The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (197 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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‘Breakfast.' He reached for a towelling robe and tugged it on, then he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her faintly swollen mouth. ‘Stay there. I'll be back in a minute.'
She could imagine him crossing the suite, opening the door, signalling for the waiter to deposit the tray.
The thought of cereal and fruit, scrambled eggs and toast gave her an appetite, and she reached for the dial, set it to warm and released the lever.
Seconds later the glass door slid open and Dominic stepped into the stall, removing the soap from her fingers as he lathered every inch of her skin. Then he held out the soap. ‘Your turn.'
‘Oh, no,' Francesca denied, laughing softly. ‘You're on your own.' She reached up and pulled down his head for one brief, soft kiss. ‘Too many challenges and we'll not only miss breakfast, we'll miss the plane.' She shot him a dazzling smile. ‘Besides, I'm
food
hungry.'
He let her go, with a devilish smile that hinted her escape was only temporary.
 
As the giant jet taxied down the runway Dominic reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips.
‘No regrets?'
Francesca looked at those strong features, the raw emotion evident in his eyes. She lifted shaky fingers to his cheek, then trailed them to the edge of his mouth, and stifled a gasp as he drew the tips in between his teeth. ‘Not one.'
He reached for her, uncaring of the fellow passengers sharing the first-class cabin, or the hostess who was waiting to serve them.
His mouth on hers was incredibly gentle, and when he lifted his head he glimpsed the faint shimmer of tears.
‘We have a lifetime.'
Her bones liquefied at the warmth evident in those dark eyes. ‘Yes,' she affirmed simply.
Carpe diem
. Seize the day. And she would, with both hands, and rejoice in every one of them.

The Bridal Bed

Helen Bianchin

I
T SHOULD be Friday the thirteenth, Suzanne determined as she perused the perfectly printed legal document on her desk and noted yet another clause she knew wasn't worded to her client's best interest.
Midwinter had delivered metropolitan Sydney with a shocking day, and she'd woken to howling winds and heavy rain. Consequently she'd got wet traversing the external stairs leading from her tiny Manly flat down to the garage beneath.
Her car, which had up until now behaved impeccably, had decided not to start. A telephone call to the automobile association had elicited there was a backlog of calls, and it would be at least an hour before someone could come to her rescue. Two hours later the diagnosis had been a dead battery, and it had taken a further hour to organise a replacement and drive into the city.
Consequently she'd been late, very late arriving at the inner-city legal office where she worked as one of several junior solicitors. A fact that hadn't sat well with two waiting clients who had been virtuously punctual. Nor had the senior partner been very happy that she'd missed an important staff meeting.
There had been files piled up on her desk, messages that required attention, and three rescheduled appointments lined up one after the other. Lunch hadn't even been an option.
Mid-afternoon came and went as she struggled to catch up on a workload that threatened to spill over into work she would have to take home.
‘Suzanne, urgent call on line three.' The receptionist's voice sounded hesitant, diffident, and vaguely apologetic for breaching a ‘hold all calls' instruction. ‘It's your mother.'
Her mother never rang her at work. An icy hand clutched Suzanne's heart as she snatched up the receiver. ‘Georgia? Is something wrong?'
A light, husky laugh echoed down the line. ‘Darling, everything's fine. It's just that I wanted you to be the first to hear my news.'
‘News,
Mama?' She kept her voice deliberately light. ‘You've won a fabulous prize? Bought a new car? Booked an overseas trip?'
There was a breathless pause. ‘Right on two counts.'
‘Which two?'
‘Well, sweetheart,' Georgia began with a delicious chuckle, ‘the overseas trip is booked...
Paris
, would you believe? And I
have
won a fabulous prize.'
‘That's wonderful.' Really wonderful. Suzanne shook her head in silent amazement. Georgia was always taking lottery and raffle tickets, but had never won anything other than the most minor of prizes until now.
‘It's not exactly a
prize
prize.'
The faintly cautious tone had Suzanne sinking back in her chair. ‘You're talking in riddles, Mama. Is there a catch to any of this?'
‘No catch. At least, not the kind you mean.'
What had her cautious mother got herself into? ‘I'm listening.'
‘Bear with me, darling.' Georgia's voice hitched, then raced on in an excited rush. ‘It's all so new, I still have a hard time believing it. And I wouldn't have rung you at work, except I really couldn't wait a minute longer.'
‘Tell me.'
There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I'm getting married.'
Initial joy was quickly followed by concern, and it was a frightening mix. Her mother didn't date. There was a collection of friends, but no one man. ‘I didn't know you were seeing anyone,' Suzanne said slowly, and heard her mother's light laughter in response. ‘Who is he, and where did you meet him?'
‘We met at your engagement party, darling.'
Three months. They'd only known each other three months. ‘Who, Mama?'
‘Trenton Wilson-Willoughby. Sloane's father.'
Oh, my God. Heat rushed through her veins, then chilled to ice. ‘You're not serious?' Tell me you're not serious, she pleaded silently.
‘You sound—shocked,' Georgia responded slowly, and Suzanne quickly gathered her wits.
Recoup, regroup,
fast.
‘Surprised,' she amended. ‘It seems so sudden.'
‘Sometimes love happens that way. Sloane swept you off your feet in a matter of weeks.'
Like father, like son. ‘Yes,' she agreed cautiously. Sloane had gifted her a sparkling diamond, whisked her down to Sydney from Brisbane, and moved her into his Rose Bay penthouse apartment before she'd had time to think, let alone catch her breath. Blinded by a riveting attraction and primitive alchemy.
‘When is the wedding taking place?' A few months from now would give her plenty of time to—what? Explain that she was no longer living with Sloane?
‘This weekend, darling.' Georgia sounded vaguely breathless and tremendously excited.
This weekend
Today was
Wednesday,
for heaven's sake. ‘Don't you think—?'
‘It's a bit sudden?' her mother finished. ‘Yes, darling, I do. But Trenton is a very convincing man.'
Suzanne took a deep breath, then released it slowly. ‘You're quite sure about this?'
‘As sure as I can be.' There was a funny catch in her voice. ‘Aren't you going to congratulate me?'
Oh,
hell.
She had to collect her thoughts together. ‘Of course I am. And give you my blessing. I'm just so happy you are happy.' She was babbling, she knew, but she couldn't stop. ‘Where is the wedding taking place? Have you chosen what you'll wear?'
Georgia began to laugh, and, Suzanne suspected, to cry. ‘Bedarra Island, Saturday afternoon. Would you believe Trenton has booked all the accommodation on the island to ensure total privacy? I'm wearing a cream silk suit, with matching shoes and hat. We want you and Sloane to be witnesses.'
Bedarra Island was a privately owned resort situated high in North Queensland's Whitsunday group of tropical islands. A minimum three-hour flight, followed by a launch trip to Bedarra.
‘Trenton has organised for you both to fly up on Friday morning and stay until Monday.'
Oh, my. Trenton's organisation would include the family jet, the charter of a private launch.
Sloane.
It was three weeks since she'd walked out of his apartment, leaving a penned note briefly spelling out her need for some time alone. It attributed nothing to the reality of an anonymous threat if she didn't end the engagement.
A threat she hadn't taken seriously until the young socialite who'd initiated it had almost run Suzanne's car off the road to emphasise her intent, then identified herself and promised grievous bodily harm if Suzanne failed to comply.
The sequence of events had been very carefully planned, she reflected, to coincide with Sloane's absence overseas. Bitter, vitriolic invective had merely added doubt as to the socialite's mental stability, and extreme caution had motivated Suzanne to leave Sloane's apartment and move all her clothes into a flat on the other side of the city.
However, she had underestimated Sloane. When she'd refused to take his calls on his return, he'd pulled rank and walked unannounced into her office. His icy anger when she had refused to elaborate on the contents of her note had been so chilling, it had been all she could do not to fall in a heap the second the door had closed behind him.
Now it appeared she had little option but to see him again.
Suzanne slowly replaced the receiver, then stared sightlessly at the wall in front of her. Georgia and Trenton. Could her mother possibly guess at the complications she'd created?
Allowing no time for hesitation, Suzanne punched in the digit to access an outside line, then completed the set of numbers that would connect with Sloane's law chambers.
Not that the call did much good. All she received was a relayed message stating that Sloane Wilson-Willoughby was in court and wasn't expected back until late afternoon. Suzanne logged in her name and phone number on his message bank.
Damn.
The silent curse did little to ease her frustration as she turned her attention to the documents requiring her perusal. She made a note of two clauses she felt were not entirely to her client's advantage, pencilled in a notation to delete one, and re-phrase another. Then she had her secretary lodge the necessary call in order to apprise the client of her suggested alterations.
The afternoon was hectic, and the nerves inside her stomach became increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by. Each time the phone rang, she mentally prepared herself for it to be Sloane, only to have her secretary announce someone else.
Was he deliberately delaying the call? Just to make her sweat a little? Whatever, it was playing havoc with her nervous system.
At five her phone buzzed just as she ushered a client from her office, and she crossed to her desk and picked up the receiver.
‘Sloane Wilson-Willoughby on line two.' The information was imparted in a faintly breathless voice, and Suzanne momentarily raised her eyes towards the ceiling.
Sloane tended to have that effect on people. Women, especially, responded to something in his deep, smoky voice. Once they sighted him in the flesh, the response went into overdrive and tended to make vamps and vixens out of the most sensible of females.
She should know. She'd been there herself. Part of her ached for the promise, the dream of what they might have had together.
Then she drew in a deep breath, released it, and picked up the receiver. ‘Sloane.' To ask ‘how are you?' seemed incredibly banal.
‘Suzanne.' The polite acknowledgement seared something deep inside, and she resolutely kept her voice even as she sank back in her chair. ‘Georgia rang me. I believe Trenton has relayed their news?'
‘Yes.' Brief, succinct, and unforthcoming.
He wasn't making it easy for her. There was no way out of this, and it was best if she just got on with it.
‘We need to talk.'
‘I agree,' Sloane indicated silkily. ‘Make it dinner tonight.' He named a restaurant in a city hotel. ‘Seven.'
She needed to put in another hour in order to appease her employer. ‘I don't think—'
‘It's the restaurant or your flat.' His voice acquired the sound of silk being razed by steel. ‘Choose.'
She didn't hesitate. ‘Seven-thirty.' A public place where there were people was the lesser of two evils. The thought of Sloane appearing at her flat, demanding entry...
‘Wise.'
No, it was most
un
wise
,
but she didn't appear to have much option.
Suzanne replaced the receiver and attempted to concentrate on notations she needed to finalise.
Consequently it was well after six when she left the office, and almost seven before she reached home.
Within half an hour she'd showered, dressed, swept her damp hair into a sleek twist, applied make-up with practised precision, and she was on her way out of the door, retracing a familiar route into the city.
Except this time the traffic was more civilised. And there was the advantage of valet parking. Even so, she was fifteen minutes late.
Suzanne pushed open the heavy glass door and entered the hotel lobby. It took only seconds to locate a familiar dark-suited figure standing several metres distant.
Her pulse tripped its beat and accelerated to a faster pace as she watched him unfold his lengthy frame from a deep-cushioned lounge chair.
Sloane Wilson-Willoughby stood four inches over six feet, with the broad shoulders and muscled frame of a superbly trained athlete. Inherited genes had bestowed ruggedly attractive facial features, piercing brown eyes, and thick dark brown hair. Evident was an aura of power, and the ease of a man well versed in the strengths and weaknesses of his fellow men.
He watched as she moved towards him, his appraisal swift, taking in the red power suit adorning her petite frame, the upswept hairstyle and the stiletto heels she invariably wore to add inches to her height. She possessed an innate femininity that was at variance with the professional image she tried so hard to maintain. Slight but very feminine curves, slender, shapely legs, silken-smooth honey-gold skin, deep blue eyes, and a mouth to die for.
He'd tasted its delights, savoured the pleasures of her body, and put an engagement ring on her finger. It had stayed there precisely ten weeks before she'd taken it off with an excuse he'd no more believed then than he did now.
‘Sloane.' She moved forward and accepted the touch of his hand at her elbow. And told herself she was impervious to the clean male smell of him mingling with the faint aroma of his exclusive brand of cologne. Immune to the latent sensuality that seemed to emanate from every pore.
He searched her pale features, and noted the faint smudges beneath eyes that seemed too large for her face. ‘Working hard?'

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