Читать книгу Mistress By Arrangement - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

THE insistent ring of the telephone penetrated Michelle’s subconscious, and she reached out a hand, searched blindly for the handset, and succeeded in knocking the receiver onto the floor.

Oh hell. What a way to start the day.

She caught hold of the spiral cord and tugged until her fingers connected with the receiver.

‘Michelle.’

Inches away from her ear she recognised the feminine voice, and she stifled an unladylike oath.

‘Maman,’ she acknowledged with resignation. Just what she needed.

‘Are you still in bed, cherie?’ There was a slight pause. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

Seven, maybe eight, she hazarded, sparing a quick glance at the bedside clock before drawing a sharp breath. Nine.

‘You are alone?’

Michelle closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘No, Maman. Two lovers have pleasured me all through the night.’

‘There is no need to be facetious, darling,’ Chantelle reproved, and Michelle sighed.

‘I’m sorry. Blame it on lack of sleep.’

‘I thought we might do lunch.’ Chantelle named a trendy restaurant at Main Beach. ‘Shall we say twelve?’ And hung up before Michelle had a chance to confirm or refuse.

‘Grrr.’ The sound was a low-pitched growl that held a mixture of irritation and compliance. She could ring back and decline, except she knew almost word for word what Chantelle would say as a persuasive ploy.

Emotional blackmail of the nicest kind, she added mentally as she replaced the receiver and rolled onto her stomach.

Lunch for her mother inevitably meant a minuscule Caesar salad, followed by fresh fruit, a small glass of white wine and two glasses of water. Afterwards they would browse the trendy boutiques, drive the short distance to Marina Mirage, relax over a leisurely latte, then wander at will through the upmarket emporiums.

It was a mother-daughter thing they indulged in together on occasion. Michelle was under no illusion that today’s invitation was a thinly-veiled guise to conduct an in-depth discussion about her association with Nikos Alessandros.

In which case she’d best rise, shine and meet the day. Routine chores and the weekly visit to the supermarket would occupy an hour and a half, and she’d need the remaining time to shower and change if she was to meet her mother at noon.

Chantelle ordered her favourite Caesar salad, and mineral water, while Michelle settled for something more substantial.

‘Antonia and Emerson have insisted we join them on their boat for lunch tomorrow.’

Sunglasses shielded her mother’s eyes, successfully hiding her expression. Although Michelle wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

Chantelle had conversation down to a fine art. First there would be the pleasantries, some light humour in the form of an anecdote or two, followed by the main purpose of the meeting.

‘That will be nice,’ Michelle commented evenly.

‘We will, of course, be back in time to attend the Gallery exhibition.’

This month’s exhibition featured an up and coming local artist whose work had impressed both Gallery partners. Arrangements for each exhibition were made many months in advance, and it said much for the Gallery’s reputation that they had bookings well into next year for future showings.

Emilio possessed an instinctive flair for what would succeed, and their combined talents and expertise had seen a fledging Gallery expand to become one of the most respected establishments on the coastal strip.

Invitations had been sent out to fifty patrons and their partners, the catering instructions had been given. All that remained were the final touches, and placement of the exhibits.

Something which both she and Emilio would attend to this afternoon and complete early tomorrow morning. ‘Do you have any plans for tonight, darling?’

Michelle wound a portion of superb fettuccine marinara onto her fork and held it poised halfway above her plate. ‘An early night, Maman.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Did she? ‘You know how much effort Emilio and I put into each exhibition,’ Michelle said lightly. ‘There are so many things to check, and Emilio is particular with every detail.’

‘I know, darling.’

Chantelle considered education as something important for Michelle to acquire. The private school, university, time abroad to study at the Sorbonne. Except she really wasn’t expected to do anything as a result of such qualification and experience.

The Gallery had been viewed as a frivolous venture. Michelle’s partnership with Emilio Bonanno was expected to be in name only, something she quickly dispelled as she steadfastly refused to join her mother on the social circuit, confining herself to the occasional charity dinner or gala, much to Chantelle’s expressed disappointment.

You could say, Michelle mused, that for the past three years her mother had graciously accepted that her own social proclivities were not shared by her daughter. However, it didn’t stop Chantelle from issuing frequent invitations, or, for the past year, indulging in subtle matchmaking attempts.

‘I think you’ve succeeded in making Jeremy jealous.’ Chantelle took a sip of mineral water, then set down the glass. ‘He wasn’t quite himself after you left last night. Has he telephoned you this morning?’

‘No,’ Michelle responded evenly. ‘I don’t particularly want to hear from him.’

‘Because of Nikos Alessandros?’

‘Nikos Alessandros has nothing whatsoever to do with it.’

‘He’s quite a catch, darling.’

She chose to be deliberately obtuse. ‘Jeremy?’

‘Nikos,’ Chantelle corrected with a tolerant sigh.

‘As I have no intention of indulging in a fishing expedition, whether or not he’s a catch is totally irrelevant.’

‘Do you have time to do a little window shopping?’ Chantelle queried. ‘I really think I could add something to my wardrobe.’

To give her mother credit, she knew when to withdraw. ‘I promised Emilio I’d be at the Gallery at two-thirty.’

Chantelle savoured the last mouthful of cos lettuce, then replaced her fork. ‘In that case, darling, do finish your pasta. We’ll share a coffee later, shall we?’

Clothes, shoes, lingerie, perfume. Any one, or all four, could prove a guaranteed distraction, and Michelle accompanied her mother into one boutique after another in her quest to purchase.

An hour and a half later Chantelle held no less than three brightly emblazoned carry bags, and there was no time left to share coffee.

‘See you tomorrow, darling. Don’t work too hard.’

Michelle placed a light kiss on her mother’s cheek, then watched as Chantelle stowed her purchases in the boot before crossing to slide in behind the wheel of her Mercedes.

It was almost two-thirty when Michelle entered the Gallery. A converted house comprising three levels, it had been completely renovated. Polished wooden floors gleamed with a deep honey stain, and the walls were individually painted in several different pale colours providing a diverse background for carefully placed exhibits. Skylights threw angled shafts of sunlight, accenting subtle shadows as the sun moved from east to west throughout the day.

She experienced a degree of pride at the decor, and what she’d been able to achieve in the past three years.

‘Emilio?’

She returned her keys to her bag and carefully closed the door behind her.

‘Up here, cara,’ an accented voice called from the mezzanine level. ‘Brett is with me.’

A short flight of stairs led to the next level. Above that were Emilio’s private rooms.

Michelle moved swiftly towards the upstairs studio where Brett’s exhibition was to be held. ‘Hi,’ she greeted warmly as she joined them. Both men glanced up, gave her a penetrating look, then switched their attention to the stack of paintings propped carefully against one wall.

‘Cara, stand over there, and tell us what you think,’ Emilio commanded.

For the next four hours they worked side by side, then when the artist left they ordered in pizza, effected a few minor changes, satisfied themselves that every exhibit was strategically placed according to their original plan.

‘He’s nervous,’ Michelle noted as she bit into a slice of piping hot pizza. Melted cheese, pepperoni, capsicum... delicious.

‘It’s his first exhibition,’ Emilio granted, following her action.

The light glinted in reflection from the ear-stud he wore. Designer stubble was at odds with his peroxided crew cut. A lean sinewy frame clothed in designer jeans and T-shirt, he bore the visual persona of an avant garde. His sexual preferences were the subject for conjecture, and he did nothing to dispel a certain image. However, it was part of the tease, the glamour associated with a role he chose to play, and the knowledge very few close friends knew he was straight and not at all what he appeared to be, only amused him.

Behind the image lay a very shrewd business brain, an almost infallible instinct for genuine talent, and an indefinable nous for what appealed to the buying public.

It was something Michelle also shared, and their friendship was platonic, based on mutual knowledge, affection and respect.

‘You are pensive. Why?’

Forthright, even confrontational, Emilio possessed the ability to divine whenever anything bothered her. She delayed answering him by pulling the tab on a can of soft drink and taking a long swallow of the ice-cold liquid.

‘A man, huh?’ Emilio pronounced. ‘Do I know him?’

She replaced the can onto the table, and took another bite of pizza. ‘What makes you so sure it’s a man?’

‘You have soft shadows beneath those beautiful green eyes.’ His smile was gentle, but far too discerning. ‘Lack of sleep, sweetheart. And as you rarely party ‘til dawn, I doubt a late night among the social elite was the cause.’

‘I could merely be concerned about tomorrow’s exhibition.’

‘No,’ he declared with certainty. ‘If you don’t want to talk about him, that’s fine.’

Michelle cast him a level look. ‘He was a guest at a dinner I attended.’ She paused fractionally. ‘And if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.’

‘Trouble,’ Emilio accorded softly. ‘Definitely.’

‘No,’ she corrected. ‘Because I won’t allow him to be.’

‘Cara, I don’t think you’ll have a choice.’ His quiet laughter brought forth a vexed grimace.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’re a beautiful young woman whose fierce protection of self lends you to eat lesser men for breakfast,’ he mocked. ‘The fact you haven’t been able to succeed with this particular one is intriguing. I shall look forward to meeting him.’

‘It won’t happen,’ Michelle vowed with certainty.

‘You don’t think so?’

‘I know so,’ she responded vehemently.

‘OK.’ Emilio lifted both hands in a conciliatory gesture, although his smile held humour. ‘Eat your pizza.’

‘I intend to.’ She bit into the crisp crust, then reached forward, caught up a paper napkin and wiped her fingers. ‘I’ll help you clean up, then I’m going home.’

‘An empty pizza carton, a few glasses, soft drink cans. What’s to clean?’

‘In that case,’ she inclined, standing to her feet in one fluid movement. ‘I’m out of here.’ She leaned forward and brushed her cheek to his. ‘Ciao.’

The Gallery opened at four, and an hour later the full complement of guests had gathered, mingling in small clutches, glass in hand. Taped baroque music flowed softly through strategically placed speakers, a soothing background to the muted buzz of conversation.

Michelle had selected a classic fitted dress in black with a lace overlay. Stiletto heels, sheer black hose, her hair swept high, and understated make-up with emphasis on her eyes completed a picture that portrayed elegance and style.

Hired staff proffered trays containing a selection of hors d’oeuvres, and already a number of Brett’s paintings displayed a discreet sold sticker.

Success, Michelle reflected with a small sigh of relief. Everything was going splendidly. The finger food couldn’t be faulted, the champagne was superb, and the ambience was perfecto, as Emilio would say.

She glanced across the room, caught his eye, and smiled.

‘Another triumph, darling.’

Her stomach tightened fractionally as she recognised Jeremy’s cynical voice, and she summoned a polite smile as she turned to face him. ‘I didn’t expect you to honour the invitation.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

He leaned forward and she moved slightly so that his lips brushed her cheek. An action which resulted in a faint intake of breath, the momentary hardening of his eyes.

‘The eminently eligible Nikos has yet to put in an appearance, I see.’ He moved back a pace, and ran light fingers down her arm.

Michelle tilted her head a little and met his dark gaze. ‘A little difficult, when he wasn’t issued an invitation.’

‘Dear sweet Michelle,’ Jeremy chided with sarcastic gentleness. ‘Nikos was an invited guest on the parents’ cruiser today. The enchanting Chantelle issued the invitation to your Gallery soiree.’ He paused for effect before delivering the punch line. ‘As I recall, Nikos indicated he would grace us with his presence.’

Her heart tripped and raced to a quicker beat. ‘Really? ’

One eyebrow slanted in mockery. ‘Am I mistaken, or is that not pleasurable anticipation I sense?’ He primed a barb and aimed for the kill. ‘Didn’t he come up to scratch last night, darling?’ His smile held thinly veiled humour. ‘Jet lag can have that effect.’

Calm, just keep calm, she bade silently as she moved back a pace. He didn’t release her arm, and she gave him a deliberately pointed look. ‘This conversation is going nowhere, Jeremy.’ She flexed her arm, felt his grip tighten for an instant before he released her. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must mingle.’ Her voice assumed an icy formality. ‘I hope you enjoy the exhibition. Emilio and I are confident of Brett’s talent and potential.’

‘Ah, the inimical Emilio,’ Jeremy drawled. ‘You do know he’s bisexual?’

As well as being untrue, it was unkind. She didn’t miss a beat. ‘Slander isn’t a pretty word. Watch you don’t find yourself in court on a legal charge.’

‘A mite too protective, darling.’

‘And you,’ she declared with quiet emphasis. ‘Are a first-class—’

‘Michelle.’

Her body quivered at the sound of that faintly accented voice, and her pulse went into overdrive. How much of her argument with Jeremy had Nikos Alessandros heard?

Everything came into sharp focus as she slowly turned to face him.

‘Nikos,’ she acknowledged, and imperceptibly stiffened as he placed a hand at the back of her waist.

His expression gave nothing away, but there was a hint of steel beneath the polite facade as he inclined his head.

‘Jeremy.’

Michelle’s nerves flared into sensitised life at his close proximity.

‘Is there a problem?’ Nikos asked smoothly, and she felt like screaming.

Yes. Jeremy for behaving badly, and you just for being here!

A determined sparkle darkened her eyes. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I really should mingle.’

She turned away, only to find that Nikos had joined her.

‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she queried with quiet vehemence the instant they were out of Jeremy’s earshot. She made a concerted effort to shift out of his grasp without success.

‘Rescuing you.’

‘I didn’t need rescuing!’

His smile held a hint of cynical humour. ‘Especially not by me.’

‘Look—’

‘Save the indignation for a more suitable occasion.’

‘Why?’ Michelle vented with quiet fury. ‘When I have no intention of seeing you again.’

‘Considering your parents and the Bateson-Burrows have issued me with a few interesting invitations, that’s most unlikely,’ Nikos assured silkily.

She wanted to hit him. It was enough she had to deal with Jeremy, whose recalcitrance in the past twenty-four hours could be directly attributed to the man at her side.

Had Nikos not been a guest at the Bateson-Burrows’ dinner table, she could have conducted a diplomatic discussion last night with Jeremy, and he wouldn’t now be behaving quite inappropriately.

Or would he? Jeremy had displayed a side to his personality she’d never suspected might exist.

‘Suppose we embark on a conducted tour of your protegé’s work.’

‘Why?’ she demanded baldly, and found herself looking into a pair of amused dark grey eyes.

‘I could be a potential buyer, and you do, Chantelle assures me, have an excellent eye for new talent.’

Did she realise just how beautiful she looked when she was angry?

‘Mother has excelled herself in lauding my supposed talents,’ she stated dryly.

‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’

In any other circumstance, she would have laughed. However, tonight she wasn’t in the mood to see the humorous side of Chantelle’s machinations.

They drew close to one exhibit, and she went into a professional spiel about light and colour and style, Brett’s unusual technique, and indicated the painting’s possible worth on the market in another five years.

, Nikos dropped his arm from her waist, and she wondered why she suddenly felt cold, even vaguely bereft.

Crazy, she dismissed. Every instinct she possessed warned that Nikos Alessandros was a man she should have nothing to do with if she wanted to retain her emotional sanity.