The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (205 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 long bruise, red, purpling, and growing more ugly with every hour.
He swore, words she'd never heard him use before, and she flinched as he traced the line of her hip-bone, then probed the surrounding flesh.
‘You walked through the rainforest,' Sloane said with deadly softness, ‘played three sets of tennis, nursing
this?'
‘It didn't hurt much then.'
His eyes appeared as dark obsidian shards, infinitely forbidding. ‘It does now.' He levered himself off the bed and descended the stairs to the lower floor.
She heard the chink of glass, the bar-fridge door close, then he was back with a chilled half-bottle in his hand.
‘What are you doing?'
‘Applying the equivalent of an ice-pack.'
‘A magnum of champagne?' Suzanne queried in disbelief, and shivered as the cold frosted glass touched her skin.
‘It'll serve the purpose. Now, lie still.'
She didn't plan on moving. Besides, fighting him would prove a futile exercise.
‘What did you find to take in the bathroom?'
‘Paracetamol,' she said huskily as he adjusted the bottle. ‘Two. In your wet-pack,' she added. An icy numbness settled in, minimising the pain, and she closed her eyes so she didn't have to look at him.
The proximity of his male body was a heady entity, despite the skimpy black silk briefs providing a modicum of decency. As a concession to her?
She could smell the clean scent of expensive soap and male deodorant on skin only inches away from her own. All her senses were acutely attuned, almost in recognition of a rare and special alchemy existent in two separate halves that were meant to make a perfect whole.
It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.
The pain slowly ebbed, and her eyelids grew heavy. Gentle fingers soothed, kneaded, and dispensed with the tight knots in the muscles of her shoulders, back and thighs.
Heaven, she acknowledged as she relaxed and let him work his magic. She made only a token protest when he lifted her into his arms and transferred her to the other bed.
His
bed. Her eyes sprang open, and she made to scramble to the edge as he climbed in beside her.
‘I don't think this is a good idea,' she said helplessly as he curved an arm beneath her shoulders and drew her close.
‘Just shut up and let it be.' He pillowed her head against his chest, then curled an arm round her waist.
He was deliciously warm, and she cautiously moved one arm so that it rested across his midriff.
It was like coming home.
Déjà vu,
she reflected. With one exception. Lacking was the satiation of lovemaking.
The temptation to begin a tactile exploration was strong. Just the slight movement of her fingers and she could trace the outline of his ribcage, tease one brown nipple, then trail a path to his navel.
He possessed a strong-boned frame, with symmetrical muscle structure, textured skin that emanated its own musky male aroma. Clean and slick with sweat at the height of sexual possession, it became an aphrodisiac that drove her wild. Sensual heat, raw and primal. As primitive as the man himself.
Don't even think about it, an inner voice cautioned. Unless you want to dice with dynamite.
Soon he'd fall asleep, then she'd gradually ease free and slip into her own bed.
It was the last coherent thought she had, and she woke to find warm sunshine filtering through the curtains, the smell of fresh coffee teasing her nostrils. One quick glance was all it took to determine she was alone in the bed. Another to see Sloane's broad back curved over a newspaper spread out on the buffet bar.
At that precise moment he turned towards her, almost as if he was acutely attuned to her every move, and his warm smile melted her bones.
‘Good morning.'
Suzanne felt awkward, sleep-rumpled, and she dragged a hand over her tousled hair. ‘Hi.'
He had the advantage, dressed and freshly shaven, and she watched him step from the stool and cross to the edge of the bed. ‘How is the bruise?'
She caught hold of the sheet in a compulsive movement, almost as if she expected him to insist on a personal inspection. She flexed her leg. ‘It doesn't seem to hurt as much.'
‘Want to try another makeshift ice-pack?'
In the clear light of day, she didn't want to be beholden to him in any way.
Too late.
You slept with him, remember?
Sleep
being the operative word... but how much more
beholden
could you get?
‘I doubt it's necessary,' Suzanne said quickly. Thinking on her feet seemed a vast improvement to staying in bed, and she managed it in one dignified movement.
Dignity
was the key, she assured herself, and being dressed would be better than wandering around in an over-large tee shirt.
She collected underwear, tailored cream linen trousers and a light cotton top
en route
to the
en suite,
emerging ten minutes later feeling refreshed after a quick shower. And in control. Well, she corrected wryly, as much in control as she could hope for in the circumstances!
Sloane checked his watch. ‘It's almost eight. If you're ready, we'll go down to the restaurant.'
Lipstick was all it would take, and perhaps a light touch of blusher. ‘Give me a minute.'
Georgia and Trenton were already seated beneath the large airy veranda when Suzanne and Sloane arrived.
‘We went for a walk along the beach. It was so quiet and peaceful. Heaven,' Georgia enthused warmly.
Suzanne caught the sparkle in her mother's eyes, glimpsed the soft curve of her mouth as she smiled, and deduced that while the island possessed a magic all its own,
heaven
to Georgia was the man at her side.
‘No pre-wedding nerves?' she queried teasingly as she accepted the waitress's offer to fill her cup with coffee.
‘A few,' her mother conceded. ‘Last-minute doubts about what I've chosen to wear for the ceremony. Whether my heels are too high, and hoping I'll remember to tread carefully so as not to trip. And whether I should wear the hat the salesgirl insisted was just perfect.' Her mouth shook slightly, then widened into a helpless smile. ‘I can't decide whether to wear a bright lipstick or go for something pale.'
Suzanne looked at Trenton and grinned. ‘Ah, serious stuff, huh?'
He spread his hands wide and responded with an easy smile. ‘My assurance that I don't give a damn what she wears doesn't appear to hold much weight.'
‘The mysterious vagaries of the female mind,' Sloane remarked, and met Suzanne's mocking glare with gleaming humour.
‘Men,' Suzanne denounced him, ‘simply have no idea.' She shot her mother a stunning smile. ‘After we finish here, I'll come and give you my considered opinion, shall I?'
‘Oh, darling. Please. I'd be so grateful.'
‘You can safely say goodbye to a few hours,' Sloane inferred aloud to his father, and Suzanne couldn't suppress the bubble of laughter that emerged from her throat.
‘At least.' And was totally unprepared for the brush of his fingers across one cheek, and the warm intimacy of his smile.
‘Then I suggest we go eat, so you can get started.'
Why, when she lapsed into a comfort zone, did he do something to jolt her out of it? Her eyes clouded. It's an act, just an act. For Georgia and Trenton's benefit.
The breakfast smorgasbord was a delight, comprising several varieties of cereal, fresh fruit, yoghurt, as well as croissants and toast. Sausages, steak, eggs, hashbrowns, mushrooms. A veritable feast.
It was almost nine when they emerged into the sunshine, and the two men opted to retire to the lounge on the pretext of discussing business, while Suzanne and Georgia made their way to the villa Georgia shared with Trenton.
The design was identical to that of their own villa, although the soft furnishings were different, Suzanne noticed as they entered the air-conditioned interior.
Georgia crossed the lounge. ‘Come upstairs, darling.'
Suzanne followed and stood to one side as her mother opened the wardrobe, the drawers, and reverently draped each item of apparel over the bed.
‘Let's do the fashion parade thing,' Suzanne suggested, shaking her head as Georgia wrinkled her nose. ‘It's the only way I can get the complete picture.'
Fifteen minutes later Suzanne stood back and expressed her admiration. ‘Perfect. Everything.'
‘Even the hat?'
‘Especially the hat,' she assured her mother. ‘It's stunning.'
Georgia's eyes moistened with gratitude. ‘Do you really think so?'
‘Really.'
Suzanne stood still, her head tilted to one side as she regarded the slim, beautiful woman in front of her. ‘Now, let's take off the hat, get rid of the shoes, and we'll try each lipstick and decide which one suits best.'
The deep rose, definitely. Pale was too pale, and the coral too bright.
‘OK,' Suzanne declared as Georgia carefully divested herself of her wedding suit, and hung it back on padded hangers beneath its protective bag. ‘All done.' She grinned, and caught hold of her mother's hands. ‘You're going to knock 'em dead.'
A warm smile tugged the edges of Georgia's mouth. ‘How nice of you to say so, darling.' She drew a deep breath. ‘Now, shall we have a cold drink, and talk girl-talk?' A light laugh spilled out, and her eyes danced. ‘Isn't that what the prospective bride and her maid of honour are supposed to do?'
Suzanne fetched a bottle of mineral water from the bar-fridge, poured the contents into two glasses and handed one to her mother.
‘Here's to health and happiness. A wonderful day. A wonderful life,' she added gently.
Georgia touched the rim of Suzanne's glass in silent acknowledgement. ‘You, too, sweetheart.'
They each took an appreciative sip. ‘It'll be nice that we'll be living in the same city,' Georgia said a trifle wistfully. ‘I can meet you for lunch. We'll attend a lot of the same functions, too, I imagine. And we'll be able to shop together.'
An arrow of pain pierced Suzanne's stomach. The lunch and the shopping part were fine, but attending the same social functions wouldn't be a good idea. In all probability Sloane would be there, and she would rather die than have to watch him with another woman at his side.
‘Tell me where you're staying in Paris.' The honeymoon was a safe topic. ‘The shops there are supposed to be marvellous. The Eiffel Tower,' she enthused. ‘Make sure you take plenty of photos, and write up a diary. I want to hear everything.'
Georgia laughed. ‘Not quite everything, darling.'
Suzanne's eyes danced with impish humour. ‘Well, no, I guess not.'
Her mother possessed a rare integrity. And charm. Something that came from the heart. Trenton Wilson-Willoughby was a very fortunate man. But then, she guessed he knew that. It explained why he wanted his ring on Georgia's finger without delay.
‘Do you remember when we lived in St Lucia in Brisbane?' Georgia reminisced. ‘That adorable little terrace house?'
‘And the cat who called both adjoining houses
home
?' Suzanne queried, laughing. ‘We fed him mince for breakfast, the man next door gave him fresh fish for lunch, and dear old Mrs Simmons dished out tinned salmon for his tea. He was such a gorgeous bundle of grey fluff.'
The school years, carefree for the most part, with increasing study as she decided on the legal fraternity as her profession. University, law school. Dating. Friends.
Hers had been a happy childhood, despite the lack of a father-figure, and there were many memories to cherish. She and Georgia were so close,
friends
and equals rather than mother and daughter. They had shared so much.
And now it was going to change. Don't go down that path, Suzanne mentally chided herself. Today was meant to be happy, joyous.
T
HE launch deposited the wedding guests, together with the photographer and celebrant, each of whom had undergone a security check at Dunk Island before boarding the chartered launch to ensure no unwanted media were able to intrude.
Suzanne could only admire Trenton's determination that their weekend sojourn, and particularly the wedding itself, remain a strictly private affair.
There would be time for the guests to check into their respective villas, enjoy a leisurely lunch, and explore Bedarra's facilities before assembling next to the main complex for an outdoor marriage ceremony.
Trenton and Sloane joined the guests in the restaurant for lunch, while Georgia and Suzanne ate a light salad together in Georgia's villa.
It ensured there was plenty of time for them to style their hair, complete their make-up, then dress.
Georgia was ready ahead of time, looking lovely, if slightly nervous. Suzanne gave her mother's hand a reassuring squeeze, then quickly stepped into the elegant pale blue silk slip-dress she'd chosen to wear.
There was a matching jacket and shoes, and she opted to leave her hair loose. Make-up was kept to a minimum, except for skilful application of eyeshadow and mascara, and she selected a clear rose lipstick to add colour.
Then she spared her watch a quick glance. ‘This is it.' She cast her mother an impish grin. ‘Are you OK?' There was no need to ask if there were any last-minute doubts.
Georgia smiled a trifle shakily. ‘In half an hour, I'll be fine.'
Suzanne crossed to tuck a hand beneath her mother's elbow. ‘Then let's get this show on the road, shall we?'
The short walk to the main complex was achieved in minutes. Georgia didn't falter as she crossed the lawn to where Sloane stood waiting at the head of a stretch of red carpet dividing three small rows of seated guests and leading to an artistically decorated archway, where Trenton waited with the celebrant.
Suzanne felt her breath catch as Sloane turned towards her with a slow, warm smile, then he took Georgia's hand in his and walked her down the carpeted aisle.
Suzanne followed, and when they reached the archway she moved to Sloane's side as Trenton took hold of Georgia's hand.
Glorious sunshine, the merest hint of a soft breeze, and a small gathering of immediate family and close friends assembled on an idyllic island resort. What more could a bride ask for?
Nothing, if Georgia's radiant expression was anything to go by, Suzanne decided, unable to still a faint stirring of wistful envy.
Her mother looked beautiful, and much younger than her forty-seven years as she stood at Trenton's side while the celebrant intoned the words of the marriage ceremony.
Georgia's response was clear, Trenton's deep and meaningful, and his incredibly gentle kiss at the close of the ceremony tugged Suzanne's heartstrings.
She moved forward to congratulate and hug them both, and the faint shimmer of tears in Georgia's eyes was reflected in her own.
Sloane did the unexpected and kissed Suzanne briefly, but hard, and the pressure of his mouth on hers sent her lashes sweeping wide in silent disapproval.
His answering smile didn't come close in explanation, and she stood at his side, almost
anchored
there as they greeted guests, made social small talk, and accepted the occasional gushing compliment about the happiness of the bride and groom.
The encroaching dusk meant everyone moved indoors, and it was essentially
smile
time. In fact, Suzanne smiled so much and so often, her facial muscles began to ache from sheer effort.
‘You're doing well,' Sloane drawled as she took a further sip from her flute of champagne.
‘Why, thank you, darling.
Wonderfully
well is what I'm aiming for.'
‘And a hair's breadth from overkill.'
She cast him a stunning glance. ‘No more than anyone else. Even as we speak, deals are being implemented by two of the country's top business moguls.' Her eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘Their respective second wives are at daggers drawn beneath the sophisticated façade as they size up
who
is wearing the more expensive designer outfit.'
‘Second and third wife,' Sloane corrected, and she inclined her head in mocking acceptance.
‘Sandrine Lanier and Bettina—?' She arched her eyebrows speculatively. ‘Just
who
in Sydney's social élite tied the knot with Bettina?'
He lowered his head and brushed his lips against her temple. ‘Cynicism doesn't suit you.'
‘Ah, but given the right context it can be fun,' she declared solemnly.
‘Sandrine works very hard at being the successful wife.'
It was true. The former actress was delightful, and devoted herself tirelessly to charitable causes. She was also an excellent hostess who enjoyed entertaining her husband's business associates. Michel Lanier was a very fortunate man.
Bettina, however, fell into an entirely different category. The glamorous blonde had frequented every social event Suzanne had attended with Sloane. And had taken great pleasure in flirting with him outrageously at every opportunity. As well as with every wealthy eligible man on the social circuit in a bid to cover her options.
‘Just who did Bettina choose?' There could be no doubt on that issue!
‘Frank Kahler. They married two weeks ago.'
She didn't need to ask. ‘You attended the wedding.'
‘Yes.' Sloane's acquiescence held a certain wryness for the occasion that had been far too over the top to be described as being in good taste.
What excuse had he given for her absence?
‘You were visiting your mother in Brisbane for the weekend.'
Suzanne looked at him, and glimpsed the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, then her gaze travelled to the vertical crease slashing each cheek, the wide, sensual mouth, and the strong set of his jaw.
‘Feasible, in the circumstances, wouldn't you say?' Very feasible, she silently agreed. ‘You could easily have admitted our relationship was over.'
‘Now why would I do that?'
‘Because it was.
Is.'
‘No.'
‘What do you mean,
no
?'
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her own, and then he raised his head fractionally. His eyes were dark, and appeared so incredibly deep she became momentarily lost.
Her heart thudded in her chest, and for a split second she forgot to breathe. Then reality kicked in, and she took in a deep, ragged breath, then shakily released it.
‘Did you honestly think I'd let it rest on the basis of the explanation you presented to me?' Sloane queried, and saw her eyes dilate with something akin to apprehension, then be replaced with an attempt at humour.
‘Impossible, of course, that I might have had a hissy fit about the number of women who fawn over you, and acted on impulse?'
His lips parted to show even white teeth behind an amused smile. ‘A hissy fit?' The edge of his mouth curved. ‘Now that's an expression which conjures up an interesting image.'
‘Doesn't it just?'
His eyes became even darker, and something moved deep within. Something she dared not define. ‘Not your style, Suzanne.'
No, it wasn't. Nor did she act on impulse.
‘Nor was your note,' Sloane continued in a dangerously mild voice.
‘You
know
why I left,' she said fiercely.
‘Whatever
the motivation, the action was all wrong.'
‘Sloane. Suzanne. We need you for photographs.' Trenton's voice intruded, and Suzanne drew a deep breath and collected her scattered thoughts as they moved across the room to the position the photographer indicated.
The man was a hired professional, and aware of the scoop his work would create. He wanted the best shots.
It took a while. The eye of the camera was very perceptive, and Suzanne should, she felt, have earned an award for her performance in playing the loving fiancée of the bride's stepson. Not to mention the groom's son.
Afterwards trays of exquisitely presented hors d'oeuvre were proffered and the champagne flowed like water. Background music from a selection of CDs filtered from strategically placed speakers as the guests mixed and mingled.
‘Sloane, so
nice
to see you again.'
Suzanne turned at the sound of a breathy feminine voice, and summoned a stunning smile for the second—no,
third
wife of one of Trenton's friends.
‘Bettina,' Sloane acknowledged her. ‘You've met Suzanne?'
Bettina's laugh was the closest thing to a tinkling bell that Suzanne had ever heard. ‘Of course, darling.'
Kittenish, Suzanne decided. Definitely cultivated kitten. The short, tight shell-pink skirt, the almost-too-tight matching camisole top covered by a designer jacket one size too small. Her hair and make-up were perfection, her lacquered nails a work of art, and the jewellery she wore just had to be worth a small fortune. Bored, and with an inclination to flirt.
‘Such a cute idea to have an island wedding.' She touched careless fingers to Sloane' sleeve and deliberately fluttered her lashes. ‘You will save a dance for me, won't you?' The
moue
was contrived. 'Frank isn't the partying type.'
Frank Kahler was a substantial catch, Suzanne mused, and felt a pang of sympathy for the much older entrepreneur whose fame and fortune were Bettina's main attraction.
‘I doubt Suzanne would be willing to share,' Sloane responded with a musing smile.
‘Oh,
darling,
of course you must dance with Bettina,' she said in mild reproach, and her eyes shimmered with simmering sensuality. ‘After all, I'm the one who gets to take you home.'
He caught hold of her hand and lifted it to his lips, then kissed each finger in turn. ‘Indeed,' he intoned softly.
Oh, my, he was good. She could almost believe he meant it. Then she came to her senses, and she smiled, aware that
her
acting ability was on a par with his own.
‘I think I'll have some more champagne.' Bettina cast Sloane an arch look from beneath artificially curled lashes. ‘You'll fetch another for me, won't you?'
Interesting, Suzanne decided, that Bettina should use such a well-used ploy. Sloane's eyes gleamed in silent recognition, and Suzanne derived a certain pleasure from handing him her flute. ‘I think I'll join Bettina. Thank you,
darling.'
The emphasis was very slight, but there nonetheless.
‘He's a hunk, isn't he?' Bettina sighed as Sloane turned and began threading his way to the bar.
And then some. ‘Yes,' Suzanne agreed, waiting for the moment Bettina would slip in the knife.
‘Sloane came alone to my wedding. Were you sick, or something, darling?' A dimple appeared in one cheek, although there was no humour apparent in Bettina's expression. ‘For a moment there, I thought you were no longer an item.'
Suzanne hated fabrication, but she refused to give Bettina any satisfaction by differing her story from the one Sloane had provided. ‘I was in Brisbane visiting Georgia.'
‘Quite a coup.' The almost-green eyes hardened and her expression became brittle. ‘Mother and daughter snaring both father and son.'
‘Yes, isn't it?' Suzanne's smile was in place, and she appeared perfectly at ease.
‘You must have worked very hard.'
‘Impossible, of course,' Suzanne said with the utmost charm, ‘that Trenton and Georgia could have fallen genuinely in love?'
‘Oh, really, Suzanne. No one falls
in love
with a wealthy man. Steering them into marriage involves an extremely delicate strategy.'
‘Of the manipulative kind?' There were no rules in this game, and, as loath as she was to play it, she was damned if she'd allow Bettina a victory. ‘Is that how you snared Frank?'
‘I cater to his needs.'
Suzanne deserved an award for her performance as she touched a finger to the diamond-encrusted watch fastened on Bettina's wrist. ‘Catering obviously pays well. Perhaps I should try it.'
‘What,' a familiar deep voice drawled, ‘should you try?'
Suzanne turned slightly and met Sloane's indolent gaze. She accepted a flute of champagne and watched as he handed another to Bettina.
‘Bettina and I were discussing catering to our men's needs.' Her eyes sparkled with deliberate guile. ‘My car has been playing up lately, darling. I rather fancy a Porsche Carrera. Black.' Her mouth widened into a beautiful pout as she lifted a finger to her lips, licked it suggestively, then placed it against the centre of his lower lip. ‘Perhaps we could negotiate—later?'

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