Читать книгу The Helen Bianchin Collection - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 18

THE grey skies held a heavy electric potency that threatened to unleash cacophonous fury at any moment.

Hannah turned on the car’s lights, and flinched as a fork of lightning rent the skyline, followed seconds later by a roll of thunder.

She could almost smell the imminent onset of rain, and seconds later huge drops hit the windscreen in a rapidly increasing deluge that soon made driving hazardous.

A muttered curse escaped her lips. Great. A summer storm during peak-hour traffic was just what she needed. As if she weren’t already late, with available time minimising by the second.

Miguel would be pleased at the delay, she decided grimly.

Almost on cue, her cell-phone rang, and she activated the speaker button.

‘Where in hell are you?’ a slightly accented male voice demanded with chilling softness.

Speak of the devil! ‘Your concern is overwhelming,’ she returned with silk-edged mockery.

‘Answer the question.’

Rain sheeted down, reducing visibility to a point where she felt cocooned in isolation. ‘Caught in traffic.’

There were a few seconds’ silence, and she had a mental image of him checking his watch. ‘Where, precisely?’

‘Does it matter?’ A resort to wicked humour prompted her to add, ‘I doubt even you can organise some way to get me out of here.’

Miguel Santanas was a law unto himself, with sufficient wealth and power to command anyone at will.

Andalusian-born, he’d been educated in Paris, and spent several years based in New York managing the North American arm of his father’s business empire.

‘You could have closed the boutique early, missed the worst of traffic, and been home by now,’ Miguel said drily, and she felt anger begin to stir.

The boutique was hers. She’d studied art and design, worked in fashion houses in Paris and Rome, only to walk out on a disastrous love affair three years ago and return home. Within months she’d leased premises, stocked the boutique with exclusive designer wear, and at the age of twenty-seven she had built up an exclusive clientele.

‘I doubt one of my best clients would have appreciated being shoved out the door,’ she returned with marked cynicism.

‘Whatever made me think you would assume the mantle of a docile wife?’ Miguel offered in a musing drawl.

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I didn’t promise to obey.’

‘I vividly recall your insistence the word be deleted from our vows.’

‘We made a deal,’ she reminded, all too aware of the circumstances that had initiated their marriage.

Two equally prominent, independently wealthy families whose fortunes were interwoven in an international conglomerate. What better method of cementing it and taking it into the next generation than to have the son of one family marry the daughter of the other?

It had taken subtle manipulation to entice the son to relocate to Melbourne from New York, whereupon an intricate strategy had been put in place to ensure Miguel and Hannah were frequent guests at a variety of social functions.

The master parental plan had involved anonymous tips to the media, whose printed speculation had seeded the idea and waived the need for further familial interference.

Hannah, tiring of dealing with some of the city’s eligible and not-so-eligible bachelors bent on adding her wealth to their own, was not averse to the security marriage offered, with the proviso she continued to maintain her independence. Love wasn’t an issue, and it seemed sensible to choose a husband with her head, rather than her heart.

Despite the family business connection, ten years’ difference in age, his boarding-school education both in Australia and overseas ensured their paths had rarely met, and she had been only eleven when he’d transferred to New York.

‘So we did,’ Miguel drawled. ‘Have you reason to complain, amante?’

‘No,’ she responded evenly.

Miguel was an attractive man, whose strong masculine features and tall broad-shouldered frame portrayed a leashed strength emphasised by a dramatic mesh of latent sensuality and an animalistic sense of power.

At thirty-seven, he echoed his eminent success in the business arena in the bedroom. She hadn’t known his equal as a lover. And wouldn’t want to, she added mentally, for he satisfied needs she hadn’t been aware existed.

Even thinking about his lovemaking made her nerve-ends curl, and sent heat flaring through her veins.

A sudden horn-blast alerted her attention as the car in front inched forward, then came to a halt.

In the distance she heard the wail of a siren, soon joined by another, and her stomach twisted as she envisaged the probability of a car crash up ahead, the twisted metal, the resultant injuries.

‘I think there’s been an accident,’ Hannah revealed quietly. ‘It might take a while for me to get through.’

‘Where are you?’ Miguel demanded.

‘On Toorak Road, about a mile from home.’

‘Drive carefully. I’ll phone Graziella and tell her we’ll be late.’

‘Do that,’ she responded with dulcet charm. It wouldn’t create a drama if they arrived fifteen minutes after the specified time. Their hosts were known to allow up to an hour for their guests to mix and mingle before serving dinner.

The lights changed, and Hannah offered a silent prayer in thanks as the traffic began to move slowly forward.

The Deity, however, was not in a benevolent mood, and consequently it was almost six when she turned into the leafy avenue leading to the remote-controlled gates guarding entrance to Miguel’s spacious double-storeyed home.

Landscaped gardens and manicured lawns provided a perfect background for an imposing residence set back from the road. Spanish in design, with thick cream-plastered walls, high arched windows, and a terracotta-tiled roof.

Hannah urged the white Porsche up the curved driveway at speed, and brought the vehicle to a swift halt beneath the wide portico.

Heavy panelled double doors opened the instant she slid from behind the wheel, and she spared the housekeeper Miguel employed a warm smile as she entered the foyer.

‘Thanks, Sofia.’ It had saved her fumbling for her key and bypassing the security alarm system. ‘Would you mind asking Antonio to garage my car?’ Sofia’s husband took care of the grounds and the cars while Sofia tended to the meals and the house five days out of seven.

‘Miguel is already upstairs?’ At Sofia’s verbal affirmative, she moved quickly towards the wide curving stairs leading to the upper floor.

Seconds later she gained the semi-circular gallery bounded by ornately designed balustrades. Five bedrooms, each with en suite, plus a large informal sitting room comprised the upper level. Original paintings were strategically placed on the walls, and there were occasional tables, magnificent ceramic urns and arte-facts set in majestic splendour along the entire gallery.

The main bedroom was situated at the front of the house, and she moved quickly towards it, freeing the buttons on her jacket with one hand while slipping off one heeled shoe with the other.

Seconds later she entered the spacious bedroom with its elegant furniture and separate walk-in robes.

Miguel was in the process of fixing a cuff-link, and she took in the look of him, his stance, the superbly tailored trousers, white shirt, his broad, chiselled features, and the dark well-groomed hair.

Beneath his sophisticated façade there lay the heart of a warrior. Compelling, dangerous, she added silently.

At that moment he glanced towards her, caught her expression, and raised one eyebrow in silent query.

Eyes so dark, they were almost black, met hers, and she fought to control the way her blood coursed through her veins like quicksilver.

Was he aware how he affected her? Sexually, without a doubt, she acknowledged wryly. He had the touch, the skill, to turn her into a mindless wanton, for in his arms she lacked the power to be anything else.

Get a grip, she mentally chastised as she crossed towards her wardrobe.

‘Twenty minutes?’ Hannah intimated, extracting a black knee-length gown with a fine lace-patterned overlay. Stiletto-heeled black shoes, sheer black stockings. The effect would be understated style, and offset her honey-coloured skin and blonde hair.

‘Try for fifteen.’

She made it in just under twenty, emerging into the bedroom freshly showered, dressed, her make-up complete. It took only minutes to step into her gown and close the zip fastener, then add minimum jewellery.

‘Done.’ She caught up an evening purse, and offered Miguel a sparkling smile. ‘Shall we leave?’

Together they traversed the gallery and began descending the stairs. Even though she was in heels, her head barely topped his shoulders.

‘New perfume?’

Hannah met his faintly quizzical expression and matched it with one of her own. ‘A woman’s weapon,’ she asserted solemnly, and suppressed the feather-light shiver that slid across the surface of her skin as Miguel reached out and traced a slow finger along her collar-bone.

‘You have no need of one.’

Her smile tilted the edge of her mouth. ‘Are you seducing me?’

One eyebrow arched, and his teeth gleamed white as he slanted her a teasing look. ‘Am I succeeding?’

Oh yes. But she wasn’t about to tell him so. ‘We have a dinner party to attend, remember?’

His husky chuckle almost undid her. ‘Anticipation, querida,’ he drawled. ‘Is a game lovers play.’

‘Is that how you regard our marriage?’ Hannah queried lightly. ‘As a game?’

Together they crossed the splendid foyer and made their way along a hallway leading to the internal garage.

‘You know better than that.’

‘Do I?’ The words slipped out before she thought to stop them.

‘You want I should show you?’ Miguel countered with silky indolence as he paused to face her.

‘I imagine you will, later.’

There was something in her voice, some indefinable quality that caused his eyes to narrow slightly and search for something beyond her carefully composed features.

She possessed a vulnerability beneath the sophisticated façade, a genuine empathy that held no artifice. A rare trait among the women of his acquaintance. He doubted she was aware he could define each tone of her voice, every expression, no matter how fleeting.

Tonight, for whatever reason, she was on edge, and he sought to alleviate it a little.

He lifted a hand and cupped her nape, tilting her head, then he covered her mouth with his own in an evocative tasting that brought forth a faint sighing sound as she leaned into him and kissed him back.

How long did it last? Seconds, minutes? She had no sense of time, only the feeling of regret as he broke contact.

His eyes were dark, unfathomable, and she was conscious of every breath she took, each beat of her heart as it thudded in her breast.

‘There’s a difference between sex and lovemaking, mi mujer,’ Miguel said gently. ‘You might do well to remember it.’ He smoothed the pad of his thumb along the lower curve of her lip, and proffered a faint smile. ‘You have no lipstick.’

Hannah gathered her wits together quickly. ‘While you, hombre, have a mouth rimmed with hazelnut noisette.’ She considered him carefully. ‘It’s not a good look.’

He laughed, a soft, deep, husky sound that curled round her heart and tugged a little. ‘Minx. I don’t suppose you have a tissue in that minuscule bag you carry?’

‘Of course,’ she said solemnly, extracting a tissue and handing it to him. ‘I am always prepared for any eventuality.’

He used the tissue and discarded it, deactivated the car alarm, then unlocked the door and she slid into the passenger seat. Restoring colour to her lips took only seconds, and it was done by the time Miguel slipped behind the wheel.

Minutes later he eased the powerful Jaguar towards the remote-controlled gates, picking up speed as he gained the street.

Summer daylight saving time bathed their surroundings with a soft golden glow, and while the heat of the day still hovered it was offset by the car’s air-conditioning.

The rain-storm had passed, the wet bitumen the only evidence of its brief intensity.

‘Who are our fellow guests? Do you know?’ Hannah queried idly.

‘Forewarned is forearmed?’ Miguel posed as he paused at an intersection, and she offered him a faintly wry smile.

‘Something like that.’ There were a few socialites of her acquaintance who delighted in setting a cat among the pigeons, then observing the result. It was very cleverly orchestrated, and provided amusing entertainment to the perpetrators.

A few years ago she had been an object of their speculation. Gossip, she amended, was unavoidable, but she detested any deliberate attempt to hurt or offend.

‘Graziella mentioned Angelina and Roberto Moro, Suzanne and Peter Trenton,’ Miguel relayed, shooting her a quick glance as the lights changed and traffic began to move. ‘Esteban also has an invitation.’

Two partners in a prominent law firm and their wives, Hannah mused, together with Miguel’s widowed father.

The del Santos invariably invited between ten and fourteen guests to share their table, and rarely revealed the identity of everyone attending. Graziella always commented that it made the evening interesting.

Hannah wondered who Graziella had invited to partner her charming father-in-law. A widow? Perhaps a divorcee?

‘Is there any earth-shattering news I should be aware of?’ Hannah queried as the car cleared another intersection.

‘In the need to conduct scintillating conversation?’

Hannah bit back a wry retort. ‘It negates any nasty little surprises.’

‘Such as?’

‘The fall of a prominent businessman due to tax avoidance. His wife cranked up her credit card in several élite boutiques.’

Miguel spared her a sharp look. ‘Yours was one of them?’

‘You got it in one.’ It wasn’t a fortune, she could write off the loss, but it left a nasty taste in her mouth that someone she trusted had deliberately ripped her off.

‘Leave it with me.’

Resentment flared. ‘I can handle it.’

‘You don’t need to,’ he responded smoothly.

Hannah wanted to hit him. ‘My business,’ she said firmly. ‘My problem.’

It could wait, Miguel decided, aware that pursuing it now would only exacerbate the situation.

Kew was an old, well-established suburb with large stately mansions, and Miguel turned the car into a leafy avenue, then halted outside an impressive set of gates leading to Graziella and Enrico del Santo’s imposing residence.

‘We’ll discuss this later.’ The window slid down and he pressed the intercom, gave his name, then waited as the gates swung open.

‘The responsibility is mine, the action my decision,’ she insisted as he parked the car on a wide pebbled apron adjacent the main entrance.

‘Independence in a woman is an admirable quality,’ Miguel intoned silkily. ‘But there are times when you take it too far.’

He slid from behind the wheel, and she stepped out, then closed the door.

‘And a man’s indomitable will is a pain in the butt.’

‘Pax,’ Miguel slanted coolly, and she offered him a brilliant smile.

‘Of course, amante,’ Hannah offered in a deliberately facetious response. ‘I wouldn’t dream of tarnishing our image.’

‘Behave,’ he admonished as they mounted the few steps to the massive double entrance doors.

They swung open as they reached them, and a tall well-built man in his fifties offered an affectionate greeting.

‘Hannah.’ Enrico leant forward and pressed his lips lightly to one cheek, then the other, and pumped Miguel’s extended hand. ‘Come through to the lounge.’

As they drew close it was possible to hear the light hum of conversation, and Enrico led them into a large spacious room filled with heavy antique chairs and sofas grouped into comfortable facing sets.

Men stood, resplendent in formal dinner suits, and each of the women resembled a model out of Vogue, the epitome in elegance and cosmetic perfection.

Hannah let her gaze skim a few familiar faces, her smile genuinely warm as she moved forward. She was one of them, born into established old money, educated and groomed to become part of an élite social clique. Hell, she’d even married into it.

Graziella enveloped them warmly, then she placed an arm through one each of theirs and drew them towards the centre of the room.

‘You know most everyone. Except some dear people I very much want you to meet. They are visiting from Europe this summer.’

Graziella and Enrico had friends in almost every city in the world, and frequently entertained guests in their home.

‘Aimee Dalfour, and her niece, Camille,’ Graziella indicated in introduction. ‘Hannah and Miguel Santanas.’

Camille was tall, slender, and startlingly beautiful, with hair that cascaded way down past her shoulders in a fall of lustrous sable. Exquisitely applied make-up, flawless textured skin, and a body to die for. Add a designer gown and shoes, expensive jewellery, and the result was drop-dead gorgeous.

‘Miguel,’ Camille purred in a sultry accented drawl. ‘C’est opportune.’ She extended her hand and silently dared him to take it, her dark eyes simmering with blatant challenge.

This woman was trouble, Hannah decided with a sinking heart. Camille’s fascination with Miguel was glaringly obvious. Also apparent was her intention to charm.

Hannah unconsciously held her breath as instinct caused all her fine body hairs to rise in protective self-defence, watching as Miguel brushed his lips to the manicured fingers, then released them.

‘Hannah,’ Camille acknowledged with pseudo politeness, and returned her attention to Miguel.

‘Enrico will get you a drink,’ Graziella informed them, ever the benevolent hostess. ‘What would you like?’

Hannah was tempted to request something exotic, but she hadn’t eaten since midday and then only a yoghurt followed an hour later by an apple. Alcohol on an empty stomach was not conducive to a clear head.

‘Thank you. Orange juice,’ she requested, and glimpsed Camille’s faint moue at her choice.

‘You don’t drink?’ she queried in a tone that indicated not to imbibe was a social faux pax.

Hannah inclined her head. ‘In this instance I’d prefer to wait and have wine with dinner.’

‘You do not have the head for it?’

Hannah chose not to rise to the bait, and merely smiled.

Minutes later she sipped the cool liquid from a stemmed goblet, aware Camille excelled in her role as temptress.

Keep it up, Hannah warned silently, and I’ll scratch your eyes out!

At that moment Miguel placed an arm along the back of her waist. A gesture that didn’t seem to have any effect at all.

The brush of beautifully lacquered nails as the Frenchwoman touched Miguel’s sleeve. The deliberately seductive smile. The promise lurking beneath those impossibly long curled eyelashes.

Why, she was practically eating him alive!

Hannah decided enough was enough. She didn’t have to stand here and watch Camille’s blatant seduction.

‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She offered Camille a stunning smile, let it drift to settle on her inimitable husband for a few seconds before she moved away a few paces to join her father-in-law.

‘May I say you look beautiful tonight?’ Esteban complimented lightly as he leaned forward and brushed his lips to her cheek.

‘Thank you,’ Hannah responded gently. ‘It’s a few weeks since you’ve been to the house. You must have dinner with us soon. We don’t see enough of you.’

His smile was affectionately warm. ‘Gracias. But you know how it is?’ He gave a light shrug, and she couldn’t resist teasing him a little.

‘A full social calendar,’ she said gravely. ‘And several women vying for your attention?’

‘Ah, you flatter me.’

‘No,’ she assured him kindly. ‘You’re a very nice man, of whom I’m very fond.’ And one any woman in her right mind would snap up in a minute. Except his late wife Isabella held a special place in his heart, and he had no desire to find a substitute.

A mutual acquaintance joined them, and after a few minutes she moved away.

‘I think,’ a light feminine voice suggested, ‘you might need to sharpen your claws.’

Hannah turned towards Suzanne Trenton. ‘Really? And use them on whom? Miguel?’

‘Camille, darling. There are other methods a wife can use to tame her husband.’

It was meaningless repartee, spoken with jesting cynicism for the benefit of mutual amusement.

‘Such as?’ Hannah ventured, and Suzanne gave a soft laugh.

‘Expensive jewellery.’

‘Do enlighten me,’ Miguel drawled as he threaded his fingers through those of his wife.

Hannah stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then she allowed her gaze to meet his. ‘Pink and white diamonds,’ she fabricated. ‘A drop necklace and matching earrings.’ A bewitching smile tilted the edge of her lips. ‘They’re quite beautiful.’

‘Is this a wifely hint?’ His mouth slanted into a humorous curve, at variance with the still watchfulness evident as he raked her features, noting the over-bright smile, her tense stance.

At that moment Graziella announced dinner was about to be served, and began directing guests towards the dining room.

‘There was no need for you to desert me,’ Miguel intoned mildly as they moved across the room.

‘You appeared to be doing quite well on your own.’

‘Careful, querida,’ he drawled musingly. ‘Your claws are showing.’

She gave him a winsome smile. ‘Why, amante,’ she offered with quiet emphasis, ‘I haven’t even begun to unsheathe them.’

If Graziella seated them close to Camille, she’d scream. The gods couldn’t be that unkind, could they?

It appeared they could.

‘I thought I’d place you opposite Camille,’ Graziella remarked as she suggested prearranged seating arrangements. ‘Hannah studied French and lived in Paris for more than a year,’ she informed Camille graciously. ‘As you’re both in the fashion industry, you’ll have much in common.’

Oh, my, this was going to be a fun evening!