The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (166 page)

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Authors: Helen Bianchin

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BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
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The phone calls were lengthy and many, with Ana relaying she'd seen a wedding gown to die for, and everything down to the finest detail would be successfully organised in time for
the
day.

The fact that it was seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Even the weather was perfect, with brilliant blue skies, sunshine, and the merest hint of a breeze to temper the day's warmth.

‘Ready?'

The gown, as Ana had promised, was something else.

Ivory silk with an ivory lace overlay that had a scalloped hemline resting just below the knee. Elbow-length sleeves in ivory lace, and a high neckline. The headpiece was a pearl band with a short fingertip veil bunched at the back of her head, and she carried a single long-stemmed white rose. Her only jewellery was a diamond pendant and matching earrings.

‘Yes.' Rebekah turned to her sister and gathered her close in an affectionate hug. ‘Thanks for everything.'

‘You're welcome,' Ana responded gently. ‘OK, let's get this show on the road.'

Luc was waiting downstairs to lead her out into the grounds, where the guests were assembled on chairs either side of a red carpet facing a delicate wrought-iron gazebo.

‘Beautiful,' Luc complimented quietly as he took her arm. His gaze slid to his wife, and the warmth of his smile brought a lump to Rebekah's throat.

Together they walked out onto the terrace, traversed the short flight of steps, and made their way towards the gazebo. The guests stood and those lining the red carpet threw rose petals in Rebekah's path.

She saw Jace standing at the assembled altar, and she caught his gaze and held it as she made her way towards him.

A light, husky laugh escaped her lips as he drew her close and kissed her, thoroughly.

The celebrant cleared his throat, and they broke apart.

It was a simple ceremony, the words deeply moving, and Rebekah fought back the faint shimmer of tears as Jace slid a wide diamond-encrusted ring onto her finger.

There was the flash of cameras, voiced congratulations, and a shower of rose petals as they trod the red carpet as man and wife.

Champagne and food were served in a marquee
erected close by, guests greeted and thanked, then all too soon it was time to change and leave for the airport.

Ana helped her remove the headpiece and veil, then assisted with the zip fastening of the gown.

Rebekah freshened up, then slipped into an elegant trouser suit, added comfortable heeled shoes, then turned towards her sister.

‘I'm going to miss you dreadfully.'

‘We'll email each other every day, and talk on the phone. Jace has promised me you'll both visit at least twice a year.'

Rebekah's expression sobered a little. ‘A month ago—'

‘Don't look back,' Ana cautioned gently. ‘You have today, and all the tomorrows.' She brushed her lips to Rebekah's cheek. ‘Embrace them and be happy.'

‘How did you get to be so wise?' Rebekah asked shakily.

‘If you cry, I'll hit you.'

‘Sisterly love,' Luc drawled from the doorway, whilst Jace offered,

‘Shall we divide and conquer?'

‘I think so,' Luc said with musing indolence as he crossed to his wife's side and drew her close.

Jace extended his hand, and Rebekah's toes curled at the way he looked at her. ‘Ready,
agape mou
?'

‘Yes.' And she was. Ready to go anywhere he chose to lead.

Together they made their way downstairs, and as they reached the car Rebekah turned to her sister.

‘OK, this is it. The last goodbye.' She gave Ana a quick hug. ‘I'll ring you from Paris.' Then it was Luc's turn. ‘Look after her,' she said fiercely.

‘Every minute of every day,' he promised solemnly.

‘Go,' Ana pleaded, on the verge of tears.

Two sisters, two destinies, Rebekah mused as Jace took the main road leading towards the airport.

‘We'll visit soon. And you have my word we'll return for the birth of Ana's child.'

Rebekah felt something begin to soar deep within, and she turned to look at him. ‘Have I told you how much I love you?'

She had, several times through the night. They were words he'd never tire of hearing. Words he'd say to her, over and again for the rest of his life.

‘If you do, I'll pull the car to the side of the road and kiss you.'

Her eyes assumed a wicked sparkle. ‘An act that would probably cause a public spectacle.'

‘Count on it.'

‘Then I guess we need to wait for a more appropriate moment?' She began counting off each finger. ‘Let's see, there's the long flight, with a brief stop-over in Los Angeles. Thirty-six hours in total before we reach Paris.'

‘Forty-eight,' Jace corrected with a musing smile. ‘We have a not-so-brief stop-over in Los Angeles.'

Rebekah gave a laugh that was part delight, all mischief. ‘Can't keep your hands off me, huh?'

He shot her a gleaming glance. ‘Want me to try?'

Her expression sobered. ‘No,' she assured quietly. ‘Not in this lifetime.'

He waited until he passed the hire car in at the airport before he gathered her close and kissed her, thoroughly. So thoroughly she temporarily lost any sense of time or place.

Then he unloaded their bags from the boot, hefted the strap of one bag over his shoulder and gathered up the other, and caught her hand in his.

Together, as they would always be, for the rest of their lives.

S
YDNEY
in the spring reminded Rebekah of new beginnings as seasonal plants came into bud with the promise of life and colour. The trees began to blossom as nature prepared for yet another rebirth.

The gardens in the grounds of Luc and Ana's beautiful home were carefully tended, the lawns fresh and green and clipped with manicured precision.

It was a glorious day, the sun shone and there was only the merest drift of cloud in a stunning blue sky.

A baby's wail pierced the air, loud and protesting, as the celebrant performed the naming ceremony of Luc and Ana's young son. Marcus Lucien Dimitriades possessed a strong pair of lungs, and at three months of age he was his parents' pride and joy.

‘Beautiful,' Jace accorded softly as he curved an arm along the back of her waist, and she turned to him with a smile, about to concur, when she saw he was looking at her, not the babe Ana held in her arms.

It was almost a year since their marriage, and there were times when she felt the need to pinch herself to see if she was living in a dream or the real world.

‘Definitely
real
,' Jace assured quietly as he brushed his lips to her temple, and she lifted her face to slant her mouth into his, briefly savoured their warmth and reluctantly broke the contact.

‘I love you.'

She felt his arm muscles tighten at the back of her waist. ‘You certainly pick your moments,
agape mou
.'

‘Bothers you, huh?' she teased, and almost drowned in the passion evident in his dark gaze. ‘You can exact your revenge later.'

‘Count on it.'

Later that night she lay in his arms, replete in the aftermath of lovemaking.

‘Have you told Ana our news?'

Rebekah pressed her lips to his shoulder, nibbled a little, then soothed the love-nip with a soft kiss.

‘Today was special, and very much her day. I'll tell her over lunch tomorrow.'

Jace's hand shifted to her waist and settled there, and she covered it with her own.

A child, theirs. A unique gift they would nurture and watch grow. Share the joys, the fun, the laughter, and hopefully few tears. And love unconditionally for the rest of their lives.

‘No regrets?'

‘None,' she vowed gently. ‘You're the love of my life. My present, my future. Everything.'

Brad, her brief marriage, and its repercussions no longer existed.

‘As you are mine,' Jace reciprocated gently.

The Marriage Bed

An Ideal Marriage?

The Marriage Campaign

The Bridal Bed

Helen Bianchin

An Ideal Marriage?

Helen Bianchin

G
ABBI eased the car to a halt in the long line of traffic banked up behind the New South Head Road intersection adjacent to Sydney's suburban Elizabeth Bay. A slight frown creased her forehead as she checked her watch, and her fingers tapped an impatient tattoo against the steering wheel.
She had precisely one hour in which to shower, wash her hair, dry and style it, apply make-up, dress, and greet invited dinner guests. The loss of ten minutes caught up in heavy traffic didn't form part of her plan.
Her eyes slid to the manicured length of her nails, and she dwelt momentarily on the fact that time spent on their lacquered perfection had cost her her lunch. An apple at her desk mid-afternoon could hardly be termed an adequate substitute.
The car in front began to move, and she followed its path, picking up speed, only to depress the brake pedal as the lights changed.
Damn. At this rate it would take two, if not three attempts to clear the intersection.
She
should,
she admitted silently, have left her of fice earlier in order to miss the heavy early evening traffic. Yet stubborn single-mindedness had prevented her from doing so.
As James Stanton's daughter, she had no need to work. Property, an extensive share portfolio and a handsome annuity placed her high on the list of Sydney's independently wealthy young women.
As Benedict Nicols'
wife,
her position as assistant management consultant with Stanton-Nicols Enterprises was viewed as nepotism at its very worst.
Gabbi thrust the gear-shift forward with unaccustomed force, attaining momentary satisfaction from the sound of the Mercedes' refined engine as she eased the car forward and followed the traffic's crawling pace, only to halt scant minutes later.
The cellphone rang, and she automatically reached for it.
‘Gabrielle.'
Only one person steadfastly refused to abbreviate her Christian name. ‘Monique.'
‘You're driving?'
‘Stationary,' she informed her, pondering the purpose of her stepmother's call. Monique never rang to simply say ‘hello.'
‘Annaliese flew in this afternoon. Would it be an imposition if she came to dinner?'
Years spent attending an élite boarding-school had instilled requisite good manners. ‘Not at all. We'd be delighted.'
‘Thank you, darling.'
Monique's voice sounded like liquid satin as she ended the call.
Wonderful,
Gabbi accorded silently as she punched in the appropriate code and alerted Marie to set another place at the table.
‘Sorry to land this on you,' she added apologetically before replacing the handset down onto the console. An extra guest posed no problem, and Gabbi wasn't sufficiently superstitious to consider thirteen at the table a premise for an unsuccessful evening.
The traffic began to move, and the faint tension behind her eyes threatened to develop into a headache.
James Stanton's remarriage ten years ago to a twenty-nine-year-old divorcee with one young daughter had gifted him with a contentment Gabbi could never begrudge him. Monique was his social equal, and an exemplary hostess. It was unfortunate that Monique's affection didn't extend to James's daughter. As a vulnerable fifteen-year-old Gabbi had sensed her stepmother's superficiality, and spent six months agonising over why, until a friend had spelled out the basic psychology of a dysfunctional relationship.
In retaliation, Gabbi had chosen to excel at everything she did—she'd striven to gain straight As in each subject, had won sporting championships, and graduated from university with an honours degree in business management. She'd studied languages and spent a year in Paris, followed by another in Tokyo, before returning to Sydney to work for a rival firm. Then she'd applied for and won, on the strength of her experience and credentials, a position with Stanton-Nicols.
There was a certain danger in allowing one's thoughts to dwell on the past, Gabbi mused a trifle wryly as she swung the Mercedes into the exclusive Vaucluse street, where heavy, wide-branched trees added a certain ambience to the luxurious homes nestled out of sight behind high concrete walls.
A few hundred metres along she drew the car to a halt, depressed a remote modem and waited the necessary seconds as the double set of ornate black wrought-iron gates slid smoothly aside.
A wide curved driveway led to an elegant two-storeyed Mediterranean-style home set well back from the road in beautiful landscaped grounds. Encompassing four allotments originally acquired in the late 1970s by Conrad Nicols, the existing four houses had been removed to make way for a multi-million-dollar residence whose magnificent harbour views placed it high in Sydney's real-estate stratosphere.
Ten years later extensive million-dollar refurbishment had added extensions providing additional bedroom accommodation, garages for seven cars, remodelled kitchen, undercover terraces, and balconies. The revamped gardens boasted fountains, courtyards, ornamental ponds and English-inspired lawns bordered by clipped hedges.
It was incredibly sad, Gabbi reflected as she released one set of automatic garage doors and drove beneath them, that Conrad and Diandra Nicols had been victims of a freak highway accident mere weeks after the final landscaping touches had been completed.
Yet Conrad had achieved in death what he hadn't achieved in the last ten years of his life: His son and heir had returned from America and taken over Conrad's partnership in Stanton-Nicols.
Gabbi slid the Mercedes to a halt between the sleek lines of Benedict's XJ220 Jaguar and the more staid frame of a black Bentley. Missing was the top-of-the range four-wheel drive Benedict used to commute each day to the city.
The garage doors slid down with a refined click and Gabbi caught up her briefcase from the passenger seat, slipped out from behind the wheel, then crossed to a side door to punch in a series of digits, deactivating the security system guarding entry to the house.
Mansion, she corrected herself with a twisted smile as she lifted the in-house phone and rang through to the kitchen. ‘Hi, Marie. Everything under control?'
Twenty years' service with the Nicols family enabled the housekeeper to respond with a warm chuckle. ‘No problems.'
‘Thanks,' Gabbi acknowledged gratefully before hurrying through the wide hallway to a curved staircase leading to the upper floor.
Marie would be putting the final touches to the four-course meal she'd prepared; her husband, Serg, would be checking the temperature of the wines Benedict had chosen to be served, and Sophie, the casual help, would be running a final check of the dining-room..
All
she
had to do was appear downstairs, perfectly groomed, when Serg answered the ring of the doorbell and ushered the first of their guests into the lounge in around forty minutes.
Or less, Gabbi accorded as she ascended the stairs at a rapid pace.
Benedict's mother had chosen lush-piled eau-de-nil carpet and pale textured walls to offset the classic lines of the mahogany furniture, employing a skilful blend of toning colour with matching drapes and bed-covers, ensuring each room was subtly different.
The master suite was situated in the eastern wing with glass doors opening onto two balconies and commanding impressive views of the harbour. Panoramic by day, those views became a magical vista at night, with a fairy-like tracery of distant electric and flashing neon light.
Gabbi kicked off her shoes, removed jewellery, then quickly shed her clothes en route to a marble-tiled
en suite
which almost rivalled the bedroom in size.
Elegantly decadent in pale gold-streaked ivory marble, there was a huge spa-bath and a double shower to complement the usual facilities.
Ten minutes later she entered the bedroom, a towel fastened sarong-style over her slim curves, with another wound into a turban on top of her head.
‘Cutting it fine, Gabbi?' Benedict's faintly accented drawl held a mocking edge as he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.
In his late thirties, tall, with a broad, hard-muscled frame, his sculpted facial features gave a hint of his maternal Andalusian ancestry. Dark, almost black eyes held a powerful intensity that never softened for his fellow man, and rarely for a woman.
‘Whatever happened to “Hi, honey, I'm home”?' she retaliated as she crossed the room and selected fresh underwear from a recessed drawer, hurriedly donned briefs and bra, then stepped into a silk slip.
‘Followed by a salutatory kiss?' he mocked with a tinge of musing cynicism as he shed his shirt and attended to the zip of his trousers.
She felt the tempo of her heartbeat increase, and she was conscious of an elevated tension that began in the pit of her stomach and flared along every nerve-end, firing her body with an acute awareness that was entirely physical.
Dynamic masculinity at its most potent, she acknowledged silently as she snatched up a silk robe, thrust her arms through its sleeves, and retraced her steps to the
en suite
.
Removing the towelled turban, she caught up the hair-drier and began blow-drying her hair.
Her attention rapidly became unfocused as Benedict entered the en suite and crossed to the shower. Mirrored walls reflected his naked image, and she determinedly ignored the olive-toned skin sheathing hard muscle and sinew, the springy dark hair that covered his chest and arrowed down past his waist to reach his manhood, the firmly shaped buttocks, and the powerful length of his back.
Her eyes followed the powerful strength of his shoulders as he reached forward to activate the flow of water, then the glass doors slid closed behind him.
Gabbi tugged the brush through her hair with unnecessary force, and felt her eyes prick at the sudden pain.
It was one year, two months and three weeks since their marriage, and she still couldn't handle the effect he had on her in bed or out of it.
Her scalp tingled in protest, and she relaxed the brushstrokes then switched off the drier. Her hair was still slightly damp, its natural ash-blonde colour appearing faintly darker, highlighting the creamy smoothness of her skin and accentuating the deep blue of her eyes.
With practised movements she caught the length of her hair and deftly swept it into a chignon at her nape, secured it with pins, then began applying make-up.
Minutes later she heard the water stop, and with conscious effort she focused on blending her eyeshadow, studiously ignoring him as he crossed to the long marbled pedestal and began dealing with a day's growth of beard.
‘Bad day?'
Her fingers momentarily stilled, then she replaced the eyeshadow palette and selected mascara. ‘Why do you ask?'
‘You have expressive eyes,' Benedict observed as he smoothed his fingers over his jaw.
Gabbi met his gaze in the mirror, and held it. ‘Annaliese is to be a last-minute guest at dinner.'
He switched off. the electric shaver and reached for the cut-glass bottle containing an exclusive brand of cologne. ‘That bothers you?'
She tried for levity. ‘I'm capable of slaying my own dragons.'
One eyebrow lifted with sardonic humour. ‘Verbal swords over dessert?'
Annaliese was known not to miss an opportunity, and Gabbi couldn't imagine tonight would prove an exception. ‘I'll do my best to parry any barbs with practised civility.'
His eyes swept over her slim curves then returned to study the faint, brooding quality evident on her finely etched features, and a slight smile tugged the edges of his mouth. ‘The objective being to win another battle in an ongoing war?'
‘Has anyone beaten
you
in battle, Benedict?' she queried lightly as she capped the mascara wand, returned it to the drawer housing her cosmetics and concentrated on applying a soft pink colour to her lips.
He didn't answer. He had no need to assert that he was a man equally feared and respected by his contemporaries and rarely, if ever, fooled by anyone.
Just watch my back.
The words remained unuttered as she turned towards the door, and minutes later she selected a long black pencil-slim silk skirt and teamed it with a simple scoop-necked sleeveless black top. Stiletto-heeled evening shoes completed the outfit, and she added a pear-shaped diamond pendant and matching ear-studs, then slipped on a slim, diamond-encrusted bracelet before turning towards the mirror to cast her reflection a cursory glance. A few dabs of her favourite Le Must de Cartier perfume added the final touch.
‘Ready?'
Gabbi turned at the sound of his voice, and felt her breath catch at the image he presented.
There was something about his stance, a sense of animalistic strength, that fine tailoring did little to tame. The dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and primitive power added a magnetism few women of any age could successfully ignore.

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