The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  After preparing the meal there was time to change into swimwear and swim several lengths of the pool before emerging to dry the excess water from their skin.

  The aroma of barbecued seafood heightened their appetite, and, seated out on the terrace, Gabbi reached for a prawn with her fingers, declared it ambrosia, then reached for another as she dug her fork into a delectable portion of salad.

  ‘You’ve got prawn juice on your chin,’ Benedict said lazily, and she directed a dazzling smile at him.

  ‘Terribly inelegant.’ She tore flesh from the shell of a perfectly cooked bug and ate it in slow, delicate bites. Monique would have been appalled. There wasn’t a lemon-scented fingerbowl in sight. And paper napkins weren’t an accepted substitute for fine Irish linen.

  The sun began to sink, and the light dimmed, streaking the sky to the west with reflected pink that slowly changed to orange, a brilliant flare of colour that slowly faded, then disappeared, leaving behind a dusky glow.

  Timed lights sprang up around the pool, lit the terrace, and cast a reflection that was almost ethereal until darkness fell and obliterated everything beyond their immediate line of vision.

  Gabbi heard the phone, and watched as Benedict rose from his chair to answer it She gathered the seafood debris together, stacked plates onto the tray, took it indoors to the electronic food trolley, then pressed the button that lifted it up to the kitchen. Then she closed the doors onto the terrace and activated the security system.

  Dishes and cutlery were dispensed into the dishwasher, the kitchen soon restored to order. Her hair had long since dried, but needed to be rinsed of chlorine from the pool, and she made her way upstairs to the shower.

  Afterwards she donned briefs, pulled on long white trousers in a soft cheesecloth, then added a matching sleeveless button-through blouse. Several minutes with the hair-drier removed the excess moisture from her hair, and she left it loose, added a touch of lip-gloss, then ran lightly down to the kitchen.

  Coffee. Hot, strong and black, with a dash of liqueur.

  The coffee had just finished filtering into the glass carafe when Benedict joined her, and she cast him a searching look.

  ‘Problems?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  She didn’t doubt it. She poured the brew into a cup and handed it to him. ‘Need me?’

  His eyes flared. ‘Yes.’ His implication was unmistakable, and her heart skipped a beat, quickened, then slowly settled. ‘But right now I have to make a series of phone calls.’ He lowered his head and took her mouth in a soft kiss that made her ache for more. Then he turned and made his way across the landing to the study.

  Gabbi took her coffee into the lounge, settled in a comfortable settee and switched on the television set. Cable TV ensured instant entertainment to satisfy every whim, and she flicked through the channels until she found a sitcom that promised lightness and mirth.

  One programme ran into another, and she fought against an increasing drowsiness, succumbing without conscious effort.

  There was a vague feeling of being held in strong arms, the sensation of being divested of her outer clothes, then the softness of a pillow beneath her cheek, and a warm body moulded against her back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE Lear jet turned off the runway and cruised slowly into a private parking bay at Sydney’s domestic airport.

  Serg was waiting with the Bentley, and after transferring overnight bags into the boot he slipped behind the wheel and headed the car towards the eastern suburbs.

  Gabbi sank back against the leather cushioning and viewed the scene beyond the windscreen. Traffic was already building up, clogging the main arterial roads as commuters drove to their places of work.

  In an hour she’d join them. She looked at her casual cotton shirt, trousers and trainers. Soon she’d exchange them for a suit, tights and high heels.

  Even now she could sense Benedict withdrawing, his mind already preoccupied with business and the day ahead.

  Marie served breakfast within minutes of their arrival home, and shortly after eight Gabbi slid behind the wheel of her car and trailed Benedict’s Bentley down the drive.

  The day was uneventful, although busy, and lunch was something she sent out for and ate at her desk. Waiting for a faxed confirmation and acting on it provided an unwanted delay, and consequently it was almost six when she garaged the car.

  While Monique took liberties with time as a guest, as a hostess she insisted on punctuality. Six-thirty for seven meant exactly that. Which left Gabbi twenty minutes in which to shower, dress, apply make-up and tend to her hair.

  She began unbuttoning her suit jacket as she raced up the stairs, hopping from one foot to the other as she paused to remove her heeled pumps. By the time she reached the bedroom she’d released the zipfastener of her skirt and her fingers were busy with the buttons on her blouse.

  Benedict looked up from applying the electric razor to a day’s growth of beard and raised an enquiring eyebrow as she entered the en suite bathroom.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Gabbi flung at him as she slid open the shower door and turned on the water.

  Black silk evening trousers, a matching singlet top and a black beaded jacket. High-heeled black pumps. Gold jewellery. Hair swept on top of her head, light make-up with emphasis on the eyes.

  Gabbi didn’t even think, she just went with it, relying on speed and dexterity for a finished result which, she accepted with a cursory glance in the cheval-glass, would pass muster.

  She reached for her evening bag, pushed its long gold chain over one shoulder and turned to see Benedict regarding her with a degree of lazy amusement.

  ‘No one would guess you achieved that result in so short a time,’ he commented as they descended the staircase and made their way to the garage.

  ‘I’ll take three deep breaths in the car and think pleasant thoughts.’

  She did. Not that it helped much. With every passing kilometre the nerves inside her stomach intensified, which was foolish, for Annaliese was unlikely to misbehave in Monique and James’s presence.

  ‘Darlings.’ Annaliese greeted them individually with a kiss to both cheeks. ‘Two of my favourite people.’ Her smile was stunning as she moved between Gabbi and Benedict and linked an arm through each of theirs. ‘Come through to the lounge.’

  One eyebrow slanted as she ruefully glanced from Gabbi’s black evening suit to her own figure-moulding black cocktail gown. ‘Great minds, darling?’ The light tinkling laugh held humour that failed to reach her eyes. ‘We always did have an extraordinarily similar taste in clothes.’

  Except I paid for my own, while you racked up Alaia and Calvin Klein on James’s credit card, Gabbi added silently. Stop it, she chided herself.

  Her father’s home was beautiful, tastefully if expensively decorated, and a superb show-case for a man of James’s wealth and social position. Why, then, did she feel uncomfortable every time she stepped inside the door? Was it because Monique had carefully redecorated, systematically replacing drapes, subtly altering colour schemes, until almost every memory of Gabbi’s mother had been removed?

  Yet why shouldn’t Monique impose her own taste? James had obviously been willing to indulge her. And the past, no matter how idyllic a memory, had little place in today’s reality.

  ‘Gabbi. Benedict’ Monique moved towards them with both hands outstretched. ‘I was afraid you were going to be late.’

  James gave his daughter a hug and laid a hand on Benedict’s arm. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll get you both a drink.’

  Innocuous social small talk. They were each adept at the art—the smiles, the laughter. To an outsider they resembled a happy, united family, Gabbi reflected as she took a seat next to Benedict at the dining table.

  Monique’s cook had prepared exquisitely presented courses that tantalised the taste buds. Tonight she excelled with vichyssoise verte as a starter.

  ‘We arranged an impromptu tennis evening last night,’ Monique rev
ealed as they finished the soup. ‘I put a call through, hoping you might be able to join us, but Marie informed me that you were away for the weekend.’

  Monique possessed the ability to phrase a statement so that it resembled a question, and Gabbi fingered the stem of her water-glass, then chose to lift it to her lips.

  ‘We flew to the coast,’ Benedict drawled in response.

  ‘Really?’ Annaliese directed a brilliant smile at Gabbi. ‘I’m surprised you were able to drag Benedict away from Sydney.’ She switched her attention to Benedict and the smile became coquettish. ‘I thought it was a requisite of the corporate wife to be able to entertain herself.’

  Gabbi replaced her glass carefully. ‘Surely not to the exclusion of spending quality time with her husband?’

  The cook served a superb poulet français, with accompanying vegetables.

  ‘Of course not, darling.’ Annaliese proffered a condescending smile. ‘It was very thoughtful of Benedict to indulge you.’

  Gabbi picked up her cutlery and speared her portion of chicken, then she sliced a bite-size piece with delicate precision. ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ She forked the morsel into her mouth, savoured it, then offered a compliment that the chef deserved. ‘This is delicious, Monique.’

  ‘Thank you, Gabrielle.’

  Gabbi completed a mental count to three. Any second now Monique would instigate a subtle third degree.

  ‘I trust you had an enjoyable time?’

  ‘It was very relaxing.’

  ‘Did you take in a show at the Casino?’

  ‘No,’ Benedict intervened. ‘Gabbi cooked dinner and we stayed home.’ He turned towards Gabbi with a warm intimate smile which melted her bones.

  Great, Gabbi sighed silently. You’ve taken control of Monique’s game, and provided Annaliese with the ammunition to fire another round.

  ‘You never cooked at home, darling.’ The tinkling laugh was without humour.

  ‘There was no need. We always had a chef to prepare meals.’ Besides, Monique hadn’t wanted her in the kitchen, even on the chef’s night off.

  ‘It could have been arranged, Gabbi.’

  She looked at James and smiled. ‘It was never that important.’

  ‘You should give us the opportunity to sample your culinary efforts, Gabrielle.’

  After all these years, Monique? ‘I wouldn’t think of hurting Marie’s feelings by suggesting I usurp her position in the kitchen.’

  ‘Marie does have a night off, darling,’ Annaliese remonstrated in faintly bored tones.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded evenly. ‘On the evenings Benedict and I eat out.’

  Her stepsister examined the perfection of her lacquered nails, then spared Gabbi a teasing smile. ‘You’re hedging at extending an invitation.’

  Venom, packaged in velvet and presented with pseudo-sincerity. Gabbi handled it with the ease of long practice. ‘Not at all. Which evening would suit?’

  It was a polite battle, but a battle nonetheless.

  ‘Monique? James?’ Annaliese was gracious in her deferral.

  ‘Can I check my diary, darling, and get back to you?’

  Gabbi was equally gracious. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m intrigued to learn what you will serve,’ Annaliese purred.

  ‘Marie can always be guaranteed to present an excellent meal,’ Gabbi supplied, determined not to be backed into a corner.

  Monique’s eyes narrowed, as did her daughter’s, and each man picked up on the tension, electing to defuse it by initiating a discussion totally unrelated to social niceties.

  Bombe au chocolat was served for dessert. Afterwards they retired to the lounge for coffee.

  ‘I thought we might play cards,’ Monique suggested. ‘Poker?’

  ‘As long as it’s not strip poker,’ Annaliese teased with a provocative smile. ‘I’ll lose every stitch I’m wearing.’

  And love every minute of it, Gabbi thought hatefully.

  ‘We close the table at eleven-thirty. Winning hand takes the pool.’ James deferred to Benedict. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  The game wasn’t about skill or luck, winning or losing. The stakes were minuscule, the ensuing two hours merely entertainment.

  Annaliese seemed to delight in leaning forward at every opportunity in a deliberate attempt to display the delicate curve of her breasts and the fact that she wore nothing to support them.

  Add a tantalising smile and sparkling witchery every time she looked at Benedict and Gabbi was feeling positively feral by the time the evening drew to a close.

  ‘No comment?’ Benedict ventured as he drove through the gates and turned onto the road.

  Gabbi drew a deep breath then released it slowly. ‘Where would you like me to begin?’

  He spared her a quizzical glance, then concentrated on merging with the traffic. ‘Anywhere will do, as long as you release some of that fine rage.’

  ‘You noticed.’

  ‘I was probably the only one who did.’

  ‘It’s such a relief to know that.’ Dammit, she wanted to hit something.

  ‘Don’t,’ Benedict cautioned with dangerous softness, and she turned on him at once.

  ‘Don’t—what?‘

  ‘Slam a fist against the dashboard. You’ll only hurt yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps I should hit you instead.’

  ‘Want me to pull over, or can it wait until we get home?’

  ‘Don’t try to humour me, Benedict.’ She focused her attention on the scene beyond the windscreen: the bright headlights of oncoming traffic, fluorescent street-lamps and the elongated shadows they cast in the darkness.

  Gabbi hurried indoors as soon as Benedict released the alarm system, not even pausing as he reset it. She made for the foyer and had almost reached the staircase when a hand clamped on her arm.

  Any words she might have uttered were stilled as he swung her round and caught her close. There was nothing she could do to halt the descent of his mouth, or deny its possession of her own.

  Hard, hungry, almost punishing. It defused her anger, as he meant it to do. And when her body softened and leant in against his he altered the nature of the kiss, deepening it until she clung to him.

  A husky groan emerged from her throat as he swung an arm beneath her knees and lifted her into his arms. There wasn’t a word she could think of uttering as he carried her up the stairs to their room. Or an action she wanted to take to stop him removing her clothes and his, before he drew her down onto the bed.

  A long, slow exploration of the pleasure spots, the touch of his lips against the curve of her calf, the sensitive crease behind her knee, then the evocative path along her inner thigh... Gabbi felt her body begin to melt like wax beneath the onslaught of flame, until she was totally malleable, his, to do with as he chose.

  Shared intimacy. Mutual sexual gratification. Was that all it was to Benedict?

  Love. While her heart craved the words, her head ruled that she should be content without them.

  Premium seating tickets for Phantom of the Opera were sold out weeks in advance. Benedict had undoubtedly wielded some influence to gain four tickets at such short notice, Gabbi mused as she took her seat beside him.

  ‘Wonderful position,’ Francesca murmured as the orchestra began an introductory number prior to the opening of the first act.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’

  ‘You look stunning in that colour.’

  The compliment was genuine, and Gabbi accepted it with a smile. ‘Thanks.’ Peacock-blue silk shot with green, it highlighted the texture of her skin and emphasised her blonde hair. ‘So do you,’ she returned warmly.

  Deep ruby-red velvet did wonders for Francesca’s colouring, and moulded her slim curves to perfection.

  The music swelled, the curtain rose, and Act One began.

  Gabbi adored the visual dimension of live performance—the presence of the actors, the costumes, the faint smell of greasepaint and make-up, the sounds. It was a tot
ally different experience to film.

  The interval between each act allowed sufficient time for patrons to emerge into the foyer for a drink, or a cigarette for those who smoked.

  Gabbi expected to see James, Monique and Annaliese in the crowd. What she didn’t expect was for Annaliese to readily abandon Monique and James and spend the interval conversing with Francesca, Dominic and Benedict. Apart from a perfunctory greeting, Gabbi was barely acknowledged.

  The buzzer sounded its warning for patrons to resume their seats. As soon as the lights dimmed Benedict reached for her hand and held it firmly within his own. At the close of the next act he didn’t release it when they stood and moved towards the foyer.

  ‘The powder-room?’ Francesca queried, and Gabbi inclined her head in agreement a split second before she caught sight of Annaliese weaving a determined path towards them.

  ‘Fabulous evening,’ her stepsister enthused with a dazzling smile.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Gabbi agreed as she slipped her hand free. ‘If you’ll excuse Fran and me for a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course.’ Annaliese’s delight was almost evident. ‘I’ll keep Benedict and Dominic amused in your absence.’

  And relish every second, Gabbi observed uncharitably.

  ‘Doesn’t give up, does she?’ Francesca said quietly as she followed Gabbi through the crowd. ‘Have you told her to get lost?’

  ‘Yes.’ They entered the powder-room and joined the queue.

  ‘The polite version?’ Francesca asked. ‘Or the noholds-barred cat-fight rendition?’

  ‘Would you accept icily civil?’ Gabbi countered with a smile.

  ‘A little bit of fire wouldn’t go amiss. Italians are very good at it.’ A wicked gleam lit her eyes. ‘We yell, we throw things.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you in action,’ Gabbi said with genuine amusement.

  ‘That’s because I’ve never been mad at you.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ They moved forward a few paces. ‘Dare I ask how things are going between you and Dominic?’