The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘He’s nervous,’ Michelle noted as she bit into a slice of piping hot pizza. Melted cheese, pepperoni, capsicum... delicious.

  ‘It’s his first exhibition,’ Emilio granted, following her action.

  The light glinted in reflection from the ear-stud he wore. Designer stubble was at odds with his peroxided crew cut. A lean sinewy frame clothed in designer jeans and T-shirt, he bore the visual persona of an avant garde. His sexual preferences were the subject for conjecture, and he did nothing to dispel a certain image. However, it was part of the tease, the glamour associated with a role he chose to play, and the knowledge very few close friends knew he was straight and not at all what he appeared to be, only amused him.

  Behind the image lay a very shrewd business brain, an almost infallible instinct for genuine talent, and an indefinable nous for what appealed to the buying public.

  It was something Michelle also shared, and their friendship was platonic, based on mutual knowledge, affection and respect.

  ‘You are pensive. Why?’

  Forthright, even confrontational, Emilio possessed the ability to divine whenever anything bothered her. She delayed answering him by pulling the tab on a can of soft drink and taking a long swallow of the ice-cold liquid.

  ‘A man, huh?’ Emilio pronounced. ‘Do I know him?’

  She replaced the can onto the table, and took another bite of pizza. ‘What makes you so sure it’s a man?’

  ‘You have soft shadows beneath those beautiful green eyes.’ His smile was gentle, but far too discerning. ‘Lack of sleep, sweetheart. And as you rarely party ‘til dawn, I doubt a late night among the social elite was the cause.’

  ‘I could merely be concerned about tomorrow’s exhibition.’

  ‘No,’ he declared with certainty. ‘If you don’t want to talk about him, that’s fine.’

  Michelle cast him a level look. ‘He was a guest at a dinner I attended.’ She paused fractionally. ‘And if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.’

  ‘Trouble,’ Emilio accorded softly. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘No,’ she corrected. ‘Because I won’t allow him to be.’

  ‘Cara, I don’t think you’ll have a choice.’ His quiet laughter brought forth a vexed grimace.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re a beautiful young woman whose fierce protection of self lends you to eat lesser men for breakfast,’ he mocked. ‘The fact you haven’t been able to succeed with this particular one is intriguing. I shall look forward to meeting him.’

  ‘It won’t happen,’ Michelle vowed with certainty.

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I know so,’ she responded vehemently.

  ‘OK.’ Emilio lifted both hands in a conciliatory gesture, although his smile held humour. ‘Eat your pizza.’

  ‘I intend to.’ She bit into the crisp crust, then reached forward, caught up a paper napkin and wiped her fingers. ‘I’ll help you clean up, then I’m going home.’

  ‘An empty pizza carton, a few glasses, soft drink cans. What’s to clean?’

  ‘In that case,’ she inclined, standing to her feet in one fluid movement. ‘I’m out of here.’ She leaned forward and brushed her cheek to his. ‘Ciao.’

  The Gallery opened at four, and an hour later the full complement of guests had gathered, mingling in small clutches, glass in hand. Taped baroque music flowed softly through strategically placed speakers, a soothing background to the muted buzz of conversation.

  Michelle had selected a classic fitted dress in black with a lace overlay. Stiletto heels, sheer black hose, her hair swept high, and understated make-up with emphasis on her eyes completed a picture that portrayed elegance and style.

  Hired staff proffered trays containing a selection of hors d’oeuvres, and already a number of Brett’s paintings displayed a discreet sold sticker.

  Success, Michelle reflected with a small sigh of relief. Everything was going splendidly. The finger food couldn’t be faulted, the champagne was superb, and the ambience was perfecto, as Emilio would say.

  She glanced across the room, caught his eye, and smiled.

  ‘Another triumph, darling.’

  Her stomach tightened fractionally as she recognised Jeremy’s cynical voice, and she summoned a polite smile as she turned to face him. ‘I didn’t expect you to honour the invitation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  He leaned forward and she moved slightly so that his lips brushed her cheek. An action which resulted in a faint intake of breath, the momentary hardening of his eyes.

  ‘The eminently eligible Nikos has yet to put in an appearance, I see.’ He moved back a pace, and ran light fingers down her arm.

  Michelle tilted her head a little and met his dark gaze. ‘A little difficult, when he wasn’t issued an invitation.’

  ‘Dear sweet Michelle,’ Jeremy chided with sarcastic gentleness. ‘Nikos was an invited guest on the parents’ cruiser today. The enchanting Chantelle issued the invitation to your Gallery soiree.’ He paused for effect before delivering the punch line. ‘As I recall, Nikos indicated he would grace us with his presence.’

  Her heart tripped and raced to a quicker beat. ‘Really? ’

  One eyebrow slanted in mockery. ‘Am I mistaken, or is that not pleasurable anticipation I sense?’ He primed a barb and aimed for the kill. ‘Didn’t he come up to scratch last night, darling?’ His smile held thinly veiled humour. ‘Jet lag can have that effect.’

  Calm, just keep calm, she bade silently as she moved back a pace. He didn’t release her arm, and she gave him a deliberately pointed look. ‘This conversation is going nowhere, Jeremy.’ She flexed her arm, felt his grip tighten for an instant before he released her. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must mingle.’ Her voice assumed an icy formality. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition. Emilio and I are confident of Brett’s talent and potential.’

  ‘Ah, the inimical Emilio,’ Jeremy drawled. ‘You do know he’s bisexual?’

  As well as being untrue, it was unkind. She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Slander isn’t a pretty word. Watch you don’t find yourself in court on a legal charge.’

  ‘A mite too protective, darling.’

  ‘And you,’ she declared with quiet emphasis. ‘Are a first-class—’

  ‘Michelle.’

  Her body quivered at the sound of that faintly accented voice, and her pulse went into overdrive. How much of her argument with Jeremy had Nikos Alessandros heard?

  Everything came into sharp focus as she slowly turned to face him.

  ‘Nikos,’ she acknowledged, and imperceptibly stiffened as he placed a hand at the back of her waist.

  His expression gave nothing away, but there was a hint of steel beneath the polite facade as he inclined his head.

  ‘Jeremy.’

  Michelle’s nerves flared into sensitised life at his close proximity.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Nikos asked smoothly, and she felt like screaming.

  Yes. Jeremy for behaving badly, and you just for being here!

  A determined sparkle darkened her eyes. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I really should mingle.’

  She turned away, only to find that Nikos had joined her.

  ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she queried with quiet vehemence the instant they were out of Jeremy’s earshot. She made a concerted effort to shift out of his grasp without success.

  ‘Rescuing you.’

  ‘I didn’t need rescuing!’

  His smile held a hint of cynical humour. ‘Especially not by me.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Save the indignation for a more suitable occasion.’

  ‘Why?’ Michelle vented with quiet fury. ‘When I have no intention of seeing you again.’

  ‘Considering your parents and the Bateson-Burrows have issued me with a few interesting invitations, that’s most unlikely,’ Nikos assured silkily.

  She wanted to hit hi
m. It was enough she had to deal with Jeremy, whose recalcitrance in the past twenty-four hours could be directly attributed to the man at her side.

  Had Nikos not been a guest at the Bateson-Burrows’ dinner table, she could have conducted a diplomatic discussion last night with Jeremy, and he wouldn’t now be behaving quite inappropriately.

  Or would he? Jeremy had displayed a side to his personality she’d never suspected might exist.

  ‘Suppose we embark on a conducted tour of your protegé’s work.’

  ‘Why?’ she demanded baldly, and found herself looking into a pair of amused dark grey eyes.

  ‘I could be a potential buyer, and you do, Chantelle assures me, have an excellent eye for new talent.’

  Did she realise just how beautiful she looked when she was angry?

  ‘Mother has excelled herself in lauding my supposed talents,’ she stated dryly.

  ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’

  In any other circumstance, she would have laughed. However, tonight she wasn’t in the mood to see the humorous side of Chantelle’s machinations.

  They drew close to one exhibit, and she went into a professional spiel about light and colour and style, Brett’s unusual technique, and indicated the painting’s possible worth on the market in another five years.

  , Nikos dropped his arm from her waist, and she wondered why she suddenly felt cold, even vaguely bereft.

  Crazy, she dismissed. Every instinct she possessed warned that Nikos Alessandros was a man she should have nothing to do with if she wanted to retain her emotional sanity.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WHICH of the collection is your personal favourite?’ Nikos queried as they moved from one exhibit to another.

  There were interruptions as she was greeted by a few guests, and on each occasion good manners demanded she introduce the man at her side.

  She could sense their masked speculation, sense their curiosity, and she wasn’t sure whether to feel angry or resigned.

  Michelle’s lips parted to make a flippant response, only to change her mind at the last second. ‘The little boy standing on a sandhill looking out over the ocean.’

  He lifted a hand and tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. He watched her eyes dilate, and felt the slight shiver his touch evoked. ‘Why that particular painting?’

  ‘Because it seems as if the ocean represents his world, and he’s curious to know where it ends and what’s beyond the horizon. If you look at his features, there’s wonderment, excitement.’ Her voice softened. ‘He’s trying not to be afraid, but he is. You can see it in the faint thrust of his lower lip, the way his chin tucks in a little.’ She raised her hand, then let it fall again to her side.

  It was more than just a painting, it represented life. The promise of what might be. Even though the logical mind relegated the image to the skilled use of paint on canvas and artistic flair.

  ‘Consider it sold.’

  Michelle glanced up and examined the chiselled perfection of his features. ‘You haven’t asked the grice.’

  ‘It’s listed on the programme.’ His smile was wholly sensual. ‘What discount are you prepared to offer me?’

  She badly wanted to say none, except ‘business’ was a separate category to ‘personal,’ and anyone with sufficient nous ensured the two were kept apart. ‘It depends on your method of payment.’

  ‘I’ll present you with a bank cheque at midday tomorrow, and organise delivery.’

  Michelle didn’t hesitate. ‘Five per cent.’

  It shouldn’t concern her where he intended to hang it, in fact she told herself she didn’t care.

  ‘Something is bothering you?’

  His light tone didn’t fool her in the slightest. He was too intuitive, and she loathed his ability to tune into her thoughts. It made her feel vulnerable, and too acutely sensitive.

  ‘Why should anything bother me? I’ve just sold the most expensive painting featured in this exhibition.’

  ‘By your own admission, it’s the one you admire most,’ Nikos pursued softly. ‘I imagine you can offer a suggestion how it should be displayed to its best advantage?’

  She could tell him to do what he liked with it, but professional etiquette got the better of her.

  ‘It should occupy centre stage on a wide wall,’ she opined slowly. ‘Preferably painted a very pale shade of blue, so the colours mesh and there’s a sense of continuity.’

  Interesting, he perceived, that her love of art overcame her instinctive wariness of him.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ Michelle said purposefully. ‘There’s something I need to check with my business partner.’ She offered him a polite smile, then turned and went in search of Emilio.

  ‘So he’s the one,’ Emilio said in a quiet aside several minutes later.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to discuss it.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Dammit, I don’t even like him!’

  ‘So... What’s liking got to do with anything?’ Emilio queried mildly.

  ‘Grrr,’ she vented softly, and incurred his soft laughter.

  ‘Stephanie.’ He was suddenly the businessman, the art entrepreneur, assuming the faintly affected manner he’d honed to perfection. ‘How are you, darling?’

  Michelle followed suit, according the wealthy widow due deference. The money Stephanie Whitcomb had spent in their Gallery over the past few years went close to six figures.

  ‘Such a success, cherie,’ Chantelle complimented as Michelle crossed to her parents’ side. ‘We are very proud of you.’

  ‘Indeed. A stunning exhibition.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa. Naturally you’re prejudiced.’

  Etienne smiled as he leaned forward to bestow a light kiss to her cheek. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tomorrow we’re hosting a small cocktail evening. Just very close friends. Six o’clock. You’ll join us, won’t you?’

  Her mother’s idea of a small gathering could number anything from twenty to thirty people. Drinks on the terrace, a seemingly casual but carefully prepared finger-food buffet.

  ‘Maman, no,’ Michelle voiced with regret. ‘I have plans.’

  ‘What a shame. We included Saska in Nikos’ invitation. I thought you might like to bring Emilio.’

  There was a silent message evident which Michelle chose to ignore. ‘Another time, perhaps?’

  ‘If you reconsider...’ Chantelle trailed delicately.

  ‘Thank you, Maman.’

  Guests were beginning to drift towards the door, and as always, it took a while for the Gallery to empty.

  Michelle organised the hired staff as they packed glassware into containers. Much of the cleaning up had already been done, and Emilio handed over a cheque, then saw them off the premises.

  ‘Go home,’ he ordered without preamble. ‘You’re tired, it shows, and I’ll deal with everything in the morning.’

  ‘I had no idea I looked such a wreck,’ Michelle said dryly.

  ‘Darling, I am an old friend, and I can tell it like it is,’ he said gently.

  ‘It was a successful evening.’

  All of Brett’s paintings had sold, and they’d succeeded in confirming a tentative date in April to host another exhibition of his work.

  ‘Very,’ Emilio agreed, as she reached up and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘For what it’s worth, I approve of the Greek.’ He lifted a hand and smoothed back a stray tendril of hair that had escaped from the chignon at her nape. ‘I enjoyed watching him watch you.’

  Something inside Michelle’s stomach curled into a tight ball. ‘Since when did you become my protector?’

  ‘Since I fell in love with you many years ago...as a sister,’ he teased gently.

  She smiled with genuine affection. ‘In that case, brother, I’m going home and leaving you with all that remains of the clean-up chores.’

  ‘Tom
orrow morning, ten,’ Emilio reminded. ‘Take care.’

  Her car was parked about twenty metres distant, the street was well-lit, and as the Gallery was situated off the main street housing numerous cafés and restaurants, there were several parked cars in the immediate vicinity.

  Michelle gained the pavement and stepped in the direction of her car, only to pause at the sight of a male figure leaning against its bonnet.

  The figure straightened and moved towards her. ‘I thought you were never going to leave,’ Jeremy complained.

  She stepped forward to cross the grass verge, and felt his hand grasp her arm.

  ‘It’s been a long day, and I’m tired,’ she said firmly. Her patience was getting thin, but she recognised a certain quality about him that made her very wary. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Dammit, Michelle, you can’t just walk away from me.’

  ‘Please let go of my arm. I want to get into my car.’

  She was unprepared for his sudden movement as he twisted her close with vicious strength, then ground his mouth against her own.

  Instinct and training combined to allow her to unbalance him, and one swiftly hooked foot sent him falling to the ground.

  Michelle moved quickly round to the driver’s side, unlocked the door, and was about to slide into the seat when Jeremy caught hold of her arm and dragged her out.

  ‘I believe the lady said no,’ a slightly accented male voice drawled hardily.

  Jeremy’s fingers tightened with painful intensity, and she could feel his palpable anger.

  ‘Bitch!’

  ‘Let her go,’ Nikos commanded with dangerous softness. ‘Or else I promise you won’t walk easily for days.’

  Michelle caught her breath as Jeremy’s fingers bit to the bone, then he flung her arm free, turned and crossed the road to his car, fired the engine with an ear-splitting roar, and sent the tyres spinning as he sped down the road.

  Nikos said something vicious beneath his breath as she stiffened beneath his touch, and he swore briefly, pithily, in his own language.

  Michelle edged the tip of her tongue over her lips and discovered several abrasions where her teeth had split the delicate tissues.