The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin
her feet, thank him, see him out of the door, then lock up and go to bed.
In a gesture of temporary capitulation she tucked her head into the curve of his neck and rested her cheek against his chest. His arms tightened fractionally, and she listened to the steady beat of his heart.
She’d lain against him like this many times before. As a young child, friend, then as a lover.
Memories ran like a Technicolor film through her head. A fall and scraped knees as a first-grade kid in school. When she’d excelled at ballet, achieved first place at a piano recital. But nothing compared with the intimacy they’d shared for the past three months. That was truly magical. So mesmeric it had no equal.
She felt the drift of his lips against her hair, and her breathing deepened to a steady rise and fall.
When Aysha woke daylight was filtering into the room.
The main bedroom. And she was lying on one side of the queen-size bed; the bedcovers were thrown back on the other. She conducted a quick investigation, and discovered all that separated her from complete nudity was a pair of lacy briefs.
Memory was instant, and she blinked slowly, aware that the last remnants of her headache had disappeared.
The bedroom door opened and Carlo’s tall frame filled the aperture. ‘You’re awake.’ His eyes met hers, their expression inscrutable. ‘Headache gone?’
‘You stayed.’ Was that her voice? It sounded breathless and vaguely unsteady.
He looked as if he’d just come from the shower. His hair was tousled and damp, and a towel was hitched at his waist.
‘You were reluctant to let me go.’
Oh, God. Her eyes flew to the pillow next to her own, then swept to meet his steady gaze. Her lips parted, then closed again. Had they...? No, of course they hadn’t. She’d remember... wouldn’t she?
‘Carlo—’
Her voice died in her throat as he discarded the towel and pulled on briefs, then thrust on a pair of trousers and slid home the zip.
Each movement was highlighted by smooth rippling muscle and sinew, and she watched wordlessly as he shrugged his arms into a cotton shirt and fastened the buttons.
He looked up and caught her watching him. His mouth curved into a smile, and his eyes were warm, much too warm for someone she’d chosen to be at odds with.
‘Mind if I use a comb?’
Her lips parted, but no sound came out, and with a defenceless gesture she indicated the en suite bathroom. ‘Go ahead.’
She followed his passage as he crossed the room, and she conducted a frantic visual search for something to cover herself with so she could make it to the walk-in wardrobe.
Carlo emerged into the bedroom as she was about to toss aside the bedcovers, and she hastily pulled them up again.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ he indicated. ‘And start breakfast. Ten minutes?’
‘Yes. Thanks,’ she added, and wondered at her faint edge of disappointment as he closed the door behind him.
What had she expected? That he’d cross to the bed and attempt to kiss her? Seduce her?
Yet there was a part of her that wanted him to... badly.
With a hollow groan she tossed aside the covers and made for the shower.
Ten minutes later she entered the kitchen to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Carlo was in the process of sliding eggs onto a plate, and there were slices of toasted bread freshly popped and ready for buttering.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘You’re good at this.’
‘Getting breakfast?’
Dressed, she could cope with him. ‘Among other things,’ she conceded, and crossed to the coffee-maker.
Black, strong, with two sugars. There was nothing better to kick-start the day. ‘Shall I pour yours?’
‘Please.’ He took both plates and placed them on the servery. ‘Now, come and eat.’
Aysha took a seat on one of four bar stools and looked at the food on her plate. ‘You’ve given me too much.’
‘Eat,’ bade Carlo firmly.
‘You’re as bad as Teresa.’
He reached out a hand and captured her chin. ‘No,’ he refuted, turning her head towards him. ‘I’m not.’
His kiss was sensuously soft and incredibly sensual, and she experienced real regret when he gently put her at arm’s length.
‘I have to leave. Don’t forget we’re attending the Zachariahs’ party tonight. I’ll call through the day and let you know a time.’
With only days until the wedding, the pressure was beginning to build. Teresa seemed to discover a host of last-minute things that needed organising, and by the end of the day she began to feel as if the weekend at the Coast had been a figment of her imagination.
The need to feel supremely confident was essential, and Aysha chose a long, slim-fitting black gown with a sheer lace overlay. The scooped neckline and ribbon shoulder straps displayed her lightly tanned skin to advantage, and she added minimum jewellery: a slender gold chain, a single gold bangle on one wrist, and delicate drop earrings. Stiletto-heeled evening pumps completed the outfit, and she spared her reflection a cursory glance.
Black was a classic colour, the style seasonally fashionable. She looked OK. And if anyone noticed the faint circles beneath her eyes, she had every excuse for their existence. A bride-to-be was expected to look slightly frazzled with the surfeit of social obligations prior to the wedding.
Carlo’s recorded message on the answering machine had specified he’d collect her at seven-thirty. The party they were to attend was at Palm Beach, almost an hour’s drive from Vaucluse, depending on traffic.
She would have given anything not to go. The thought of mixing and mingling with numerous social friends and acquaintances didn’t appeal any more than having to put on an act for their benefit.
Security beeped as Carlo used the remote module to release the gates, and Aysha’s stomach executed a series of somersaults as she collected her evening purse and made her way down to the lower floor.
She opened the front door as he alighted from the car, and she crossed quickly down the few steps and slid into the passenger seat.
His scrutiny was swift as he slid in behind the wheel, encompassing, and she wondered if he was able to define just how much effort it cost her to appear cool and serene.
Inside, her nerves were stretched taut, and she felt like a marionette whose body movements were governed by a disembodied manipulator.
She met his dark gaze with clear distant grey eyes. No small acting feat, when her body warmed of its own accord, heating at the sight of him and his close proximity.
His elusive cologne invaded her senses, stimulating them into active life, and every nerve-end, every fibre seemed to throb with need.
The wanting didn’t get any better. If anything, each passing hour made it worse. Especially the long, empty nights when she hungered for his touch.
‘How are you?’
Three words spoken in a commonplace greeting, yet they had the power to twist Aysha’s stomach into a painful knot.
‘Fine.’ She didn’t aim to tell him anything different.
Carlo eased the car forward, past the gates, then he accelerated along the suburban street with controlled ease.
She directed her attention beyond the windscreen and didn’t see the muscle bunch at the edge of his jaw.
Would Nina be an invited guest?