The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (200 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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Sometimes there had been no foreplay at all. Just compelling passion, the melding of mouths as urgent fingers had freed buttons and dispensed with clothes. Occasionally they hadn't even made it to the bedroom.
Suzanne met his gaze and held it, fought against a compulsive movement in her throat as she contained the lump lodged there, and chose not to comment.
A hollow laugh died before it was born. Who was she kidding? There was no choice at all. If she opened her mouth, only the most strangled of sounds would emerge.
She saw the darkness reflected in his eyes, glimpsed the flare of passion and his banking of it, then wanted to die as his lips curved into a slow, sensual smile.
‘Memories, Suzanne?'
Try for lightness, a touch of humour. Then he'd never know just how much she ached inside. ‘Some of them were good, very good.' He deserved that, if nothing else. Others were particularly forgettable. Such as the bitchiness of some of his social equals.
Oh, damn. She was treading into deeper water with every step she took. And she'd only been in his company an hour. What state would she be in at the end of the weekend, for heaven's sake?
She fished a magazine from a strategically placed pocket, and began flipping through the glossy pages until she discovered an article that held her interest. Or at least she could feign that it did for the duration of the short flight to Brisbane.
It was a relief when the jet landed and cruised to a halt on the far side of the terminal. Suzanne glimpsed a limousine parked close to the hangar, and Sloane's father boarded as soon as the jet's door opened and the steps were unfolded.
‘Good morning.'
Trenton moved lithely down the aisle and closed the distance to greet them.
The family resemblance between father and son was clearly evident, the frame almost identical, although Trenton was a little heavier through the chest, slightly thicker in the waist, and his hair was streaked with grey.
He was a kind man, possessed of a gentle wit, beneath which was a shrewd and knowledgeable business mind.
Suzanne rose to her feet and allowed herself to be enveloped in a bear-hug.
‘Suzanne. Lovely to see you, my dear.' He released her, and acknowledged his son with a warm smile. ‘Sloane.' He indicated the limousine. ‘Georgia is making a call from the car.' The smile broadened, and his eyes twinkled with humour as he placed a hand on Suzanne's shoulder. ‘A last-minute confirmation of floral arrangements for the wedding. Go down and talk to her while I check the luggage being loaded on board.'
Georgia was fixing her lipstick, a slight pink colouring her cheeks as Suzanne slid into the rear seat, and she leaned forward and brushed her mother's cheek with her own. ‘Nervous?'
‘No,' her mother denied. ‘Just needing someone to tell me I'm not being foolish.'
Georgia had been widowed at a young age, left to rear a child who retained little memory of the father who had been killed on a dark road in the depth of night by a joyriding, unlicensed lout high on drugs and alcohol. Life thereafter hadn't exactly been a struggle, as circumspect saving and a relatively strict budget had ensured there were holidays and a few of life's pleasures.
‘You're not being foolish,' Suzanne said gently.
Georgia appeared anxious as she lifted a hand and pressed fingers to Suzanne's cheek. ‘I would have preferred to put my plans on hold until after your wedding to Sloane. You don't mind, do you?'
It was difficult to maintain her existing expression beneath the degree of guilt and remorse she experienced for embarking on a deliberately deceitful course.
‘Don't be silly, Mama,' she said gently. ‘Sloane has briefs stacked back to back. We can't plan anything until he's free to take a few weeks' break.' She tried for levity, and won. ‘Besides, I doubt Trenton would hear of any delay.'
‘No,' a deep voice drawled. ‘He wouldn't.'
Trenton held out his hand and Suzanne took it, then stepped out of the car, watching as he gave Georgia a teasing look. ‘Time to fly, sweetheart.'
Suzanne boarded the jet, closely followed by her mother and Trenton, and within minutes the jet cruised a path to a distant runway, paused for clearance, then accelerated for take-off.
An intimate cabin, intimate company, with the emphasis on
intimacy.
It took only one look to see that Trenton was equally enamoured of Georgia as she was of him.
Any doubts Suzanne might have had were soon dispensed with, for there was a magical chemistry existent that tore the breath from her throat.
You shared a similar alchemy with Sloane, an inner voice taunted.
Almost as soon as the ‘fasten seat belts' sign flashed off Trenton rose to his feet and extracted a bottle of champagne and four flutes from the bar fridge.
‘A toast is fitting, don't you agree?' He removed the cork and proceeded to fill each flute with vintage Dom Perignon, handed them round, then raised his own. ‘To health, happiness—' his eyes met and held Georgia's, then he turned to spare Sloane and Suzanne a carefree smile ‘—and love.'
Sloane touched the rim of his flute to that of Suzanne's, and his gaze held a warmth that almost stole her breath away.
Careful,
she cautioned. It's only an act. And, because of it, she was able to direct him a stunning smile before turning towards her mother and Trenton. ‘To you both.'
Alcohol before lunch was something she usually chose to avoid, and champagne on a near-empty stomach wasn't the wisest way to proceed with the day.
Thankfully there was a selection of wafer-thin sandwiches set out on a platter, and she ate one before sipping more champagne.
Sloane lifted a hand and tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear in a deliberately evocative gesture. It pleased him to see her eyelashes sweep wide, feel the faint quiver beneath his touch, and glimpse the increased pulse-beat at the base of her throat.
It would prove to be an interesting four days. And three nights, he perceived with a degree of cynical amusement.
Suzanne felt the breath hitch in her throat.
Was she out of her mind?
What had seemed a logical, common-sense option now loomed as an emotional minefield.
B
EDARRA ISLAND resembled a lush green jewel in a sapphire sea. Secluded, reclusive, a haven of natural beauty, and reached only by launch from nearby Dunk Island.
Bedarra Island at first sight appeared covered entirely by rainforest. It wasn't until the launch drew closer that Suzanne glimpsed a high-domed terracottatiled villa roof peeping through dense foliage, then another and another.
There were sixteen private villas, walking was the only form of transport, and children under fifteen were not catered for, she mused idly, having studied the brochure she'd collected the day after she'd become aware of their destination.
She stood admiring the translucent sea as the launch cleaved through the water. It looked such a peaceful haven, the ideal place to get away from the rush and bustle of city life.
Acute sensory perception alerted her to Sloane's presence, and she contained a faint shivery sensation as he moved in close behind her, successfully forming a casual cage as he placed a hand at either side of her on the railing.
No part of his body touched hers, but she was intensely aware of the few inches separating them and how easy it would be to lean back into that hard-muscled frame.
She closed her eyes against the painful image of memory of when they had stood together just like this. Looking out over a sleeping city from any one of several floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse; in the kitchen, where she'd adored taking the domestic role; the large
en suite.
On any one of many occasions when he'd enfolded her close and nuzzled the sensitive slope of her neck, her nape, the hollow behind each earlobe.
Times when she had exulted in his touch and turned into the circle of his arms to lift her face to his for a kiss that was alternately slow and gentle, or hard and hungry. Inevitably, it had led them to the bedroom and long hours of passion.
Suzanne's fingers tightened on the railing as the launch decreased speed and began to ease in against the small jetty. Was Sloane's memory as vivid as her own? Or was he unmoved, and merely playing an expected role?
Damn.
She'd have to get a grip on such wayward emotions, or she'd become a nervous wreck!
‘Time to disembark.'
She felt rather than heard him move, and the spell was broken as Georgia's voice intruded, mingling with that of Trenton.
‘It's beautiful,' Georgia remarked simply as they trod the path through to the main complex and reception.
‘Secluded,' Trenton concurred. ‘With guaranteed privacy, and no unwanted intrusion by the media.'
For which he was prepared to pay any price, Suzanne concluded, knowing only too well how difficult it was at times to enjoy a private dinner out without being interrupted by some society photographer bent on capturing a scoop for the tabloid social pages.
Exotic native timbers provided a background for the merging colour and tone of furnishings adorning the reception area.
The reception manager greeted them warmly, processed their check-in with practised speed, indicated their luggage would be taken to their individual villas and placed two keys on the counter.
Suzanne felt as if she'd been hit in the solar plexus by a sledgehammer.
Fool.
Of course she and Sloane were to share a villa. Why on earth not, given they were supposedly still engaged and living together?
‘We'll meet in the dining room for lunch.' Trenton collected one key and spared his watch a glance. ‘Say—half an hour?'
Together they traversed a curving path and reached Trenton and Georgia's villa first, leaving Sloane and Suzanne to continue to their own.
Suzanne could hear the faint screech of birds high in the trees, and she wondered at their breed, whether they were red-crested parrots with their brilliant blue and green plumage, or perhaps the white cockatoo, or pink-breasted galah.
Sloane unlocked the door and she preceded him inside, waiting only until he closed the door behind him before turning towards him.
‘You knew, didn't you?' she demanded with suppressed anger.
‘That we'd share? Yes.' He regarded her steadily. ‘You surely didn't imagine we'd have separate accommodation?'
She watched as he moved into the room, and wanted to throw something—preferably at him. ‘And, of course, as Trenton has booked out the entire island there are no free villas.'
He turned and directed her a level look. ‘That's true. Although even if there were we'd still share.'
‘The projected image of togetherness,' Suzanne said with heavy cynicism, and glimpsed one eyebrow slant in silent query.
‘Something we agreed as being the favoured option, I believe?'
A temporary moment of insanity when she'd put her mother's feelings to the forefront with very little thought for her own, she decided disparagingly. Then felt bad, for she'd do anything rather than upset Georgia.
The villa was spacious, open-plan living on two levels. And it was remarkably easy to determine via an open staircase that the upper level was given over to one bedroom, albeit that it was large and housed a queen and single bed, as well as an adjoining
en
suite bathroom.
Suzanne followed him upstairs, and discovered the bedroom was larger than she'd expected, with glossy timber floors and a high ceiling. A central fan stirred recycled air-conditioned air, and dense external foliage provided an almost jungle-like atmosphere that heightened the sensation of secluded tranquillity.
Her eyes skimmed over both beds, and quickly skittered towards the functional
en suite.
Four days of enforced sharing. It had hardly begun, and already she could feel several nerve-ends curling in protective self-defence.
‘Which bed would you prefer?' she asked in civil tones, wanting, needing to set down a few ground rules. Rules were good, they imposed boundaries, and if they adhered to them they should be able to get through the weekend with minimum conflict.
He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You don't want to share?'
‘No.' She didn't want to think about it, didn't dare. It was bad enough having to share the same villa, the same bedroom.
To share the same bed was definitely impossible. Unless she was into casual sex, for the sake of sex. And she wasn't. To her, sex meant intimacy, sensuality,
love.
Not a physical exercise to be indulged in simply to satisfy a basic urge.
Sloane watched her expressive features, perceived each deliberation and recognised every one of them. ‘Pity.'
Suzanne's lashes swept upwards, and her eyes sparked with anger. ‘You surely didn't expect me to agree?'
‘No.' His smile held wry humour, and there was a musing gleam evident in the depth of his appraisal. He reached out an idle finger and touched its tip to the end of her nose. The smile broadened. ‘But you rise so beautifully to the bait.'
Of all the... She drew in a deep breath, and expelled it slowly in an effort to defuse the simmering heat of her rage. ‘I think,' she vouchsafed with the utmost care, ‘we had better agree not to ruffle each other's feathers. Or we're likely to come to blows.'
‘Verbal, of course.'
His faint mockery further incensed her.
‘Physical,
if you don't watch your step!'
‘Now there's an interesting image.' He gave a silent laugh, and his eyes were as dark as she imagined the devil's own to be. ‘A word of warning, Suzanne,' he said softly. ‘Don't expect me to behave like a gentleman.'
This conversation had veered way off course, and she attempted to get back on it. With deliberate calm she turned her attention to one bed, then the other, entertained a brief image of Sloane attempting to fold his lengthy frame into the single one, and made a decision. ‘You can have the larger bed.'
‘Generous of you.'
‘Half the wardrobe is mine,' she managed firmly. ‘With equal time and space in the bathroom.'
A lazy smile curved the edges of his mouth. ‘Done.'
She looked at him warily. His calm acceptance of her suggested sleeping arrangement was...unexpected.
There was a loud knock on the door, and Sloane moved indolently downstairs to allow the porter to deposit their bags, then, taking hold of one in each hand, he ascended the short flight of stairs.
‘I'll unpack.' A prosaic task that would take only minutes.
She was all too aware of Sloane's matching actions as she hung a few changes of clothes on hangers in the wardrobe, lay underclothes into a drawer, and set out toiletries and make-up on one half of the vanity unit.
‘Anything for valet pressing?'
‘No.' She watched as he extracted the appropriate bag, added two shirts, then filled in the slip and slung it down onto the bed.
‘When you're ready, we'll go join Georgia and Trenton in the dining room.'
She needed to run a quick brush through her hair and retouch her lipstick. ‘Give me a few minutes.'
In the
en suite
she regarded her mirror image with critical appraisal. Her eyes were too darkly pensive, her features too pale.
A few swift strokes of eyeshadow, blusher and lipstick added essential colour, and she made a split-second decision to twist the length of her hair into a careless knot atop her head.
Her hand automatically reached for the light
parfum
spray Sloane had gifted her. Her fingers hesitated, then retreated.
Oh, to hell with it. She wore perfume because she liked the fragrance, not because of any attempt to tantalise a man. If Sloane chose to think the fresh application was attributed to
him,
he was mistaken.
A quick spray to the delicate veins crossing each wrist, the valley between each breast. Better, much better, she determined as she emerged into the bedroom.
Sloane regarded her with one swift encompassing glance, then caught up his sunglasses and held out her own before standing to one side to allow her to precede him down onto the lower level.
Suzanne was supremely conscious of the intense maleness emanating from his broad frame as they stepped outside their villa. It was like a magnet, pulling at something deep inside her, heightening emotions to a level she didn't want to acknowledge.
‘Hungry?'
The sun's warmth caressed her skin, the slight breeze teasing free a few tendrils of her hair as she offered him a brilliant smile. ‘Yes.'
A gleam lit his expressive eyes, and he gave a soft laugh as he caught hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips.
Her stomach curled at the implied intimacy, and she silently damned the way each and every one of her nerve-ends sprang into acutely sensitised life.
She attempted to pull her hand free without success. ‘The act is a little premature, don't you think?'
‘Not really, given we're in a public place and unsure who can see and hear us.'
The tinge of humour in his voice brought forth a rueful smile. ‘You're enjoying this, aren't you?'
One eyebrow slanted upwards. ‘It's a rare opportunity for me to gain an upper hand.'
‘Don't overdo it, Sloane,' she warned in a low voice, and glimpsed his mocking smile.
‘What a vivid imagination you have.'
Much too vivid. That was the problem.
The restaurant was spacious, with tables set wide apart indoors and beneath the covered terrace. It was a peaceful setting overlooking the wide sweep of the bay as it curved out into the ocean, the bush-clad undulations of the island providing a tranquil remoteness.
‘Would you prefer to sit indoors or out on the terrace?'
‘The terrace,' Suzanne said without hesitation.
Georgia and Trenton had yet to arrive, and she selected a table protected from the sun's warm rays.
She watched as Sloane folded his length into an adjoining seat, and was grateful for the tinted lenses shading her eyes. They provided a barrier that made it a fraction more comfortable to deal with him.
A silent laugh stuck in her throat. Who was she kidding? No one
dealt
with Sloane. That was his prerogative. Control, which some would call manipulative strategy, was a skill he'd honed to an enviable degree in the business arena. In his private life, he added charm and seductive warmth with dangerous effect.
‘Mineral water?'
She met his gaze, partly masked by tinted lenses, and offered a slight smile. ‘Orange juice.'
The generous curve of his mouth relaxed and humour tugged its edge. ‘Preference, Suzanne? Or a determined effort to thwart me?'
‘Why would I want to do that, Sloane,' she queried evenly, ‘when the next three days are supposed to project peace, harmony and celebration?'

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