The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (169 page)

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Authors: Helen Bianchin

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Erotica, #Collections & Anthologies, #Contemporary Women, #General

BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
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It was a wonderful way to relax, she mused, both mentally and physically. The cares of the day seemed to diminish to their correct perspective. Even lunch with Annaliese.
No, she amended with a faint grimace. That was taking things a bit too far. Calculating her stepsister's next move didn't require much effort, given the social scene of the city's sophisticated élite.
Stanton-Nicols supported a number of worthy charities, and Benedict generously continued in Diandra and Conrad Nicols' tradition—astutely aware that as much business was done out of the office as in it, Gabbi concluded wryly.
The thought of facing Annaliese at one function or another over the next few weeks didn't evoke much joy. Nor did the prospect of parrying Monique's subtle hints.
Damn. The relaxation cycle was well and truly broken. With a deft movement, Gabbi rolled onto her stomach and swam to the pool's edge, hauled her slim frame onto the tiled ledge, then reached for the towel and began blotting her body.
Faced with a choice of eating indoors or by the pool, she chose the latter and carried the salad and a glass of chilled water to a nearby table.
The view out over the harbour was spectacular, and she idly watched the seascape as numerous small craft cruised the waters in a bid to make the most of the daylight-saving time.
On finishing her meal, scorning television, Gabbi made herself some coffee, selected a few glossy magazines and returned to watch the sunset, the glorious streak of orange that changed and melded into a deep pink as the sun's orb sank slowly beneath the horizon providing a soft pale reflected glow before dusk turned into darkness.
A touch on the electronic modem activated the underwater light, turning the pool a brilliant aqua-blue. Another touch lit several electric flares, and she stretched out comfortably and flipped open a magazine, scanning the glossy pages for something that might capture her interest.
An article based on the behind-the-scenes life of a prominent fashion guru provided a riveting insight, and endorsed her own view on the artificiality of a society where one was never sure whether an acquaintance was friend or foe beneath the token facade.
The publishers had seen fit to include an in-depth account by a high-class madam, who, the article revealed, had procured escorts for some of the country's rich and famous, notably politicians and visiting rock stars, for a fee that was astronomical.
Somehow the article focusing on cellulite that followed it seemed extremely prosaic, and Gabbi flipped to the travel section.
Paris.
What a city for ambience and
joie de vivre.
The language, the scents, the fashion. French women possessed a certain
élan
that was unmatched anywhere else in the world. And the food!
Très magnifique,
she accorded wistfully, recalling fond memories of the time she'd spent there. For a while she'd imagined herself in love with a dashing young student whose sensual expertise had almost persuaded her intó his bed. Gabbi's mouth curved into a soft smile, and her eyes danced with hidden laughter in remembrance.
‘An interesting article?'
Gabbi looked up at the sound of that deep, drawling voice and saw Benedict's tall frame outlined against the screened aperture leading into the large entertainment room.
His jacket was hooked over one shoulder, and he'd already removed his tie and loosened a few buttons on his blue cotton shirt.
Her eyes still held a hint of mischief as they met his. ‘I didn't realise it was that late,' she managed lightly, watching as he closed the distance between them.
‘It's just after ten.' He paused at her side, and scanned the open magazine. ‘Pleasant memories?'
Gabbi met his gaze, and sensed the studied watchfulness beneath the surface. ‘Yes,' she said with innate honesty, and saw his eyes narrow fractionally. ‘It was a long time ago, and I was very young.'
‘But old enough to be enchanted by a young man's attentions,' Benedict deduced with a degree of cynical amusement. ‘What was his name?'
‘Jacques,' she revealed without hesitation. ‘He was a romantic, and he kissed divinely. We explored the art galleries together and drank coffee at numerous sidewalk cafés. On weekends I visited the family vineyard. It was fun,' she informed him simply, reflecting on the voluble and often gregarious meals she'd shared, the vivacity and sheer camaraderie of a large extended family.
‘Define “fun”.'
The temptation to tease and prevaricate was very strong, but there seemed little point. ‘He had a very strict
maman,
' she revealed solemnly. ‘Who was intent on matching him with the daughter of a neighbouring vintner. An
Anglaise
miss, albeit a very rich one, might persuade him to live on the other side of the world.'
Amusement lurked in the depths of his eyes. ‘He married the vintner's daughter?'
‘Yes. His devoted
maman
despatches a letter twice a year with family news.'
‘Did you love him?' The query was soft, his voice silk-smooth.
Not the way I love you.
‘We were very good friends,' she said with the utmost care.
His intense gaze sent a tiny flame flaring through her veins, warming her skin and heating the central core of her femininity.
‘Who parted without regret or remorse when it was time for you to leave?' Benedict prompted gently.
A winsome smile curved the edges of her mouth. ‘We promised never to forget each other. For a while we exchanged poetic prose.'
‘Predictably the letters became shorter and few and far between?'
‘You're a terrible cynic.'
‘A realist,' he corrected her with subtle remonstrance.
Gabbi closed the magazine and placed it down on a nearby table. With an elegant economy of movement she rose to her feet, caught up the sarong and secured it at her waist ‘Would you like some coffee?'
‘Please.'
He turned to follow her, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in awareness. She subconsciously straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace.
In the kitchen she crossed to the servery, methodically filled the coffee-maker with water, spooned ground beans into the filter basket, then switched on the machine.
The large kitchen was a chefs delight, with every conceivable modem appliance. A central cooking island held several hobs, and there were twin ovens, two microwaves, and a capacious refrigerator and freezer.
With considerable ease Gabbi extracted two cups and saucers, then set out milk and sugar.
‘How was dinner?'
‘Genuine interest, or idle conversation, Gabbi?'
Was he aware of the effect he had on her? In bed, without doubt. But out of it? Probably not, she thought sadly. Men of Benedict's calibre were more concerned with creating a financial empire than examining a relationship.
It took considerable effort to meet his lightly mocking gaze. ‘Genuine interest.'
‘We ate Asian food in one of the city's finest restaurants,' Benedict informed her indolently. “The business associate was suitably impressed, and the agent will probably earn a large commission.'
‘Naturally you have offered them use of the private jet, which will earn you kudos with the Taiwanese associate, who in turn will recommend you to his contemporaries,' she concluded dryly, and his lips formed a twisted smile.
‘It's called taking care of business.'
‘And
business
is all-important.'
‘Is that a statement or a complaint?'
Her eyes were remarkably steady as she held his gaze. ‘It's a well-known fact that profits have soared beyond projected estimates in the past few years. Much of Stanton-Nicols' continuing success is directly attributed to your dedicated efforts.'
‘You didn't answer the question.' The words held a dangerous softness that sent a tiny shiver down her spine, and her eyes clashed with his for a few immeasurable seconds before she summoned a credible smile.
‘Why would I complain?' she queried evenly, supremely conscious of the quickening pulse at the base of her throat.
‘Why, indeed?' he lightly mocked. ‘You have a vested interest in the family firm.'
‘In more ways than one.'
His eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Elaborate.'
Gabbi didn't hedge. ‘The delay in providing James with a grandchild seems to be the subject of family conjecture.'
For a brief millisecond she caught a glimpse of something that resembled anger, then it was lost beneath an impenetrable mask. ‘A fact which Annaliese felt compelled to bring to your attention?'
One finger came to rest against the corner of her mouth, while his thumb traced the heavy, pulsing cord at the side of her throat.
‘Yes.'
His hand trailed lower to the firm swell of her breast, teased a path along the edge of her bikini top, then brushed against the aroused peak before dropping back to his side.
‘We agreed birth control should be your prerogative,' Benedict declared with unruffled ease, and she swallowed painfully, hating the way her body reacted to his touch.
‘Your stepsister is too self-focused not to take any opportunity to initiate a verbal game of thrust and parry. Who won?'
‘We each retired with superficial wounds,' Gabbi declared solemnly.
‘Dare I ask when the game is to continue?'
‘Who can tell?'
‘And the weapon?'
She managed a smile. ‘Why—Annaliese herself. With
you
as the prize. Her formal adoption by James would make her a
Stanton.
Our divorce is a mere formality in order to change Stanton to
Nicols.'
He lifted a hand and brushed light fingers across her cheek. ‘Am I to understand you are not impressed with that scenario?'
No.
For a moment she thought she'd screamed the negative out loud, and she stood in mesmerised silence for several seconds, totally unaware that her expressive features were more explicit than any words.
‘Do you believe,' Benedict began quietly, ‘I deliberately chose you as my wife with the future of Stanton-Nicols foremost in mind?'
Straight for the jugular. Gabbi had expected no less. Her chin tilted slightly. ‘Suitable marriages are manipulated among the wealthy for numerous reasons,' she said fearlessly.
‘Love
isn't a necessary prerequisite.'
His expression didn't change, but she sensed a degree of anger and felt chilled by it.
‘And what we share in bed? How would you define that?'
A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it. ‘Skilled expertise.'
Something dark momentarily hardened the depths of his gaze, then it was gone. ‘You'd relegate me to the position of
stud
?'
Oh, God. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘No.
No,'
she reiterated, stricken by his deliberate interpretation.
‘I should be thankful for that small mercy.'
He was angry. Icily so. And it hurt, terribly.
Yet what had she expected? A heartfelt declaration that
she
was too important in his life for him to consider anyone taking her place?
Gabbi felt as if she couldn't breathe. Her eyes were trapped by his, her body transfixed as though in a state of suspended animation.
‘The coffee has finished filtering.'
His voice held that familiar cynicism, and with an effort she focused her attention on pouring coffee into both cups, then added sugar.
Benedict picked up one. ‘I'll take this through to the study.'
Her eyes settled on his broad back as he walked from the kitchen, her expression pensive.
Damn Annaliese, Gabbi cursed silently as she discarded her coffee down the sink. With automatic movements she rinsed the cup and stacked it in the dishwasher, then she switched off the coffee-maker and doused the lights before making her way upstairs.
Reaching the bedroom, she walked through to the
en suite,
stripped off her bikini, turned on the water and stepped into the shower.
It didn't take long to shampoo her hair, and fifteen minutes with the blow-drier restored it to its usual silky state.
In bed, she reached for a book and read a chapter before switching off the lamp.
She had no idea what time Benedict slid in beside her, nor did she sense him leave the bed in the early- . morning hours, for when she woke she was alone and the only signs of his occupation were a dented pillow and the imprint of his body against the sheet.

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