‘Not quite.’ She had something very special in mind. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll take those packages back to the hotel and give me an hour to shop alone?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Okay,’ Hannah said with resignation. ‘But there are conditions.’
His eyes gleamed and his mouth moved to form a generous smile. ‘And what would those be, querida?’
She sent him a sparkling glance as she lifted a hand and began ticking off each finger in turn. ‘You won’t question which shop I enter. You’ll remain outside and won’t look through the window. And under no circumstances will you come inside.’
He tilted his head slightly and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Bar there being a robbery, or some strange man attempts to chat you up.’
‘Hmm,’ she conceded, sending him an impish grin. ‘That sounds fair.’
She looked no more than sixteen, Miguel ruminated musingly. Her hair was caught together at her nape, sunglasses rested atop her head, her make-up was minimal, her skin glowed a soft honey gold, and, attired in casual linen shorts and a singlet top, she didn’t resemble anyone’s wife.
Except she was his. The light of his life, his reason for living. It was something he gave grateful thanks to the good Dios for every day. He hadn’t thought it possible to give up your life for another human being. But he’d give up his, for her, in a nanosecond.
Hannah paused outside an exclusive jewellery store, and turned towards him, her expression serious.
‘Remember, you promised?’
‘Go, amante.’
She did, earning circumspect interest from two male staff until she explained what she wanted, indicated a price range, and had their interest immediately switch to respect.
It took a while to make her selection. It took even longer to persuade them to have one of their crafts-man engrave an inscription. A huge tip helped.
She had it placed in a beautiful velvet-lined box, gift-wrapped, charged to her own personal credit card, and she emerged through the glass doors with a satisfied smile.
It was their last evening in this beautiful paradise, and they’d dined at an exclusive restaurant in Honolulu’s ‘Pink Palace’. The food was delicious, the champagne superb, and the view out over the darkened ocean provided a peaceful backdrop.
Together they lingered, each reluctant to bring the evening to a close. For soon they’d have to return to their suite, call the porter to take their bags down to Reception, from where a cab would deliver them to the airport in order to catch the midnight flight home.
The waiter served coffee, and while Miguel signed the credit slip Hannah retrieved the gift-wrapped case from her bag and placed it on the table.
‘For you,’ she said gently as the waiter disappeared, and Miguel regarded her carefully for several seconds before reaching for the package.
He undid the gold ribbon, broke the seal, removed the wrapping, and opened the case.
Inside nestled in a bed of velvet lay a beautiful gold fob-watch with an attached chain.
‘Hannah—’
‘There’s an inscription. Read it,’ she encouraged, watching as he removed the watch and turned it over to read what had been engraved on the back.
Miguel, my heart, my soul. Hannah.
‘Dios,’ he breathed, momentarily speechless.
‘There’s a place inside for a photo,’ she relayed softly. One that would change from year to year as they added to their family.
‘Gracias, amada.’ He rose to his feet and crossed round to kiss her.
Very thoroughly, Hannah mused long seconds later.
Together they left the table and made their way back to their suite.
A long flight lay ahead, and there was little time to spare.
‘One lifetime won’t be enough,’ Miguel said gently as he drew her into his arms.
‘Not nearly enough,’ Hannah whispered an instant before she pulled his head down to hers.
The insistent peal of the telephone caused them to reluctantly draw apart, and Miguel picked up the handset, listened, then added a brief few words.
‘The porter is on his way up, and the cab is waiting downstairs,’ he relayed with something akin to regret, and her mouth curved into a warm smile.
‘We’ll be home tomorrow.’
His answering smile held a certain musing wryness.
‘That’s no help at all.’
A soft laugh emerged from her lips. ‘Patience, querido, is good for the soul.’
He bent his head and kissed her with such gentle evocativeness, she wanted to cry. ‘I’ll remind you of that, later.’
They had the rest of their lives, and together they would make each day count. For ever.
EPILOGUE
ALEXINA KATHLYN SANTANAS was born eleven months, three weeks and four days later. A joy to her mother, and cherished with idolatry awe by her father.
Family and close friends attended the christening and returned to Miguel and Hannah’s Toorak home to offer congratulations and toast the blonde-haired angel’s health and future happiness.
The sun shone brightly that day, and there was much laughter as everyone celebrated the event.
The guests departed early evening, and it was almost nine when Hannah retreated to the nursery to feed her daughter.
It had been a magical day, Hannah reflected as she changed Alexina and prepared to put her to the breast. She was a placid child, except at moments when she required sustenance or needed changing. Now, she was hungry, and her tiny fists beat an agitated dance before she latched on to suckle strongly.
Hannah looked at the perfect tiny features, the fine textured skin, and felt her heart swell with maternal pride. She really was the sweetest little thing. A precious gift.
What a difference a year made, she decided dreamily. Together she and Miguel had travelled to Rome, toured Italy and spent time in Andalusia. Cindy now ran the Toorak boutique with Elaine’s help.
Life, she decided, was very sweet.
‘How is she?’
Hannah had been so rapt in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed Miguel had quietly entered the room. She lifted her head and gave him the sort of smile that took hold of his heart and made it beat a whole lot faster.
Did she know how much he loved her? Couldn’t fail to, he mused silently as he crossed to her side and stood watching while she disengaged their daughter and handed her to him to burp.
Minutes later he laid Alexina down carefully in her cot, drew the covers, then enfolded Hannah close to his side as they stood watching their daughter sleep.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Miguel said softly. ‘Just like her mother.’ He turned as Hannah leant her head against his chest, and brushed his lips to her forehead. ‘Time for us, querida.’
‘Mmm,’ she responded witchingly. ‘Sounds interesting.’ She lifted her head to look at him. ‘What do you have in mind?’
He adjusted the baby monitor, then led her into their bedroom. ‘Pleasuring you.’
‘Isn’t that a bit one-sided?’
He slowly undid the buttons on her top, and freed the rest of her clothes. His mouth slanted down to capture hers, and she kissed him back, swept away by the tide of passion as he gently pressed her down onto the bed.
‘Later,’ Miguel murmured. ‘You get to have your turn.’
She did, although not for long. A thin reedy cry came through the baby monitor, and she stilled, waiting for another to follow it. When it did, she pressed a light kiss to her husband’s thigh, then slid from the bed.
‘Our daughter has no sense of timing,’ Miguel groaned huskily as Hannah pulled on a robe.
‘I’ll be back,’ she promised, and she was, several minutes later after soothing Alexina to sleep.
‘Wind,’ she enlightened succinctly as she slipped into bed and reached for him. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘I would say,’ Miguel evinced huskily, ‘just about there.’ His breath caught, then hissed between his teeth as she caressed an
acutely sensitive part of his male appendage.
It didn’t take long for him to break, and Hannah exulted in the way he took control, entering her in one long thrust that soon settled into a rhythm as old as time.
A shimmering sensual feast shared by two people who loved to the depths of their souls. Without reason, other than they were twin halves of a whole. Beyond mortal life, for all eternity.
The Husband Test
Helen Bianchin
CHAPTER ONE
KATRINA felt her breath hitch a little as her voice rose in disbelief. ‘You’re not serious?’
It was a joke. A tasteless, sick joke. Except lawyers didn’t sink to this level of facetiousness during a professional consultation. ‘Dear God,’ she said irreverently. ‘You are serious.’
The man seated behind the imposing mahogany desk shifted his shoulders, and eased into a well-rehearsed platitude. ‘Your late father expressed concern at the difficulties you might incur.’
Difficulties didn’t even begin to describe the shenanigans her extended dysfunctional family were heaping on her head.
Not that this was anything new. She had been the favoured one for as long as she could remember. Daddy’s golden girl. His only child. A constant, immovable thorn in the side of his second and third wives and their child apiece from previous marriages.
No one could say her life hadn’t been interesting, Katrina reflected. Three paternal divorces, two scheming ex-wives, and two equally devious stepsiblings.
During her formative years she’d been able to escape to boarding school. Except for holidays at home, most of which had been hell on wheels as she’d fought a battle in an ongoing war where reality had been a seething sea of emotional and mental one-upmanship beneath the façade of pleasant inter-family relationships.
The time between each of her father’s divorces had proved to be the lull before the next storm, and instead of bowing her down it had merely strengthened her desire to be a worthy successor to his extensive business interests.
Much to the delight of the man who’d sired her.
Now, that same man was intent on reaching out a hand from the grave to resurrect a part of her life she fought on a daily basis to forget.
Katrina cast the lawyer a penetrating look. ‘He can’t do this,’ she refuted firmly as she attempted to hide the faint tide of panic that was slowly invading her body.
‘Your father had your best interests at heart.’
‘Making the terms of his will conditional on me effecting a reconciliation with my ex-husband?’ she queried scathingly. It was ridiculous!
‘I understand a divorce has not been formalised.’
Her level of desperation moved up a notch. She hadn’t got around to it and, as no papers had been served on her, neither had Nicos.
‘I have no intention of allowing Nicos Kasoulis back into my life.’
Greek-born, Nicos had emigrated to Australia at a young age with his parents. As a young adult he’d gained various degrees, then had entered the hi-tech industry, inheriting his father’s extensive business interests when both parents died in an aircraft crash. Katrina had met him at a party, their instant attraction mutual, and they’d married three months later.
‘Kevin appointed Nicos Kasoulis an executor,’ the lawyer relayed. ‘Shortly before his death, your father also appointed him to the board of directors of Macbride.’
Why hadn’t she been apprised of that? Dammit, she held a responsible position in the Macbride conglomerate. Choosing not to take her into his confidence was paternal manipulation at its worst.
Her chin lifted fractionally. ‘I shall contest the will.’ Dammit, he couldn’t do this to her!
‘The conditions are iron-clad,’ the lawyer reiterated gently. ‘Each of your father’s ex-wives will receive a specified lump sum plus an annuity until such time as they remarry, sufficient to support a reasonable lifestyle in the principal residence they gained at the time of their divorce. There are a few bequests to charity, but the remainder of the estate passes in equal one-third shares to you and Nicos, with the remaining share being held in trust for your children. There is a stipulation,’ he continued, ‘making it conditional both you and Nicos Kasoulis refrain from filing for divorce, and reside in the same residence together for the minimum term of one year.’
Had Nicos Kasoulis known of these conditions when he’d attended her father’s funeral less than a week ago?
Without doubt, Katrina decided grimly, recalling how he’d stood like a dark angel on the fringes, watchful, his touch cool, almost impersonal, as he’d taken her hand in his and had brushed his lips to her cheek.
He’d uttered a few words in condolence, politely declined to attend the wake held in Kevin Macbride’s home, and had walked to his car, slid in behind the wheel, and driven away.
‘And if I choose not to heed my late father’s request?’
‘Nicos Kasoulis retains control in the boardroom, and a financial interest in Macbride.’
She didn’t believe him, couldn’t accept Kevin had gone to such lengths to satisfy a whim to have his daughter reconcile with a man he had considered more than her equal.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Katrina refuted. She was the rightful heir to the Macbride business empire. Dammit, it wasn’t about money…nor bricks and mortar, stocks and bonds.
It was what they represented. The sweat and toil of a young Irish lad from Tullamore who at the age of fifteen had worked his way to Australia to begin a new life in Sydney as a brickie’s labourer. At twenty-one he’d formed his own company and made his first million. At thirty he’d become a legend, and had been fêted as such. With the pick of Sydney’s society maidens to choose from, he’d acquired a wife, sired a babe, and had developed a roving eye. Something that had got him into trouble and out of marriage a few too many times. A lovable rogue, as Katrina’s mother had referred to Kevin Macbride on a good day.
To Katrina he’d been a saint. A tall dark-haired man whose laugh had begun in his belly and had rolled out into the air as a full-blooded shout. Someone who’d swept her up into his arms, rubbed his sun-drenched cheek against her own fair one, told stories that would have charmed the fairies, and who’d loved her unconditionally.
From a young age she’d played pretend Monopoly with his kingdom, sitting on his knee, absorbing every business fact he’d imparted. During school holidays she’d accompanied him to building sites, had had her own hard hat, and had been able to cuss as well as any hardened labourer—mentally. For if Kevin had caught even a whisper of such language falling from her lips he’d never have allowed her on any site again.
Something that would have hurt far more than a paternal slap, for she’d inherited his love of creating something magnificent from bricks and mortar. Of siting the land, envisaging architectural design, selecting the materials, the glass, seeing it rise from the ground to finish as a masterpiece. Houses, buildings, office towers. In later years Kevin Macbride had delegated, but everything that bore his stamp had received his personal touch. It had been his Irish pride, and her own, to see that it was done.
To imagine conceding any of it to Nicos Kasoulis was unconscionable. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do it. Macbride belonged to a Macbride.
‘You refuse?’
The lawyer’s smooth tones intruded, and she lifted her chin in a gesture of defiance. ‘Nicos Kasoulis will not gain sole control of Macbride.’
Her eyes were the green of the fields of her father’s homeland. Brilliant, lush. Emphasised by the pale cream texture of her skin, the deep auburn hair that fell in a river of dark red-gold silky curls down her back.
For all that Kevin Macbride had been a big man, his only child had inherited her mother’s petite frame and slender curves, the hair and eyes from her paternal grandmother, and a temper to match.
Too much woman for many a man, the lawyer mused, who’d long been intrigued by the private life of one of the city’s icons whose business interests had commanded large legal fe
es over the years.
‘You will, therefore, adhere to your father’s wishes as set out in his will?’
Live with Nicos Kasoulis? Share a home, her life, with him for one year? ‘If that’s what it takes,’ Katrina vowed solemnly, and he was willing to swear he caught a hint of tensile steel that boded ill for any man hoping to bend her will.
Was Nicos Kasoulis that man? He would have thought so, given the look of him. Yet, despite the marriage, they’d separated after a few brief months, and rumour rarely held much basis for fact.
His business was to ensure Kevin Macbride’s wishes were legally maintained. Not to wonder at the man’s private life, nor that of his only child.
‘I shall despatch formal notification of your willingness to comply.’
Katrina lifted one eyebrow, and her voice was dry and totally lacking in humour. ‘Did my father specify a date for this reconciliation?’
‘Within seven days of his passing.’
Kevin Macbride had never been one to waste time, but a week was over-zealous, surely?
She looked around the sumptuous furnishings, the expensive prints adorning the walls, the heavy plate-glass and caught the view out over the harbour.
Suddenly she wanted out of here, away from officialdom and legalities. She needed to feel the fresh air on her face, to put the top down on her Porsche and drive, let the breeze toss her hair and bring colour to her cheeks. To be free to think, before she had to deal with Nicos.
With determined resolve she rose to her feet. ‘I imagine we’ll be in touch again before long.’ There would be documents to sign, the due process of winding up a deceased’s estate. She extended her hand in a formal gesture that concluded the appointment, murmured a few polite words in parting, then she moved into the corridor leading to Reception.
The lawyer walked at her side, then stood as she passed through the double glass doors and stepped towards the lift.
There was no doubt Katrina Kasoulis was a beautiful young woman. Something about the way she held herself, her grace of movement, and that hair…
The Helen Bianchin Collection Page 28
