The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (191 page)

Read The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) Online

Authors: Helen Bianchin

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

BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
4.4Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
He reappeared ten minutes later, dressed in casual trousers and a short-sleeved polo shirt.
They drove north to a delightful inlet that was relatively isolated.
‘Hungry?' Dominic queried as he spread a rug on a grassy bank overlooking a curved half moon of sand and sea.
It was almost mid-afternoon. ‘Famished.'
Francesca began unpacking the cooler while he unfurled a large beach umbrella and staked it firmly into the ground to provide essential shade.
She set out plates, fresh bread rolls, sliced ham, chicken and salads, brie, fruit.
‘A soda?'
‘Please,' she accepted gratefully, uncapping the bottle and taking a long swallow of iced liquid.
Dominic split the bread rolls in half and began filling them, then handed her one. ‘OK?'
She took a bite, then grinned. ‘Excellent.' She felt relaxed, despite the intimacy of their solitude. Carefree, she realized. Something she hadn't experienced in a long time.
Deep down she knew she should be wary, on guard against the mood between them taking a subtle shift. As it inevitably would. But not today. Today she needed some light-hearted fun, and the opportunity to get to know Dominic Andrea, the man beneath the projected persona.
‘Tell me about yourself.'
He finished one bread roll and filled another. The look he directed her was piercing, steady. ‘What do you want to know?'
‘Where you were born, family.'
‘The personal profile?' he mocked gently. ‘Athens. My parents emigrated to Australia when I was seven. I have two younger sisters, one lives in America, the other in Santorini. My mother returned there five years ago when my father died from a heart attack.'
‘Do you see them often?'
His smile held amusement. ‘Every year.'
Somehow she'd pictured him as self-sufficient and a loner. ‘I guess you have nieces, nephews?'
‘Two of each, aged from three months to six years.'
It wasn't difficult to imagine him hoisting a squealing child astride his shoulders, or playing ball. Why hadn't he married and begun a family of his own?
‘How about you?'
It was a fair question, and one she sought to answer with equal brevity. ‘Sydney-born and educated. Two step-siblings on my father's side. Several from my mother's numerous marriages.'
She wasn't willing to provide him with any more facts than he already knew. ‘Let's walk along the beach.'
She rose to her feet in one graceful movement and glanced at her watch, saw that it was four. ‘What time do you want to leave?'
‘There's no particular hurry to get back.' He stacked the remains of their picnic in the cooler, then stored it in the boot together with the umbrella and rug.
Together they traversed the grassy slope down onto the sand and walked to the water's edge. There was a slight breeze that teased the length of her hair and gently billowed the soft material of her blouse.
The inlet was small, with a rocky outcrop bordering each point as it curved into the sea. Dominic reached for her hand, and she didn't tug it away, nor did she protest when he indicated they walk the width of the inlet.
They exchanged anecdotes, enjoyed shared laughter, and Francesca was aware of a growing friendship that was quite separate from the sexual attraction simmering between them.
The awareness was always there, sometimes just hovering beneath the surface. And on other occasions, when she became conscious of every breath she took, every beat of her heart. Part of her wanted to relax and let her emotions go any which way, and be damned to the consequences. Then logic kicked in and persuaded her to take the cautious path.
It was almost five when they returned to the car, and Dominic deactivated the alarm then unlocked the passenger door.
Francesca reached for the latch, then caught her breath as he placed an arm either side of her, caging her in an inescapable trap.
She glimpsed the darkness in his eyes in the one brief second it took for his head to descend, then his mouth was on hers, seeking what she was too afraid to give.
His lips were warm, evocative, and his tongue slid between her teeth before she had the chance to think.
He was patient, when all he wanted to do was possess. Gentle, not willing to frighten. And coaxing, persuasive, waiting for her response.
Francesca felt the betrayal of her body, the rapid pulse-beat, the slight quiver that began deep inside and invaded her limbs. The ache of awareness throbbed, radiating until she felt
alive
with sensation, and she kissed him back, luxuriating in the brush of his tongue against her own in a light mating dance that soon began to imitate the sexual act itself.
She wanted him closer, much closer, and her arms lifted to encircle his neck as she leant against him.
His arousal was a potent force, and a silent gasp died in her throat as his hand slid down to cup her bottom, pressing her even closer.
Then he began to move, slowly, creating a barely perceptible friction that was so evocative it became almost unbearable to have the barrier of clothes between them.
A hand moved to her breast, outlined its shape, then slipped inside her blouse, beneath the lacy bra to tease the sensitised peak.
Her faint moan was all he needed, and his lips hardened as he took total possession of her mouth.
No one had kissed her with quite this degree of passion. Desire was there, raging almost out of control. His, hers. There was no sense of time or place, just total and complete absorption in each other.
It was a child's voice, pitched high and piercing, that succeeded in bringing a rapid return to sanity.
Dominic's breathing was no less heavy than her own as he buried his forehead in her hair. Her skin was warm and moist, as was his as she withdrew her arms and tried to gain leverage against the powerful body pressing far too close to her own.
‘Dominic—' The protest left her lips and he lifted his head.
‘I know.' With effort he straightened and unlatched the front passenger door, waited until she slid into the seat, then closed it before crossing to the driver's side.
Seconds later the engine fired and the car reversed in a semi-circle, then purred towards the gravelled apron bordering the bitumen road.
Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid them into place, grateful for the tinted lenses. Dear heaven, they'd behaved like unrestrained teenagers! Hard after that came the thought of what might have happened had they not been interrupted.
Dominic could feel her withdrawal, and sought to prevent it. With a skilled movement he pulled onto the side of the road and brought the car to a halt.
Her face was pale, her eyes far too large as she turned towards him. ‘Why are you stopping?'
He leaned an arm on the steering wheel and shifted in the seat. ‘Don't close up and go silent on me.'
‘What do you want me to say? Shame about the timing?' Her eyes were clear, and there was a faint tilt to her chin. ‘Or perhaps I should attempt to comment about the weather, the scenery, in a banal attempt at conversation.'
‘I wanted you. You wanted me. If there's any blame, it falls on both of us. Equally. That's as basic as it gets,' he said hardily.
‘We were like two animals in heat. In a public area, in full sight of anyone who happened by.'
‘Fully clothed,' he reminded her. ‘And in control.'
Her mouth opened, then closed again. That had been
control
? What the hell was he like without it? ‘Let's forget it, shall we?'
‘Nice try, Francesca.' His voice was satin-smooth with a hint of dry humour as he fired the engine and eased the car back onto the road.
She wanted to hit him, and would have if the car had been stationary. He should consider himself fortunate that it took thirty minutes to reach his home at Beauty Point. By then her temper had cooled down somewhat.
As soon as the car drew to a halt she slid from the seat, closed the door, and prepared to cross to where her own car was parked.
He took his fill of her set features, the straight back, and her defensive stance. ‘Running away won't achieve a thing.'
Her eyes sparked with a mixture of residual temper and pride. ‘Maybe not. But right now I'm going home.'
‘I intend to see you again.'
He was right, she discovered shakily. Running away wouldn't achieve anything. But she needed space, and time to
think
.
She took the few steps necessary to her car, paused, then turned back to face him. ‘I have a modelling assignment scheduled for Tuesday, and a reasonable night's sleep is a prerequisite to looking good.'
He followed her to the car, and stood within touching distance. The breath caught in her throat as he took hold of her shoulders and lowered his head down to hers.
She wanted to cry out a verbal negation, but it was too late as his mouth closed over hers in a kiss that tore at the very foundation of her being.
As he meant it to do.
The knowledge frightened her on a sensual level, and made her aware of a primitive alchemy that was shattering in its intensity.
‘Tuesday night. Be here, Francesca,' Dominic commanded silkily.
She was incapable of uttering so much as a word, and her fingers shook as she unlocked her car. The engine fired seconds later and she cleared the gates, aware her breathing vied in raggedness with her fast-pulsing heartbeat.
T
HE Leukaemia Foundation luncheon was well patronised, the venue excellent, and the fashion parade succeeded without a visible hitch.
Behind the scenes it was a different story. Annaliese arrived late and in a dangerous mood, taking pleasure in denigrating a designer, which reduced him in a very short space of time to a quivering wreck. Nothing assigned from Wardrobe pleased her, and she insisted on making changes, which caused frayed tempers, hand-wringing, and mutterings among the ranks of fellow models, not to mention everyone else involved backstage. It wasn't the worst session Francesca had participated in, but it came close.
Choosing what to wear for the evening took considerable thought, and Francesca cursed as she riffled through the contents of her wardrobe. Relaxed and casual? Or should she aim for sophistication?
The tension knotted inside her stomach as she considered crossing to the phone and cancelling out.
Her fingers momentarily stilled as Dominic's image came vividly to mind. A curse fell from her lips and her eyes clouded with pensive introspection.
What was she doing?
Why did she have the feeling that he would appear at
her
door within an hour of her failing to appear at
his
?
After much deliberation, she selected an elegant three-piece silk trouser suit in deep emerald-green. Jewellery was minimal, and she stepped into matching stiletto-heeled pumps.
It was a glorious evening. Clear sky, blue ocean, creating a perfect background for various harbour craft taking the benefit of a slight breeze drifting over the sea.
The worst of the traffic making a daily exodus from the city was over, and Francesca experienced no delays at computer-controlled intersections.
Consequently, it was six thirty when she turned into Dominic's drive, and within minutes she cleared the gates and drew to a halt close to the main door.
She hadn't suffered such a wealth of nervous tension since her early modelling days.
Dammit, get a grip, she counselled herself silently as she pressed the doorchimes. Seconds later the door opened, and she summoned a warm smile.
‘Hello.'
Dominic's eyes narrowed slightly at the huskiness evident, the faint shadows clouding her expression.
Attired in dark tailored trousers and a cream cotton shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he looked relaxed and at ease.
It would be wonderful to move into those arms and lift her face for his kiss. For a wild moment she almost considered doing just that.
‘Bad day?'
Francesca offered a faintly wry smile. ‘I guess you could say that.'
‘Want to tell me about it?'
‘What part do you want to hear?'
‘Let me guess. One of the models went ballistic, a designer threw a tantrum, and whoever was in charge of Wardrobe threatened to quit.' One eye-brow slanted in humour. ‘Close?'
‘Close enough.'
He took hold of her arm and led her into the lounge. ‘Mineral water or wine?'
‘It's sacrilege, but can I have half of each?'
She felt too restless to sit, and she crossed the room to examine a small painting that had caught her attention on a previous occasion.
It was beautiful in every detail, soft blues, pinks and lilacs, a garden scene. She glimpsed the signature in the lower right corner, and almost forgot to breathe. There was little doubt as to its originality.
‘You admire Monet?'
Dominic had moved silently to stand behind her, and she felt his nearness, sensed the warmth of his body.
She turned slowly to face him. ‘Who doesn't?'
He handed her a tall frosted glass, and Francesca gestured a silent toast. ‘Salute.'
Dinner was a casual meal of barbecued prawns with a variety of salads, eaten informally on the terrace.
‘Heavenly,' Francesca accorded as she selected slices of cantaloupe and plump red strawberries from a fruit platter. There was also ice cream. Vanilla, with caramel and double chocolate chip.
She caught his teasing look, and laughed. ‘You remembered.'
His eyes gleamed with latent humour. ‘Will you eat it? That's the thing.'
She wrinkled her nose at him and selected a spoon. ‘Just watch me!'
The view out over the harbour was magnificent as the sun began to fade towards the horizon and the shadow of dusk cast a stealthy haze. Streetlights sprang into life, regulated pin-pricks of white light spreading out over suburbia as far as the eye could see. In the distance was the heat and the beat of the city, flashing neon, bright lights, action.
Yet here it was peaceful, almost secluded, with high walls and cleverly planted shrubbery providing privacy from neighbouring properties.
‘Would you like to go indoors?'
Francesca wiped her fingers on a serviette, then let her head rest back against the chair. ‘I don't think I want to move.' She sighed at the thought of checking in to the airport at six the next morning.
A fashion parade at the Gold Coast Sheraton Mirage, followed by a photographic shoot, then cocktails with a public relations executive and his colleagues.
Soon she had to fly to Europe for the designer collections. After which she intended secluding herself for a week of rest and relaxation. No phones, no contact whatsoever with the outside world. Where the resort staff were bound to secrecy and the guests paid a fortune for the privilege of total anonymity.
A few weeks ago she'd been sure of her future and its direction. Now she was beginning to query what she really wanted.
‘Coffee?'
Francesca turned her head slightly to look at him. ‘Please.'
Dominic stood to his feet and moved indoors, and she followed, suddenly restless for something constructive to do.
In the kitchen she watched as he filled the coffeemaker, added ground beans, opened cupboards, withdrew sugar, then set out cups and saucers on the servery counter.
His hands were sure, their movements economical, and her eyes travelled, encompassing the muscular forearms exposed by the turned-back cuffs, the breadth of shoulder, the expanse of chest covered in cream chambray, up to that defined jaw, sensuous mouth, sculpted cheekbones. Those eyes, so dark, so steady as they met hers.
The breath locked in her throat at what she saw there.
Desire. Raw and primitive.
Her pulse quickened to a thudding beat that was audible to her own ears. Visible, she felt sure, as her whole body began to reverberate with answering need.
‘Come here.' The command was gently spoken, and she placed her fingers onto his outstretched palm and allowed herself to be pulled into his arms.
His mouth was firm as it settled over her own, shaping, exploring the soft contours, then nibbling at the lower fullness.
She felt his breath, warm and vaguely musky as he teased his tongue against her teeth, and she stifled a faint gasp as he began to invade the moist crevices, tasting, laving each ridge, each slight indentation, before creating a tantalising foray that deepened into total possession.
One hand slid down her spine and cupped her bottom, lifting her close up against him so that she could be in no doubt of his arousal.
She fitted as if she was meant to be there.
His
. All he had to do was convince her of that.
He could feel her acceptance of
now
, but he sensed her indecision and knew that afterwards she would feel she'd betrayed her dead husband's memory.
Francesca's hands clutched his forearms, then slipped up to his shoulders as his mouth left hers and trailed down to savour the fast-beating pulse at the base of her throat.
Her neck arched, allowing him free access, and she groaned out loud as his lips travelled down to the valley between her breasts and lingered there, caressing the soft fullness with his tongue as he edged the material down to reveal one burgeoning peak.
Dominic breathed in deeply as he tasted the wild honey that was her skin, and wanted more. Much more. He contented himself with the fact that a journey was made up of many steps. If he was to succeed, he'd have to exert patience and take one step at a time.
She wanted to feel his skin, and her fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, freeing each one, then,, not content, she pulled it free of his waistband.
Dear God, he felt good. Tight-muscled midriff, taut chest, and a generous mat of dark hair that just begged to have her fingers curl into its length.
His mouth closed over the roseate peak and he suckled shamelessly, nibbled, then caught the nipple between his teeth and took her to the edge between pleasure and pain.
Her hand slid down over the fold of his zip-fastening, trailing the rigid length before seeking the tab and slowly releasing the nylon teeth.
Fingers feathered over silk briefs to explore what lay beneath, and she felt a momentary sense of panic at the size and thickness of him.
She needed gentle persuasion, reassurance, and above all he had to show her that this was more than just sex.
‘Dominic—'
His mouth took possession of her own, cutting off her protest as he utilised every ounce of skill he possessed in showing her part of his heart.
She was vaguely aware of being swept into his arms and carried up a flight of stairs to a bedroom.
His
, she decided dimly as he switched on a bedside lamp on a pedestal next to a large king-size bed. Slowly he let her slide down to her feet.
Oh, God—what was she doing? ‘I don't think—' She halted as he took her face between his hands and lowered his mouth to hers.
‘Don't think,' Dominic bade against her lips. ‘Just feel.'
I'm not sure I can give what you want. How would he react if she said those words aloud?
His teeth nipped the tip of her tongue. ‘Yes.' His tongue soothed hers and his hands gentled the agitated movements of her own. ‘You can.'
He wanted her so badly,
needed
the advantage of joining his body with hers so that he could show her how much he cared. How
right
this was—for both of them.
He kissed her deeply, gently coaxing in a manner that made every bone in her body turn to jelly. Dominic uttered the two words he hoped would make the difference. ‘Trust me.'
Dared she? She didn't have any choice as her body proved to be its own traitorous mistress by leaning in to his kiss, giving him access to her mouth so he could plunder at will.
Her clothes, his, were quickly, easily dispensed with, and she stood almost breathless at his male beauty.
Warm, sun-kissed skin sheathed strong muscle and sinew, defining superb musculature with a sculptor's precision. Tight flanks curved down from a narrow waist, his stomach taut with an arrow of dark hair that led down to the juncture at his thighs, thickening in growth as it couched his manhood.
He stood watching her appraisal, at ease with his nudity, and her eyes skimmed the potent thickness of his arousal, skittered to his chest, and came to rest at his chin.
‘Look at me.'
I just have
. She lifted her face fractionally and met his intense gaze.
He reached for her, closing his hands over her arms as he slid them up to capture her shoulders.
‘Open your eyes, Francesca,' Dominic bade her as his breath feathered her cheek. ‘I want you to see me. Only me.'
He pulled her forward and lowered his head down towards the soft hollow at the edge of her neck.
His mouth worked an evocative magic as he savoured each and every pleasure pulse until she quivered in his arms.
Heat shimmered through every vein as she went up in flames, and he hadn't even begun.
Beautiful, he thought reverently. The faint edge of shyness appealed, even as it appalled him. She didn't possess that fierce fervour of a woman well-versed in experiencing an explosive climax. Or of one who was fully aware of the pleasure her own body could give, not only to her partner but to herself.
Slow, he determined. Slow and easy. They had the night.
Francesca groaned softly as his fingers trailed low over her stomach, then tangled in the hair curling at the apex of her thighs.
His mouth suckled at one breast, tormenting its peak into a turgid arousal, and just as she thought his touch unbearable he crossed to render a similar assault on its twin.
Fire arrowed from the centre of her being, the flame licking through her body until she felt every nerve, every cell overheating as his skilled fingers probed the moist folds, and she cried out as he stroked the small nubbin, caressing until her whole body shuddered and she sank against him.

Other books

Full Dark House by Christopher Fowler
Furies by D. L. Johnstone
How to Marry a Highlander by Katharine Ashe
The Disappeared by Vernon William Baumann
The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood
A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle
Word of Honor by Nelson Demille