The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘We could share.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said evenly. Just remembering how many showers they’d shared and their inevitable outcome set all her fine body hairs on edge.

  The lift slid to a stop and she turned in the direction of their suite.

  Inside, she collected fresh underwear and entered the large bathroom. The water was warm and she adjusted the dial, undressed, then stepped into the tiled stall.

  Seconds later the door slid open and her eyes widened as Carlo joined her.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Sharing a shower isn’t necessarily an invitation to have sex,’ he said calmly, and took the soap from her nerveless fingers.

  He was too close, but there was no further room to move.

  ‘Want me to shampoo your hair?’

  ‘I can do it,’ she managed in a muffled voice, and she missed his slight smile as he uncapped the courtesy bottle and slowly worked the gel into her hair.

  His fingers began a gentle massage, and she closed her eyes, taking care to stifle a despairing groan as he rinsed off the foam.

  Not content, he palmed the soap and proceeded to smooth it over her back, her buttocks, thighs, before tending to her breasts, then her stomach.

  ‘Don’t,’ Aysha begged as he travelled lower, and she shook her head in mute denial when he placed the soap in her hand, then guided it over his chest.

  Her fingers scraped the curling hair there, and she felt the tautness of his stomach, then consciously held her breath as he’d traversed lower.

  His arousal was a potent force, and she began to shake with the need for his possession. It would be so easy to let the soap slip from her hand and reach for him. To lift her face to his, and invite his mouth down to hers.

  Then he turned and his voice emerged as a silky drawl. ‘Do my back, cara.’

  She thrust the soap onto its stand, and slid open the door. ‘Do it yourself.’

  Aysha escaped, only because he let her, she was sure, and she caught up a towel, clutched hold of her underwear, and moved into the bedroom.

  It was galling to discover her hands were trembling, and she quickly towelled herself dry, then wound the towel turban-wise round her head.

  By the time Carlo emerged she was dressed, and she re-entered the bathroom to utilise the hairdrier, then tend to her make-up.

  White silk evening trousers, a gold-patterned white top, minimum jewellery, and white strapped heeled pumps made for a matching outfit.

  Black trousers and a white chambray shirt emphasised his dark hair and tanned skin. He’d shaved, and his cologne teased her nostrils, creating a havoc all its own with her senses.

  ‘Ready?’

  They caught a taxi to the Casino, enjoyed a leisurely meal, then entered the gambling area.

  Aysha’s luck ran fickle, while Carlo’s held, but she refused to use his accumulated winnings, choosing instead to watch him at the blackjack table. Each selection was calculated, his expression impossible to read. Much like the man himself, she acknowledged silently.

  It was after one when they returned to the hotel. Aysha felt pleasantly tired, and in their suite she slipped out of her clothes, cleansed her face of make-up, then slid into bed to lie quietly with her eyes closed, pretending sleep.

  Moments later she felt the mattress depress as Carlo joined her, and she measured her breathing into a slow, steady rise and fall. Grateful, she told herself, that Carlo’s breathing gradually acquired a similar pattern.

  Why was it that when you didn’t want something, you felt cheated when you didn’t receive it? Aysha queried silently. The size of the bed precluded any chance of accidentally touching, and she didn’t feel inclined to instigate the contrived kind...

  ‘Come on, sleepyhead, rise and shine.’

  Aysha heard the voice and opened her eyes to brilliant sunshine and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It was morning already?

  ‘Breakfast,’ Carlo announced. ‘You have three quarters of an hour to eat, shower and dress before we need to take the bus to Movieworld.’

  What had happened to the night? You slept right through it, a tiny voice taunted. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

  They boarded the bus with a few minutes to spare, and there were thrills and spills and fun and laughter as the actors went through their paces. The various stuntmen and women earned Aysha’s respect and admiration as more than once a scene made her catch her breath in awe of the sensitive degree of timing and expertise involved.

  They caught the early evening-flight out of Coolangatta Airport, and arrived in Sydney after nine. Carlo collected the car, then headed towards the city.

  For one brief moment Aysha was tempted to choose the apartment, except Carlo pre-empted any decision by driving to Clontarf.

  She told herself fiercely that she wasn’t disappointed as he checked the house and re-set the alarm.

  His kiss was brief, a soft butterfly caress that left her aching for more. Then he turned and retraced his steps to the car.

  Half an hour later Carlo crossed to the phone and punched in a series of digits, within minutes of entering his apartment.

  Samuel Sloane, a legal eagle of some note, picked up on the seventh ring, and almost winced at the grim tone of the man who’d chosen to call him at such an hour on a Sunday evening at home. He listened, counselled and advised, and wasn’t in the least surprised when he was ignored.

  ‘I don’t give a damn for the what-if’s and maybes protecting my investments, my interests. I’m not consulting you for advice. I’m instructing you what to do. Draw up that document. I’ll be in your office just before five tomorrow. Now, do we understand each other?’

  The impulse to slam the receiver down onto the handset was uppermost, and Carlo barely avoided the temptation to do so.

  Aysha spent the morning organising the final soft furnishing items she’d ordered several weeks previously. A message alerting her of their arrival had been on her answering machine when she’d checked it on her return from the Coast.

  At midday she stood back and surveyed the results, and was well pleased with the effect. It was perfect, and just as she’d envisaged the overall look.

  It was amazing how a few cushions, draped pelmets in matching fabric really set the final touch to a room.

  All it needed, she decided with a critical eye, was a superbly fashioned terracotta urn in one corner to complete the image she wanted. Maybe she’d have time to locate the urn before she was due to meet Teresa at one.

  Aysha made it with minutes to spare, and together they spent the next few hours with the dressmaker, checked a few minor details with the wedding organiser, then took time to relax over coffee.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten we’re dining with Gianna and Luigi tonight?’

  Aysha uttered a silent scream in sheer frustration. She didn’t want to play the part of soon-to-be-married adoring fiancée. Nor did she want to dine beneath the watchful eyes of their respective parents.

  When she arrived at the house she checked the answering machine and discovered a message from Carlo indicating he’d collect her at six. An identical message was recorded on her mobile phone.

  Her fingers hovered over the telephone handset as she contemplated returning his call and cancelling out, only to retreat in the knowledge that she had no choice but to see the evening through.

  A shower did little to ease the tension, and she deliberately chose black silk evening trousers and matching halter-necked top, added stiletto pumps, twisted her hair into a simple knot atop her head, and kept make-up to a minimum.

  She was ready when security alerted her that the front gate had been activated, and she opened the front door seconds ahead of Carlo’s arrival.

  He was a superb male animal, she conceded as she caught her first glimpse of him. Tall, broad frame, honed musculature, and he exuded a primitive alchemy that was positively lethal.

  Expensively tailored black trousers, dark blue
shirt left unbuttoned at the neck, and a black jacket lent a sophistication she could only admire. ‘Shall we leave?’ Aysha asked coolly, and saw those dark eyes narrow.

  ‘Not yet’

  Her stomach executed a slow somersault, and she tensed involuntarily. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

  He was standing too close, and she suppressed the need to take a backward step. She didn’t need him close. It just made it more difficult to maintain a mental distance. And she needed to, badly.

  He brushed his fingers across one cheek and pressed a thumb to the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re pale.’

  She almost swayed towards him, drawn as if by a magnetic force. Dammit, how could she love him, yet hate him at the same time? It was almost as if her body was detached from the dictates of her brain.

  ‘A headache,’ she responded evenly, and his expression became intensely watchful.

  ‘I’ll ring and cancel.’

  It was easier to handle him when he was angry. At least then she could rage in return. Now, she merely felt helpless, and it irked her that he knew.

  ‘That isn’t an option, and you know it,’ she refuted, and lifted a hand in expressive negation.

  ‘You’ve taken something for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Povera piccola,’ he declared gently as he lowered his head and brushed his lips against her temple.

  Sensation curled inside her stomach as his mouth trailed down to the edge of her mouth, and she turned her head slightly, her lips parting in denial, only to have his mouth close over hers.

  He caught her head between both hands, and his tongue explored the inner tissues at will, savouring the sweetness with such erotic sensuousness that all rational thought temporarily fled.

  His touch was sheer magic, exotic, intoxicating, and left her wanting more. Much more.

  It’s just a kiss, she assured herself mentally, and knew she was wrong. This was seductive claim-staking at its most dangerous.

  Aysha pushed against his shoulders and tore her mouth from his, her eyes wide and luminous as they caught the darkness reflected in his. Her mouth tingled, and her lips felt slightly swollen.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Was that her voice? It sounded husky, and her mouth shook slightly as she moved away from him and caught up her evening bag.

  In the car she leaned her head back against the cushioned rest, and stared sightlessly out of the window.

  Summer daylight saving meant warm sunshine at six in the evening, and peak-hour traffic crossing the Harbour Bridge had diminished, ensuring a relatively smooth drive to suburban Vaucluse.

  Aysha didn’t offer anything by way of conversation, and she was somewhat relieved when Carlo brought the Mercedes to a halt behind Teresa and Giuseppe’s car in the driveway of his parents’ home.

  ‘Showtime.’

  ‘Don’t overdo it, cara,’ he warned quizzically, and she offered him a particularly direct look.

  Did he know just how much she hurt deep inside? Somehow she doubted it. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  She saw one eyebrow lift. ‘Not guilty,’ Carlo responded, then added drily, ‘on any count.’

  Now there was a double entendre if ever there was one. ‘You underestimate yourself.’

  His eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Take care, Aysha.’

  She reached for the door-clasp. ‘If we stay here much longer, our parents will think we’re arguing.’

  ‘And we’re not?’

  ‘Now you’re being facetious.’ She opened the door and stood to her feet, then summoned a warm smile as he crossed to her side.

  Gianna Santangelo’s affectionate greeting did much to soothe Aysha’s unsettled nerves. This was family, although she was under no illusions, and knew that both mothers were attuned to the slightest nuance that might give hint to any dissension.

  Dinner was an informal meal, although Gianna had gone to considerable trouble, preparing gnocchi in a delicious sauce, followed by chicken pieces roasted in wine with rosemary herbs and accompanied by a variety of vegetables.

  Gianna was a superb cook, with many speciality dishes in her culinary repertoire. Even Teresa had the grace to offer a genuine compliment.

  ‘Buona, Gianna. You have a flair for gnocchi that is unsurpassed by anyone I know.’

  ‘Grazie. I shall give Aysha the recipe.’

  Ah, now there was the thing. Teresa’s recipe versus that of Gianna. Tricky, Aysha concluded. Very tricky. She’d have to vary the sauce accordingly whenever either or both sets of parents came to dinner. Or perhaps not serve it at all? Maybe she could initiate a whole new range of Italian cuisine? Or select a provincial dish that differed from Trevisian specialities?

  ‘I won’t have time for much preparation except at the weekends.’ She knew it was a foolish statement the moment the words left her mouth, as both Teresa and Gianna’s heads rose in unison, although it was her mother who voiced the query.

  ‘Why ever not, cara?’

  Aysha took a sip of wine, then replaced her glass down onto the table. ‘Because I’ll be at work, Mamma.’

  ‘But you have finished work.’

  ‘I’m taking a six-week break, then I’ll be going back.’

  ‘Part-time, of course.’

  ‘Full-time.’

  Teresa stated the obvious. ‘There is no need for you to work at all. What happens when you fall pregnant?’

  ‘I don’t plan on having children for a few years.’

  Teresa turned towards Carlo. ‘You agree with this?’

  It could have been a major scandal they were discussing, not a personal decision belonging to two people.

  ‘It’s Aysha’s choice.’ He turned to look at her, his smile infinitely warm and sensual as he took hold of her hand and brushed his lips to each finger in turn. His eyes gleamed with sensual promise. ‘We both want a large family.’

  Bastard, she fumed silently. He’d really set the cat among the pigeons now. Teresa wouldn’t be able to leave it alone, and she’d receive endless lectures about caring for a husband’s needs, maintaining an immaculate house, an excellent table.

  Aysha leaned forward, and traced the vertical crease slashing Carlo’s cheek. His eyes flared, but she ignored the warning gleam. ‘Cute, plump little dark-haired boys,’ she teased as her own eyes danced with silent laughter. ‘I’ve seen your baby pictures, remember?’

  ‘Don’t forget I babysat you and changed your nappies, cara.’

  Her first memory of Carlo was herself as a four-year-old being carried round on his shoulders, laughing and squealing as she gripped hold of his hair for dear life. She’d loved him then with the innocence of a child.

  Adoration, admiration, respect had undergone a subtle change in those early teenage years, as raging female hormones had labelled intense desire as sexual attraction, infatuation, lust.

  He’d been her best friend, confidant, big brother, all rolled into one. Then he’d become another girl’s husband, and it had broken her heart.

  Now she was going to marry him, have his children, and to all intents and purposes live the fairy tale dream of happy-ever-after.

  Except she didn’t have his heart. That belonged to Bianca, who lay buried beneath an elaborate bed of marble high on a hill outside the country town in which she’d been born.

  Aysha had wanted to hate her, but she couldn’t, for Bianca had been one of those rare human beings who was so genuinely kind, so nice, she was impossible to dislike.

  Carlo caught each fleeting expression and correctly divined every one of them. His mouth softened as he leant forward and brushed his lips to her temple.

  She blinked rapidly, and forced herself to smile. ‘Hands-on practice, huh? You do know you’re going to have to help with the diapering?’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Aysha almost believed him.

  ‘I’ll serve the cannoli,’ Gianna declared. ‘And afterwards we have coffee.’

  ‘You women have the cannoli,’ Lui
gi dismissed with the wave of one hand. ‘Giuseppe, come with me. We’ll have a brandy. With the coffee, we’ll have grappa.’ He turned towards his son. ‘Carlo?’

  Women had their work to do, and it was work which didn’t involve men. Old traditions died hard, and the further they lived away from the Old Country, Aysha recognised ruefully, the longer it took those traditions to die.

  Carlo rose to his feet and followed the two older men from the room.

  Aysha braced herself for the moment Teresa would pounce. Gianna, she knew, would be more circumspect.

  ‘You cannot be serious about returning to work after the honeymoon.’

  Ten seconds. She knew, because she’d counted them off. ‘I enjoy working, Mamma. I’m very good at what I do.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Gianna complimented her. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job with the house.’

  ‘Ecco,’ Teresa agreed, and Aysha tried to control a silent sigh.

  Her mother invariably lapsed into Italian whenever she became passionate about something. Aysha sank back in her chair and prepared for a lengthy harangue.

  She wasn’t disappointed. The use of Italian became more frequent, as if needed to emphasise a point. And even Gianna’s gentle intervention did little to stem the flow.

  ‘If you had to work, I could understand,’ Teresa concluded. ‘But you don’t. There are hundreds, thousands,’ she corrected, ‘without work, and taking money from the government.’

  Aysha gave a mental groan. Politics. They were in for the long haul. She cast a pleading glance at Carlo’s mother, and received a philosophical shrug in response.

  ‘I’ll make coffee,’ Gianna declared, and Aysha stood to her feet with alacrity.

  ‘I’ll help with the dishes.’

  It was only a momentary diversion, for the debate merely shifted location from the dining room to the kitchen.

  Aysha’s head began to throb.

  ‘Zia Natalina has finished crocheting all the baskets needed for the bomboniera,’ Gianna interceded in a bid to change the subject. ‘Tomorrow she’ll count out all the sugared almonds and tie them into tulle circles. Her daughter Giovanna will bring them to the house early on the day of the wedding.’