The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Do you know who else is joining us?’ Cassandra queried lightly as she slid into one of four remaining seats, and took time to greet the six guests already seated.

  ‘Here they are now.’

  She registered Cameron’s voice, glanced up from the table…and froze.

  Diego del Santo and the socialite and model, Alicia Vandernoot.

  No. The silent scream seemed to echo inside her head.

  It was bad enough having to acknowledge his presence and converse for a few minutes. To have to share a table with him for the space of an evening was way too much!

  Had Cameron organised this? She wanted to rail against him and demand Why? Except there wasn’t the opportunity to do so without drawing unwanted attention.

  If Diego chose the chair next to hers, she’d scream!

  Of course he did. It was one of the correct dictums of society when it came to seating arrangements. Although she had little doubt he enjoyed the irony.

  Cassandra murmured a polite greeting, and her faint smile was a mere facsimile.

  This close she was far too aware of him, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes, the subtle aroma of his exclusive cologne.

  Yet it was the man himself, his potent masculinity and the sheer primitive force he exuded that played havoc with her senses.

  A few hours, she consoled herself silently. All she had to do was sip wine, eat the obligatory three courses set in front of her, and make polite conversation. She could manage that, surely?

  Not so easy, Cassandra acknowledged as she displayed intent interest in the charity chairperson’s introduction prior to revealing funding endeavours, results and expectations.

  Every nerve in her body was acutely attuned to Diego del Santo, supremely conscious of each move he made.

  ‘More water?’

  He had topped up Alicia’s goblet, and now offered to refill her own.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Her goblet was part-empty, but she’d be damned if she’d allow him to tend to her.

  Did he sense her reaction? Probably. He was too astute not to realise her excruciating politeness indicated she didn’t want anything to do with him.

  Uniformed waiters delivered starters with practised efficiency, and she forked the artistically arranged food without appetite.

  ‘The seafood isn’t to your satisfaction?’

  His voice was an accented drawl tinged with amusement, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity, almost inclined to offer a negation just to see what he’d do, aware he’d probably summon the waiter and insist on a replacement.

  ‘Yes.’

  The single affirmative surprised her, and she deliberately widened her eyes. ‘You read minds?’

  The edge of his mouth curved, and there was a humorous gleam apparent. ‘It’s one of my talents.’

  Cassandra deigned not to comment, and deliberately turned her attention to the contents on her plate, unsure if she heard his faint, husky chuckle or merely imagined it.

  He was the most irritating, impossible man she’d ever met. Examining why wasn’t on her agenda. At least that’s what she told herself whenever Diego’s image intruded…on far too many occasions for her peace of mind.

  It was impossible to escape the man. He was there, a constant in the media, cementing another successful business deal, escorting a high-profile female personality to one social event or another. Cameron accorded him an icon, and mentioned him frequently in almost reverent tones.

  Tonight Diego del Santo had chosen to invade her personal space. Worse, she had little option but to remain in his immediate proximity for a few hours, and she resented his manipulation, hated him for singling her out as an object for his amusement.

  For that was all it was…and it didn’t help that she felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall.

  Cassandra took a sip of wine, and deliberately engaged Cameron in conversation, the thread of which she lost minutes later as the waiter removed plates from their table.

  She was supremely conscious of Diego’s proximity, the shape of his hand as he reached for his wine goblet, the way his fingers curved over the delicate glass…and couldn’t stop the wayward thought as to how his hands would glide over a woman’s skin.

  Where had that come from?

  Dear heaven, the wine must have affected her brain! The last thing she wanted was any physical contact with a man of Diego del Santo’s ilk.

  ‘Your speciality is gemmology, I believe?’

  Think of the devil and he speaks, she alluded with silent cynicism as she turned towards him. ‘Polite conversation, genuine interest,’ she inclined, and waited a beat. ‘Or an attempt to alleviate boredom?’

  His expression didn’t change, although she could have sworn something moved in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘Let’s aim for the middle ground.’

  There was a quality to his voice, an inflexion she preferred to ignore. ‘Natural precious gemstones recovered in the field by mining or fossiking techniques are the most expensive.’ Such facts were common knowledge. ‘For a jewellery designer, they give more pleasure to work with, given there’s a sense of nature and the process of their existence. It becomes a personal challenge to have the stones cut in such a way they display maximum beauty. The designer’s gift to ensure the design and setting reflect the stone’s optimal potential.’ A completed study of gemmology had led to her true passion of jewellery design.

  Diego saw the way her mouth softened and her eyes came alive. It intrigued him, as she intrigued him.

  ‘You are not in favour of the synthetic or simulants?’

  Her expression faded a little. ‘They’re immensely popular and have a large market.’

  His gaze held hers. ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’ He lifted a hand and fingered the delicate argyle diamond nestling against the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Your work?’ It was a rhetorical question. He’d made it his business to view her designs, without her knowledge, and was familiar with each and every one of them.

  She flinched at his touch, hating his easy familiarity almost as much as she hated the tell-tale warmth flooding her veins.

  If she could, she’d have flung the icy contents of her glass in his face. Instead, she forced her voice to remain calm. ‘Yes.’

  A woman could get lost in the depths of those dark eyes, for there was warm sensuality lurking just beneath the surface, a hint, a promise, of the delights he could provide.

  Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and she barely repressed a shiver at the thought of his mouth on hers, the touch of his hands…how it would feel to be driven wild, beyond reason, by such a man.

  ‘Have dinner with me tomorrow night.’

  ‘The obligatory invitation?’ Her response was automatic, and she tempered it with a gracious, ‘Thank you. No.’

  The edge of his mouth lifted. ‘The obligatory refusal…because you have to wash your hair?’

  ‘I can come up with something more original.’ She could, easily. Except she doubted an excuse, no matter how legitimate-sounding, would fool him.

  ‘You won’t change your mind?’

  Cassandra offered a cool smile. ‘What part of no don’t you understand?’

  Diego reached for the water jug and refilled her glass. The sleeve of his jacket brushed her arm, and her stomach turned a slow somersault at the contact.

  It was as well the waiters began delivering the main course, and she sipped wine in the hope it would soothe her nerves.

  Chance would be a fine thing! She was conscious of every move he made, aware of the restrained power beneath the fine Armani tailoring, the dangerous aura he seemed to project without any effort at all.

  Another two hours. Three at the most. Then she could excuse herself and leave. If Cameron wanted to stay on, she’d take a cab home.

  Cassandra drew a calming breath and regarded the contents on her plate. The meal was undoubtedly delicious, but her appetite had vanished.

  With determined effort she cau
ght Cameron’s attention, and deliberately sought his opinion on something so inconsequential that afterwards she had little recollection of the discussion.

  There were the usual speeches, followed by light entertainment as dessert and coffee were served. Never had time dragged quite so slowly, nor could she recall an occasion when she’d so badly wanted the evening to end.

  To her surprise, it was Cameron who initiated the desire to leave, citing a headache as the reason, and Cassandra rose to her feet, offered a polite goodnight to the occupants of their table, then preceded her brother out to the foyer.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  He looked pale, too pale, and a slight frown creased her brow as they headed towards the bank of lifts. ‘Headache?’ She extended her hand as he retrieved his car keys. ‘Want me to drive?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  MINUTES later she slid behind the wheel and sent the car up to street level to join the flow of traffic. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and cool indicative of spring.

  A lovely time of year, she accorded silently as she negotiated lanes and took the route that led to Double Bay.

  Fifteen, twenty minutes tops, and she’d be home. Then she could get out of the formal gear, cleanse off her make-up, and slip into bed.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  Cassandra spared him a quick glance. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  It was most unlike Cameron to be taciturn. ‘Is something wrong?’ Her eyes narrowed as the car in front came to a sudden stop, and she uttered an unladylike curse as she stamped her foot hard on the brakes.

  ‘Hell, Cassandra,’ he muttered. ‘Watch it!’

  ‘Tell that to the guy in front.’ Her voice held unaccustomed vehemence. Choosing silence for the remaining time it took to reach her apartment seemed a wise option. The last thing she coveted was an argument.

  ‘Park in the visitors’ bay,’ Cameron instructed as she swept the car into the bricked apron adjacent to the main entrance.

  ‘You’re coming up?’

  ‘It’s either that, or we talk in the car.’

  He didn’t seem to be giving her a choice as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid out from the passenger seat.

  She followed, inserted her personalised card into the security slot to gain entry into the foyer, and used it again to summon a lift.

  ‘I hope this won’t take long,’ she cautioned as she preceded him into her apartment, then she turned to face him. ‘OK, shoot.’

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again and ran a hand through his hair. ‘This isn’t easy.’

  The tension of the evening began to manifest itself into tiredness, and she rolled her shoulders. ‘Just spit it out.’

  ‘The firm is in trouble. Major financial trouble,’ he elaborated. ‘If Dad found out just how hopeless everything is, it would kill him.’

  Ice crept towards the region of her heart. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Preston-Villers is on a roller-coaster ride to insolvency.’

  ‘What?’ She found it difficult to comprehend. ‘How?’

  He was ready to crumple, and it wasn’t a good look.

  ‘Bad management, bad deals, unfulfilled contracts. Staff problems. You name it, it happened.’

  She adored her brother, but he wasn’t the son her father wanted. Cameron didn’t possess the steel backbone, the unflagging determination to take over directorship of Preston-Villers. Their father had thought it would be the making of his son. Now it appeared certain to be his ruination.

  ‘Just how bad is it?’

  Cameron grimaced, and shot her a desperate look. ‘The worst.’ He held up a hand. ‘Yes, I’ve done the round of banks, financiers, sought independent advice.’ He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘It narrows down to two choices. Liquidate, or take a conditional offer.’

  Hope was uppermost, and she ran with it. ‘The offer is legitimate?’

  ‘Yes.’ He rubbed a weary hand along his jaw. ‘An investor is prepared to inject the necessary funds, I get to retain an advisory position, he brings in his professional team, shares joint directorship, and takes a half-share of all profits.’

  It sounded like salvation, but there was need for caution. ‘Presumably you’ve taken legal advice on all this?’

  ‘It’s the only deal in town,’ he assured soberly. ‘There’s just a matter of the remaining condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He hesitated, then took a deep breath and expelled it. ‘You.’

  Genuine puzzlement brought forth a frown. ‘The deal has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  Like pieces of a puzzle, they began clicking into place, forming a picture she didn’t want to see. ‘Who made the offer?’ Dear God, no. It couldn’t be…

  ‘Diego del Santo.’

  Cassandra felt the blood drain from her face. Shock, disbelief, anger followed in quick succession. ‘You can’t be serious?’ The words held a hushed quality, and for a few seconds she wondered if she’d actually uttered them.

  Cameron drew in a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘Deadly.’ To his credit, Cameron looked wretched.

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Her eyes assumed an icy gleam. ‘Diego del Santo intends making this personal?’ His image conjured itself in front of her, filling her vision, blinding her with it.

  ‘Without your involvement, the deal won’t go ahead.’

  She tried for calm, when inside she was a seething mass of anger. ‘My involvement being?’

  ‘He’ll discuss it with you over dinner tomorrow evening.’

  ‘The hell he will!’

  ‘Cassandra—’ Cameron’s features assumed a grey tinge. ‘You want Alexander to have another heart attack?’

  The words stopped her cold. The medics had warned a further attack could be his last. ‘How can you even say that?’

  She wanted to rail against him, demand why he’d let things progress beyond the point of no return. Yet recrimination wouldn’t solve a thing, except provide a vehicle to vent her feelings.

  ‘I want proof.’ The words were cool, controlled. ‘Facts,’ she elaborated, and glimpsed Cameron’s obvious discomfiture. ‘The how and why of it, and just how bad it is.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I need to be aware of all the angles,’ she elaborated. ‘Before I confront Diego del Santo.’

  Cameron went a paler shade of pale. ‘Confront?’

  She fired him a look that quelled him into silence. ‘If he thinks I’ll meekly comply with whatever he has in mind, then he can think again!’

  His mouth worked as he searched for the appropriate words. ‘Cass—’

  ‘Don’t Cass me.’ It was an endearing nickname that belonged to their childhood.

  ‘Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?’

  She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I think it’s about time Diego del Santo discovered who he is dealing with!’ She pressed fingers to her throbbing temples in order to ease the ache there.

  ‘Cassandra—’

  ‘Can we leave this until tomorrow?’ She needed to think. Most of all, she wanted to be alone. ‘I’ll organise lunch, and we’ll go through the paperwork together.’

  ‘It’s Sunday.’

  ‘What does that have to do with it?’

  Cameron lifted both hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Midday?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She saw him out the door, locked up, then she removed her make-up, undressed, then slid into bed to stare at the darkened ceiling for what seemed an age, sure hours later when she woke that she hadn’t slept at all.

  A session in the gym, followed by several laps of the pool eased some of her tension, and she re-entered her apartment, showered and dressed in jeans and a loose top, then crossed into the kitchen to prepare lunch.

  Cameron arrived at twelve, and presented her with a chilled bottle of ch
ampagne.

  ‘A little premature, don’t you think?’ she offered wryly as she prepared garlic bread and popped it into the oven to heat.

  ‘Something smells good,’ he complimented, and she wrinkled her nose at him.

  ‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere.’ Lunch was a seafood pasta dish she whipped up without any fuss, and accompanied by a fresh garden salad it was an adequate meal.

  ‘Let’s eat first, then we’ll deal with business. OK?’

  He didn’t look much better than she felt, and she wondered if he’d slept any more than she had.

  ‘Dad is expecting us for dinner.’

  It was a weekly family tradition, and one they observed almost without fail. Although the thought of presenting a false façade didn’t sit well. Her father might suffer ill-health, but he wasn’t an easy man to fool.

  ‘This pasta is superb,’ Cameron declared minutes later, and she inclined her head in silent acknowledgement.

  By tacit agreement they discussed everything except Preston-Villers, and it was only when the dishes were dealt with that Cassandra indicated Cameron’s briefcase.

  ‘Let’s begin, shall we?’

  It was worse, much worse than she had envisaged as she perused the paperwork tabling Preston-Villers slide into irretrievable insolvency. The accountant’s overview of the current situation was damning, and equally indisputable.

  She’d wanted proof. Now she had it.

  ‘I can think of several questions,’ she began, but only one stood out. ‘Why did you let things get this bad?’

  Cameron raked fingers through his hair. ‘I kept hoping the contracts would come in and everything would improve.’

  Instead, they’d gone from bad to worse.

  Cassandra damned Diego del Santo to hell and back, and barely drew short of including Cameron with him.

  ‘Business doesn’t succeed on hope.’ It needed a hard, competent hand holding the reins, taking control, making the right decisions.

  A man like Diego del Santo, a quiet voice insisted. Someone who could inject essential funds, and ensure everything ran like well-oiled clockwork.