The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  Aysha looked at him from beneath long-fringed lashes. ‘I’ll make you pay,’ she promised as liquid heat spilled through her veins.

  He leaned down and took her mouth in a brief hard kiss. ‘I’m counting on it.’

  The sweet sorcery of his touch nearly sent her mad, and afterwards it was she who drove him to the brink, aware of those dark eyes watching her with an almost predatory alertness that gradually shifted and changed as she tried to break his control.

  Desire, raw and primitive, tore through her body, and she felt bare, exposed, as her own fragile control shredded into a thousand pieces.

  Aysha had no recollection of the tears that slowly spilled down each cheek until Carlo cupped her face and erased them with a single movement of his thumb.

  His lips brushed hers, gently, back and forth, then angled in sensual possession.

  Afterwards he simply held her until her breathing slowed and steadied into a regular beat, then he gently eased her to lie beside him and held her close through the night.

  She barely stirred when he rose at eight, and he showered in a spare bathroom, then dressed and made breakfast.

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee stirred Aysha’s senses, and she fought through the final mists of sleep into wakefulness.

  ‘The tousled look suits you,’ Carlo teased as he placed the tray down onto the bedside pedestal. Her cheeks were softly flushed, her eyes slumberous, the dilated pupils making them seem too large for her face.

  ‘Hi.’ She made an attempt to pull the sheet a little higher, and incurred his husky laughter.

  ‘Your modesty is adorable, cara.’

  ‘Breakfast in bed,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘You’ve excelled yourself.’

  He lowered his head and bestowed an open-mouthed kiss to the edge of her throat, teased the tender skin with his teeth, then trailed a path to the gentle swell of her breast.

  ‘I aim to please.’

  Oh, yes, he did that. She retained a very vivid memory of just how well he’d managed to please her. Not that it had been entirely one-sided... She’d managed to take him further towards the edge than before. One of these days... nights, she amended, she planned to tip him over and watch him free-fall.

  ‘Naturally, your mind is more on food than me at this point, hmm?’

  Go much lower, and I won’t get to the food. ‘Of course,’ she offered demurely. ‘I’m going to need stamina to make it through the day.’

  ‘The bridal shower,’ he mused. His eyes met hers, and she regarded him solemnly.

  ‘Teresa wants the occasion to be memorable.’

  Carlo sank down onto the bed. ‘There’s orange juice, and caffeine to kick-start the day.’

  Together with toast, croissants, fruit preserve, cheese, wafer-thin slices of salami and prosciutto. A veritable feast.

  Aysha slid up in the bed, paying careful attention to keep the sheet tucked beneath her arms, and took the glass of juice from Carlo’s extended hand. Next came the coffee, then a croissant with preserve, followed by a piece of toast folded in half over a layer of cheese and prosciutto.

  ‘More coffee?’

  She hesitated, checked the time, then shook her head. ‘I said I’d be home around nine.’

  Carlo stood to his feet and collected the tray. ‘I’ll take this downstairs.’

  Ten minutes later she had showered, dressed and was ready to face the day. Light blue jeans sheathed her slim legs, hugged her hips, and she wore a fitted top that accentuated the delicate curve of her breasts.

  She skirted the servery, reached up and planted a light kiss against the edge of his jaw. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’

  He caught her close and slanted his mouth over hers with a possession that wreaked havoc with her equilibrium. Then he eased the pressure and brushed his lips over the swollen contours of her own, lingered at one corner, then gently released her.

  ‘I consider myself thanked.’

  Her eyes felt too large, and she quickly blinked in an effort to clear her vision. That had been... ‘cataclysmic’ was a word that came immediately to mind. And passionate, definitely passionate.

  Maybe she was beginning to scratch the surface of his control after all.

  That thought stayed with her as she took the lift down to the underground car park, and during the few kilometres to her parents’ home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AYSHA’S four bridesmaids were the first to arrive, followed by Gianna and a few of Teresa’s friends. Two aunts, three cousins, and a number of close friends.

  There were beautifully wrapped gifts, much laughter, a little wine, some champagne, and the exchange of numerous anecdotes. Entertainment was provided by a gifted magician whose expertise in pulling at least a hundred scarves from his hat and jacket pockets had to be seen to be believed.

  Coffee was served at three-thirty, and at four Teresa was summoned to the front door to accept the arrival of an unexpected guest.

  The speed with which Lianna, Aysha’ chief bridesmaid, joined Teresa aroused suspicion, and there was much laughter as a good-looking young man entered the lounge.

  ‘You didn’t—’ Aysha began, and one look at Lianna, Arianne, Suzanne and Tessa was sufficient to determine that her four bridesmaids were as guilty as sin.

  A portable tape-recorder was set on a coffee table, and when the music began he went into a series of choreographed movements as he began to strip.

  It was a tastefully orchestrated act, as such acts went. The young man certainly had the frame, the body, the muscles to execute the traditional bump-and-grind routine.

  ‘You refused to let us give you a ladies’ night out, so we had to do something,’ Lianna confided with an impish grin as everyone began to leave.

  ‘Fiend,’ Aysha chastised with affectionate remonstrance. ‘Wait until it’s your turn.’

  ‘What’ll you do to top it, Aysha? Hire a group of male strippers?’

  ‘Don’t put thoughts into my head,’ she threatened direly.

  The caterers tidied and cleaned up, then left fifteen minutes later, and Aysha crossed to the table where a selection of gifts were on display.

  From the intensely practical to the highly decorative, they were all beautiful and reflected the giver’s personality. A smile curved her lips. Lianna’s gift of a male stripper had been the wackiest.

  ‘You had no idea of Lianna’s surprise?’ Teresa queried as she crossed to her side.

  ‘None,’ Aysha answered truthfully, and curved an arm around her mother’s waist. ‘Thanks, Mamma, for a lovely afternoon.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Aysha grinned unashamedly. ‘Even the stripper?’ she teased, and glimpsed the faint pink colour in her mother’s cheeks.

  ‘No comment.’

  She began to laugh. ‘All right, let’s change the subject. What shall we do with these gifts?’

  They set them on a table in one of the rooms Teresa had organised for displaying the wedding presents, and when that was done Aysha went upstairs and changed into tailored trousers and matching silk top.

  It was after six when she entered Carlo’s penthouse apartment, and she crossed directly into the kitchen to deposit the carry-sack containing a selection of Chinese takeaways she’d collected en route from home.

  ‘Let me guess. Chinese, Thai, Malaysian?’ Carlo drawled as he entered the kitchen, and she directed him a winsome smile.

  ‘Chinese. And I picked up some videos.’

  ‘You have plans to spend a quiet night?’

  She opened cupboards and extracted two plates, then collected cutlery. ‘I think I’ve had enough excitement for the day.’ And through last night.

  ‘Care to elaborate on the afternoon?’

  Her eyes sparkled with hidden devilry. ‘Lianna ordered a male stripper.’ She decided to tease him a little. ‘He was young, built, and gorgeous.’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Ask Gianna; she was there.’

  ‘Indeed?’ His eyes speared hers. ‘Perhaps I need t
o hear more about this gorgeous hunk.’

  Carlo had her heart, her soul. It never ceased to hurt that she didn’t have his.

  ‘Well...’ She deliberated. ‘There was the body to die for.’ She ticked off each attribute with teasing relish. ‘Longish hair, tied in this cute little ponytail, and when he let it free... wow, so sexy. No apparent body hair.’ Her eyes sparkled with devilish humour. ‘Waxing must be a pain... literally. And he had the cutest butt.’

  Carlo’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and she gave him an irrepressible grin. ‘He stripped down to a thong bikini brief.’

  ‘I imagine Teresa and Gianna were relieved.’

  She tried hard not to laugh, and failed as a chuckle emerged. ‘They appeared to enjoy the show.’

  His lips twitched. ‘An unexpected show, unless I’m mistaken.’

  ‘Totally,’ she agreed, and viewed the various cartons she’d deposited on the servery. ‘Let’s be really decadent,’ she suggested lightly. ‘And watch a video while we eat.’

  The first was a thriller, the acting sufficiently superb to bring an audience to the edge of their seats, and the second was a comedy about a wedding where everything that could go wrong, did. It was funny, slapstick, and over the top, but in amongst the frivolity was a degree of reality Aysha could identify with.

  In between videos she’d tidied cartons and rinsed plates, made coffee, and now she carried the cups through to the kitchen.

  She felt pleasantly tired as she ascended the stairs to the main bedroom, and after a quick shower she slid between the sheets to curl comfortably in the circle of Carlo’s arms with her head pillowed against his chest.

  Within minutes she fell asleep, and she was unaware of the light touch as Carlo’s lips brushed the top of her head, or the feather-light trail of his fingers as they smoothed a path over the surface of her skin.

  They woke late, lingered over breakfast, then took Giuseppe’s cabin cruiser for a day trip up the Hawkesbury River. They returned as the sun set in a glorious flare of fading colour and the cityscape sprang to life with a myriad of pin-prick lights.

  Magic, Aysha reflected, as the wonder of nature and manmade technology overwhelmed her.

  Tomorrow the shopping would begin in earnest as Teresa initiated the first of her many lists of Things to Do.

  ‘Mamma, is this really necessary?’

  As shopping went, it had been a profitable day with regard to acquisitions. Teresa, it appeared, was bent on spending money . . . Serious money.

  ‘You’re the only child I have,’ Teresa said simply. ‘Don’t deny me the pleasure of giving my daughter the best wedding I can provide.’

  Aysha tucked her hand through her mother’s arm and hugged it close. ‘Don’t rain on my parade, huh?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘OK. The dress, if you insist. But...’ She paused, and cast Teresa a stern look. ‘That’s it,’ she admonished.

  ‘For today.’

  They joined the exodus of traffic battling to exit choked city streets, and made it to Vaucluse at five-thirty, leaving very little time to shower, change and be ready to leave the house at six thirty.

  ‘You go on ahead,’ Teresa suggested. ‘I’ll put these in the room next to yours. We can sort through them tomorrow.’

  Aysha raced upstairs to her bedroom, then discarded her clothes and made for the shower. Minutes later she wound a towel round her slim curves, removed the excess moisture from her hair and wielded the hairdrier to good effect.

  Basic make-up followed, then she crossed to the walk-in robe, cast a quick discerning eye over the carefully co-ordinated contents, and extracted a figure-hugging gown in black.

  The hemline rested at mid-thigh, the overall length extended slightly by a wide border of scalloped lace. The design was sleeveless, backless, and cunningly styled to show a modest amount of cleavage. Thin shoulder straps ensured the gown stayed in place.

  Sheer black pantyhose? Or should she settle for bare legs and almost non-existent thong bikini briefs? And very high stiletto-heeled pumps?

  Minimum jewellery, she decided, and she’d sweep her hair into a casual knot atop her head.

  Half an hour later she descended the stairs to the lower floor and entered the lounge. Teresa and Giuseppe were grouped together sharing a light aperitif.

  Her father turned towards her, his expression a comedic mix of parental pride and male appreciation. Any hint of paternal remonstrance was absent, doubtless on the grounds that his beloved daughter was safely spoken for, on the verge of marriage, and therefore he had absolutely nothing to worry about.

  Teresa, however, was something else. One glance was all it took for those dark eyes to narrow fractionally and the lips to thin. Appearance was everything, and tonight Aysha did not fit her mother’s required image.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a little...?’ Teresa paused delicately. ‘Bold, darling?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Aysha conceded, and directed her father a teasing glance. ‘Papà?’

  Giuseppe was well versed in the ways of mother and daughter, and sought a diplomatic response. ‘I’m sure Carlo will be most appreciative.’ He gestured towards a crystal decanter. ‘Can I fix you a spritzer?’

  She hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, just nibbled on fresh fruit, sipped several glasses of water, and taken three cups of long black coffee. Alcohol would go straight to her head. ‘I stopped by the kitchen when I arrived home and fixed some juice,’ she declined gently. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Carlo now.’

  The light crunch of car tires, the faint clunk of a door closing, followed by the distant sound of melodic door chimes heralded his arrival, and within seconds their live-in housekeeper ushered him into the lounge.

  Aysha crossed the room and caught hold of his hand, then offered her cheek for his kiss. It was a natural gesture, one that was expected, and only she heard the light teasing murmur close to her ear. ‘Stunning.’

  His arm curved round the back of her waist and he drew her with him as he moved to accept Teresa’s greeting.

  ‘A drink, Carlo?’

  ‘I’ll wait until dinner.’

  It would be easy to lean in against him, and for a moment she almost did. Except there was no one to impress, and the evening lay ahead.

  Giuseppe swallowed the remainder of his wine, and placed his glass down onto the tray. ‘In that case, perhaps we should be on our way. Teresa?’

  At that moment the phone rang, and Teresa frowned in disapproval. ‘I hope that’s not going to make us late.’

  Not unless the call heralded something of dire consequence; there wasn’t a chance. Aysha bit back on the mockery, and sensed her mother’s words even before they were uttered.

  ‘You and Carlo go on ahead. We won’t be far behind you.’

  Sliding into the passenger seat of the car was achieved with greater decorum than she expected, and she was in the process of fastening her seatbelt when Carlo moved behind the wheel.

  A deft flick of his wrist and the engine purred to life. Almost a minute later they had traversed the curved driveway and were heading towards the city.

  ‘Am I correct in assuming the dress is a desire to shock?’

  Aysha heard the drawling voice, sensed the underlying cynicism tinged with humour, and turned to look at him. ‘Does it succeed?’

  She was supremely conscious of the amount of bare thigh showing, and she fought against the temptation to take hold of the hemline and attempt to tug it down.

  He turned slightly towards her, and in that second she was acutely aware of the darkness of his eyes, the faint curve of his mouth, the gleam of white teeth.

  ‘Teresa didn’t approve.’

  ‘You know her so well,’ she indicated wryly. ‘Papà seemed to think you’d be appreciative.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ Carlo declared. ‘As I’m sure every other man in the room will be.’

  She directed him a stunning smile. ‘You say the nicest thing
s.’

  ‘Careful you don’t overdo it, cara.’

  ‘I’m aiming for brilliance.’

  For one brief second her eyes held the faintest shadow, then it was gone. He lifted a hand and brushed light fingers down her cheek.

  ‘A few hours, four at the most. Then we can leave.’

  Yes, she thought sadly. And tomorrow it will start all over again. The shopping, fittings, social obligations. Each day it seemed to get worse. Fulfilling her mother’s expectations, having her own opinions waved aside, the increasing tension. If only Teresa wasn’t bent on turning everything into such a production.

  Suburban Point Piper was a neighbouring suburb and took only minutes to reach.

  Carlo turned between ornate wrought-iron gates and parked behind a stylish Jaguar. Four, no, five cars lined the curved driveway, and Aysha experienced a moment’s hesitation as she moved towards the few steps leading to the main entrance.

  There had been countless precedents of an evening such as this, Aysha reflected as she accepted a light wine and exchanged pleasantries with fellow guests.

  Beautiful home, gracious host and hostess. The requisite mingling over drinks for thirty minutes before dinner. Any number between ten to twenty guests, a splendid table. An exquisite floral centre-piece. The guests carefully selected to complement each other.

  ‘Carlo, darling.’

  Aysha heard the greeting, recognised the sultry feminine purr, and turned slowly to face one of several women who had worked hard to win Carlo’s affection.

  Now that the wedding was imminent, most had retired gracefully from the hunt. With the exception of Nina di Salvo.

  The tall, svelte fashion consultant was a femme fatale, wealthy, widowed, and selectively seeking a husband of equal wealth and social standing.

  Nina was admired, even adored, by men. For her style, beauty and wit. Women recognised the predatory element existent, and reacted accordingly.

  ‘Aysha,’ Nina acknowledged. ‘You look...’ The pause was deliberate. ‘A little tired. All the preparations getting to you, darling?’

  Aysha summoned a winsome smile and honed the proverbial dart. ‘Carlo doesn’t permit me enough sleep.’