The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  The next day Raoul rang to say he’d be back on the evening flight, and the anticipated pleasure of seeing him again was overwhelming. She’d tried to tell herself she hadn’t missed him, but knew she lied.

  Friday morning there was another delivery of flowers. Flower, she corrected, unsure how to view the single red rose in its cellophane cylinder. The accompanying card held no message, just the initial R.

  Lunch was a sandwich eaten at her desk and washed down with bottled water as she ran a check on the photo stills that had arrived by courier from Alex Stanford. He’d noted his selection, and she agreed with him. The shots were good, very good.

  The lead actress, Cait Lynden, looked great alongside the two professional models. The lead actor, Gregor Anders, had perfected the right angles to portray himself to the best possible advantage.

  Michel Lanier should be well pleased. Especially, with the photo stills of Sandrine. There was something about her, some indefinable quality that commanded a second glance. Add unaffected appeal, exquisite bone structure, and you had a visual winner, Stephanie qualified.

  The glossy fashion magazine was due to hit the newsstands next week, the interviews and photo segments would appear in two of the weekly women’s magazines the same week. A comprehensive one-on-one interview with Cait Lynden and Gregor Anders was scheduled for the magazine section of the Sunday newspaper in three major states, and television interviews were due to air in two weeks’ time.

  Then there were the social pages. Cocktail party, the gala charity dinner, to which some of Brisbane and the Gold Coast’s social elite were invited, together with photographers and journalists to note and record the event.

  It was all part of a well-presented media package aimed to attract public interest, a teaser to encourage paying cinema customers, Stephanie accorded wryly.

  It would be nice, she reflected ruminatively, if the movie broke even. Although Michel Lanier could well afford to take the loss.

  Filming had finished, and next week the marketing team would attend a private screening and decide which segments should appear as trailers. Meetings, conferences, release dates. It was a comprehensive and exacting project.

  Stephanie reached for the phone and made a series of calls, logged data into her computer and ran another check on the table seating for the charity gala dinner to be held in the Grand Ballroom at the Sheraton.

  She needed to collect her new gown for the event, and a call to the boutique ascertained the alterations were complete.

  It was almost five-thirty when she parked the car at the Marina Mirage shopping complex. Ten minutes later she emerged from the boutique, an emblazoned carry-bag in hand.

  With luck, if the traffic wasn’t too heavy, she’d be able to collect Emma from the day care center and be home just after six. Celeste was preparing Emma’s favorite meal, and they planned a quiet evening together.

  Stephanie stepped onto the escalator and idly scanned the ground floor with its marbled tiles, an attractive water fountain and tables set out for casual alfresco dining.

  She glimpsed a familiar male head, and recognized Raoul…in the company of a tall stunningly beautiful woman with dark hair pulled back into a sleek knot, classic features, exquisite makeup and a figure to die for.

  Worse, one hand was curled round Raoul’s forearm. They looked…cozy, Stephanie decided.

  Did hearts stop? She was willing to swear hers did. And there was a sudden searing pain in the region of her stomach.

  At that precise moment he lifted his head and saw her. For a shocking few seconds his expression assumed a still quality, and he removed the woman’s hand from his arm, murmured a few words at her protest and moved toward the base of the escalator.

  There was no way Stephanie could avoid him, and although it took considerable effort she summoned a polite smile as she stepped off.

  ‘Raoul,’ she acknowledged with cool formality.

  ‘Mon ami, are you not going to introduce us?’

  French, Stephanie deduced, huskily feminine and infinitely feline.

  ‘Of course,’ Raoul inclined with unruffled ease. ‘Ghislaine Chabert. Stephanie Sommers.’

  Ghislaine stroked a hand down Raoul’s forearm, gifted him a witching smile, then transferred her attention to Stephanie. Her eyes hardened and became cold. ‘You are one of Raoul’s business acquaintances?’

  Oh my. A tigress. With sheathed claws and a mean disposition. ‘Michel’s,’ Stephanie corrected succinctly.

  ‘Stephanie is in marketing.’

  Perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted fractionally. ‘Ah,’ Ghislaine inclined with condescension. ‘Sandrine’s little movie.’

  This could only get worse, and she didn’t intend hanging around to discover how much worse. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She cast Raoul a measured glance, and inclined her head toward Ghislaine. ‘I’m already late to collect my daughter.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to your car.’

  ‘Please don’t bother.’ She stepped to one side and began walking to the set of central escalators that would take her down to the car park.

  He said something to Ghislaine in French, brusque words that were totally incomprehensible, then caught up with Stephanie in a few long strides.

  She should have known he’d follow her. Without breaking step she continued toward the escalator, all too aware he was right behind her.

  He snagged her arm as she stepped off the escalator and turned her to face him.

  ‘Whatever you’re bent on surmising—don’t,’ Raoul warned silkily.

  ‘You haven’t a clue what I’m thinking,’ Stephanie declared distantly.

  ‘Yes,’ he reiterated. ‘I do.’

  ‘You read minds?’ she flung icily, and glimpsed the cynicism in his smile.

  ‘Yours is remarkably transparent.’

  ‘There is no point to this conversation.’

  ‘Sacré bleu,’ he swore softly. ‘You try the patience of a saint. Ghislaine,’ he informed hardily, ‘is the daughter of an old family friend, who arrived unannounced, and not by my invitation,’ Raoul continued hardily, wanting to kiss her senseless until the doubt, the insecurity, disappeared.

  ‘You don’t need to explain,’ she declared coolly.

  Oh, yes, he did. With concise honesty, right now. ‘Ghislaine has booked herself into the same hotel. She’s not with me,’ he said with deliberate emphasis. ‘She never has been.’

  She directed him a level look. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  He wanted to smote his fist against something hard. ‘Because Ghislaine is a femme fatale who finds it amusing to play games.’

  Stephanie took in a breath and released it as an exasperated sigh. ‘I’d love to stop and chat, but I have to pick up Emma.’

  ‘And you don’t believe a word I’ve said.’

  She retained his gaze fearlessly. ‘You’re free to do whatever you like with whomever you please.’ She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm.

  ‘You’re making obstacles where there are none.’

  ‘No,’ she refuted as he released her. ‘I’m making it easy.’

  Dignity won out every time, she assured silently as she crossed through two rows to where she’d parked her car. Except dignity didn’t do a thing for the way her nerves were shredding into numerous strands. Nor did it help ease the painful ache in her stomach.

  She unlocked the door and slid in behind the wheel, then she fired the engine and sent the car up to ground level.

  Perhaps it was as well she’d planned a quiet evening at home with Celeste and Emma. She needed time to think.

  When Raoul rang at eight, she had Celeste tell him she was putting Emma to bed. She didn’t return his call.

  Her mother wisely maintained a silent counsel, for which Stephanie was grateful. Maternal advice, no matter how well-meaning, wasn’t high on her list tonight.

  Together they viewed a video, followed by a program on cable, before reaching a mutual agreement to retire.


  There were too many images invading her mind to promote sleep, and Stephanie didn’t even try. Instead she plumped an extra pillow against the bed head and picked up a book.

  Two hours later she snapped off the bed lamp and stared into the darkness.

  Tomorrow was going to be a long day, followed by an even longer night. There were press interviews and photographers scheduled to cover the film cast at Movieworld. She needed to take Celeste and Emma to the airport for the midday flight to Sydney. Then there was the gala dinner.

  Would Ghislaine inveigle an invitation? It wouldn’t be difficult to acquire one. The Grand Ballroom was large, the staff adept at setting up an extra table or two at the last moment, providing seating wasn’t already at maximum. All Ghislaine needed to do was have a discreet word in the right ear and pay for the privilege.

  Stephanie stifled a muffled curse and thumped her pillow.

  The image of Ghislaine clinging to Raoul’s arm was vivid in her mind. And how had the Frenchwoman known where Raoul was staying?

  She vowed it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered a lot. Despite her efforts to prevent it, he’d managed to scale every protective wall she’d erected, and was close to invading her heart.

  Raoul’s warning returned to haunt her. Ghislaine liked to play games, huh? Well, let the games begin!

  It was a wrench depositing Celeste and Emma at the airport, and Stephanie experienced a mixture of acute loss and emotional deprivation as she hugged Emma close in a final farewell as they passed through security. Watching the jet taxi down the runway, then ascend, was never a good idea. Maybe, when Emma grew older, she’d be able to discard the practice. But now, the little girl was so young, so vulnerable…yet so excited and happy to embark on an adventure.

  Emma would have a wonderful time, Stephanie assured herself as she slid into the car and drove toward the car park exit.

  It was she who needed to adjust to an empty house, the lack of childish chatter and laughter. The umbilical cord connecting mother to child, although cut at birth, was never really severed, she mused as she gained the northbound highway.

  Stephanie stopped off at home, heated a slice of Celeste’s quiche and ate it, checked her answering machine, then she collected a container of commercially bottled water from the refrigerator and returned to her car.

  Dedication to the job was a fine thing, and she could easily have delegated an appearance at the Movieworld shoot. Except she considered it important to be present for any on-the-spot decisions. It was precisely that dedication to detail that had seen her rise through the marketing ranks.

  Away from the comfort of air conditioning the heat was intense. As the afternoon wore on, dispositions became frayed, artistic temperament increased and the suggestion they move to another location brought voiced dissent from a few.

  ‘It’ll add another dimension,’ Alex Stanford assured as he packed his camera and hefted the bag over one shoulder.

  ‘Okay,’ Stephanie indicated, trusting his judgment. ‘See you there.’

  She’d almost reached the car when her cell phone rang.

  ‘Not returning my calls is becoming a habit of yours,’ Raoul’s voice drawled close to her ear.

  Her pulse rate picked up and quickened to a faster beat. ‘It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ she responded quickly, aware of the need to be at the hotel early.

  ‘Stephanie.’ His voice acquired a warning edge she chose to ignore.

  ‘Once we’re seated, I’m off the hook,’ she relayed succinctly. ‘Prior to that, I’ll be working the job. You’ll be superfluous.’

  ‘What time do you have to be there?’ His slightly accented voice sent a shiver feathering down her spine.

  The sound of a car horn distorted audible clarity, and she put a hand over one ear. ‘I have to go,’ she indicated.

  ‘Six-fifteen?’

  She would have argued, endorsing her decision to meet him at the hotel, except she didn’t have the time to conduct a verbal sparring match. ‘Fine.’

  The afternoon was fraught, and by five even the television camera crew were relieved to dismantle equipment and head for their vehicle.

  Consequently it was five-thirty by the time Stephanie reached Mermaid Beach, and home. Forty-five minutes in which to shower, wash and dry her hair, apply makeup and dress didn’t present an enviable time frame.

  With speed and efficiency she managed it…just. The doorbell pealed as she was in the process of attaching ear studs, and she quickly slid her feet into stiletto-heeled pumps, spritzed perfume to a few pulse points, then she caught up her evening purse and headed for the front door.

  The breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. It wasn’t the dark evening suit, nor the snowy white pin-tucked shirt, but the man himself and the significant aura of power he exuded. There was a sense of strength, an innate quality that had little to do with his muscular frame or chiseled facial features.

  ‘We really should leave,’ Stephanie said coolly.

  The gown did wonderful things for her, it was precisely the reason she’d seriously challenged the limit on her credit card. Her job called for what she termed “a working wardrobe,” yet the motivation for the purchase of this particular acquisition had been personal rather than professional.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Raoul accorded gently, and glimpsed pleasure appeared briefly before she masked it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she returned solemnly. He made her nervous, and she hoped it didn’t show.

  No other man had the power to arouse such a complexity of emotions. Why this man? she asked silently as they traveled the northbound highway toward Main Beach.

  It was a question that increasingly haunted her with each passing day. What are you going to do about it? an elusive imp persisted. Have an affair? One week of heaven, followed by a lifetime of attempting to deal with it?

  A silent bubble of hysterical laughter died in her throat. Never had she been so prey to such a range of ambivalent feelings, swinging like a pendulum from go for it and to hell with the consequences to don’t do this to yourself.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ Raoul observed, shooting her a discerning glance as they neared their destination.

  ‘Just a hectic day,’ Stephanie revealed evenly. She was still angry with him, but mostly she was angry with Ghislaine.

  ‘Fragile egos, interrupted schedules that went way over time?’

  And that only accounted for the day. She offered him a rueful smile. ‘How did you guess?’

  Six-thirty For Seven on the invitations meant there were guests already mingling in the lounge area outside the hotel ballroom.

  The prestigious yearly event in aid of charity ensured attendance by the social glitterati, and the very reason why Stephanie had seized the marketing opportunity to have key members of the cast attend. The publicity potential was too good to miss.

  Four leading European fashion houses with boutiques in the upmarket Mirage shopping complex had compiled a fashion parade with models displaying the new season’s releases.

  However, it was the fragile egos that had her running a personal check of the table seatings. The charity organizers had arranged their own tables, but the few set aside for important guests and dignitaries required personal attention.

  Stephanie located the tables up front, ran a check on place names, made one change, then returned to the lounge, caught sight of Alex Stanford and crossed to confer with him about the shots she wanted.

  ‘Where are our exalted stars?’ Alex queried. ‘Bent on making an entrance?’

  ‘Michel and Sandrine have just arrived,’ she indicated. ‘There they are talking to Michel’s brother.’ And Ghislaine.

  Now why didn’t that surprise her?

  At that moment the main doors opened and the guests began entering the ballroom. Women wearing designer gowns and sufficient jewelry to warrant security measures, while the men observed the formal evening
wear, black tie dress code.

  Michel and Sandrine drew near, closely followed by Raoul and Ghislaine.

  ‘You are joining us?’

  Stephanie met Raoul’s enigmatic gaze and held it. ‘Soon. I need to have a word with the photographer.’

  Ghislaine slipped an arm through Raoul’s and cast Stephanie a brilliant smile. Mine, the gesture stated.

  The Frenchwoman looked stunning, her gown a strapless, backless masterpiece that shrieked European couturier. A single strand diamond necklace looked expensive, and was matched with a bracelet and ear studs.

  Stephanie greeted Michel and Sandrine, acknowledged Ghislaine, then she excused herself and went in search of Alex Stanford.

  Five minutes later she entered the ballroom and began weaving her way toward their designated table. There was still no sign of Cait Lynden or Gregor Anders, she saw at a glance. However, Tony the film’s director was seated at an adjacent table with the producer, two of the Warner Brothers Movieworld executives and their wives. And Ghislaine.

  Whose influence had Ghislaine used to secure a seat at one of the main tables? Raoul? Possibly Michel? Stephanie assured herself she didn’t want to know.

  She slid into her seat just as the lights flickered indicating the opening speech was about to begin, and suddenly there was Cait Lynden and Gregor Anders, their progress to the head of the room spotlighted and captured by a clutch of professional photographers.

  It was almost amusing, Stephanie alluded wryly, if only one could manage to see the humour in the situation. Michel was under siege from the expressive attention of the lead actress, who, it appeared, was intent on displaying subtle designs on Sandrine’s husband.

  Whereas on the adjacent table, Ghislaine was doing her very best to garner Raoul’s attention.

  The charity chairwoman gave an introductory speech, followed by a word from the mayor, then the waiters emerged bearing trays containing the starters.

  The food was attractively presented, but Stephanie merely forked a few morsels, and barely did justice to the main course.