The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  This, she discovered, was a pair of black silk evening trousers, together with a silk camisole in soft antique gold. There was also a pair of exquisite, lacy black briefs.

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured appreciatively, watching as he shook free a pair of black slacks and a deep blue, short-sleeved silk shirt.

  If only he’d relayed his intention to stay overnight, she could have packed a few clothes and he’d have saved some money. Although money was hardly an issue, she decided as she discarded the towel and quickly donned underwear.

  The evening trousers and camisole were a perfect fit, and she was in the process of applying make-up when Michel re-entered the room.

  Sandrine glanced away from the mirror and met his gleaming gaze. ‘They’re lovely,’ she complimented.

  ‘Merci,’ he acknowledged with mocking amusement as he discarded the towel.

  She returned her attention to applying eye shadow, willing her fingers to be steady as she brushed a soft gold to one upper lid.

  The mirror proved her worst enemy, for it reflected heavily muscled thighs, smooth hips and buttocks and a fleeting glimpse of male genitalia as he stepped into briefs. The action involved in pulling on the pair of dark trousers emphasised an impressive display of honed muscle and sinew, and she was unable to glance away as he shrugged into his shirt and tended to the buttons.

  Get over it, she derided in silent chastisement, and determinedly focused her attention on completing her make-up. It was something of a relief to enter the en suite minutes later, and she activated the hair dryer, opting to leave her hair to fall loose onto her shoulders.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Michel complimented when she reentered the bedroom. ‘But there’s something missing.’

  She felt on edge, jittery in a way that could only be attributed to acute sensitivity to this particular man. All her fine body hairs seemed to stand on end, quivering like miniature antennae, and her stomach didn’t belong to her at all.

  This was madness. Why did she feel as if she were being stalked by a prowling predator waiting for the right moment to pounce?

  ‘What is that?’ she managed lightly, and felt her body tremble slightly as he moved towards her.

  ‘These.’ He took hold of her left hand and slid first her wedding ring, then the magnificent pear-shaped diamond onto the appropriate finger.

  Sandrine looked down at her hand, saw the symbols of his possession and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Michel—’

  Anything further she might have uttered was stilled as he pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Let’s go have that drink, shall we?’

  The hotel lounge held a mix of patrons, and Michel quirked an eyebrow when she insisted on orange juice.

  ‘The need for a clear head?’

  ‘Definitely!’

  ‘Afraid, Sandrine?’

  Of you? ‘No,’ she responded evenly. Her reaction to him was something different entirely.

  His husky chuckle was almost her undoing, and she could have hit him when he raised his glass in a silent, mocking gesture.

  ‘How is your grandmother?’ A safe subject, surely, she considered as she took a sip of the refreshing juice.

  Michel’s eyes held hers as he settled back in his chair. ‘She expressed regret that you were unable to join me.’

  Not so safe, she mentally corrected. ‘She’s an incredible lady.’

  ‘Who regards you with affection.’

  What could she say to that? After a few seconds she settled with ‘How kind.’

  ‘I promised we’d visit her after our return to New York.’

  She didn’t want to think that far ahead. It was enough just to get through each day.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’

  Sandrine shook her head, then watched as he set his empty glass down on the table. ‘Shall we go have dinner?’

  They chose Italian, the best restaurant, they were assured, in town. Michel ordered a smooth vintage Lambrusco to accompany a gnocchi starter, and they both settled for veal scallopini as a main, with an exquisite lemon tart for dessert.

  The ambience was definitely European, the waiters were Italian, and the food…perfetto. Sandrine expressed her pleasure as the waiter served them with a liqueur coffee.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll eat a thing until at least midday tomorrow,’ she declared as they walked out onto the street.

  One shoestring strap slipped down over her shoulder and she absently slid it back in place. It had been a great few hours, reminding her far too vividly of previous evenings they’d shared over good food and fine wine.

  ‘That was nice,’ she said, offering him a warm smile. ‘Thank you.’

  His expression was equally warm, and those brilliant grey eyes bore a gleam she didn’t care to define. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ she suggested on impulse. Hastings Street ran parallel to the foreshore, and it wasn’t late. A number of tourists were enjoying the evening air, walking, drinking coffee at pavement tables adjoining numerous cafés and restaurants.

  Michel caught her hand loosely in his, and she didn’t pull free.

  Did they look like lovers? Somehow she didn’t think so. Their body language wasn’t right.

  He traced an idle pattern across the delicate veins at her wrist and felt the sudden surge in her pulse as it leapt to a faster beat.

  When she attempted to tug her hand free, he forestalled the action by lifting her hand to his lips and kissing each finger in turn, aware of the slight tremor that shook her slender frame.

  Sandrine lifted her head and met his steady gaze. ‘Are you trying to seduce me?’

  ‘Am I succeeding?’

  Only too well.

  ‘Resorting to the neutrality of silence, mignonne?’ She offered him a stunning smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘On the grounds that anything verbal might give me a swelled head?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  They strolled along one side of the street, pausing every now and then when something in a shop window caught their attention, then they crossed over and wandered back to their hotel.

  It was after eleven when she preceded him into their suite, and she automatically stepped out of her shoes, then reached for the waistband of her evening trousers.

  Only to discover he’d already beaten her to it. She stood perfectly still as he slid the garment down past her thighs and she didn’t move when he slipped the camisole over her head.

  It was difficult to retain much dignity clad only in lacy black briefs, and she retreated into the en suite as Michel began divesting his clothes.

  The lack of a nightgown caused her a moment’s consternation, then she plucked a towel free and wound it sarongwise round her slim form. She might have little option but to sleep nude, but she was darned if she’d walk naked into the bedroom!

  Misplaced modesty, she decided ruefully as she met the dark, gleaming gaze of the man settled comfortably against a nest of pillows. The expanse of sun-kissed olive skin covering honed muscle and sinew was impossible to ignore, so she didn’t even try.

  His faintly quirked brow didn’t help any, nor did his slow, teasing smile as she slid between the sheets before discarding the towel.

  ‘It’s a little late to play shy, chérie.’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t feel comfortable parading nude.’

  ‘Do you?’

  A slight frown creased her forehead. ‘Do I—what?’

  ‘Feel uncomfortable with me,’ Michel pursued patiently as he rolled towards her and supported his head with a propped elbow.

  He was too close, and much too dangerous. She became conscious of her breathing and monitoring every breath she took. The beat of her heart seemed loud in her chest, and she was willing to swear the pulse at the base of her throat was visible and far too fast.

  ‘I feel uncomfortable with me when I’m around you,’ Sandrine admitted with husky honesty, and her eyes widened as he lifted a hand and stroked a fore-finger lightly down the l
ength of her nose.

  ‘And that’s bad?’ He pressed the pad of his thumb against her lower lip, then slowly traced its curve.

  Heat suffused her body and pooled between the apex of her thighs. Sensation flared deep within, and her fingers clenched in an effort to control the aching need that made her want to reach for him.

  ‘You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?’ Sandrine queried in a slightly strangled voice.

  ‘What am I doing, mignonne?’

  ‘Seducing me.’

  His head lowered and his lips brushed against her own. ‘Mmm,’ he teased, his breath warm as it mingled with her own. ‘Want me to stop?’

  She nearly said yes. Then his mouth was on hers, gentle at first, then the pressure increased as he took her deep.

  Unbidden, her arms lifted as she linked hands at his nape, and she held on during the sensual storm that followed, giving, taking, in a manner that left her weak-willed and malleable. His.

  It was a long time before they lay spent, and curled in each other’s arms they drifted easily into a blissful sleep from which they stirred in the early dawn hours to shower, then make exquisitely slow love until the waiter delivered their breakfast.

  ‘What to you want to do with the day?’ Michel queried as he drank the last of his orange juice, then poured strong black coffee.

  Sandrine spooned muesli and fruit, added milk into a bowl, then looked enviously at the plate of bacon, eggs and fried tomato. She was famished. And filled with a languid warmth that owed everything to sensual and sexual satiation.

  ‘Maleny, Montville, the Glasshouse Mountains.’

  ‘I was afraid you would suggest that.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, feigning innocence. ‘What else did you have in mind?’

  ‘We could stay here, order a late lunch, then drive back to the Coast.’

  The thought of spending several more hours in bed with him would weaken her defences, and they couldn’t afford to be weakened further! ‘It’s a new day,’ she proffered solemnly. ‘Let’s make good use of it.’

  ‘My intention precisely.’

  ‘Let’s not go for overkill. We scratched an itch, and it was great.’ Better than great. There weren’t the words to even begin a satisfactory description for what they’d shared.

  His gaze sharpened. ‘That’s all it was for you? Scratching an itch?’

  Sandrine lifted her cup, sipped the dark, sweet brew, then replaced it on the saucer. ‘You want to conduct an analysis, Michel? Should I determine a points system and rate you accordingly?’

  He wanted to drag her to her feet, sweep her back into the bedroom and change that tepid warmth into blazing heat.

  She’d been with him every inch of the way, through the night and in the morning. He was prepared to stake his life on it. He’d felt the tremors shake her body, the sweet tug of her muscles as she took and held him in a fit so snug he grew hard at the very thought of it.

  She was slipping into self-protection mode in the clear light of day. He could cope with that as long as he had the nights.

  ‘I don’t recall your confiding too many comparisons,’ he drawled. ‘And as we never did indulge in the Was-it-as-good-for-you-as-it-was-for-me? scenario, I see no reason to begin now.’

  ‘Confidence is a fine thing.’

  ‘Knowledge,’ Michel corrected with a tinge of mockery. ‘Of you.’

  Oh, yes, he had that, she admitted wryly. He knew precisely which buttons to push, and where and when. It gave him an unfair advantage.

  They finished breakfast in silence, then showered and dressed before checking out of the resort and collecting the car.

  It was a beautiful day, the sky a clear azure with only a few wispy clouds in sight. Warm sunshine promised high summer temperatures as they left Noosa and headed towards the mountains.

  Soon there were roadside stalls selling a variety of fruit and vegetables, and as they ascended, the ground undulated with acre upon acre in a patchwork of green pasture. It was a visual vista Sandrine found relaxing.

  Not so relaxing were the events of last night. It was all too easy to reflect on the heaven of being in Michel’s arms, savouring his taste, his touch, exulting in the sheer sensation of two lovers in perfect accord.

  Even now, her body ached in places, and all it took was one glance, a vivid memory, and the heat began to simmer deep inside, flaring acutely until Michel became her total focus. Intense sexual chemistry, and ruinous to her peace of mind.

  It brought a lump to her throat for a few long seconds and made swallowing difficult.

  Dear heaven, think of something else! There, in the paddocks, were cattle, and overhead a helicopter swung east. On a rescue mission, perhaps?

  The car braked suddenly and an arm shot out in front of her, providing a barrier as she was flung forward against her seat belt simultaneously with Michel’s muffled oath.

  ‘What on earth?’ Sandrine queried in startled surprise as the car came to a screeching halt, only to see the answer for herself as a small dog streaked from the road into the opposite paddock.

  ‘Idiot animal. It could have been killed,’ Michel muttered angrily as he directed her an encompassing glance. ‘Okay?’ She nodded wordlessly, and his gaze sharpened. ‘Sure?’

  He caught hold of her chin between thumb and forefinger and turned her head towards him, subjecting her to a sweeping appraisal.

  ‘Yes.’ It would never do for him to guess her shaken composure was due to him, and not the near accident.

  She lifted a hand to her throat to hide the fast-beating pulse thudding in the hollow there, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief when he released her and turned his attention back to the road.

  It was almost midday when they reached Montville, and Sandrine was captivated by the quaint buildings, the cafés and tearooms, the abundance of craft shops.

  Together they browsed in a few of the shops, and she selected a few gifts for her step-siblings, then they enjoyed a delicious lunch in a café overlooking the valley before heading back to the Gold Coast.

  It had been a pleasant break, and she said so as they entered the Sanctuary Cove villa just after six.

  ‘All of it?’ Michel drawled with a distinctly wicked smile.

  ‘Most of it,’ Sandrine qualified, and heard his faint laugh.

  ‘Let’s change and eat out.’

  ‘I could make something,’ she prevaricated, mentally assessing the contents of the refrigerator. It held steak, sufficient greens to make a salad, and fresh fruit.

  ‘I’ll book a table at the Hyatt,’ Michel determined firmly.

  ‘I have lines to study,’ Sandrine warned as he placed the heel of his hand at the back of her waist and propelled her towards the stairs.

  ‘We’ll be home by nine. You can curl up in a chair and go through them then.’

  Sandrine chose a casually elegant cream pant suit, dressed it up with gold, stiletto-heeled sandals, then fixed a long, matching cream fringed scarf at her neck so that half its length trailed down her back.

  The Hyatt was well patronised, and the maître d’ escorted them to a table close to a window with a pleasant view out over the river.

  Michel ordered wine, then they selected their starter and main course, but deferred dessert.

  Sandrine was enjoying her prawn starter when she heard a familiar light voice exude an affectionate greeting, and there was Cait Lynden, a veritable feminine siren dressed in black, looking like a model who’d just stepped out of Vogue, hair and make-up the picture of perfection. With Gregor at her side.

  ‘Darling,’ Cait effused, proffering an air kiss to one cheek. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  Sandrine spared Gregor a quick glance, glimpsed the slight roll of his eyes and deduced that Cait was on a mission. A mission named ‘snaring Michel’.

  ‘The long arm of coincidence,’ Sandrine agreed, and sent Michel a mocking glance beneath partly veiled eyelashes.

  ‘You won’t mind if we join you?’ Cai
t slipped into a chair without waiting for an answer.

  Oh, great. This held the promise of turning into quite an evening.

  ‘I’ll order another bottle of wine,’ Gregor insisted as the wine steward and the waiter hovered attentively while Cait and Gregor perused the menu and gave their order.

  Cait turned towards Sandrine. ‘Are you not feeling well, darling?’ False concern coloured her voice, and Sandrine silently applauded Cait’s acting ability. ‘You look a little pale.’

  Sandrine summoned a sweet smile. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Gregor is hosting a party Saturday night. You must both come.’

  ‘Unfortunately we’ll be in Sydney,’ Michel drawled, and lifted his glass to take an appreciative sip.

  Really? Sandrine queried silently. She certainly intended to visit her family there, but she hadn’t given a thought to whether Michel would join her.

  Cait hid her disappointment well. ‘What a shame.’

  The waiter removed their plates and returned in minutes with Cait’s and Gregor’s starters.

  ‘It should be an interesting shoot tomorrow.’ Sandrine could almost sense Cait’s sharpening figurative claws as she sought to scratch. ‘Sandrine has this intimate scene.’ She paused, then went for the kill. ‘Knowing she’s with other men must be difficult for you to handle.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with it.’ Michel’s smile was deadly, his voice dangerously soft. ‘Considering I’m the one who gets to take her to bed.’

  Sandrine watched with fascination as Cait fluttered her lashes. ‘I adore a proprietorial male.’

  ‘Really, darling?’ Gregor interposed. ‘You surprise me. I had you pegged as calling the shots in a relationship.’

  If looks could kill, Gregor would be dead and Cait would be up on a murder charge, Sandrine mused.

  Well versed in the subtle games some women felt compelled to play, on one level she found Cait’s behaviour amusing. On another, she wanted to scratch her eyes out! Jealousy, she reflected wryly, was not an enviable trait.

  She spared Michel a quick glance and caught the faint gleam evident in those grey eyes. Was she that transparent? He had acquired the ability to read her mind with remarkable accuracy almost from the beginning, whereas his was mostly a closed book. As a poker player, he would be superb.