussions it had caused.
Opening night at the theatre meant dressing up, and Hannah chose an ensemble that comprised a high-waisted skirt with alternating bands of cyclamen-pink and burnt orange and a strapless fitted top in burnt orange. A long wrap in cyclamen-pink completed the outfit, and she selected minimum jewellery, choosing to twist her hair into a fashionable knot atop her head.
Members of the city’s social élite were in attendance, and it came as no surprise to discover Graziella and Enrico del Santo mingling among the guests in the auditorium. Also present were their friends, Aimee Dalfour, and, Hannah noted, Camille and Luc.
Somehow, the ‘cat among the pigeons’ allegory didn’t even begin to cover it. Admittedly, the harassment injunction Miguel had applied for wouldn’t be served until the following day, but, given Camille was no fool, her appearance here tonight was nothing short of blatant arrogance.
Dressed to kill, the Frenchwoman looked positively sinful in a designer gown that was strapless, backless, and moulded her curves like a second skin.
A last-ditch attempt to show Miguel what he was missing?
Impossible, of course, that they could slip through the foyer unnoticed. Nor could they ignore the del Santos’ presence.
Act, Hannah prompted silently as Miguel enfolded her hand within his own.
‘Hannah, Miguel. How nice to see you,’ Graziella greeted with enthusiasm. ‘You remember Aimee, of course. Camille, Luc.’
How could they forget? They exchanged polite meaningless pleasantries and Hannah endeavoured to ignore Camille’s sultry appraisal of Miguel. It was a wonder he didn’t burn at the sensual pouting of her lips and the wicked promise portrayed in the provocative depths of her gaze.
If they were seated close together, she’d scream, Hannah decided, and was immeasurably relieved to see her parents moving towards them.
‘Oh, my,’ Renee murmured minutes later as the del Santo party moved away. ‘Is there an apt word for such exhibitionism?’
‘Not one utterable in polite company,’ Hannah acknowledged with a touch of cynical amusement.
Within minutes the auditorium doors were opened, and the guests began making their way forward to take up reserved seating. Hannah attempted to extricate her hand from Miguel’s firm clasp, and failed. Was he making a statement, or seeking to provide her with reassurance? Maybe both?
Hell, now she was being paranoid!
As they took their seats she was thankful there was no sign of the del Santo party within the immediate vicinity, and she began to relax.
The play was superbly acted, the sets, the characters magnificent, and Hannah took pleasure in losing herself in the excellence of the script, the cast, the production.
The interval provided the opportunity for patrons to mix and mingle in the foyer, have a drink or coffee at the bar, or choose to remain in their seats.
‘Let’s go out for coffee, shall we?’ Renee suggested. ‘Miguel and Carlo can opt for something stronger—’ she flashed Hannah a conspiratorial smile ‘—while we check out the fashions other women are wearing.’
Why not? Hannah rose to her feet and felt the light touch of Miguel’s hand at the back of her waist as they moved into the aisle.
His close p
roximity stirred her senses, and she felt the return of nervous tension as they entered the foyer.
There were people she knew, a few clients and their partners, friends, and she paused briefly to exchange a greeting as they crossed to the bar.
‘Renee, Carlo. Please join us.’
Hannah momentarily closed her eyes, then opened them again. Enrico del Santo indicated four chairs empty at their table. This was not her evening! How long did the interval last? Ten to fifteen minutes? She could survive that long in Camille and Luc’s company, surely?
Miguel deliberately placed Hannah next to Renee and took the adjoining seat. He was charming to Graziella, conversed with Carlo and Enrico, and chose a polite façade whenever Camille commanded his attention.
A frequent occurrence, Hannah noticed, as she was meant to. It all became a bit much, and in a bid to escape she excused herself and headed towards the powder room.
Big mistake, she realised minutes later as Camille quickly joined her. A queue was inevitable, given the number of stalls, and Hannah stood stiffly as she waited for Camille to strike.
She wasn’t disappointed. ‘Don’t imagine you can hide behind a bodyguard. I suppose you think you’re very clever.’
Hannah turned slightly to look at the Frenchwoman. ‘Not at all,’ she responded lightly. ‘And the bodyguard is there at Miguel’s instigation.’
Camille’s expression became an icy mask. ‘Protecting his business investment.’
‘Of course.’ It was the truth, so why deny it?
‘But there is a bonus,’ Hannah continued quietly. ‘I get to share his bed, his life, and bear his children.’
She took a shallow breath and released it. ‘Admit you failed, Camille, and go look for another rich man who’s not averse to your game-playing.’ She paused fractionally. ‘And take Luc with you.’
‘He’s a practised lover,’ the Frenchwoman intimated with deliberate maliciousness.
‘Do you think so?’ Hannah contrived a slight frown. ‘I found his foreplay technique reasonable, but his application needed work.’ She managed a careless shrug. ‘Maybe he’s improved.’
Camille swung her hand in a vicious arc, except this time Hannah was prepared, and she took a quick sidestep so the slap didn’t connect.
Hannah was aware of a few surprised gasps, then Renee was there, her normally composed features fierce with anger.
‘You’ve said quite enough, Camille! Now get out of here at once. There is another set of facilities if you must use them.’ She turned towards her daughter. ‘Darling, are you all right?’
‘Yes. Thanks,’ she added, and couldn’t help wondering if Miguel had sent Renee to her rescue.
‘Come, let’s go back to—’
‘The table?’ She shook her head. ‘I really do need to freshen up. Tell Miguel I’ll go straight to our seats.’
‘I’ll stay,’ Renee said firmly.
‘Then we’ll have both our men sending out a search party.’ She could almost see the humour in the situation. ‘Really, I’m fine.’
‘Well,’ her mother said doubtfully. ‘If you’re sure?’
A stall became vacant, and Hannah moved into it. Minutes later she paused in front of the long mirror to freshen her lipstick, then she emerged into the foyer.
She hadn’t taken two steps when Miguel fell in beside her, and she shot him a steady look as he caught hold of her arm. ‘First Renee, now you?’
‘Another minute, and I’d have fetched you personally.’
‘Entered a known women’s domain? How brave.’
‘Don’t push it, querida,’ he warned in sibilant anger.
They weren’t moving in the direction of the auditorium. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’
‘I’m taking you home.’
‘The hell you are!’ She resolutely refused to move. Her eyes sparked blue fire as she confronted him. ‘I’m not missing the rest of the play.’ She balled one hand into a fist and connected with his ribs. ‘The only way you’ll get me away from here is to toss me over your shoulder and carry me out!’
He was caught between laughter and voluble anger. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ he bit back with a husky growl.
Hannah wrenched her arm from his grasp and marched, as well as four-inch stiletto heels would allow, towards the auditorium.
By the time she reached a set of double doors he was beside her, and together they entered the dimmed theatre, located their seats, and slid into them.
Almost immediately the curtain rose and the next act commenced.
Hannah focused on the actors and their lines in a determined effort to forget Camille, Luc, and her inimitable husband. She succeeded, almost, rising from her seat with the audience to applaud the playwright, the cast, and the producer.
The exodus of patrons took a little while, and it was almost eleven when Miguel eased the Jaguar through the city streets. A shower of rain wet the bitumen, and she watched the automated swish of the windscreen wipers as the car turned into Toorak Road.
The headache that had niggled away at her temple for the past hour seemed to intensify, and as soon as he brought the car to a halt inside the garage she slid from her seat and preceded him into the house.
They reached the foyer, and his gaze sharpened as he took in her pale features. ‘Take something for that headache, and go to bed.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
‘Querida,’ Miguel drawled. ‘You want to fight?’
‘Yes, damn you!’
‘There’s a punch bag in the downstairs gym. Why don’t you go try it out?’
He was amused, damn him. She threw him a dark glare. ‘I might do that!’
‘Just one thing,’ he ventured indolently. ‘Go and change first.’
She didn’t even pause to think, she just bent one knee, pulled off a heeled shoe and threw it at him.
Miguel palmed it neatly, placed it carefully down onto a nearby side-table, and turned back towards her.
‘Want to try again?’
This time it was her evening purse that flew through the air, and she cried out with rage as he scooped her into his arms and carried her upstairs.
Hannah hit out at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere she could connect, and groaned with angry frustration when she didn’t seem to make any impression at all.
He reached the bedroom and entered it, kicking the door shut behind him, then he released her down onto the floor.
‘Okay,’ he growled huskily. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Do you know how I feel?’ she demanded vengefully.
‘I’d say it’s mutual.’ He caught hold of her shoulders and held her still. ‘Stop it.’
‘Right at this moment, I think I hate you.’
‘For being a target for some woman’s warped mind?’
‘I want to go to bed. Alone.’ Fool, a tiny voice derided. You’re taking your anger out on the wrong person. Except she wasn’t being rational.
Miguel released her slowly. ‘Then go to bed.’ He turned and walked from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
She looked at the door, and almost wished he’d slammed it. It would have made more sense.
Slowly she crossed to the window and looked out over the darkened gardens. The moon was high, a large round white orb that cast a milky light onto the earth below, making long shadows of small shrubs, the trees, and duplicating the shape of the house. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and another joined it in a howling canine melody.
Hannah closed the curtains, then slowly undressed, removed her make-up, then she pulled on the silky slip she wore to bed and slid between the sheets, snapped off the bedside lamp, and lay staring into the darkness. Images filled her mind, prominent and intrusive, and her eyes swam until tears spilled and trickled slowly towards her ears, then dripped onto the pillow.
She brushed them away, twice, then determinedly closed her eyes in a bid to summon sleep.
Except she was still awake when Miguel entered th
e room a long time later. She heard him discard his clothes, and felt the faint depression of the mattress as he slid into bed.
Hold me, she silently begged him. Except the words wouldn’t find voice, and she lay still, listening to his breathing steady and become slow and even in sleep. It would have been so easy to touch him. All she had to do was slide her hand until it encountered the warmth of his body.
Except she couldn’t do it. Be honest, she silently castigated. You’re afraid. Afraid that he might ignore the gesture or, worse, refuse it. And how would she feel if he did?
Shattered.
CHAPTER TEN
HANNAH woke to the sound of the shower running in the adjoining en suite, and she rolled over to check the digital clock. Seven.
She slid out of bed, gathered up fresh underwear, her robe, and adjourned to the next bedroom where she showered and changed.
It would have been easy to join Miguel, just pull open the glass door and step in beside him as she did every morning. Except today she couldn’t, not after last night.
And whose fault was that? a silent voice taunted.
She drew a deep breath, then returned to their room to see Miguel in the process of dressing.
He cast her a long measured look, which she returned, then she discarded her nightwear onto the bed and crossed to her walk-in wardrobe to select something to wear.
‘Do you intend sulking for long?’ His voice was a slightly inflected drawl, which she ignored as she stepped into sheer black stockings, then selected one of three black suits she chose to wear to the boutique.
When she emerged, he was standing in her path, and she just looked at him.
‘Hannah,’ he warned silkily.
‘I am not sulking!’ She never sulked; it wasn’t in her nature.
And I don’t hate you, she added silently, unable to say the words aloud. Dear heaven, what had possessed her to say such a thing? Reaction, angry tension. But words, once said, were difficult to retract. Except the longer she left the anger to simmer, the harder it would be to explain.
‘What do you want me to say?’ Her eyes darkened and became stormy. ‘I’m sorry I acted like a bitch last night? Okay, I apologise.’
The Helen Bianchin Collection Page 25
