The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘I know. I need taking in hand,’ she declared with humour, and Kristi gave a subdued laugh.

  ‘Shane assures me he is in line to do just that.’ Her features softened with genuine affection. ‘I’m delighted for both of you.’

  Annie’s eyes acquired an extra sparkle. ‘Thanks. It’ll be a small wedding, just immediate family. Shane wants it to happen three days after he returns from New Zealand.’ Her smile widened into a mischievous grin. ‘I’m plumping for the end of the month.’

  ‘It will be interesting to see who wins.’

  ‘I’ll have fun enjoying Shane’s method of persuasion.’

  Kristi experienced a shaft of pain at Annie’s obvious happiness, and endeavoured to bury it deep beneath the surface. ‘I don’t imagine he’ll find cause for complaint.’

  The strident sound of the phone interrupted their conversation and Annie snatched up the receiver, spoke into it at length, scanned the appointment book, made a booking, then concluded the call.

  ‘Now, where were we?’

  ‘Our so-named autocratic client,’ Kristi reminded her. ‘What if he wants shots of the pool reflecting the early-morning sun?’

  ‘You develop this afternoon’s film then shoot tomorrow,’ Annie rationalised, raising her hands in an expressive gesture. ‘As long as the courier picks up before five they’ll be on a flight out of here tomorrow night.’

  ‘You were able to convince him of that?’

  ‘He didn’t threaten to use one of the competition.’

  ‘What time am I supposed to be there?’

  ‘One-thirty. He didn’t even query the fee.’ Kristi shot her a sharp look. ‘Tell me you didn’t load it.’

  ‘Moi?’ Annie queried with mock humour. ‘I simply informed him there was an extra charge for a rush job.’

  ‘What would I do without you?’

  ‘Survive,’ the vivacious brunette responded with a sunny smile.

  Kristi finished the last of her coffee, then rinsed and put away the mug before checking the appointment book. ‘Bickersby, studio, eight-thirty, followed by a ten-thirty session at a client’s home in Clontarf. Children’s photographs.’ She would have enough time to finish, return to the studio, grab some lunch, then be at Point Piper by one-thirty.

  Annie was right—the house was fabulous, Kristi decided a few hours later as she parked her car in a street lined with prestigious homes. Some had been there a long time, while there were a few huge modern structures which had obviously replaced the original houses, comprising three and sometimes four levels against the sloping cliff-face. The view out over the harbour was spectacular, and the pricetag for each home would run into several millions of dollars.

  She ran a quick check of the house number, then alighted from the car, collected her gear, and approached the security intercom attached to an ornate steel gate.

  At the front door a housekeeper greeted her and led the way through a spacious foyer to an informal lounge.

  The interior was a little too ascetic for Kristi’s taste. There should have been artwork on the walls, bowls filled with freshly cut flowers, and the primrose-painted walls needed be repainted in cool off-white or pale calico to emphasise the light, airy design.

  ‘My employer requested that I convey his apologies. He’s been delayed by a business call which may take up to ten minutes. Would you like a cool drink or a cup of coffee or tea while you wait?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely, thanks.’ Lunch had been an apple eaten en route from her previous booking. Photographing children was a hazardous occupation, for they tended to be unpredictable when faced with a stranger wielding a camera. This morning’s session had run badly over time, with a harried young mother professing that it would be years before she could contemplate assembling her normally angelic little darlings for another professional sitting. Despite Kristi’s efforts to capture their amusement with a hand puppet, the children, aged eighteen months, three and four years, had collectively gone from shy to awkward to uncooperative, resorted to tears, then finally succumbed to blatant bribery.

  There was a sense of relief, Kristi mused wryly, in that this afternoon’s booking involved an inanimate house. Crossing to the wide glass window, she turned back and checked the light, mentally choosing the best angles.

  The housekeeper appeared with a tray which she set down on a low table. ‘I’ll leave you to pour.’ She indicated a plate of delicately prepared sandwiches. ‘Just in case you’re hungry.’

  Kristi gave an appreciative smile. ‘Thanks. I missed lunch.’

  The tea was Earl Grey, the sandwiches smoked salmon and cream cheese. Divine, she described them silently as she bit into another and replaced her cup on the tray.

  She would have liked to wander through the house while she waited, observing and conducting a professional assessment. It would save time.

  With ideal contemplation she wondered at the identity of the new owner. The house was only a few years old, and its design held the stamp of one of Sydney’s finest architects whose brilliance commanded an exorbitant fee. Despite the colours not being her personal preference, the workmanship was superb. The fact that he was employing an international interior decorator indicated that no expense would be spared in establishing the owner’s individual taste.

  ‘Miss Dalton?’

  Kristi turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice.

  ‘I’ll take you down to the office now.’

  They descended to the next level via a wide, curved staircase which led to a spacious marble-tiled area complete with an ornate fountain centrally positioned beneath a crystal chandelier. The housekeeper indicated a hallway to her left.

  ‘The office is situated at the end, the last door on the right.’

  There was no logical reason for the faint unfurling of nerves inside Kristi’s stomach or the prickle of apprehension that settled between her shoulderblades as she drew closer.

  Crazy, she dismissed as the housekeeper paused beside the closed door and knocked before standing to one side.

  ‘Please go in, Miss Dalton.’

  A faint shiver shook her slim frame, yet her hand was steady as she turned the handle and pushed open the door.

  It was a large room, she saw at once, complete with an assortment of high-tech electronic business equipment. Bookcases lined one wall, and the desk was an expensive antique.

  Behind it the high-backed swivel-chair was empty, and her eyes slid to a tall figure silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window.

  The man’s height and breadth looked achingly familiar, and the breath caught in her throat as she willed him to turn and face her.

  Almost as if he sensed her apprehension, he shifted, his movements deliberately slow as he swung away from the window.

  Shalef.

  There was something primitive in his expression, and every instinct she possessed warned of the need for caution. It vied with a slow-burning anger that made her want to demand a reason for his presence in Sydney—more particularly, why he had summoned her to this house.

  Innate dignity put a temporary rein on her temper as she studied his features, noting the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the chiselled perfection of his mouth, the slashes down each cheek that seemed more deeply etched than she remembered.

  Superbly tailored black trousers accentuated the muscular length of his legs, while the white silk shirt lent emphasis to his height and breadth of shoulder. He had loosened the top three buttons of his neck and folded back both cuffs, lending a casual, relaxed look that was belied by the most electric energy projected with effortless ease.

  It was an energy that both thrilled and frightened, for she’d witnessed it unfurled and at its most dangerous.

  Now she was unsure of its measure, and of his precise reason for requesting her presence.

  It took considerable effort to inject her voice with polite civility. “There are any number of compete
nt photographers listed in the telephone directory capable of providing the services you require.’ She drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘It would better if you contacted one of them.’

  One dark eyebrow lifted slightly and his smile was faintly cynical. ‘Better for whom?’

  If he was going to play games, she’d turn around and walk out now. ‘Shalef—’

  ‘I was assured by your secretary that the photographs would be ready early this evening,’ he declared with dangerous silkiness. ‘Are you now implying that you intend to renege on a verbal business agreement?’

  Professionalism and sheer inner strength brought a lift to her chin and lent her eyes an angry sparkle. She’d complete the session and provide him with his wretched photographs, if only to prove that he no longer possessed the power to affect her. ‘Perhaps you could tell me precisely what you want, then I can get started.’

  He didn’t move, but she sensed his body muscles tense with restrained anger.

  ‘I return to London tomorrow. I’d prefer to take the prints with me.’

  Her eyes flashed with brilliant fire. ‘Why a London interior decorator? What’s wrong with employing an Australian firm?’

  ‘I have utilised this firm’s services for a number of years.’ He paused, then continued quietly, ‘I trust their judgement and have no qualms about leaving them to complete everything to my satisfaction in my absence.’

  Pain knotted in the region of her stomach, and she had to consciously stop herself from gasping out loud. After tonight she’d never see him again.

  ‘Very well.’

  He shifted away from the desk and walked, to the door. ‘We’ll begin outside while the light is still good.’

  Instead of choosing the staircase, he led the way to a cleverly concealed lift, and in the cubicle’s close confines she could feel the fast hammering of her heart. A tell-tale pulse beat in unison at the base of her throat, and she had to fight the temptation to cover it with a protective hand.

  There were five buttons on the indicator panel, and she almost cried out in relief when the lift slid to a smooth halt on the lowest level.

  Focus, concentrate, she commanded herself silently as she walked at his side through a large, informal area to wide, sliding glass doors opening out onto a terracotta-tiled patio and a free-form swimming pool.

  For the next ten minutes Kristi reeled off numerous shots of the pool, external frontage from several angles and the view out over the harbour, before moving inside.

  Shalef was never far from her side, suggesting, directing, asking her opinion on occasion as she steadily filled one roll of film, then paused to remove it and insert another.

  It was a game, she decided in desperation. Deliberately orchestrated by a man who had no concern for the emotional storm that tore at her insides and ripped her nerves to shreds.

  Twice his arm brushed against one of hers, and the faint muskiness of his cologne combined with his masculine scent almost succeeded in driving her insane.

  It seemed for ever before the interior shooting was completed, and she welcomed the fresh, cooling breeze as she moved outdoors and shot the house from the street, the gardens, the driveway.

  ‘That’s it,’ Kristi announced finally, aware that she had far more than she could possibly need. With care she capped the lens and removed the strap from her neck. Her shoulders felt slightly stiff and she had the beginnings of a headache. Tension, from being in Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed’s company for the past few hours—three, she noted with surprise as she spared her watch a quick glance.

  ‘I’ll collect my bag from the foyer then get back to the studio.’ The sooner she made a start on the developing process, the sooner she’d be finished.

  Several minutes later, bag in hand, she moved towards the front door. The knot of tension inside her stomach tightened into a painful ball, and her smile was a mere facsimile of one as she turned towards him. ‘I can’t give you a definite time. Somewhere between seven and eight o’clock?’

  He inclined his head and accompanied her to her car, waiting as she unlocked it; then, when she was seated, he shut the door.

  The engine fired immediately and she paused only long enough to secure her seat belt before sending the BMW down the road.

  It wasn’t until she had gained the main New South Head road that she was able to relax, and even then it was strictly temporary.

  ‘Well? What is he like?’ Annie demanded the instant Kristi entered the studio. ‘Make my day and tell me he’s tall, dark and gorgeous.’

  ‘Any messages?’ Kristi crossed to the desk and checked the message pad. ‘I’ll be in the lab for the next hour. Maybe longer.’

  Annie wrinkled her nose in silent admonition, and her eyes sharpened fractionally. ‘You look tired. Why don’t you go home and come in early in the morning?’

  ‘Because, Annie, darling,’ she revealed, ‘the client requires the prints tonight.’

  ‘Tell him you can’t do it.’

  ‘Too late. I already told him I can.’

  ‘Then I’ll make some fresh coffee.’

  Kristi gave a smile in thanks. ‘You’re an angel.’

  It was after seven when she examined the last print. With professional dedication she collated them according to floor level, noting each room and its aspect, before pushing them into a large envelope.

  Moving her shoulders, she eased the crick in her neck, then massaged each temple in an effort to diminish the dull, aching sensation which had settled there more than an hour ago.

  She felt tired, hungry, and would have given almost anything to go home, sink into a spa-bath and have the tiny, pulsing jets work their magic on her tense muscles.

  Fifteen minutes later she wound down the window of her car and pressed the security intercom outside the set of high iron gates guarding the entrance to Shalef’s harbourfront home. Within seconds they slid open and she eased the car towards the front of the house, parking it right outside the main door...for an easy getaway, she told herself as she retrieved the thick envelope from the passenger seat.

  The housekeeper answered the door and Kristi wondered why she should be surprised. Shalef lived in a world where one employed staff to maintain residences. However, this was Sydney, not London or Riyadh.

  ‘Would you please give this to Sheikh bin Al-Sayed?’ Kristi requested, holding out the package. ‘I’ve enclosed the account.’

  ‘Sheikh bin Al-Sayed wishes to pay you now. If you’d care to wait in the lounge?’

  No, I wouldn’t care to wait, Kristi felt like screaming, and I don’t want to see Shalef bin Youssef Al-Sayed.

  ‘Thank you, Emily. I’ll take care of Miss Dalton.’

  She should have known that he wouldn’t allow her to get away so easily, she decided in despair. ‘I’ve delivered the prints as you requested,’ she ventured quietly.

  ‘Emily has prepared dinner,’ Shalef declared smoothly. ‘We’ll eat, then I’ll go through the prints’

  ‘No.’ The single negation took the place of a silent, primal scream that sprang from the depths of her soul. ‘I can’t. I’m expecting a phone call.’ She was babbling—short, stark sentences that sounded desperate even to her own ears.

  His eyes hardened measurably. ‘I imagine whoever it is will leave a message on your answering machine.’

  ‘Damn you, Shalef,’ she flung at him, shaky with anger as he took hold of her arm and led her through to an informal dining room where the table was set for two.

  Covered dishes had been placed in the centre, and her stomach clenched in hungry anticipation at the delicious aroma permeating the room.

  ‘Sit down.’

  It was easier to capitulate, and she made no protest as he uncorked a bottle of Cabernet Shiraz and poured a generous measure into her glass.

  ‘Emily is an exceptional cook,’ Shalef informed her as he uncovered a dish and served her a generous portion, adding rice from the second dish. He served himself, then took the seat opposite
. ‘Eat, Kristi,’ he commanded silkily. He filled his own glass, then raised it in a silent toast.

  Kristi picked up her fork and speared a delectable piece of chicken. Sautéed in wine and mushrooms, it tasted out of this world.

  She thought of a dozen things to say, and discarded every one of them. The wine was superb, and gradually it began to dissipate the knot of tension inside her stomach.

  ‘Why did you buy this house?’ Surely the house was a safe subject?

  His eyes lingered on her mouth, then slowly traversed the slope of her nose before locking with her own. ‘I wanted an Australian base.’

  ‘Extending your global interests?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  She was breaking up inside, fragmenting into a hundred pieces. If she didn’t gather her shattered nerves together, she’d never be able to get up and walk out of here with any semblance of dignity.

  She put down her fork, then carefully replaced her glass. Not carefully enough, for the rim caught the side of her plate and slipped from her fingers. With horrified fascination she watched the wine spill into an ever widening dark pool on the white damask. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The apology fell from her lips as a whisper. Moisture welled from behind her eyes, distorting her vision as she plucked up her napkin and dabbed it over the spillage. ‘The tablecloth should be rinsed or it will stain,’ she said shakily.

  ‘Leave it,’ he commanded. ‘It isn’t important.’

  ‘I’ll replace it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. Hell couldn’t be any worse than this. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’d prefer to leave.’ She rose to her feet and sidestepped the chair. ‘Thank you for dinner.’ It was amazing. Even at a time like this she could still remember good manners.

  She turned blindly away from the table, only to be brought to a halt mid-stride by a hand closing over her arm.

  His eyes were dark, their expression so deeply inscrutable that it was impossible to discern his mood.