The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  With a small degree of reluctance Gabbi turned back to her desk and picked up the receiver to deal with the call.

  Five minutes later she replaced it, convinced no woman should have to cross verbal swords with an arrogant, sexist male whose sole purpose in life was to undermine a female contemporary.

  Coffee, hot, sweet and strong, seemed like a good idea, and she rose to her feet, intent on fetching it herself rather than have her secretary do it for her. There were several files she needed to check, and she extracted the pertinent folders and laid them on her desk.

  The private line beeped, and she reached for the receiver, expecting to hear James’s or Benedict’s voice. A lesser possibility was Marie and—even more remote—Monique.

  ‘Gabbi.’ The soft, feminine, breathy sound was unmistakable.

  ‘Annaliese,’ she acknowledged with a sinking feeling.

  ‘Care to do lunch?’

  Delaying the invitation would do no good at all, and she spared her appointment diary a quick glance. ‘I can meet you at one.’ She named an exclusive restaurant close by. ‘Will you make the reservation, or shall I?’

  ‘You do it, Gabbi,’ Annaliese replied in a bored drawl. ‘I have a meeting with my agent. I could be late.’

  ‘I have to be back in my office at two-thirty,’ Gabbi warned.

  ‘In that case, give me ten minutes’ grace, then go ahead and order.’

  Gabbi replaced the receiver, had her secretary make the necessary reservation, fetched her coffee, then gave work her undivided attention until it was time to freshen up before leaving the building.

  The powder-room mirror reflected an elegant image. Soft cream designer-label suit in a lightweight, uncrushable linen mix, and a silk camisole in matching tones. Her French pleat didn’t need attention, and she added a touch of powder, a re-application of lipstick, then she was ready.

  Ten minutes later Gabbi entered the restaurant foyer where she was greeted warmly by the maître d’ and personally escorted to a table. She ordered mineral water and went through the motions of perusing the menu, opting for a Caesar salad with fresh fruit to follow.

  Three-quarters of an hour after the appointed time Annaliese joined her in a waft of exclusive perfume. A slinky slither of red silk accentuated her model-slender curves. She was tall, with long slim legs, and her skilfully applied make-up enhanced her exotic features, emphasised by dark hair styled into a sleek bob.

  No apology was offered, and Gabbi watched in silence as Annaliese ordered iced water, a garden salad and fresh fruit.

  ‘When is your next assignment?’

  A feline smile tilted the edges of her red mouth, and the dark eyes turned to liquid chocolate. ‘So keen to see me gone?’

  ‘A polite enquiry,’ she responded with gentle mockery.

  ‘Followed by an equally polite query regarding my career?’

  Gabbi knew precisely how her stepsister’s modelling career was progressing. Monique never failed to relay, in intricate detail, the events monitoring Annaliese’s rise and rise on the world’s catwalks.

  ‘It was you who initiated lunch.’ She picked up her glass and took a deliberate sip, then replaced it down on the table, her eyes remarkably level as she met those of her stepsister.

  Annaliese’s gaze narrowed with speculative contemplation. ‘We’ve never been friends.’

  In private, the younger girl had proven herself to be a vindictive vixen. ‘You worked hard to demolish any bond.’

  One shoulder lifted with careless elegance. ‘I wanted centre stage in our shared family, darling. Numero uno.’ One long, red-lacquered nail tapped a careless tattoo against the stem of her glass.

  Gabbi speared the last portion of cantaloupe on her plate. ‘Suppose you cut to the chase and explain your purpose?’

  Annaliese’s eyes held a calculated gleam. ‘Monique informed me James is becoming increasingly anxious for you to complete the deal.’

  The fresh melon was succulent, but it had suddenly lost its taste. ‘Which deal are we discussing?’

  ‘The necessary Stanton-Nicols heir.’

  Gabbi’s gaze was carefully level as she rested the fork down onto her plate. ‘You’re way out of line, Annaliese.’

  ‘Experiencing problems, darling?’ The barb was intentional.

  ‘Only with your intense interest in something that is none of your business.’

  ‘It’s family business,’ Annaliese responded with deliberate emphasis.

  Respect for the restaurant’s fellow patrons prevented Gabbi from tipping a glass of iced water into her stepsister’s lap.

  ‘Really?’ Confrontation was the favoured option. ‘I have difficulty accepting my father would enrol you as messenger in such a personal matter.’

  ‘You disbelieve me?’

  ‘Yes.’ The price of bravery might be high. Too high?

  ‘Darling.’ The word held a patronising intonation that implied the antithesis of affection. ‘The only difference between daughter and stepdaughter is a legal adoption decree. Something,’ she continued after a deliberate silence, ‘Monique could easily persuade James to initiate.’

  Oh, my. Now why didn’t that devious plan surprise her? ‘James’s will is watertight. Monique inherits the principal residence, art and jewellery, plus a generous annuity. Shares in Stanton-Nicols come directly to me.’

  One delicate brow arched high. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ She lifted a fork and picked at her salad. ‘You’ve missed the point.’

  No, she hadn’t. ‘Benedict.’

  Annaliese’s eyes assumed an avaricious gleam. ‘Clever of you, darling.’

  ‘You want to be his mistress.’

  Her soft, tinkling laugh held no humour. ‘His wife.’ ‘You aim high.’

  ‘The top, sweetheart.’

  Iced water or hot coffee? Either was at her disposal, and she was sorely tempted to initiate an embarrassing incident. ‘There’s just one problem. He’s already taken.’

  ‘But so easily freed,’ her stepsister purred.

  ‘You sound very sure.’ How was it possible to sound so calm, when inside she was a molten mass of fury?

  ‘A wealthy man wants an exemplary hostess in the lounge and a whore in his bedroom.’ Annaliese examined her perfectly lacquered nails, then shot Gabbi a direct look. ‘I can’t imagine passion being your forte, or adventure your sexual preference.’

  Gabbi didn’t blink so much as an eyelash. ‘I’m a quick study.’

  ‘Really, darling? I wonder why I don’t believe you?’

  Gabbi summoned the waiter, requested the bill, and signed the credit slip. Then she rose to her feet and slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

  ‘Shall we agree not to do this again?’

  ‘Darling,’ the young model almost purred. ‘I’m between seasons, and where better to take in some rest and relaxation than one’s home city?’ Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. ‘As family, we’re bound to see quite a lot of each other. The social scene is so interesting.’

  ‘And you intend being included in every invitation,’ Gabbi responded with soft mockery.

  ‘Of course.’

  There wasn’t a single word she wanted to add. A contradiction—there were several...not one of which was in the least ladylike, and therefore unutterable in a public arena. It was easier to leave in dignified silence.

  Three messages were waiting for her on her return. Two were business-oriented and she dealt with each, then logged the necessary notations into the computer before crossing to the private phone.

  There was a strange curling sensation in the pit of her stomach as she waited for Benedict to answer.

  ‘Nicols.’

  His voice was deep and retained a slight American drawl that seemed more noticeable over the phone. The sound of it caused her pulse to accelerate to a faster beat.

  ‘You rang while I was out.’

  She had a mental image of him easing his lengthy frame in the high-backed leather chai
r. ‘How was lunch?’

  Her fingers gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’

  ‘Annaliese requested your extension number.’ He relayed the information with imperturbable calm.

  Any excuse to have contact with Benedict; Gabbi silently derided her stepsister.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’ His voice held a tinge of cynicism and prompted a terse response.

  ‘Lunch was fine.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Is that why you rang?’

  ‘No. To let you know I won’t be home for dinner. A Taiwanese associate wants to invest in property, and has requested I recommend a reputable agent. It would be impolite not to effect the introduction over dinner.’

  ‘Very impolite,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘I won’t wait up.’

  ‘I’ll take pleasure in waking you,’ he mocked gently, ending the call.

  A tiny shiver slithered the length of her spine as she recalled numerous occasions when the touch of his lips had woken her from the depths of sleep, and how she’d instinctively welcomed him, luxuriating in the agility of his hands as they traversed a tactile path over the slender curves of her body.

  With concentrated effort she replaced the receiver down onto the handset, then focused her attention on work for what remained of the afternoon.

  It was almost five-thirty when she left the building, and although traffic was heavy through the inner city it had begun to ease when she reached Rushcutter’s Bay, resulting in a relatively clear run to Vaucluse.

  The sun’s rays were hot, the humidity level high. Too high, Gabbi reflected as she garaged the car and entered the house.

  A long, cool drink, followed by a few lengths in the pool, would ease the strain of the day, she decided as she slipped off her jacket and made her way towards the kitchen.

  Marie was putting the finishing touches to a cold platter, and her smile was warm as she watched Gabbi extract a glass and cross to the large refrigerator.

  ‘Are you sure all you want is salad?’

  Gabbi pushed the ice-maker lever, filled the glass with apple juice, then crossed to perch on one of four buffet stools lining the wide servery.

  ‘Sure,’ Gabbi confirmed as she leaned forward and filched a slice of fresh mango from the tastefully decorated bed of cos lettuce, avocado, nuts, and capsicum. ‘Lovely,’ she sighed blissfully.

  Marie cast her an affectionate glance. ‘There’s fresh fruit and gelato to follow.’

  Gabbi took a long swallow of iced juice, and felt the strain of the day begin to ebb. ‘I think I’ll change and have a swim.’ The thought of a few laps in the pool followed by half an hour basking in the warm sunshine held definite appeal. ‘Why don’t you finish up here? There’s no need for you to stay on just to rinse a few plates and stack them in the dishwasher.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The housekeeper’s pleasure was evident, and Gabbi reciprocated with an impish grin.

  It wasn’t the first evening she’d spent alone, and was unlikely to be the last. ‘Go,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.’

  Marie removed her apron and folded it neatly. ‘Serg and I’ll be in the flat, if you need us.’

  ‘I know,’ Gabbi said gently, grateful for the older woman’s solicitous care.

  Minutes later she drained the contents of her glass, then went upstairs to change, discarding her clothes in favour of a black bikini. Out of habit she removed her make-up, applied sunscreen cream, then she caught up a multi-patterned silk sarong and a towel and made her way down to the terraced pool.

  Its free-form design was totally enclosed by nonreflective smoke-tinted glass, ensuring total privacy, and there were several loungers and cushioned chairs positioned on the tiled perimeters.

  Gabbi dropped the sarong and towel onto a nearby chair, then performed a racing dive into the sparkling water. Seconds later she emerged to the surface, cleared excess moisture from her face, then began the first of several leisurely laps before slipping deftly onto her back to idle aimlessly for a while, enjoying the solitude and the quietness.

  It was a wonderful way to relax, she mused, both mentally and physically. The cares of the day seemed to diminish to their correct perspective. Even lunch with Annaliese.

  No, she amended with a faint grimace. That was taking things a bit too far. Calculating her stepsister’s next move didn’t require much effort, given the social scene of the city’s sophisticated élite.

  Stanton-Nicols supported a number of worthy charities, and Benedict generously continued in Diandra and Conrad Nicols’ tradition—astutely aware that as much business was done out of the office as in it, Gabbi concluded wryly.

  The thought of facing Annaliese at one function or another over the next few weeks didn’t evoke much joy. Nor did the prospect of parrying Monique’s subtle hints.

  Damn. The relaxation cycle was well and truly broken. With a deft movement, Gabbi rolled onto her stomach and swam to the pool’s edge, hauled her slim frame onto the tiled ledge, then reached for the towel and began blotting her body.

  Faced with a choice of eating indoors or by the pool, she chose the latter and carried the salad and a glass of chilled water to a nearby table.

  The view out over the harbour was spectacular, and she idly watched the seascape as numerous small craft cruised the waters in a bid to make the most of the daylight-saving time.

  On finishing her meal, scorning television, Gabbi made herself some coffee, selected a few glossy magazines and returned to watch the sunset, the glorious streak of orange that changed and melded into a deep pink as the sun’s orb sank slowly beneath the horizon providing a soft pale reflected glow before dusk turned into darkness.

  A touch on the electronic modem activated the underwater light, turning the pool a brilliant aqua-blue. Another touch lit several electric flares, and she stretched out comfortably and flipped open a magazine, scanning the glossy pages for something that might capture her interest.

  An article based on the behind-the-scenes life of a prominent fashion guru provided a riveting insight, and endorsed her own view on the artificiality of a society where one was never sure whether an acquaintance was friend or foe beneath the token facade.

  The publishers had seen fit to include an in-depth account by a high-class madam, who, the article revealed, had procured escorts for some of the country’s rich and famous, notably politicians and visiting rock stars, for a fee that was astronomical.

  Somehow the article focusing on cellulite that followed it seemed extremely prosaic, and Gabbi flipped to the travel section.

  Paris. What a city for ambience and joie de vivre. The language, the scents, the fashion. French women possessed a certain élan that was unmatched anywhere else in the world. And the food! Très magnifique, she accorded wistfully, recalling fond memories of the time she’d spent there. For a while she’d imagined herself in love with a dashing young student whose sensual expertise had almost persuaded her intó his bed. Gabbi’s mouth curved into a soft smile, and her eyes danced with hidden laughter in remembrance.

  ‘An interesting article?’

  Gabbi looked up at the sound of that deep, drawling voice and saw Benedict’s tall frame outlined against the screened aperture leading into the large entertainment room.

  His jacket was hooked over one shoulder, and he’d already removed his tie and loosened a few buttons on his blue cotton shirt.

  Her eyes still held a hint of mischief as they met his. ‘I didn’t realise it was that late,’ she managed lightly, watching as he closed the distance between them.

  ‘It’s just after ten.’ He paused at her side, and scanned the open magazine. ‘Pleasant memories?’

  Gabbi met his gaze, and sensed the studied watchfulness beneath the surface. ‘Yes,’ she said with innate honesty, and saw his eyes narrow fractionally. ‘It was a long time ago, and I was very young.’

  ‘But old enough to be enchanted by a young man’s attentions,’ Benedict deduced with a d
egree of cynical amusement. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Jacques,’ she revealed without hesitation. ‘He was a romantic, and he kissed divinely. We explored the art galleries together and drank coffee at numerous sidewalk cafés. On weekends I visited the family vineyard. It was fun,’ she informed him simply, reflecting on the voluble and often gregarious meals she’d shared, the vivacity and sheer camaraderie of a large extended family.

  ‘Define “fun”.’

  The temptation to tease and prevaricate was very strong, but there seemed little point. ‘He had a very strict maman,’ she revealed solemnly. ‘Who was intent on matching him with the daughter of a neighbouring vintner. An Anglaise miss, albeit a very rich one, might persuade him to live on the other side of the world.’

  Amusement lurked in the depths of his eyes. ‘He married the vintner’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes. His devoted maman despatches a letter twice a year with family news.’

  ‘Did you love him?’ The query was soft, his voice silk-smooth.

  Not the way I love you. ‘We were very good friends,’ she said with the utmost care.

  His intense gaze sent a tiny flame flaring through her veins, warming her skin and heating the central core of her femininity.

  ‘Who parted without regret or remorse when it was time for you to leave?’ Benedict prompted gently.

  A winsome smile curved the edges of her mouth. ‘We promised never to forget each other. For a while we exchanged poetic prose.’

  ‘Predictably the letters became shorter and few and far between?’

  ‘You’re a terrible cynic.’

  ‘A realist,’ he corrected her with subtle remonstrance.

  Gabbi closed the magazine and placed it down on a nearby table. With an elegant economy of movement she rose to her feet, caught up the sarong and secured it at her waist ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  He turned to follow her, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in awareness. She subconsciously straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace.

  In the kitchen she crossed to the servery, methodically filled the coffee-maker with water, spooned ground beans into the filter basket, then switched on the machine.