The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (201 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)
11.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
‘Why, indeed?'
His tone was pure silk, with the merest hint of caution should she attempt to try his patience too far in this game they'd each agreed to play.
A young waitress crossed to the table to take their order, her smile bright, her expression faintly envious as her eyes lingered fractionally longer than necessary on Sloane's attractive features.
Suzanne felt a slight stab of something she refused to accept as jealousy. Dammit,
why
was her body so attuned to this man, when she'd determinedly dismissed him from her mind?
It was one thing to uphold when she had the distance and protection of a telephone conversation. It was something else entirely when confronted with his presence, for then the barriers she'd erected seemed in danger of disintegrating into a heap at her feet.
Conversation seemed safer than silence. ‘Tell me about the case you're currently involved in.'
‘Genuine interest, Suzanne?'
His amused drawl touched a raw nerve. ‘What would you prefer? A polite dissertation about the weather?'
‘You could try for an unexpurgated version of what motivated you to walk out on me.'
Straight for the jugular. She aimed for levity. Anything else was impossible. ‘And risk the possibility of having Georgia and Trenton appear in the middle of a heated discussion?'
He sank back in the chair and folded his hands together behind his head. ‘My dear Suzanne, I rarely have the need to raise my voice.'
Why should he resort to anger when he could employ a wealth of words with such innate skill, their delivery sliced with the deadliness of an expertly wielded scalpel? Anger had been
her
emotional defence.
‘This isn't the time, or the place.'
The waitress's reappearance bearing a tray containing two tall glasses filled with orange juice and chinking ice cubes brought a halt to the conversation, and Suzanne watched as the young girl made a production of placing decorative coasters down onto the table, followed by each individual glass.
‘If there's anything else you need, just call.' The smile was pure female and aimed at Sloane before she turned and retreated to the bar.
‘Oh, my,' Suzanne said with saccharine sweetness. ‘You don't even have to try.'
His smile held wry cynicism. ‘I suppose I should be grateful you noticed it was entirely one-sided.'
I notice, she silently assured him. Everything about you. She reached for her glass, lifted it, and took an appreciative sip of the iced liquid. ‘She looks—available.'
His eyes narrowed. ‘You forget,' he remarked in a silky drawl. ‘I'm with you.' The words alone were simple. His delivery of them was not.
It cost her to lift one eyebrow in a gesture of ill-concealed mockery. ‘It's only day one, and already we're into verbal sparring. What will we both be like at the end of day four?'
There was warm humour evident in his smile, and she felt her stomach clench with something she refused to acknowledge as pain.
‘Oh, I don't know,' he replied indolently. ‘I'm rather looking forward to the progression.' He lifted his glass and touched its rim to her own. ‘Here's to us.'
‘There is no
us
,' Suzanne declared adamantly.
‘Isn't there?'
She shot him a baleful glare. ‘Get too close, Sloane, and you'll discover I bite.'
‘Be warned I'll retaliate.'
Yes, he'd do that, and ensure that, while he might permit her to win a battle, he had every intention of winning the war.
It was a chilling thought, and one which had her poised for a stinging response.
‘Georgia and Trenton have just entered the restaurant,' he warned, and she changed a glare to a slow, sweet smile, glad of the tinted shield shading her eyes as he leaned forward and brushed his fingers against her cheek.
A blatant action if ever there was one, signalling his intention to take advantage of each and every situation during their island sojourn. If he was intent on playing a game, then it shouldn't be uneven, she decided with a touch of vengeance.
With deliberate calm she captured his hand with her own and brought it to her lips, then used her teeth to nip the soft pad of one finger...
hard
.
Triumph, albeit temporary, was very sweet. Despite the faint warning flare that promised retribution.
‘Isn't this an idyllic place?' Georgia enthused as she sank into the chair Trenton held out for her.
‘Wonderful,' Suzanne agreed lightly. Almost anything was worth it to see her mother so blissfully happy. Even wielding emotional and verbal swords with Sloane.
‘I've checked arrangements with the hotel staff,' Trenton disclosed as he settled into the remaining chair.
The waitress appeared at his side, took an order, then retreated to the bar to fill it.
‘Everything's under control.'
Why wouldn't it be? Suzanne questioned silently. The Wilson-Willoughby name was sufficient to ensure assistants scrambled over one another in the need to please.
Success wasn't born of those who were fainthearted, insecure, or inept. And no one in their right mind could accuse Trenton or Sloane of possessing any one of those character flaws.
Power
was the keynote, and with it came a certain ruthlessness Suzanne found difficult to condone. A paradox, for it was a quality she could also admire.
‘When do the guests arrive?'
‘Tomorrow morning. The launch will make an unscheduled run from Dunk Island.'
Lunch comprised a superb seafood starter, followed by freshly caught grilled fish and salad, and they each chose a selection of succulent fresh fruit for dessert.
‘Have I met each of the invited guests?' Suzanne voiced the query with what she hoped was casual interest, and tried to ignore the faint knot twisting in her stomach as she waited for Trenton's response.
Sloane's eyes sharpened, although his expression remained unchanged.
‘I'm almost certain of it,' Trenton concurred with a relaxed smile. He named them, and Suzanne endeavoured to breathe normally as she waited for one specific name, and felt the easing of tension when it wasn't mentioned.
Sloane was aware of every nuance, every gesture, no matter how slight. His suspicions, laser-sharp, moved up a notch.
‘Shall we leave?' Georgia broached with a sunny smile. ‘I haven't finished unpacking, and there are a few things I want to check on.'
Sloane rose to his feet, and held Suzanne's chair as she followed his actions. His hand brushed her arm, and she felt warmth flood her veins in an instantaneous reaction to his touch. There was little she could do to prevent the casual arm he placed around her waist as he led her from the restaurant. Nor could she give in to temptation and shrug it off as they lingered outside.
With a hint of desperation she turned towards her mother. ‘Do you need help with anything this afternoon?' Say yes. Please, she begged silently, doubtful anyone, least of all her radiant mother, would take heed. Murphy's law had prevailed from the moment she'd picked up the phone the day before yesterday to take Georgia's call.
‘Oh, darling, thank you. But no, there's nothing.'
Of course not. Anything that needed to be done had been taken care of before Georgia had boarded the plane in Brisbane. And here on this idyllic island there were ample staff to cater to a guest's slightest whim.
‘The past few days have been so hectic,' Georgia continued, sparing Trenton a warm glance. ‘Now that we're here, I just want to relax.' The warmth heated, and was diffused with a generous, faintly humorous smile. ‘You and Sloane take time out to explore. We'll join you for a drink before dinner. Shall we say six?'
There was little to do except agree, and Suzanne suffered Sloane's loose hold as he led the way back to their villa, pulling free as soon as they were safely inside with the door closed behind them.
Suzanne glanced around the elegant topical-designed furnishings, the four spacious walls, and felt the need to escape.
‘I think I'll go for a walk.' She moved towards the stairs leading to the bedroom. She'd change into cotton shorts and sleeveless top, and exchange her shoes for light trainers.
‘I'll come with you.'
His drawling tone halted her steps and she turned to face him. ‘What if I don't want you to?'
‘Tough.'
Anger rose to the surface, tingeing her cheeks with colour, and adding a dangerous sparkle to her eyes. ‘You're determined to make this as difficult as possible, aren't you?'
He closed the distance between them. ‘Everything we do this weekend, we do together. Understood?'
‘Everything, Sloane?' Her chin tilted. ‘Isn't that a bit too
literal
?'
Those dark eyes above her own hardened fractionally, and she forced herself not to blink as he lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. ‘We agreed to a temporary truce. Let's try to keep it, shall we?'
She'd never seen him lose his temper, only witnessed a chilled expression turn his eyes almost black, detected the ice in his voice more than once in the courtroom, and on a few occasions when dealing with an adversary over the phone. But never with her.
A faint shiver shimmied across the surface of her skin, and she fought to diffuse the intense, potentially dangerous air that swirled between them.
‘I hope you packed trainers,' she said lightly. ‘Those hand-stitched Italian shoes you wear weren't made for trekking through sand and bush.'
The edges of his mouth quirked, then relaxed into a musing smile. ‘A temporary escape, Suzanne?'
‘Got it in one.'
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, then he let his hand fall to his side. ‘Give me a few minutes to change, then let's go try to enjoy it.'
She ascended the stairs and quickly changed, deciding on the spur of the moment to don a bikini beneath shorts and top. With a deft movement she pulled on a peaked cap, slid her sunglasses into place, caught up a towel and turned to face him.
‘Ready?'
Shorts had replaced tailored trousers, and the hand-stitched shoes had been exchanged for trainers. He looked, Suzanne decided, relaxed and at ease. A projected persona that could be infinitely deceiving.
She followed in his wake, aware of the broad set of his shoulders, the powerful back beneath the cotton polo shirt. The exclusive tones of his cologne teased her senses, heightening them to a degree that made her want to scream.
Elusive scents, the movement of honed muscle and sinew,
knowing
their power, the sensual magic this one man could create within her—it was torture.
It had taken her every hour of every day since she'd left him to build up invisible walls from within which she could protect and defend herself against his powerful alchemy. Night after night she'd lain awake rationalising her motives for leaving him; applied logic, indulged in amateur psychology, and resolved that she'd reached a satisfactory and sane decision.
Yet somehow instinct continued to war with rationale, and she disliked the contrariness of her ambivalence.
‘OK, where shall we begin?' Determination was the key. “The beach?'
‘Why not?'
Sloane's voice held a tinge of amusement, and she spared him a searching glance for evidence of cynical humour. However, it was impossible to detect anything behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
T
HE sand resembled light honey, marked high by a thin line of shells, most broken, some whole, and scraps of seaweed: the flotsam of an outgoing tide.
Suzanne paused every now and then to select a few, only to send them skimming out into the translucent blue-green water.
It was quiet, so quiet as to imagine there was no one else on the island. The sun was pleasantly warm in a tropical climate known as the winterless north, and tempered only by a slight breeze drifting in from the sea.
She was supremely conscious of the man at her side; how, now she was in casual trainers, her height seemed diminished in comparison to his. It made her feel fragile and vaguely vulnerable, which was crazy.
‘Do you want to clamber over those rocks and discover what's on the other side?'
They had followed the beach's gentle curve to a wide outcrop of boulders that separated land and sea.
Anything was better than going back to their villa. ‘OK.'
They came to a small cove, the shallows bounded by an irregular scatter of huge boulders, and patches of soft crunchy sand above the shoreline. Isolated, and quite breathtakingly beautiful.
‘Want to continue on?'
‘Swim,' suzanne said without hesitation, and she spared him a quick glance.
His warm smile caused the breath to catch in her throat. ‘I'll join you.'
Was he wearing briefs? This was a sufficiently isolated spot for it not to matter. So why should it bother her? Except it did, of course. Badly.
‘You object?' His soft drawl made her stomach dip and execute a series of slow somersaults.
‘No, of course not.' How come a decision to swim suddenly seemed dangerous? Fool, she silently castigated herself as she quickly stripped down to her bikim.
Suzanne was conscious of Sloane matching her actions, and a surreptitious glance beneath her lashes was sufficient to determine that thin black silk provided an adequate covering.
Although
adequate
hardly equated with a hard-muscled masculine frame at the peak of physical fitness. A visual attestation of powerful male destined to cause the female heart to leap into a quickened beat.
Yet it was more than that, much more.
Sloane possessed a primitive magnetism, an animalistic sense of power which, combined with an intimate knowledge of the human psyche, set him apart from other men. It was evident in his eyes, an essential hardness that alluded to an old soul, one that had seen much, dealt with it and triumphed. Equally, those dark, almost black depths could soften and warm for a woman, give hint to sensual delight, the promise of devastating sexual pleasure.
Remembering
just how devastating had kept her awake nights, tossing and turning in an attempt to forget.
In the daylight hours she could convince herself she was fine, really fine.
Now,
she was faced with his constant company for three, almost four days. Mistake; big mistake. Seven hours into this farcical misadventure, and she was already a bundle of nerves, almost jumping out of her skin whenever he came within touching distance.
Why, why,
why
had she put herself in such jeopardy?
For Georgia. Dear sweet Georgia, who
deserved
happiness during her wedding celebration unclouded by an edge of anxiety for her only beloved daughter.
It wasn't so much to ask, was it?
‘Do you want to swim, or simply gaze at the ocean?'
Sloane's drawling voice snapped Suzanne's introspection, and she summoned a faint smile.
‘Race you in.'
She sprinted into the cool blue-green water until it reached waist-level, then she broke into long, strong strokes that took her a few metres out from the shore.
Seconds later a sleek dark head broke the surface beside her, and she regarded him a trifle warily as she trod water.
‘You look,' Sloane said softly, ‘as if you're waiting for me to pounce.'
She should never play poker, he decided silently. Her eyes were too expressive. He knew every nuance in her voice, could read each movement of that wide, mobile mouth.
‘Why would you do that?' Suzanne queried evenly. ‘There's not a soul in sight.'
‘No need for you to be under any illusion, hmm?'
He moved close, much too close, and his legs curled around hers before she could attempt to put some distance between them. A hand curved round her waist, while the other held fast her nape, and she didn't have a chance to utter a sound before his mouth closed over hers in a kiss that was incredibly gentle in its possessiveness.
She felt as if she was drowning, sinking, and entirely at his mercy as he took her down beneath the water's surface. He held her so close she was aware of the pressure of his body, the strength of his arousal, the absorption of his mouth on hers, then the power of his thighs as he kicked to bring them up for air.
The bream tore at her throat, and she gasped deeply as he released her mouth and slowly eased his hold. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shocked surprise and anger. and her lips moved soundlessly for an instant before she broke into spluttering speech, only to lapse into an inaudible murmur as he pressed a forefinger over her mouth.
‘Just so you're not in any doubt,' Sloane murmured in a husky undertone, and covered her mouth with his own.
This time there was nothing gentle about his possession, and her head whirled as his tongue mated with hers, sweeping deeply and in total control. She whimpered as he took his fill, his jaw powerful in its demanding onslaught until compliance was her only option.
She had no idea how long it lasted, only that it seemed an age before the pressure began to ease. She felt the light brush of his lips as he explored the bruised softness of her mouth before he lifted his head.
His eyes were incredibly dark, almost black as he regarded her pale features, and for one infinitesimal second he experienced a tinge of regret.
She wanted to hit him. Would have, if she thought she could connect and physically
hurt
him. Instead, she resorted to words.
‘If you've quite finished playing the masterful macho
male,
I'd like to go ashore and dry out.' Nothing would allow her to admit how
shaken
she felt. Or how ravaged.
His soft laughter almost unleashed her control, and she kicked out at him, then swore when she failed to connect.
‘Most unladylike,' Sloane chided with an indolence that set her teeth on edge.
‘I don't
feel
ladylike,' she assured him, hating him for tearing her emotions to shreds. Claim-staking. A reminder of how it had been between them; a promise of how it could be again.
Without another word she turned and swam back to shore, uncaring whether he followed her or not.
The sun's rays warmed her body as she emerged onto the sand, and she lifted her hands to squeeze excess water from her hair, then combed her fingers through its length so that it would dry more quickly, before tending to the moisture beading her body with a towel.
She possessed naturally fair skin which she took care to protect with sunscreen, and she applied coverage from the slim tube she'd brought with her.
By the time she finished the Lycra bikini was almost dry, and she pulled on shorts and top, slid her feet into trainers, then made her way towards the rocky outcrop to explore...in solitude.
Breathing space, she qualified, uncaring how Sloane chose to occupy himself. As long as it wasn't with her.
There were pools of water trapped in several natural rock hollows, tiny lizards the length of her finger which scattered out of sight, and the occasional shell of a dead crustacean.
She could hear the faint lap of water against the rocks, and every now and then there came the screeching call from parrots disturbed in their natural habitat.
Suzanne rounded the corner, and paused to admire the long curve of clean golden sand stretching to the northern point of the island. Beautiful, she thought, stepping from one rock to another.
Was it some form of sensory perception that made her pause and glance to her rear? Or simply an elusive connection she shared with the one man from whom she'd sought a temporary escape?
Sloane stood highlighted against the sky as he closed the distance between them, and she turned back, quickening her steps.
Foolishly, for she misjudged, slipped, and cushioned her fall with an outstretched hand.
Nothing, she determined within seconds, was twisted or broken. Tomorrow she might have a bruised hip, but she could bear with it. There wasn't even a graze on either leg, and her ankles were both fine.
‘What in sweet
hell
were you thinking of?'
Sloane's anger was palpable as he crouched down beside her, and she directed him a dark look as she aimed for brutal honesty.
‘Aiming to get down onto the sand before you caught up with me.'
His hands skimmed her arms, her legs with professional ease. ‘Are you hurt?'
Now there was a question. If she said her emotions were, what good would it do?
He caught hold of her hands, examined the fine bones, then extended his attention to each palm.
Blood seeped from a deep graze on the fleshy mound beneath her left thumb, and she regarded it with a degree of fascination, wondering why it should sting quite badly when at the time she hadn't been conscious of it at all.
Til go wash it in the sea.'
‘It needs antiseptic.'
She gave a slight shrug. ‘So I'll put some on when I get back to the villa.'
Sloane gave her a penetrating look. ‘Are your tetanus shots up to date?'
‘Oh, for heaven's sake.
Yes.'
She tried to wrench her hand from his grasp. Unsuccessfully, which only served to increase her exasperation.
His eyes were steady, their depths too intensely dark for her to mistake the implacability evident, then without a further word he lifted her hand to his lips, took the fleshy mound into his mouth, and began cleansing the wound with his tongue.
The provocative action caused sensation to feather the length of her spine, and she suppressed a faint shiver at the sheer power of her emotions.
Everything faded beyond the periphery of her vision. There was only the man as she became caught up in the spell of him. Acute sensuality, so potent it robbed the strength from her limbs.
She was aware of the soft body hair that curled darkly, visible in the deep V of his polo shirt, and the faint musky aroma of cologne and salt emanating from his skin.
Her heart began to race, and she became supremely conscious of the need to regulate her breathing in an effort to portray a dispassionate calmness.
Fire coursed through her veins, heating pleasure that pooled in each erogenous zone and became evident with every pulsing beat.
This close, it was possible to detect the dark shadow of almost a day's growth of beard he deemed necessary to dispense with night and morning. It was an intensely masculine feature, and one she found attractive.
Dear heaven, she had to get a grip, otherwise she'd never survive the next few days with any semblance of emotional sanity.
‘Don't.' The single negation sounded vaguely husky, and she swallowed compulsively as he raised his head.
‘Don't—what?' His eyes pierced hers. ‘Take care of you?' His voice dropped a tone.
‘Love
you?'
It felt as if a fist slammed into her chest at the last two words, and she held her breath in silent pain. ‘Sloane—'
‘Another
don't
, Suzanne?' His voice was too quiet, too controlled as he released her hand. ‘You think ignoring what we share together will make it go away?
Her eyes were remarkably clear as they met and held his. ‘No. But I plan to work on it.'
‘Why?'
The silky tone aroused a dormant rage that coloured her fine-textured skin and turned her eyes to pure crystalline sapphire.
‘You don't get it, do you?' The heat emanated from the pores of her skin.
‘Love
—' she paused, drew in a deep breath, then expelled it ‘—doesn't provide a security blanket against reality.' She rose to her feet in one fluid movement, and immediately lost the momentary advantage as he followed her actions.
‘You demean my intelligence.'
‘Really?' Her chin tilted in open contempt. ‘Then perhaps you should consider re-evaluating it.'
She turned away and traversed the few remaining rocks to the sandy stretch below, aware that he followed close behind.

Other books

Char by Amare, Mercy
Trail of Lies by Carolyn Keene
The Zookeeper’s Wife by Ackerman, Diane
Handle Me with Care by Rolfe, Helen J
Storm Runners by Parker, T. Jefferson
Jump Zone: Cleo Falls by Snow, Wylie
Knit Your Own Murder by Monica Ferris
Water & Storm Country by David Estes