The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘You were right,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t have missed the church service for the world.’

  His smile melted her bones, and her stomach executed a series of crazy somersaults as he took her hands to his lips and kissed each one in turn.

  ‘I’ll carry the image of you walking towards me down the aisle for the rest of my life.’

  She traced a gentle finger down the vertical crease of his cheek and lingered at the edge of his mouth. ‘Now we get to cut the cake and drink champagne.’

  ‘And I get to dance with my wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ she teased mercilessly. ‘After the speeches, the food, the photographs...’

  ‘Then I get to take you home.’

  Oh, my. She breathed unsteadily. How was she going to get through the next few hours?

  With the greatest of ease, she reflected several hours later as they circled the guests and made their farewells.

  Teresa deserved tremendous credit, for without doubt she had staged the production of her dreams and turned it into the wedding of the year. Press coverage, the media, the church, ceremony, catering, cake... Everything had gone according to plan, except for a few minor hiccups.

  A very special day, and one Aysha would always treasure. But it was the evening she and Carlo had exchanged their wedding vows that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  Saying goodbye to her parents proved an emotional experience, for among their happiness and joy she could sense a degree of sadness at her transition from daughter to wife.

  Tradition died hard, and Aysha hugged them tight and conveyed her appreciation not only for the day and the night, but for the care and devotion they’d accorded her from the day she was born.

  There was confetti, rice, and much laughter as they escaped to the limousine. A short drive to an inner city hotel, and then the ascent by lift to the suite Carlo had booked for the night.

  Aysha gave a startled gasp as he released the door then swept her into his arms and carried her inside.

  ‘Now,’ he began teasingly, as he pulled her close. ‘I get to do this.’

  This was a very long, intensely passionate kiss, and she just held on and clung as she met and matched his raw, primitive desire.

  Then he gently released her and crossed to the table, where champagne rested on ice.

  Aysha watched as Carlo loosened the cork on the bottle of champagne.

  Froth spilled from the neck in a gentle spume, and she laughed softly as he picked up a flute to catch the foaming liquid.

  ‘I’ve done that successfully at least a hundred times.’ He partly filled another, then he handed her one, and touched the rim with his own. ‘To us.’

  Her mouth curved to form a generous smile, and her eyes... A man could drown in those luminous grey depths, at times mysterious, winsome, wicked. Today they sparkled with warmth, laughter and love. He wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms. Hold and absorb her until she was part of him, and never let go.

  ‘Happiness, always,’ said Aysha gently, and sipped the fine champagne.

  He placed the bottle and the flute down onto the coffee table, then he gently cradled her face between both hands.

  ‘I love you.’ His mouth closed over hers in a soft, open-mouthed kiss which reduced her to a quivering boneless mass.

  ‘Have I told you how beautiful you looked today?’ Carlo queried long minutes later.

  After three times she’d stopped counting. ‘Yes,’ she teased, pressing a finger against the centre of his lower lip. Her eyes dilated as he took the tip into his mouth and began to caress it slowly with his tongue.

  Heat suffused her veins, coursing through her body until she was on fire with need.

  ‘There’s just one thing.’

  He buried his mouth in its palm. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Fool,’ she accorded gently, and watched in fascination as his expression assumed a seriousness that was at variance with the day, the hour, the moment.

  ‘Anything, cara,’ he repeated solemnly. ‘Any time, anywhere. All you have to do is ask.’

  She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. It frightened her to think she had so much power over this man. It was a quality she intended to treat with the utmost respect and care.

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘I don’t need anything,’ Carlo assured her. ‘Except you.’

  She kissed him briefly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ What she sought reposed within easy reach, and she took the few steps necessary to extract the white envelope, then she turned and placed it in his hand.

  ‘Cara? What is this?’

  A telephone call, specific instructions, a lecture on the necessity to protect her interests, and time out in a very hectic schedule to attach her signature in the presence of her legal advisor.

  ‘Open and read it.’

  Carlo’s eyes sharpened as he extracted the neatly pinned papers, and as he unfolded and began to scan the affidavit it became apparent what she’d done.

  He lowered the papers and regarded her carefully. ‘Aysha—’

  ‘I love you. I always have, for as long as I can remember.’ She thought she might die from the intensity of it. ‘I always will.’

  It was a gift beyond price. ‘I know.’ Carlo’s voice was incredibly gentle. Just as his love for her would endure. It was something he intended to reinforce every day for the rest of his life.

  ‘Come here,’ he bade softly, extending his arms, and she went into them gladly, wrapping her own round his waist as he enfolded her close.

  The papers fluttered to the floor as his lips covered hers, and she gave herself up to the sensual magic that was theirs alone.

  Heaven didn’t get much better than this, Aysha mused dreamily as he swept an arm beneath her knees and strode towards the stairs.

  ‘Ti amo,’ she whispered. ‘Ti amo.’

  Carlo paused and took possession of her mouth with his own in a kiss that held so much promise she almost wept. ‘In eterno.’ Eternity, and beyond.

  In the Spaniard’s

  Bed

  Helen Bianchin

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘I’M ON my way.’ Cassandra released the intercom, caught up her evening purse, keys, exited her apartment and took the lift down to the foyer where her brother was waiting.

  At twenty-nine he was two years her senior, and he shared her blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes. Average height in comparison to her petite frame.

  ‘Wow,’ Cameron complimented with genuine admiration, and she responded with an affectionate smile.

  ‘Brotherly love, huh?’

  The ice-pink gown moulded her slender curves, its spaghetti straps showing silky skin to an advantage, and the diagonal ruffled split to mid-thigh showcased beautifully proportioned legs. A gossamer wrap in matching ice-pink completed the outfit, and her jewellery was understated.

  ‘Seriously cool.’

  She tilted her head to one side as she tucked a hand through his arm. ‘Let’s go slay the masses.’

  Tonight’s fundraiser was a prestigious event whose guests numbered among Sydney’s social élite. Held in the ballroom of a prominent city hotel, it was one of several annual soirées Cassandra and her brother attended on their father’s behalf after a heart attack and stroke two years ago forced him into early retirement.

  Guests were mingling in the large foyer when they arrived, and she summoned a practised smile as she acknowledged a few acquaintances, pausing to exchange a greeting with one friend or another as she selected iced water from a hovering drinks waiter.

  Observing the social niceties was something she did well. Private schooling and a finishing year in France had added polish and panache. The Preston-Villers family held a certain social standing of which her father was justly proud.

  While Cameron had been groomed to enter the Preston-Villers conglomerate from an early age, Cassandra chose to pursue gemmology and jewellery design, added the necessary degree, studied with a well
-known jeweller and she was now beginning to gain a reputation for her work.

  Mixing and mingling was part of the social game, and she did it well.

  Committee members conferred and worked the room in a bid to ensure the evening’s success. The hotel ballroom was geared to seat a thousand guests, and it was rumoured there had been a waiting list for last-minute ticket cancellations.

  ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

  Cassandra met Cameron’s gaze, examined his expression, and restrained a faint frown as she glimpsed the slight edginess apparent.

  ‘Here, now?’ she queried lightly, and waited for his usual carefree smile.

  ‘Later.’

  It couldn’t be anything serious, she dismissed, otherwise he would have mentioned it during the drive in to the city.

  ‘Darling, how are you?’

  The soft feminine purr evoked a warm smile as she turned to greet the tall, slender model. ‘Siobhan.’ Her eyes sparkled. They’d attended the same school, shared much, and were firm friends. ‘I’m fine, and you?’

  ‘Flying out to Rome tomorrow, then it’s Milan followed by Paris.’

  Cassandra uttered a subdued chuckle in amusement. ‘It’s a hard life.’

  Siobhan grinned. ‘But an interesting one,’ she conceded. ‘I have a date with an Italian count in Rome.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Old money, and divine.’

  The musing twinkle in those gorgeous green eyes brought forth a husky laugh as Cassandra shook her head. ‘You’re wicked.’

  ‘This time it’s serious,’ Siobhan declared as Cassandra’s smile widened.

  ‘It always is.’

  ‘Got to go. The parents are in tow.’

  ‘Have fun.’

  ‘I shall. In Italy.’ She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Cassandra’s in a gesture of affection.

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘Always.’

  Soon the ballroom doors would be open, and guests would be called to take their seats. There would be the introductory and explanatory speeches, the wine stewards would do their thing, and the first course served.

  Speaking of which, she was hungry. Lunch had been yoghurt and fruit snatched between the usual weekend chores.

  Cameron appeared deep in conversation with a man she presumed to be a business associate, and she sipped chilled water from her glass as she debated whether to join him.

  At that moment she felt the warning prickle of awareness as her senses went on alert, and she let her gaze skim the guests.

  There was only one man who had this particular effect on her equilibrium.

  Innate instinct? An elusive knowledge based on the inexplicable?

  Whatever, it was crazy. Maddening.

  Maybe this time she had it wrong. Although all it took was one glance at that familiar dark head to determine her instinct was right on target.

  Diego del Santo. Successful entrepreneur, one of the city’s nouveau riche…and her personal nemesis.

  Born in New York of Spanish immigrant parents, it was reported he’d lived in the wrong part of town, fought for survival in the streets, and made his money early, so it was rumoured, by means beyond legitimate boundaries of the law.

  He took risks, it was said, no sensible man would touch. Yet those risks had paid off a million-fold several times over. Literally.

  In idle fascination she watched as he turned towards her, then he murmured something to his companion and slowly closed the distance between them.

  ‘Cassandra.’

  The voice was low, impossibly deep with the barest trace of an accent, and possessed of the power to send tiny shivers feathering the length of her spine.

  Tall, broad-framed, with the sculptured facial features of his Spanish ancestors. Dark, well-groomed hair, dark, almost black eyes, and a mouth that promised a thousand delights.

  A mouth that had briefly tasted her own when she’d disobeyed her father and persuaded Cameron to take her to a party. Sixteen years old, emerging hormones, a sense of the forbidden combined with a desire to play grown-up had proved a volatile mix. Add her brother with his own agenda, a few sips too many of wine, a young man who seemed intent on leading her astray, and she could easily have been in over her head. Except Diego del Santo had materialised out of nowhere, intervened, read her the Riot Act, then proceeded to show her precisely what she should be wary of when she heedlessly chose to flirt. Within minutes he had summoned Cameron and she found herself bundled into her brother’s car and driven home.

  Eleven years had passed since that fateful episode, ten of which Diego had spent in his native New York creating his fortune.

  Yet she possessed a vivid recollection of how it felt to have his mouth savour her own. The electric primitiveness of his touch, almost as if he had reached down to her soul and staked a claim.

  Diego del Santo had projected a raw quality that meshed leashed savagery with blatant sensuality. A dangerously compelling mix, and one that attracted females from fifteen to fifty.

  Now there were no rough edges, and he bore the mantle of power with the same incredible ease he wore his designer clothes.

  In his mid-to-late thirties, Diego del Santo was a seriously rich man whose property investments and developments formed a financial portfolio that edged him close to billionaire status.

  As such, his return to Australia a year ago had soon seen him become an A-list member of Sydney’s social élite, receiving invitations to each and every soirée of note. His acceptance was selective, and his donations to worthy charities, legend.

  Preston-Villers’ involvement with similar charity events and her father’s declining health meant they were frequently fellow guests at one function or another. It was something she accepted, and dealt with by presenting a polite façade.

  Only she knew the effect he had on her. The way her pulse jumped and thudded to a rapid beat. No one could possibly be aware her stomach curled into a painful knot at the mere sight of him, or how one glance at his sensual mouth heated the blood in her veins in a vivid reminder of the way it felt to have that mouth possess her own.

  The slow sweep of his tongue, the promise of passion, the gentle, coaxing quality that caught her tentative response and took it to an undreamt-of dimension.

  Eleven years. Yet his kiss was hauntingly vivid…a taunting example by which she’d unconsciously measured each kiss that followed it. None matched up, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself imagination had merely enhanced the memory.

  There were occasions when she thought she should dispense with her own curiosity and accept one of his many invitations. Yet each time something held her back, an innate knowledge such a step would put her way out of her depth.

  His invitations and her refusals had become something akin to a polite game they each played. What would he do, she mused, if she surprised him by accepting?

  Are you insane? a tiny voice queried insidiously.

  ‘Diego,’ Cassandra acknowledged coolly, meeting his compelling gaze with equanimity, watching as he inclined his head to her brother.

  ‘Cameron.’

  For a millisecond she thought she glimpsed some unspoken signal pass between the men, then she dismissed it as fanciful.

  ‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Tonight’s event was a charity fundraiser aiding state-of-the-art equipment for a special wing of the city’s children’s hospital.

  Without doubt there were a number of guests with a genuine interest in the nominated charity. However, the majority viewed the evening as a glitz-and-glamour function at which the women would attempt to outdo each other with designer gowns and expensive jewellery, whilst the men wheeled and dealed beneath the guise of socialising.

  Diego del Santo didn’t fit easily into any recognisable category.

  Not that she had any interest in pigeon-holing him. In fact, she did her best to pretend he didn’t exist. Something he seemed intent on proving other
wise.

  He could have any woman he wanted. And probably did. His photo graced the social pages of numerous newspapers and magazines, inevitably with a stunning female glued to his side.

  There was a primitive quality evident. A hint of something dangerous beneath the surface should anyone dare to consider scratching it.

  A man who commanded respect and admiration in the boardroom. Possessed of the skill, so it was whispered, and the passion to drive a woman wild in the bedroom.

  It was a dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and latent sensuality. Lethal.

  Some women would excel at the challenge of taming him, enjoying the ride for however long it lasted. But she wasn’t one of them. Only a fool ventured into the devil’s playground with the hope they wouldn’t get burnt.

  Eluding Diego was a game she became adept at playing. If they happened to meet, she offered a polite smile, acknowledged his presence, then moved on.

  Yet their social schedule was such, those occasions were many. If she didn’t know better, she could almost swear he was intent on playing a game of his own.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Cassandra ventured. ‘There’s someone I should catch up with.’ A time-worn phrase, trite but true, for there were always a few friends she could greet by way of escape.

  Cameron wanted to protest, she could tell, although Diego del Santo merely inclined his head.

  Which didn’t help at all, for she could feel those dark eyes watching her as she moved away.

  Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and something tugged deep inside in a vivid reminder of the effect he had on her composure.

  Get over it, she chided silently as she deliberately sought a cluster of friends and blended seamlessly into their conversation.

  Any time soon the doors into the ballroom would open and guests would be encouraged to take their seats at designated tables. Then she could rejoin Cameron, and prepare to enjoy the evening.

  ‘You had no need to disappear,’ Cameron chastised as she moved to his side.

  ‘Diego del Santo might be serious eye candy, but he’s not my type.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She managed a smile, held it, and began threading her way towards their table.