The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Grazie, Gianna. I want to place them on the tables myself.’

  ‘Giovanna and I can do it, if it will help. You will have so much more to do.’

  Teresa inclined her head. ‘Carlo has the wedding rings? Annalisa has sewn the ring pillow, but the rings need to be tied onto it.’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘I must phone and see if she has the ribbon ready.’ She gathered cups and saucers together onto the tray while Gianna set some almond biscuits onto a plate.

  ‘The men won’t touch them, but if I don’t put a plate down with something Luigi will complain.’ She lifted a hand and let it fall to her side. ‘Yet when I produce it, he’ll say they don’t want biscuits with coffee.’ Her humour was wry. ‘Men. Who can understand them?’ She cast a practised eye over the tray. ‘We have everything. Let’s join them, shall we?’

  All three men were grouped together in front of the television engrossed in a televised, soccer match.

  Luigi was intent on berating the goal keeper for presumably missing the ball, Aysha determined, and her father appeared equally irate.

  ‘Turn off the set,’ Gianna instructed Luigi as she placed the tray down onto a coffee table. ‘We have guests.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he grumbled. ‘They’re family, not guests.’

  ‘It is impossible to talk with you yelling at the players.’ She cast him a stern glance. ‘Besides, you are taping it. When you replay you can yell all you like. Now we sit down and have coffee.’

  ‘La moglie.’ He raised his eyes heavenward.

  ‘Dio madonna. A man is not boss in his own house any more?’

  It was a familiar by-play, and one Aysha had heard many times over the years. Her father played a similar verbal game whenever Gianna and Luigi visited.

  Her eyes sought Carlo’s, and she glimpsed the faint humorous gleam evident as they waited silently for Gianna to take up the figurative ball.

  ‘Of course you are the boss. You need me to tell you this?’

  Luigi cast the tray an accusing glance. ‘You brought biscuits? What for? We don’t need biscuits with coffee. It spoils the taste of the grappa.’

  ‘Teresa and Aysha don’t have grappa,’ she admonished. ‘You don’t think maybe we might like biscuits?’

  ‘After cannoli you eat biscuits? You won’t sleep with indigestion.’

  ‘I won’t sleep anyway. After grappa you snore.’

  ‘I don’t snore.’

  ‘How do you know? Do you listen to yourself?’

  Luigi spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘Ah, Mamma, give it up, huh? We are with friends. You cooked a good dinner. Now it is time to relax.’ He held out a beckoning hand to Aysha. ‘Come here, ma tesora.’

  She crossed to his side and rested against the arm he curved round her waist.

  ‘When are you going to invite us to dinner at the new house?’

  ‘After they get back from the honeymoon,’ Gianna declared firmly. ‘Not before. It will bring bad luck.’

  Luigi didn’t take any notice. ‘Soon there will be bambini. Maybe already there is one started, huh, and you didn’t tell us?’

  ‘You talk too much,’ his wife chastised. ‘Didn’t you hear Aysha say she intends to wait a couple of years? Aysha, don’t listen to him.’

  ‘Ah, grandchildren. You have a boy first, to kick the soccer ball. Then a girl. The brother can look after his sister.’

  ‘Two boys,’ Giuseppe insisted, joining the conversation. ‘Then they can play together.’

  ‘Girls,’ Aysha declared solemnly. ‘They’re smarter, and besides they get to help me in the house.’

  ‘A boy and a girl.’

  ‘If you two vecchios have finished planning our children,’ Carlo intruded mildly as he extricated Aysha from his father’s clasp. ‘I’m going to take Aysha home.’

  ‘Vecchios? You call us old men?’ Giuseppe demanded, a split second ahead of Luigi’s query,

  ‘What are you doing going home? It’s early.’

  ‘Why do you think they’re going home?’ Gianna disputed. ‘They’re young. They want to, make love.’

  ‘Perhaps we should fool them and stay,’ Aysha suggested in an audible aside, and Carlo shook his head.

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference.’

  ‘But I haven’t had my coffee.’

  ‘You don’t need the caffeine.’

  ‘Making decisions for me?’

  ‘Looking out for you,’ Carlo corrected gently. ‘A few hours ago you had a headache. Unless I’m wrong, you’re still nursing one.’

  So he deserved full marks for observation. Without a further word she turned towards Luigi and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then she followed suit with her father before crossing to Teresa and Gianna.

  Saying goodbye stretched out to ten minutes, then they made it to the car, and seconds later Carlo eased the Mercedes through the gates and out onto the road.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘YOU threw me to the lions.’

  ‘Wrong century, cara,’ he informed her wryly. ‘And the so-called lions are pussy cats at heart.’

  ‘Teresa doesn’t always sheath her claws.’ It was an observation, not a condemnation. ‘There are occasions when being the only chick in the nest is a tremendous burden.’

  ‘Only if you allow it to be.’

  The headache seemed to intensify, and she closed her eyes. ‘Intent on playing amateur psychologist, Carlo?’

  ‘Friend.’

  Ah, now there’s a descriptive allocation, Aysha reflected. Friend. It had a affectionate feel to it, but affection was a poor substitute for love. The all-encompassing kind that prompted men to kill and die for it.

  She lapsed into silence as the car headed down towards Double Bay.

  ‘How’s the headache?’

  It had become a persistent ache behind one eye that held the promise of flaring into a migraine unless she took painkillers very soon. ‘There,’ she informed succinctly, and closed her eyes against the glare of oncoming headlights.

  Carlo didn’t offer another word during the drive to Clontarf, for which she was grateful, and she reached for the door-clasp as soon as the car drew to a halt outside the main entrance to the house.

  Aysha turned to thank him, only to have the words die in her throat at his bleak expression.

  ‘Don’t even think about uttering a word,’ he warned.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she dismissed wearily. ‘You’re intent on playing nurse.’

  His silence was an eloquent testament of his intention, and she slid from the car and mounted the few steps to the front door.

  Within minutes he’d located painkillers and was handing them to her together with a tumbler of water.

  ‘Take them.’

  She swallowed both tablets, then spared him a dark glance. ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Don’t be sassy,’ he said gently.

  Damn him. She didn’t need for him to be considerate. Macho she could handle. His gentleness simply undid her completely.

  Aysha knew she should object as he took hold of her hand and led her to one of the cushioned sofas, then pulled her down onto his lap, but it felt so good her murmur of protest never found voice.

  Just close your eyes and enjoy, a tiny imp prompted.

  It would take ten minutes for the tablets to begin to work, and when they did she’d get to 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 mag
ical. 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? Dear Lord, she hoped not. Yet it was a possibility. A probability, she amended, aware that with each passing day the wedding drew closer. Which meant Nina would become more desperate to seize the slightest opportunity.

  Aysha cursed beneath her breath at the thought of playing a part beneath Nina’s watchful gaze. Worse, having to clash polite verbal swords with a woman whose vindictiveness was aimed to maim.

  The harbour, with its various coves and inlets provided a scenic beauty unsurpassed anywhere in Australia, and she focused on the numerous small craft anchored at various moorings, cliff-top mansions dotted in between foliage.

  Peak hour traffic had subsided, although it took the best part of an hour to reach their destination. A seemingly endless collection of long minutes when polite, meaningless conversation lapsed into silence.

  ‘I guess our presence tonight is essential?’

  Carlo cast her a direct look. ‘If you’re concerned Nina might be there... don’t be. She won’t have the opportunity to misbehave.’

  ‘Do you really think you’ll be able to stop her?’ Aysha queried cynically.

  He met her gaze for one full second, then returned his attention to the road. ‘Watch me.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to.’ It could prove to be an interesting ev
ening.

  They reached the exclusive Palm Beach suburb at the appointed time, and Aysha viewed the number of cars lining the driveway with interest. At a guess there were at least thirty guests.

  Fifty, she re-calculated as their host drew them through the house and out onto the covered terrace.

  It was strictly smile-time, and she was so well versed in playing the part that it was almost second nature to circulate among the guests and exchange small-talk.

  A drink in one hand, she took a sip of excellent champagne and assured the hostess that almost every wedding detail was indeed organised, Claude, the wedding organiser, was indeed a gem, and, yes, she was desperately looking forward to the day.

  Details she repeated many times during the next hour. She was still holding on to her first glass of champagne, and she took a hot savoury from a proffered platter, then reached for another.

  ‘You missed dinner?’

  Aysha spared Carlo a slow, sweet smile. ‘How did you guess?’

  His mouth curved, and his dark eyes held a musing gleam. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘Why?’

  The need to touch her was paramount, and he brushed fingertips down her cheek. ‘We could have stopped somewhere for a meal.’

  Her eyes flared, then dilated to resemble deep grey pools. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Am I intruding on a little tiff?’

  Aysha heard the words, recognised the feminine voice, and summoned a credible smile.

  ‘Nina.’

  Nina avidly examined Aysha’s features, then fastened on the object of her obsession. She pressed exquisitely lacquered nails against the sleeve of Carlo’s jacket. ‘Trouble in paradise, caro?’

  ‘What makes you think there might be?’ His voice was pleasant, but there was no mistaking the icy hardness in his eyes as he removed Nina’s hand from his arm.

  Her pout was contrived to portray a sultry sexiness. ‘Body language, darling.’

  ‘Really?’ The smile that curved his lips was a mere facsimile. ‘In that case I would suggest your expertise is sadly lacking.’

  Oh, my, Aysha applauded silently. If she could detach herself emotionally, the verbal parrying was shaping into an interesting bout.