The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  Dear God, he felt good. This was so good, the feeling of completeness, the joining of two bodies in perfect accord. Sensation spiralled, and she began to move, creating a deep penetrating rhythm as old as time.

  His hands reached for her waist, and he joined in the ride, taking her higher and higher until she cried out her release.

  Slowly she raised her head and looked down at him, met the dark, slumberous depths and defined the degree of passion evident.

  Extending a hand, she touched a gentle finger to his lower lip and traced its outline, then slid it down his chin to his throat, trailing a central line past his chest, his stomach, to where they were still joined, before travelling a similar path to her own mouth.

  Slow, sweet warmth swirled deep within, heating her body, and she gave a soft laugh as his hands reached up to bring her head down to his.

  This time there was no gentleness in his kiss. It became a foray that was claim-staking, possession at its most damnable as she met and matched the dramatic primitiveness that lay deep within him.

  It transcended mere sexual gratification. It was much more than sensual satiation.

  A faint groan emerged from her throat as he shifted position and rolled so that she lay on her back.

  The control was his, and she wrapped her legs round his hips and pulled him down to her, glorying in his strength.

  Afterwards she could only lie still, unable to move as he let his fingers drift idly over the softness of her skin.

  She must have slept, for she came awake to the touch of his lips exploring the delicate contours of her body, tasting the spent bloom on her skin as he trailed lower to savour the intimate heart of her.

  A banked flame flared into pulsating life, licking through her veins, igniting nerve-ends as she came achingly alive. Consummate skill took her high and tipped her over the edge, and she cried out as she fell.

  Afterwards she pleasured him, exulting in the faint sheen of sweat that heated his skin, the quivering muscles of his stomach, the way his breath caught in his throat.

  For much of what remained of the night, they indulged in lovemaking, creating a sensual ecstasy that was alternately wild and untamed and slow and evocative.

  Suzanne didn’t want the magic to end. With the dawn came sleep, and afterwards a long, lingering loving that was so incredibly gentle it made her want to weep.

  ‘We should shower and go down to breakfast,’ she said reluctantly as she swept a glance to the digital radio clock.

  Sloane’s eyes held a mocking gleam that didn’t fool her in the slightest. ‘Should we?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He touched her mouth with his own, savoured its inner sweetness, then trailed soft kisses along the softly swollen contours of her lower lip. ‘Why is that?’

  Assertiveness was the key. Definitely. For to stay here any longer would be a madness she could ill afford. ‘Because I’m hungry.’ His eyes became dark and slumberous. ‘For food. Sustenance,’ she elaborated with an impish grin. ‘And I’d almost kill for a cup of strong coffee.’ She slid to her feet, stretched her arms high...and felt the pull of muscles. ‘I’ll hit the shower first.’ She directed him a faintly wry glance. ‘Alone. Otherwise we’ll never get out of here.’

  He reached out a hand and pulled her back down to him for a brief, hard kiss, then he let her go. ‘Five minutes, then I join you.’

  It was almost nine when they entered the restaurant, and Suzanne chose a table on the terrace, ordered coffee, then helped herself to a selection of fresh fruit and cereal from the smorgasbord.

  ‘You’re looking rather fragile this morning, darling. Had a hard night?’

  She turned and met Bettina’s deliberately guileless smile, and proffered one of her own. ‘Surely that’s rather a personal question?’

  ‘Why pretend? I have my eye on a magnificent emerald and diamond ring.’ Her eyes glittered acquisitively. ‘Frank needs a little persuasion to buy it for me.’

  ‘Which you have every intention of providing.’

  ‘Why, of course. Women have traded sexual favours for gifts since—forever.’ Bettina’s lashes swept wide. ‘Aren’t you working hard to persuade Sloane to buy you a Porsche Carrera?’

  ‘Repaying me will become a lifetime commitment.’

  Suzanne turned at the sound of Sloane’s drawling voice, caught his faintly wry, musing smile, glimpsed the dark gleam in his eyes, and opted to respond in kind.

  ‘Not necessarily. My tastes are simple.’

  ‘So are mine,’ he said solemnly. ‘You.’

  Her pulse tripped and raced to a faster beat. He saw the evidence of it in the hollow at the base of her throat, the dilation of those sapphire depths, the soft parting of her lips.

  ‘The Porsche was meant to be a joke,’ she said as she carried her plate back to their table.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you gave me one,’ she declared fiercely, ‘I’d hand it straight back.’

  Sloane sank into his chair and ordered fresh coffee. ‘I do believe you would.’

  ‘Sloane—’

  ‘You think I don’t know Bettina enjoys making mischief?’ His dry, mocking tone was matched by a hardness in his eyes.

  She was all too aware of the tensile steel beneath the sophisticated veneer. Only a fool would believe he wasn’t aware of every angle, and adept in determining the foibles of human nature.

  ‘She has her eye on you.’

  His soft laughter brought a fiery sparkle to her eyes. ‘Bettina needs confirmation of her attraction to the opposite sex. Her choice of clothes, make-up, jewellery is a blatant attempt at attention-seeking.’ His expression assumed a degree of cynicism. ‘Any man will do.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Suzanne declared as she reached for her coffee. ‘That should amend to any well-connected, wealthy man.’ She lifted her cup, took an appreciative sip, then replaced it back on its saucer and cast him a wry look. ‘And you’re more sought after than most.’

  ‘But spoken for,’ Sloane asserted tolerantly.

  “‘A hunk” were her exact words,’ she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Really?’

  He was amused, damn him. ‘Definitely mistress material.’

  ‘Now why,’ he drawled lazily, ‘would I covet a mistress, when I have you?’

  Suzanne took the time to spear a segment of fresh fruit, which she savoured, then slowly chewed and swallowed, before voicing a response. She chose her words with care, and tempered them with a faint smile. ‘You don’t have me.’

  He placed his fork down carefully on his plate, then leant back in his chair, looking, she decided, indolently relaxed and not poised to deliver a verbal sally. ‘I retain a particularly vivid memory of how we spent the night.’ His dark brown eyes held gleaming humour. ‘And the early dawn hours.’

  So did she. So much so that it was all she could do to contain the stain of colour spreading high on each cheek. ‘I don’t think that’s entirely relevant.’

  She saw one eyebrow lift to form a mocking arch. ‘No? I beg to disagree.’

  ‘It was just sex.’ Albeit very good sex, she acknowledged silently. And knew she lied. Sex didn’t even begin to describe what they’d shared.

  ‘I think I should take you back to bed,’ Sloane drawled with musing mockery. ‘It’s the one place where we’re in perfect accord.’

  She captured another portion of fruit with her fork. ‘Our absence would be noticed.’

  His regard was warm and infinitely sensual. ‘I fail to see that as a problem.’

  ‘You possess a one-track mind,’ she admonished him, and reached for her coffee once more.

  ‘Three weeks’ abstinence tends to have that effect on a man.’

  Not only a man. Even thinking about what they’d shared through much of the night was enough to flood her veins with telling warmth.

  The damnable thing was that he knew. The knowledge was apparent in the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, then slid slowly to the
heavily beating pulse at the edge of her neck, the slight thrust of each breast.

  ‘I think,’ she began, hating the faint raggedness in her voice, ‘I’ve had enough to eat.’

  ‘Georgia and Trenton have just arrived,’ Sloane advised quietly, ‘and indicated they’ll join us.’

  The meal became a leisurely affair with the connotation of a champagne brunch as the champagne flowed and staff provided a selection of finger food.

  ‘Tennis this afternoon, definitely,’ Georgia declared as she sipped a second cup of black coffee. ‘And I think I’ll just have fruit for lunch, or forgo it altogether.’

  ‘Likewise.’ Followed by a swim, and a nap on the beach, Suzanne decided. A lazily spent afternoon was just what she needed. After last night.

  An arrow of pain pierced her body. What of tonight? Would Sloane...? Yes, a silent voice taunted. Of course he will. How would she survive another night of loving without breaking into a thousand pieces? Perhaps if she explained, maybe pleaded with him...

  She spared him a quick glance, and then wished she hadn’t. His gaze was focused on her features, reading each and every fleeting expression... with damning accuracy, unless she was mistaken.

  Did anyone else guess she was a mass of nervous tension beneath the composed exterior? After last night the boundaries she’d imposed had been moved, and she was unsure of their position.

  What would happen when she returned to Sydney? No, don’t think about it, she told herself. Thinking wasn’t a good idea, for there were just two scenarios. Neither of which she wanted to explore right now.

  Her stomach executed a series of painful somersaults, and she forcibly controlled her breathing into a steady, regulated rise and fall. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, and she was sure her contribution to the conversation sounded terribly inane.

  In a way it was a relief to circulate among the guests, to lose herself, even briefly, in a social exchange with women whose main topics of conversation seemed to be whose hairdresser was the best, which fashion designer would take out the annual award, and whose parties on the social circuit were de rigueur for the remainder of the winter season.

  Sloane seemed similarly immersed with Trenton’s, and doubtless his own, associates. Twice she glanced in his direction only to have him meet her gaze.

  ‘No hint of a date yet, Suzanne?’ one woman asked, while another ventured,

  ‘Paul and I have a very tight schedule until Christmas. Get those invitations out early, darling.’

  ‘You must visit Stefano; he’ll do wonders with your hair,’ an elegant brunette assured Suzanne, and a glossy dark-haired sylph advised,

  ‘Marie-Louise is without equal for the nails.’

  ‘Gianfranco,’ the stylish redhead insisted. ‘You must see him about your dress, darling. Tell him Claudia sent you.’

  ‘Of course, there is only O’Neil for the flowers.’

  ‘Frank spent almost a million on my reception,’ Bettina offered, and didn’t notice the electric silence that followed her announcement.

  Suzanne sensed their momentary withdrawal, and their disapproval. Any mention of actual amounts of money among the upper social echelon was de trop. One could mention the yacht, the villa in France, the apartment in Venice, Rome or Milan. The Swiss chalet, the New York Fifth Avenue apartment, the London Knightsbridge town house or the mansion in Surrey. Anything, except how much it cost. Unless it was an outrageous bargain. Delusions of grandeur were not entertained among society’s élite,

  It was almost eleven when the guests departed to board the launch that would transfer them to Dunk Island to connect with their flight south.

  Suzanne and Sloane joined Georgia and Trenton on the jetty to see them off.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘NOW I can relax.’ Georgia wound an arm round Trenton’s waist and leaned in against him. ‘It’s been a wonderful weekend. Thank you, darling.’

  The look he directed at her mother brought a lump to Suzanne’s throat So much love, so clearly visible. It made her heart ache. ‘I don’t think I could eat or drink a thing,’ she declared lightly. ‘I’m going to take a book down onto the beach, then go for a dip in the ocean.’

  ‘We’ll meet for tennis,’ Trenton indicated. ‘Four o’clock, OK?’

  ‘You could,’ Sloane drawled minutes later as they entered their villa, ‘relax here.’

  Suzanne twisted her head to look at him. ‘Uh-uh. I don’t think our ideas of relaxation match.’ She ran quickly up the steps to the bedroom and extracted a black bikini.

  ‘Afraid to be alone with me?’

  He posed a tremendous threat to her equilibrium, but fear had no part in it ‘No.’

  Sloane crossed to her side and placed his hands at the base of her nape, initiating a soothing massage that felt so good...too damned good. ‘Tired?’

  She wanted to close her eyes and sink back against him, have him hold her, kiss her. Slow, oh, so slowly. If she gave in to such feelings, they’d never get out of the villa before nightfall.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Let me indulge you,’ he commanded quietly.

  Need curled deep inside her, then twisted into a spiral that radiated through her body. Her smile was incredibly sad, and tinged with regret. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

  His breath feathered her temple. ‘No?’

  His fingers skimmed beneath the hair at her nape, lifting it aside as he traced his lips down to the sensitive spot behind one ear, savoured it, then trailed the pulsing cord to the edge of her neck.

  ‘Sloane.’ The protest fell from her lips in scarcely more than an agonised whisper as his fingers loosened tight shoulder muscles.

  ‘Shh,’ he bade her gently. ‘Just relax.’

  Dared she? Maybe just for a few minutes. There was no harm in just a few minutes, surely?

  Suzanne closed her eyes and let all her muscles relax as he began weaving a subtle magic that seemed to seep into her very bones.

  She was hardly aware of him sliding the zip free at the back of her dress, or the faint slither as it slipped to the floor. Her bra clasp undid with ease, and his hands smoothed her slip down over her hips.

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Don’t think,’ Sloane said huskily. ‘Just feel.’

  His lips tasted her skin, embraced it, and roamed at will over her neck, her shoulders, then trailed down one arm to the sensitive hollow at her elbow, before tracing the delicate veins down to the inside of her wrist.

  A despairing groan escaped her throat as he rendered a similar treatment to the other arm, and when he turned her into his arms she had no will of her own to prevent him laying her gently down on the bed.

  What followed was a long, slow supplication of every pleasure point, each pulse. The curve of her hip, the inside of one thigh, the hollow behind each knee. The sensitive slope of her calf, the tender hollows at her ankle, the acutely vulnerable arch of her foot.

  She felt as if she was slowly dying as pleasure radiated from every pore, each nerve-cell, as his hands, his lips roved at will. Her breasts, their sensitised peaks, the soft concave of her stomach. The rapidly discolouring bruise at her hip. Nothing escaped his attention.

  Her blood leapt as he brushed the most intimate crevice of all, and her limbs slid against the sheet in agitation, then her whole body jerked as he began effecting a simulation of the sexual act itself.

  His hands cupped her hips and held them as he wreaked a havoc that was so incredibly tender, so intensely evocative, her body seemed to sing as one vibration after another shook her central core and radiated in all-consuming waves.

  He felt her shudder in release, and gifted her an open-mouthed kiss before travelling a slow path to her waist, then the soft contour of one breast

  It was a torturous journey until his mouth reached hers, and the kiss was so gentle she felt the prick of tears and their warm spill as they trickled slowly across each cheekbone and disappeared into her hair.

  Sl
oane felt the faint tremor as her body shook, and he lifted his head fractionally, glimpsed the drenched sapphire pools and removed the trail of moisture with his tongue.

  Then he stretched out close and gathered her in against him. ‘Better?’

  Dear Lord, did he have any conception of how she felt? ‘There’s only one problem,’ she murmured shakily.

  His fingers brushed against her cheek. ‘What’s that?’

  Her mouth trembled as she reached for him. ‘You’re wearing too many clothes.’

  His smile was infinitely warm and sensual. ‘You could have fun taking them off.’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  Lips traced the clean line of her jaw. ‘Do you need one?’

  This was special. Something so precious, the memory would last her for the rest of her life. Through all the lonely, empty nights, an inner voice sighed in sorrow.

  His shoes came first, then she took time with the buckle of his trousers, the zip fastening, silently encouraging his help as she slid the garment free. Undoing each shirt button became a tantalising exercise as her fingers tangled with the springy hair curling in a sparse pattern across his tightly muscled chest.

  All that remained was a pair of silk briefs, and she traced the waistband as it stretched across his hip-bone, the firm plane of his stomach, and allowed her fingers to brush fleetingly over his arousal.

  Control. He had it. Part of her wanted to see what it would take to break it as she tucked her fingers into the waistband and eased the briefs free.

  With incredible slowness she copied his example, teasing, tasting, glorying in the soft tremor of his stomach, each flexed muscle as she traversed every inch of his body.

  The most vulnerable, the most erotic part of his anatomy she left until last, laving it with such delicate artistry, he groaned in the effort to maintain control.

  Minutes later his breath rasped in one husky exhalation, and hard hands grasped her shoulders as he rolled her onto her back and drove into her in one deep thrust.

  Suzanne gave an exultant laugh and met his mouth as it came down in possession of her own, and together they climbed to each crest as raw, primitive sensation took them high in a mutual climax so devastatingly flagrant there were no words to define it.