The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  Damn. The silent curse whispered past her lips, and with a gesture of disgust she turned off the light and moved into the bedroom.

  There was no purpose to damaging introspection, she resolved as she slid into bed. She was an adult, and, if he could handle spending the night hours lying in another bed in the same room, then so could she.

  The challenge was to fall asleep before he entered the bedroom, rather than afterwards, and despite feeling tired it proved impossible to slip into a state of somnolent oblivion.

  How long she lay awake she had no idea, but it seemed hours before she heard the faint click of the bedroom door as it unlatched, followed by another as it was quietly closed.

  Every nerve-end tautened to its furthest limit as she heard the indistinct sound of clothing being discarded, and she unconsciously held her breath as she visualised each and every one of his movements, her memory of his tightly muscled naked frame intensely vivid from the breadth of shoulder to his slim waist, the whorls of dark hair on his chest that arrowed down to his navel before feathering in a delicate line to a flaring montage at the junction of his loins. Firmmuscled buttocks, lean hips, and an enviable length of strong muscled legs. Beautiful smooth skin, a warm shield for the blood that pulsed through his veins and entwined with honed muscle and sinew.

  It was a body she had come to know as intimately as her own as he had tutored her where to touch, when to brush feather-light strokes that had made him catch his breath, and how the touch of her lips, her tongue, could drive him almost beyond the edge of sensual sanity.

  But it had been little in comparison to the response he was able to evoke in her, for all her senses had leapt with fire at his slightest touch, and she had become a willing wanton in his arms, encouraging everything he chose to give, like a wild untamed being in the throes of unbelievable ecstasy. Abandoned, exultant—passion’s mistress.

  Carly closed her eyes, tight, then slowly opened them again. Dear lord, she must have been insane to imagine she could share this room with him and remain unaffected by his presence.

  Was this some form of diabolical revenge he’d deliberately chosen? Did he really intend to sleep?

  The acute awareness was still there, a haunting pleasurable ache that fired all her senses and ate into her soul. In the past seven years there hadn’t been a night when she didn’t think of him, and many a time she’d woken shaking at the intensity of her dreaming, almost afraid in those few seconds of regained consciousness that she had somehow regressed into the past. Then she would look at the empty pillow beside her and realise it had all been a relayed figment of her overstimulated imagination.

  Several feet separated each bed, yet the distance could have been a yawning chasm ten times that magnitude. Carly heard the almost undetectable sound of the mattress depressing with Stefano’s weight as he slid in between the sheets, followed by the slowly decreasing rhythm of his breathing as it steadied into a deep, regular beat denoting total relaxation.

  It seemed unbelievable that he could summon sleep so easily, and a seed of anger took root and began to germinate deep within her, feeding on frustration, pain and a gamut of emotions too numerous to delineate.

  Rational thought disappeared as her febrile brain pondered the quality of his lovemaking, and whether it would be any different now from what it had been seven years ago.

  In that moment she realised how much she was at his mercy, and that the essence of Stefano Alessi the man now was inevitably different from the lover she had once known.

  At some stage she must have fallen into a blissful state of oblivion, for she gradually drifted into wakefulness through various layers of consciousness, aware initially in those few seconds before comprehension dawned that something was different. Then her lashes slowly flickered open, and she saw why.

  In sleep she had turned to lie facing the bed opposite her own, and her eyes widened as she encountered Stefano’s steady gaze. Reclining on his side, head propped in one hand, he regarded her with unsmiling appraisal.

  Carly’s first instinct was to leap out from the bed, and perhaps something in her expression gave her intention away, for one of his eyebrows arched in silent musing cynicism.

  The gesture acted as a challenge, and she forced herself to remain where she was. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked with deliberate sleepiness, as if this were just another morning in a series of mornings she woke to find herself sharing a room.

  ‘Early. Not long after six.’ His eyes slid lazily down to her mouth, then slipped lower to pause deliberately on the soft swell of her breast. ‘No need to rush into starting the day.’

  Carly’s fingers reached automatically for the edge of the sheet and pulled it higher, aware of a tell-tale warmth tingeing her cheeks, and her eyes instantly sparked with fire. ‘If you think I’m going to indulge in an exchange of pleasantries, you’re mistaken!’

  ‘Define pleasantries,’ Stefano drawled, and she froze, her eyes widening into huge pools of uncertainty in features that had suddenly become pale. There wasn’t a shred of softness in his voice, and she was frighteningly aware of her own vulnerability in the face of his superior strength.

  ‘Afraid, Carly?’

  ‘Of a display of raging male hormones?’ she managed with a calmness she was far from feeling. He looked dangerous, like a sleek panther contemplating a helpless prey, and it was impossible not to feel apprehensive.

  Her lashes flicked wide as his gaze travelled to the base of her throat, then his eyes captured hers with an indolent intensity, and she dredged up all her resources in an attempt to portray some measure of ease.

  ‘Is that all you imagine it will be?’ he queried silkily.

  ‘Sex simply to satisfy a base animal need?’

  ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you,’ he said in a voice that was deadly soft.

  ‘I’ve learnt to survive,’ she returned with innate dignity. ‘Without benefit of anyone other than myself.’

  Stefano looked at her for what seemed an age, his gaze dark and inscrutable. ‘Until now.’

  ‘Payback time, Stefano?’ She forced herself to study him, noting the almost indecently broad shoulders, the firm, sculptured features that embodied an inherent strength of will. ‘Are you implying I should slip into your bed and allow you to score the first instalment?’

  ‘With you playing the role of reluctant martyr?’ He paused, and his voice hardened slightly. ‘I think not, my little cat. I don’t feel inclined to give you that satisfaction.’

  Her stomach lurched, then appeared to settle. It was only a game, a by-play of words designed to attack her composure. Well, she would prove she was a worthy opponent.

  ‘What a relief to know I don’t have to fake it,’ she told him sweetly. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before I hit the shower?’

  There was lurking humour evident in those dark eyes, and a measure of respect. ‘Last week I extended an invitation to Charles and his wife to dine here this evening. They flew in from the States yesterday.’

  The thought of having to act the part of gracious hostess in his home, while appearing capable and serene, was a hurdle she wasn’t sure she was ready to surmount—yet. However, Charles Winslow the Third was a valued colleague, who, the last time she’d dined in his presence, had been in the throes of divorcing one wife in favour of wedding another.

  ‘What time had you planned for them to arrive?’ she queried cautiously, unwilling to commit herself.

  ‘Eight. Sylvana will prepare and serve the meal.’

  She had to ask. ‘Are they the only guests?’

  ‘Charles’s daughter, Georgeanne.’

  Seven years ago Georgeanne had been a precocious teenager. Time could only have turned her into a stunning beauty. ‘Another conquest, Stefano?’ she queried with musing mockery.

  ‘I don’t consciously set out to charm every female I come into contact with,’ he drawled, and she gave a soundless laugh.

  ‘You don’t have to. Your potent brand of se
xual chemistry does it for you.’

  ‘An admission, Carly?’

  ‘A statement from one who has sampled a dose and escaped unscathed,’ she corrected gravely, and glimpsed the faint edge of humour curve his generous mouth.

  ‘And tonight?’

  She looked at him carefully. ‘What if I refuse?’

  ‘Out of sheer perversity, or a disinclination to mix and mingle socially?’

  ‘Oh, both,’ she disclaimed drily. ‘I just love the idea of being a subject of conjecture and gossip.’

  ‘Charles is a very good friend of long standing,’ Stefano reminded her.

  ‘In that case, I’ll endeavour to shine as your hostess,’ Carly conceded. ‘What of my friends?’ she pursued.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’ And James. She would mention it when she phoned Sarah this afternoon.

  ‘Feel free to issue an invitation whenever you please.’

  Stefano watched with indolent amusement as she slid from the bed, slipped her arms into a towelling wrap, then escaped to the adjoining en suite.

  Breakfast was a shared meal eaten out on the terrace, after which Stefano withdrew upstairs only to re-emerge ten minutes later, immaculately attired in a dark business suit.

  He looked every inch the directorial businessman that he was, and arrestingly physical in a way that set Carly’s pulse racing in an accelerated beat. She watched with detached interest as he crossed to the table and brushed gentle fingers to Ann-Marie’s cheek.

  Somehow she managed to force her features into a stunning smile when his gaze assumed musing indolence as it rested on her mobile mouth.

  ‘Bye. Don’t work too hard.’ The words sounded light and faintly teasing, but there was nothing light in the glance she spared him beneath dark-fringed lashes.

  Minutes later there was the muted sound of a car engine as the Mercedes traversed the long curving driveway.

  Ann-Marie’s appointment with the neuro-surgeon was at ten, and afterwards Carly drove home in a state of suspended shock as she attempted to absorb Ann-Marie’s proposed admission into hospital the following day, with surgery scheduled for late Wednesday afternoon.

  So soon, she agonised, in no doubt that Stefano’s influence had added sufficient weight to the surgeon’s decision to operate without delay.

  It was impossible not to suffer through an entire gamut of emotions, not the least of which was very real fear. Even the neuro-surgeon’s assurance that the success-rate for such operations was high did little to alleviate her anxiety.

  Stefano arrived home shortly after four, and half an hour later the breeder delivered Françoise—a small, intelligent bundle of black curls who proved to be love on four legs.

  The delightful pup took an instant liking to the hulking Prince, who in turn was initially tolerant, then displayed an amusing mixture of bewitchment and bewilderment as Françoise divided her attention equally between him and her new mistress.

  There was a new kennel, an inside sleeping-box, leads, a collar, a few soft toys, and feeding bowls.

  Ann-Marie looked as if she’d been given the world, and Carly experienced reluctant gratitude for Stefano’s timing.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly as they emerged from their daughter’s bedroom, having settled an ecstatically happy little girl to sleep. Françoise was equally settled in her sleeping-box beside Ann-Marie’s bed.

  His smile was warm, genuine, she perceived with a slight start of surprise, for there was no evidence of his usual mockery.

  ‘She has waited long enough to enjoy the company of a much wanted pet.’

  Carly felt a pang of remorse for the years spent living in rented accommodation which had excluded the ownership of animals. It seemed another peg in the victory stakes for Stefano—a silent comparison of provision. His against hers.

  ‘We have fifteen minutes before Charles is due to arrive,’ Stefano intimated as they reached their suite. ‘Can you be ready in time?’

  She was, with a few seconds to spare, looking attractive in a slim-fitting dress in vivid tones of peacock-green and -blue. Her hair was confined in a simple knot, her make-up understated with practised emphasis on her eyes…Eyes which met his and held them unflinchingly as she preceded him from the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHARLES WINSLOW THE THIRD was a friendly, gregarious gentleman whose daughter was of a similar age to his second wife.

  If appearances were anything to go by, each young woman had worked hard to outdo the other in the fashion stakes, for each wore a designer label that resembled creations by Dior and Ungaro.

  Carly felt her own dress paled by comparison, for although the classic style was elegant it was hardly new.

  Within seconds of entering the lounge Charles took hold of Carly’s hand and raised it, Southern-style, to his lips.

  ‘I’m delighted the two of you are together again,’ he intoned solemnly. ‘You’re too beautiful to remain unattached, and Stefano was a fool to let you escape.’

  Carly caught Stefano’s faintly lifted eyebrow and was unable to prevent the slight quiver at the edge of her mouth. Without blinking an eyelid, she sent Charles her most dazzling smile. ‘Charles,’ she greeted with equal solemnity. ‘You haven’t changed.’

  His faintly wolfish smile was no mean complement to his sparkling brown eyes. ‘My wife tells me I become more irascible with every year, and Georgeanne only tags along because I pay her bills.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ Kathy-Lee advised with a light smile.

  ‘Stefano…’ Georgeanne purred, offering Carly a sharp assessing glance before focusing her attention on her father’s business associate. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again.’

  ‘Wonderful’ was a pretty fine superlative to describe Charles’s daughter, Carly mused, for the young woman was all grown up and pure feline.

  Kathy-Lee, at least, opted to observe the conventions and set out to charm superficially while choosing to ignore the machinations of her stepdaughter. Which, Carly noted circumspectly, grew more bold with every passing hour. Perhaps it was merely a game, she perceived as they leisurely dispensed with one delectable course after another.

  Whatever the reason, Carly refused to rise to the bait, and instead drew Charles into a lengthy and highly technical discourse on the intricacies of computer programming. As he owed much of his fortune to creating specialised programs, his knowledge was unequalled.

  Stefano, to give him his due, did nothing to encourage Georgeanne’s attention, but Carly detected an implied intimacy that hurt unbearably. It clouded her beautiful eyes, leaving them faintly pensive, and, although her smile flashed with necessary brilliance throughout the evening, her hands betrayed their nervousness on one occasion, incurring Stefano’s narrowed glance as she swiftly averted spilling the contents of her wine glass.

  Carly told herself she couldn’t care less about her husband’s past indiscretions, but deep within her resentment flared, and mingled with a certain degree of pain.

  Outwardly, Stefano was the perfect host, his attention faultless, and only she knew that the implied intimacy of his smile merely depicted a contrived image for the benefit of their guests.

  It was almost eleven when Charles indicated that they must leave.

  ‘It’s so early,’ Georgeanne protested with a pretty pout. ‘I thought we might go on to a nightclub.’

  ‘Honey,’ Charles chided with a slow sloping smile before directing Carly a wicked wink, ‘I have no doubt Stefano and Carly have a different kind of socialising in mind.’

  His daughter effected a faint moue, then sent Stefano a luscious smile. ‘Don’t be crude, Daddy. I’m sure Stefano has the stamina for both.’

  Charles gave Kathy-Lee the sort of look that made Carly’s toes curl before switching his attention to his daughter. ‘It’s no contest, darlin’,’ he drawled.

  Georgeanne evinced her disappointment, then effected a light shrugging gesture. ‘If you say so.’ She moved a step closer to Stefano and pla
ced scarlet-tipped nails against his jacket-encased arm. ‘Ciao, caro.’ She reached up and brushed her lips against his cheek—only because he turned his head and she missed his mouth. Her smile was pure celluloid, and there was a faint malicious gleam as she turned towards Carly. ‘You look—tired, sweetie.’

  Without blinking, Carly met the other girl’s sultry stare, and issued softly, ‘Stefano doesn’t allow me much time to sleep.’

  Charles’s eyes danced with ill-concealed humour. ‘Give it up, Georgeanne.’ With old-fashioned charm he took hold of Carly’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘You must be our guests for dinner before we fly back to the States.’

  Carly simply smiled, and walked at Stefano’s side to the foyer. Minutes later Charles, Kathy-Lee and Georgeanne were seated in their hired car, and almost as soon as the rear lights disappeared through the gates Carly moved upstairs to check on Ann-Marie and Françoise.

  A tiny black head lifted from the sleeping-box to regard her solemnly, then nestled back against the blanket.

  ‘I’ll take her outside for a few minutes, then she should be all right until morning.’

  Carly turned slowly at the sound of Stefano’s voice, and she nodded in silent acquiescence. Ann-Marie was lost in sleep, her features relaxed and cherubic in the dull reflected glow of her night-light, the covers in place, and her favourite doll and teddy bear vying for affection on either side of her small frame.

  Carly felt the sudden prick of tears, and blinked rapidly to dispel them. Her daughter was so small, so dependent—so damned vulnerable.

  She was hardly aware of Stefano’s return, and it took only seconds to settle the poodle comfortably among its blankets.

  Once inside their own suite, Carly stepped directly through to the bathroom and removed her make-up with slightly shaking fingers. Her nerves felt as if they were shredding into a thousand pieces, and she needed a second attempt at replacing the lid on the jar of cleanser.