The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Hmm, that’s better.’ His smile was slightly crooked, his eyes deep and warm as he regarded the tumble of hair falling loose about her shoulders.

  He traced the outline of her mouth with his forefinger, then probed the ridge of her lower teeth.

  She bit him, not hard, but sufficiently firmly to see his pupils dilate. Then she suckled the tip of his finger, swirling it with her tongue, just once, before releasing it.

  So, the ball wasn’t entirely in his court after all, he mused.

  There was a certain degree of power in sitting astride a man. Francesca felt in control and wholly sexual, exulting in the flare of passion evident as she used her knees to exert a little leverage, then began rocking, ever so gently, watching as his eyes darkened.

  There was a faint line of sweat beading his upper lip, and she leaned forward and carefully removed it with her tongue.

  He let his hand slip to her breast, caressing its peak as he cupped the fullness of its twin. Beautiful and firm, the slopes were as smooth as satin to his touch.

  With care he urged one engorged peak into his mouth, laving its nipple into button-hardness, and heard her almost inaudible groan as sensation pooled deep within. He could feel her response in the faint tensing of internal muscles, and his own reaction in the burgeoning of his shaft.

  For what seemed hours, he had commanded her body, her senses. Now she wanted to tip the scales a little in her favour.

  And she did, tentatively at first, then as her confidence grew she took complete control, riding him as hard as she dared until he grasped hold of her hips and surged into her, again and again, lifting her as he arched his body higher and higher, so that his shoulders and his feet were the only parts of him anchored to the bed.

  Afterwards he cradled her close, caging her to him as he smoothed his lips across her sweat-drenched brow, his hands soothing her shuddering body until she lay limp and spent.

  She must have slept, for she remembered stirring a few times and being gently rocked in strong arms before slipping back into that blissful state that was neither true sleep nor part wakefulness.

  ‘I must go,’ she murmured, not once, but twice, only to succumb to the drift of his fingers, the persuasive touch of his mouth.

  ‘Dominic,’ she groaned in the early pre-dawn hours. ‘I have an early flight to catch.’

  He rolled out of bed and scooped her into his arms, then carried her, protesting, into the en suite shower.

  He bathed her, then swathed her slim form in a voluminous towel. ‘Why not come back to bed?’ He kissed her nose, then gently savoured that soft mouth. ‘To sleep. I promise.’ He brushed her lips with his own. ‘I’ll set the alarm and cook you breakfast.’

  It was tempting, oh, so tempting. ‘I really have to go home.’

  He dried her carefully, offered her a selection of toiletries, then watched as she quickly donned her clothes.

  What did she say to him? Thanks, it was great?

  Dominic saved her the trouble by placing a finger over her lips. ‘Take care.’

  There was a sense of unreality driving through almost empty streets. There were no stars, no moon. Just an eerie pre-dawn light lifting the greyness of night.

  Precisely what time was it? The illuminated clock on the dashboard revealed it was almost four. Two hours from now she needed to front up at the airport check-in counter.

  Hardly enough time to snatch little more than even an hour’s sleep, she decided without a trace of weariness as she garaged the car and rode the lift up to her apartment. After the night’s activity, she should have been almost dead on her feet. Yet she felt strangely exhilarated, alive as she hadn’t been in the past three years.

  Inside, she brewed a cup of strong coffee and drank it black with sugar, then she checked her bags, added a few last-minute items, and made herself breakfast. Fresh juice, fruit, muesli, toast. And more strong coffee.

  Awake. And waiting wasn’t such a good idea, for it provided time for thought.

  Last night she’d slept with a man. A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat. Hell, sleep hadn’t even been a consideration!

  A complexity of emotions raced through her brain, clouding her perspective.

  This relationship—Oh, who was she kidding? She groaned out loud. What relationship?

  And what came next? Did she get to spend a night at his place, he at hers, escape for the occasional weekend together?

  Good sex without emotional involvement. Responsible. A slightly hysterical bubble of laughter rose and died in her throat at the thought of blood tests, prophylactic protection.

  Then she sobered as she became prone to introspection, and she succumbed to the inevitable feelings of guilt at having betrayed everything she held dear about Mario. The shared love, the laughter, her hopes and dreams, her fear for him. The stark replay of that fateful crash.

  But tears were for the weak, and she’d shed them long ago.

  With determined resolve she reset the answering machine, tidied the apartment, and at five-thirty she collected her bags, locked the door and rode the lift down to Reception, where a cab stood waiting to transport her to the airport.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE one-hour flight to the Gold Coast was uneventful, and a friendly hostess escorted Francesca into the terminal and introduced her to a waiting chauffeur, who collected her bag and saw her seated into the rear of a luxury limousine.

  There were some advantages in having acquired a degree of fame and recognition, Francesca acknowledged silently as she extracted sunglasses and slid them on.

  The fact there were also many disadvantages couldn’t be discounted, but this morning she was grateful for Laraine’s organisational skills as the limousine headed towards Surfers Paradise.

  Long, sandy beaches, gently rolling surf, deep blue ocean, and at this early morning hour a soft azure sky. The many highrise apartment buildings appeared like concrete sentinels in the distance, and as they drew close she could sense the pulse of a thriving industry dedicated to the tourist dollar.

  The Sheraton Mirage was a luxury low-rise hotel, with wonderful views and access to a uniquely designed shopping complex and marina.

  Unpacking was achieved in minutes, and Francesca looked longingly at the large bed, then checked her watch. She had a few hours before she needed to present herself behind the scenes in the grand ballroom downstairs. Time she could kill by browsing the shopping complex, or, what was more sensible, catching up on some lost sleep.

  No contest. The bed won. And she quickly slid out of her shoes, discarded her clothes, slipped on a wrap, set the alarm, then lay down.

  Not such a good idea, she decided a short while later as she dwelt on the hours she’d spent in another bed.

  The only precautions taken had been Dominic’s use of prophylactic protection.

  Dear heaven, it had been good. Better than good. She tried to come up with a superlative, and failed. Her body still ached from his invasion, and her skin burned as she vividly recalled every detail.

  He had taken his time, seducing, making everything a feast of the senses.

  To become involved with a man like Dominic Andrea was dangerous, for it would be all too easy to become addicted to his brand of lovemaking, to him.

  She’d given her heart once, and had it broken. She never wanted to feel that bereft again.

  Francesca must have dozed, for she woke to the sound of the alarm and was surprised that she’d managed to sleep at all. A shower would refresh her, then she’d tend to her make-up, her hair, dress, and present herself downstairs.

  There was a bowl of fresh fruit in her room, and she selected a banana, peeled and bit into it en route to the bathroom.

  The Gold Coast Mirage was built right on the beach, with an expanse of marble floor, a stunning indoor waterfall, and a massive pool with an island bar.

  The ballroom was situated on the ground floor, and one glance was all it took to determine the social glitterati had turned out in force.
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  The luncheon was a tremendous success, with capacity seating. Backstage chaos was minimal. There were few mishaps, and none that gained public notice.

  At last she was able to escape, albeit briefly, to nibble on some finger food before the scheduled photographic shoot was due to proceed.

  The photographer was over-friendly—and, worse, a toucher. Whatever image the assistant instructed Francesca to present he wanted to change—personally.

  After two hours of posing in various parts of the hotel and around the pool, Francesca was almost at screaming point. He was too much in her face, and she wanted to tell him so. Almost did, on one occasion, and only barely held her tongue.

  At last the final shot was taken, and she could escape to her suite for a brief respite before it was time to change and show up for the cocktail party.

  Classic black, long straight skirt split to mid-thigh, a black sequinned singlet top, black tights, high-heeled stiletto pumps, hair piled up on top of her head with a few loose tendrils falling beside each ear, a wide gold necklace and matching bracelet. Retouched make-up.

  Francesca snatched up a slim black evening purse, slipped the long gold chain over one shoulder, collected her key, and made her way to the lounge bar.

  One hour, tops, then she’d retire gracefully and return to her suite, where she’d order a room service meal, then shower and fall into bed.

  Several more guests began to wander into the lounge, and there were introductions, polite small talk, as well as a few informal speeches while canapés were served.

  The photographer gravitated to her side and made such a nuisance of himself that when he tried to get too close she aimed her stiletto heel and brought it down on his instep.

  His face whitened, then flared blood red. ‘Bitch.’

  Without a word she turned away from him, located the hostess, then the organiser, and exited the lounge bar.

  She reached her suite, and once inside put the safety chain in position. Then she leaned wearily against the door.

  Damn. She hadn’t needed aggravation at the end of a long and difficult day. Following a sexually active, sleepless night.

  An audible groan escaped from her lips, and she levered herself away from the door and crossed the room to the bar fridge, where she selected cold bottled water, removed the cap, and poured the contents into a glass.

  Francesca kicked off her shoes, removed her ear-studs, then carrying the glass into the bathroom, she began cleansing her face of make-up.

  A sharp double knock on the outer door came as a surprise. She had yet to order room service, and it was way too early for the maid to turn down the bed.

  She wiped her hands on the towel and crossed the room. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Dominic.’

  Dominic?

  Francesca opened the door a few inches. ‘What are you doing here?’ The words slipped out before she could prevent them, and she saw one eyebrow lift

  ‘This is not the most ideal way to have a conversation,’ he drawled, and she immediately freed the chain.

  Attired in tailored dark trousers and an indigo cotton shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he exuded raw masculinity.

  ‘I guess you just happened to be in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in.’ As an attempt at flippancy, it failed miserably.

  She didn’t look as if she had weathered the day any better than he had. Fragile, definitely—and, if he wasn’t mistaken, feeling acutely vulnerable.

  He lowered his head and kissed her with gentle thoroughness, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her again.

  When his mouth lifted fractionally from her own, she ventured, ‘I should ask what you’re doing here.’

  He traced light kisses along her lower lip, then caught it between his teeth and bit gently. ‘Should you?’ His lips moved to one ear and trailed a path down her neck to one sensitive hollow, savoured it, and began exploring her throat. ‘I didn’t want to spend the night without you.’

  Well, that certainly spelled it out And momentarily rendered her speechless.

  His soft laughter was almost her undoing. ‘Did you manage to get any sleep at all?’

  Francesca rolled her eyes expressively. ‘I look that bad, huh?’

  He lifted a hand and trailed fingers along the edge of her jaw. ‘Slightly fragile.’ He lowered his head and brushed his lips against her own.

  ‘I think you can safely say that’s an understatement.’

  She felt rather than saw his faint smile. ‘Then I think I should feed you.’

  The sensual heat of his body was matched by the increasing desire in her own. If they remained in the suite they probably wouldn’t get to eat at all.

  ‘Let’s walk across the road and choose one of the several restaurants overlooking the Broadwater,’ she determined, and saw his lips curve with amusement.

  ‘Safety among a crowd?’

  She offered a witching grin. ‘Yes.’ She moved a few paces, slid her feet into heeled pumps, collected an evening bag, and tucked her hand in his.

  They chose Saks, and within minutes they were seated at a window table. Soon the sky would darken and night would fall, but until it did they had a clear view of boats lining the marina and people strolling along the wooden boardwalk.

  Francesca ordered a starter, a main course, and a delicious dessert.

  It was an excellent meal, eaten leisurely, and afterwards they took their time over coffee. Then Dominic settled the bill and they took the overhead footbridge to the hotel.

  No sooner had they entered the main lobby than a male voice announced, ‘Well, well, look who’s here.’

  The photographer. Slightly inebriated, and, if Francesca wasn’t mistaken, out for vengeance.

  He positioned his camera and reeled off some film. ‘Our famed ice maiden, and escort.’ His smile was vaguely feral as he subjected Dominic to a raking appraisal before focusing his gaze on her. ‘No wonder you skipped the party, darling.’

  With camera in hand, he held a powerful weapon. Francesca pinned a smile in place and kept walking.

  ‘Both staying here together?’

  He followed them towards the guest wing, and ventured past the ‘Private—Guests Only’ glass sign.

  Dominic paused, then turned so that Francesca was shielded behind him. ‘One step further and I’ll alert the management and have charges filed against you for harassment.’

  ‘I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go do it some place else.’

  When they reached her suite Dominic held out his hand for her key. ‘Is there any need to initiate damage control?’

  Francesca preceded him into the room. ‘A phone call to my agent.’ She tossed her evening purse down onto the nightstand and lifted the handset. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’

  Five minutes later she replaced the receiver and turned to find Dominic watching her.

  ‘You’ve encountered this sort of problem before?’

  The stalker, the pervert, the fanatic. The nightmare no one wanted.

  Only her father knew about the letters she’d received for months after Mario’s death. Words cut from newspapers, magazines, pasted onto blank paper and sent through the post. Compiled by a sick but shrewd mind. It had taken six months for the police to pin him down, and in that time she’d learnt to defend herself. The down and dirty kind of fighting that wasn’t taught in any dojo.

  Dominic caught the fleeting shadows, calculated the reason, and decided not to pursue it. There would come a time when she trusted him enough to share, and he could wait.

  Francesca met his dark, discerning gaze with equanimity. ‘The photographer wasn’t a problem, merely a nuisance.’ She crossed to a single chair and sank into it.

  Last night she’d shared every intimacy imaginable with this man. Now she didn’t know how to proceed. Or even if she should. A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat.

  She wasn’t aware of him moving. Yet his hands rested on her shoulders, soothing, gen
tly massaging the cricks, the stiffness out of tense muscles.

  It felt like heaven. ‘Don’t stop,’ she begged, and, closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the magic of his touch.

  Minutes later she groaned in protest when he lifted her into his arms and deposited her on the bed. With deft movements he dispensed with her shoes, then her skirt. Next came her top.

  ‘Dominic—’

  He drew the bedcovers back, then pressed her forward to lie on her stomach. ‘Just relax and enjoy.’

  Francesca thought every muscle in her body would melt, and after the initial few seconds she simply pillowed her head on her arms.

  It was impossible to fight against the tiredness as she reached a state of total relaxation and drifted to sleep.

  She didn’t feel the mattress depress slightly as Dominic carefully eased himself to his feet. Nor was she aware that he pulled the covers over her, or that he divested himself of his clothes, crossed round to the other side of the bed and slid between the sheets.

  Francesca stirred, sensed the comfort of warm flesh and muscle, and in the depth of her subconscious mind she didn’t question it. Merely shifted slightly to seek closer contact. And sighed with satisfaction as fingers lightly drifted the length of her spine.

  It was a dream. A hazy, lazy vision she didn’t want to lose. The faint musky male scent mingling with a subtle remnant of cologne merely added another dimension.

  Lips grazed her cheek, then slipped to nuzzle the hollow at the edge of her neck. Mmm, that felt good. So good, she almost purred as the lips trailed to her breast, savoured, then suckled gently before sliding slowly to the curve of her waist where they traced a path to her navel, settled, succoured, and continued down over the soft concave of her belly.

  Francesca moved restlessly with anticipatory pleasure, then groaned her disappointment when they began a caressing pattern close to her hip.

  Fingers teased the short curls guarding her feminine core, then slid inward to stroke the sensitive clitoris.

  This was one hell of an erotic dream, she mused as sensation built to a slow ache and began spiralling through her body. So acute that it seemed much too real to belong in anyone’s subconscious mind.