A Convenient Bridegroom
A Convenient Bridegroom
HELEN BIANCHIN
With just two weeks until the wedding, it was too late for Aysha to back out of marrying Carlo Santangelo.Everyone expected her to be a radiant bride, blissfully entering a marriage of convenience that would unite two powerful families…Aysha would gain wealth, status - and a fabulously good-looking husband! Only, she couldn't ignore two painful facts:1) She desperately loved Carlo.2) He clearly had no intention of giving up his glamorous mistress.Could she convince Carlo to be more than a convenient bridegroom?
About the Author
HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and travelled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons and then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco share-farmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as as much theirs as hers.
Recent titles by the same author:
ALESSANDRO’S PRIZE
PUBLIC MARRIAGE, PRIVATE SECRETS
THE ANDREOU MARRIAGE ARRANGEMENT
BRIDE, BOUGHT AND PAID FOR
Did you know these are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
A Convenient
Bridegroom
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘NIGHT, cara. You will be staying over, won’t you?’
Subtle, very subtle, Aysha conceded. It never ceased to amaze that her mother could state a command in the form of a suggestion, and phrase it as a question. As if Aysha had a choice.
For as long as she could remember, her life had been stage-managed. The most exclusive of private schools, extra-curricular private tuition. Holidays abroad, winter resorts. Ballet, riding school, languages … she spoke fluent Italian and French.
Aysha Benini was a product of her parents’ upbringing. Fashioned, styled and presented as a visual attestation to family wealth and status.
Something which must be upheld at any cost.
Even her chosen career as an interior decorator added to the overall image.
‘Darling?’
Aysha crossed the room and brushed her lips to her mother’s cheek. ‘Probably.’
Teresa Benini allowed one eyebrow to form an elegant arch. ‘Your father and I won’t expect you home.’
Case closed. Aysha checked her evening purse, selected her car key, and turned towards the door. ‘See you later.’
‘Have a good time.’
What did Teresa Benini consider a good time? An exquisitely served meal eaten in a trendy restaurant with Carlo Santangelo, followed by a long night of loving in Carlo’s bed?
Aysha slid in behind the wheel of her black Porsche Carrera, fired the engine, then eased the car down the driveway, cleared the electronic gates, and traversed the quiet tree-lined street towards the main arterial road leading from suburban Vaucluse into the city.
A shaft of sunlight caught the diamond-studded gold band with its magnificent solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. Brilliantly designed, horrendously expensive, it was a befitting symbol representing the intended union of Giuseppe Benini’s daughter to Luigi Santangelo’s son.
Benini-Santangelo, Aysha mused as she joined the flow of city-bound traffic.
Two immigrants from two neighbouring properties in a northern Italian town had travelled in their late teens to Sydney, where they’d worked two jobs every day of the week, saved every cent, and set up a cement business in their mid-twenties.
Forty years on, Benini-Santangelo was a major name in Sydney’s building industry, with a huge plant and a fleet of concrete tankers.
Each man had married a suitable wife, sadly produced only one child apiece; they lived in fine homes, drove expensive cars, and had given their children the best education that money could buy.
Both families had interacted closely on a social and personal level for as long as Aysha could remember. The bond between them was strong, more than friends. Almost family.
The New South Head Road wound down towards Rose Bay, and Aysha took a moment to admire the view.
At six-thirty on a fine late summer’s evening the ocean resembled a sapphire jewel, merging with a sky clear of cloud or pollution. Prime real estate overlooked numerous coves and bays where various sailing craft lay anchored. Tall city buildings rose in differing architectural design, structured towers of glass and steel, providing a splendid backdrop to the Opera House and the wide span of the Harbour Bridge.
Traffic became more dense as she drew close to the city, and there were the inevitable delays at computer-controlled intersections.
Consequently it was almost seven when she drew into the curved entrance of the hotel and consigned her car to valet parking.
She could, should have allowed Carlo to collect her, or at least driven to his apartment. It would have been more practical, sensible.
Except tonight she didn’t feel sensible.
Aysha nodded to the concierge as she entered the lobby, and she hadn’t taken more than three steps towards the bank of sofas and single chairs when a familiar male frame rose to full height and moved forward to greet her.
Carlo Santangelo.
Just the sight of him was enough to send her heart racing to a quickened beat. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to monitor the rise and fall of her chest.
In his late thirties, he stood three inches over six feet and possessed the broad shoulders and hard-muscled body of a man who coveted physical fitness. Sculpted raw-boned facial features highlighted planes and angles, accenting a powerful jaw, strong chin, and a sensuously moulded mouth. Well-cut thick dark brown hair was stylishly groomed, and his eyes were incredibly dark, almost black.
Aysha had no recollection of witnessing his temper. Yet there could be no doubt he possessed one, for his eyes could darken to obsidian, the mouth thin, and his voice assume the chill of an ice floe.
‘Aysha.’ He leant down and brushed his mouth against her own, lingered, then he lifted his head and caught both of her hands in his.
Dear God, he was something. The clean male smell of him teased her nostrils, combining with his subtle aftershave.
Her stomach executed a series of somersaults, and her pulse hammered heavily enough to be almost audible. Did she affect him the way he affected her?
Doubtful, she conceded, aware of precisely where she fitted in the scheme of things. Bianca had been his first love, the beautiful young girl he’d married ten years ago, only to lose her in a fatal car accident mere weeks after the honeymoon. Aysha had cried silent tears at the wedding, and wept openly at Bianca’s funeral.
Afterwards he’d flung himself into work, earning a reputation in the business arena as a superb strategist, able to negotiate with enviable skill.
He had dated many women, and selectively taken what they offered without thought of replacing the beautiful young girl who had all too briefly shared his name.
Until last year, when he’d focused his attention on Aysha, strengthening the affectionate bond between them into something much more personal, more intimate.
His proposal of marriage had overwhelmed her, for Carlo had been the object of her affection for as long as she could remember, and she could pinpoint the moment when teenage hero-worship had changed and deepened into love.
A one-sided love, for she was under no illusion. The marriage would strengthen the Benini-Santangelo conglomerate and forge it into another generation.
‘Hungry?’
At the sound of Carlo’s drawled query Aysha offered a winsome smile, and her eyes assumed a teasing sparkle. ‘Starving.’
‘Then let’s go eat, shall we?’ Carlo placed an arm round her waist and led her towards a bank of elevators.
The top of her head came level with his shoulder, and her slender frame held a fragility that was in direct contrast to strength of mind and body.
She could, he reflected musingly as he depressed the call button, have turned into a terrible brat. Yet for all the pampering, by an indulgent but fiercely protective mother, Aysha was without guile. Nor did she have an inflated sense of her own importance. Instead, she was a warm, intelligent, witty and very attractive young woman whose smile transformed her features into something quite beautiful.
The restaurant was situated on a high floor offering magnificent views of the city and harbour. Expensive, exclusive, and a personal favourite, for the chef was a true artiste with an expertise and flair that had earned him fame and fortune in several European countries.
The lift doors slid open, and she preceded Carlo into the cubicle, then stood in silence as they were transported with electronic speed.
‘That bad, hmm?’
Aysha cast him a quick glance, saw the musing cynicism apparent, and didn’t know whether to be amused or resigned that he’d divined her silence and successfully attributed it to a ghastly day.
Was she that transparent? Somehow she didn’t think so. At least not with most people. However, Carlo was an entity all on his own, and she’d accepted a long time ago that there was very little she could manage to keep hidden from him.
‘Where would you like me to begin?’ She wrinkled her nose at him, then she lifted a hand and proceeded to tick off each finger in turn. ‘An irate client, an even more irate floor manager, imported fabric caught up in a wharf strike, or the dress fitting from hell?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Choose.’
The elevator slid to a halt, and she walked at his side to the restaurant foyer.
‘Signor Santangelo, Signorina Benini. Welcome.’ The maître d’ greeted them with a fulsome smile, and accorded them the deference of valued patrons. He didn’t even suggest a table, merely led them to the one they preferred, adjacent the floor-to-ceiling window.
There was, Aysha conceded, a certain advantage in being socially well placed. It afforded impeccable service.
The wine steward appeared the instant they were seated, and Aysha deferred to Carlo’s choice of white wine.
‘Iced water, please,’ she added, then watched as Carlo leaned back in his chair to regard her with interest.
‘How is Teresa?’
‘Now there’s a leading question, if ever there was one,’ Aysha declared lightly. ‘Perhaps you could be more specific?’
‘She’s driving you insane.’ His faint drawling tones caused the edges of her mouth to tilt upwards in a semblance of wry humour.
‘You’re good. Very good,’ she acknowledged with cynical approval.
One eyebrow rose, and there was gleaming amusement evident. ‘Shall I try for excellent and guess the current crisis?’ he ventured. ‘Or are you going to tell me?’
‘The wedding dress.’ Visualising the scene earlier in the day brought a return of tension as she vividly recalled Teresa’s calculated insistence and the seamstress’s restrained politeness. Dammit, it should be so easy. They’d agreed on the style, the material. The fit was perfect. Yet Teresa hadn’t been able to leave it alone.
‘Problems?’ He had no doubt there would be many, most of which would be of Teresa’s making.
‘The dressmaker is not appreciative of Mother’s interference with the design.’ Aysha experienced momentary remorse, for the gown was truly beautiful, a vision of silk, satin and lace.
‘I see.’
‘No,’ she corrected. ‘You don’t.’ She paused as the wine steward delivered the wine, and went through the tasting ritual with Carlo, before retreating.
‘What don’t I see, cara?’ Carlo queried lightly. ‘That Teresa, like most Italian mammas, wants the perfect wedding for her daughter. The perfect venue, caterers, food, wine, bomboniera, the cake, limousines. And the dress must be outstanding.’
‘You’ve forgotten the flowers,’ Aysha reminded him mildly. ‘The florist is at the end of his tether. The caterer is ready to quit because he says his tiramisu is an art form and he will not, not, you understand, use my grandmother’s recipe from the Old Country.’
Carlo’s mouth formed a humorous twist. ‘Teresa is a superb cook,’ he complimented blandly.
Teresa was superb at everything; that was the trouble. Consequently, she expected others to be equally superb. The trouble as such, was that while Teresa Benini enjoyed the prestige of employing the best money could buy, she felt bound to check every little detail to ensure it came up to her impossibly high standard.
Retaining household staff had always been a problem for as long as Aysha could remember. They came and left with disturbing rapidity due to her mother’s refusal to delegate even the most minor of chores.
The waiter arrived with the menu, and because he was new, and very young, they listened in silence as he explained the intricacies of each dish, gave his considered recommendations, then very solicitously noted their order before retreating with due deference to relay it to the kitchen.
Aysha lifted her glass and took a sip of chilled water, then regarded the man seated opposite over the rim of the stemmed goblet.
‘How seriously would you consider an elopement?’
Carlo swirled the wine in his goblet, then lifted it to his lips and savoured the delicate full-bodied flavour.
‘Is there any particular reason why you’d want to incur Teresa’s wrath by wrecking the social event of the year?’
‘It would never do,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘Although I’m almost inclined to plug for sanity and suffer the wrath.’
One eyebrow slanted, and his dark eyes assumed a quizzical gleam.
The waiter delivered their starters; minestrone and a superb linguini with seafood sauce.
‘Two weeks, cara,’ Carlo reminded her.
It was a lifetime. One she wasn’t sure she’d survive intact.
She should have moved out of home into an apartment of her own. Would have, if Teresa hadn’t dismissed the idea as ridiculous when she had a wing in the house all to herself, complete with gym, sauna and entertainment lounge. She had her own car, her own garage, and technically she could come and go as she pleased.
Aysha picked up her fork, deftly wound on a portion of pasta and savoured it. Ambrosia. The sauce was perfecto.
‘Good?’
She wound on another portion and held it to his lips. ‘Try some.’ She hadn’t intended it to be an intimate gesture, and her eyes flared slightly as he placed his fingers over hers, guided the fork, and then held her gaze as he slid the pasta into his mouth.
Her stomach jolted, then settled, and she was willing to swear she could hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
He didn’t even have to try, and she became caught up with the alchemy that was his alone.
A warm smile curved his lips as he dipped a spoon into his minestrone and lifted it invitingly towards her own. ‘Want to try mine?’
She took a small mouthful, then shook her head when he offered her another. Did he realise just how difficult it was for her to retain a measure of sangfroid at moments like these?
‘We have a rehearsal at the church tomorrow evening,’ Carlo reminded her, and saw her eyes darken.
Aysha replaced her fork, her appetite temporarily diminished. ‘Six-thirty,’ she concurred evenly. ‘After which the wedding party dine together.’
Both sets of parents, the bride and groom to-be, the bridesmaids and their attendants, the flower girls and page boys and their parents.
Followed the next day by a bridal shower. Hardly a casual affair, with just very close friends, a few nibblies and champagne. The guest list numbered fifty, it was being catered, and Teresa had arranged entertainment.
To add to her stress levels, she’d stubbornly refused to begin six weeks’ leave of absence from work until a fortnight before the wedding.
On the positive side, it kept her busy, her mind occupied, and minimised the growing tension with her mother. The negative was hours early morning and evening spent at the breathtaking harbourside mansion Carlo had built, overseeing installation of carpets, drapes, selecting furniture, co-ordinating colours. And doing battle with Teresa when their tastes didn’t match and Teresa overstretched her advisory capacity. Something which happened fairly frequently.
‘Penny for them.’
Aysha glanced across the table and caught Carlo’s teasing smile.
‘I was thinking about the house.’ That much was true. ‘It’s all coming together very well.’
‘You’re happy with it?’
‘How could I not be?’ she countered simply, visualising the modern architectural design with its five sound-proofed self-contained wings converging onto a central courtyard. The interior was designed for light and space, with a suspended art gallery, a small theatre and games room. A sunken area featured spa and sauna, and a jet pool.
It was a showcase, a place to entertain guests and business associates. Aysha planned to make it a home.
The wine waiter appeared and refilled each goblet, followed closely by the young waiter, who removed their plates prior to serving the main course.
Carlo ate with the enjoyment of a man who consumed nourishment wisely but well, his use of cutlery decisive.
He was the consummate male, sophisticated, dynamic, and possessed of a primitive sensuality that drew women to him like a magnet. Men envied his ruthlessness and charm, and knew the combination to be lethal.
Aysha recognised each and every one of his qualities, and wondered if she was woman enough to hold him.
‘Would you care to order dessert, Miss Benini?’
The young waiter’s desire to please was almost embarrassing, and she offered him a gentle smile. ‘No, thanks, I’ll settle for coffee.’
‘You’ve made a conquest,’ Carlo drawled as the waiter retreated from their table.
Her eyes danced with latent mischief. ‘Ah, you say the nicest things.’
‘Should I appear jealous, do you think?’
She wanted to say, only if you are. And since that was unlikely, it became easy to play the game.
‘Well, he is young, and good-looking.’ She pretended to consider. ‘Probably a university student working nights to pay for his education. Which would indicate he has potential.’ She held Carlo’s dark gleaming gaze and offered him a brilliant smile. ‘Do you think he’d give up the room he probably rents, sell his wheels … a Vespa scooter at a guess … and be a kept toy-boy?’
His soft laughter sent shivers over the surface of her skin, raising fine body hairs as all her nerve-endings went haywire.
‘I think I should take you home.’
‘I came in my own car, remember?’ she reminded him, and saw his eyes darken, the gleam intensify.
‘A bid for independence, or an indication you’re not going to share my bed tonight?’
She summoned a winsome smile, and her eyes shone with wicked humour. ‘Teresa is of the opinion catering to your physical needs should definitely be my priority.’
‘And Teresa knows best?’ His voice was silky-smooth, and she wasn’t deceived for a second.
‘My mother believes in covering all the bases,’ Aysha relayed lightly.
His gaze didn’t shift, and she was almost willing to swear he could read her mind. ‘As you do?’
Her expression sobered. ‘I don’t have a hidden agenda.’ Did he know she was in love with him? Had loved him for as long as she could remember? She hoped not, for it would afford him an unfair advantage.
‘Finish your coffee,’ Carlo bade gently. ‘Then we’ll leave.’ He lifted a hand in silent summons, and the waiter appeared with the bill.
Aysha watched as Carlo signed the slip and added a generous tip, then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed her thoughtfully.
She was tense, but covered it well. His eyes narrowed faintly. ‘Do we have anything planned next weekend?’
‘Mother has something scheduled for every day until the wedding,’ she declared with unaccustomed cynicism.
‘Have Teresa reorganise her diary.’
Aysha looked at him with interest. ‘And if she won’t?’
‘Tell her I’ve surprised you with airline tickets and accommodation for a weekend on the Gold Coast.’
‘Have you?’
His smile held humour. ‘I’ll make the call the minute we reach my apartment.’
Her eyes shone, and she broke into light laughter. ‘My knight in shining armour.’
Carlo’s voice was low, husky, and held amusement. ‘Escape,’ he accorded. ‘Albeit brief.’ He stood to his feet and reached out a hand to take hold of hers. His gleaming gaze seared right through to her heart. ‘You can thank me later.’
Together they made their way through the room to the front desk.
The maître d’ was courteously solicitous. ‘I’ll arrange with the concierge to have your cars brought to the front entrance.’
Both vehicles were waiting when they reached the lobby. Carlo saw her seated behind the wheel of her Porsche, then he crossed to his Mercedes to fire the engine within seconds and ease into the line of traffic.
Aysha followed, sticking close behind him as he traversed the inner city streets heading east towards Rose Bay and his penthouse apartment.
When they reached it she drove down into the underground car park, took the space adjoining his private bay, then walked at his side towards the bank of lifts in companionable silence.
They didn’t need a house, she determined minutes later as she stepped into the plush apartment lobby.
The drapes weren’t drawn, and the view out over the harbour was magnificent. Fairy lights, she mused as she crossed the lounge to the floor-to-ceiling glass stretching across one entire wall.
City buildings, street lights, brightly coloured neon vying with tall concrete spires and an indigo sky.
Aysha heard him pick up the phone, followed by the sound of his voice as he arranged flights and accommodation for the following weekend.
‘We could have easily lived here,’ she murmured as he came to stand behind her.
‘So we could.’ He put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.
She felt his chin rest on the top of her head, sensed the warmth of his breath as it teased her hair, and was unable to prevent the slight shiver as his lips sought the vulnerable hollow beneath the lobe of one ear.
She almost closed her eyes and pretended it was real. That love not lust, and need not want, was Carlo’s motivation.
A silent groan rose and died in her throat as his mouth travelled to the edge of her neck and nuzzled, his tongue, his lips erotic instruments as he tantalised the rapidly beating pulse.
His hands moved, one to her breast as he sought a sensitive peak, while the other splayed low over her stomach.
She wanted to urge him to quicken the pace, to dispense with her clothes while she feverishly tore every barrier from his body until there was nothing between them.
She wanted to be lifted high in his arms and sink down onto him, then clutch hold of him as he took her for the ride of her life.
Everything about him was too controlled. Even in bed he never lost that control completely, as she did.
There were times when she wanted to cry out that while she could accept Bianca as an important part of his past, she was his future. Except she never said the words. Perhaps because she was afraid of his response.
Now she turned in his arms and reached for him, her mouth seeking his as she gave herself up completely to the heat of passion.
He caught her urgency and effortlessly swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
Aysha’s fingers worked on his shirt buttons, unfastened the buckle on his belt, then pulled his shirt free.
His nipples were hard, and she savoured each one in turn, then used her teeth to tease, aware that Carlo had deftly removed most of her clothes.
She heard his intake of breath seconds ahead of the soft thud as he discarded one shoe and the other, then dispensed with his trousers.
‘Wait.’ His voice was low and slightly husky, and she ran her hands over his ribcage, searched the hard plane of his stomach and reached for him.
‘So you want to play, hmm?’
CHAPTER TWO
CARLO caught hold of her arms and let his hands slide up to cup her shoulders as he buried his mouth in the vulnerable hollow at the edge of her neck.
Her subtle perfume teased his senses, and he nuzzled the sensitive skin, tasted it, nipped ever so gently with his teeth, and felt the slight spasm of her body’s reaction to his touch.
She was a generous lover. Passionate, with a sense of adventure and fun he found endearing.
He trailed his lips down the slope of her breast and suckled one tender peak, savoured, then moved to render a similar supplication to its twin.
Did he know what he did to her? Aysha felt a stab of pain at the thought that his lovemaking might be contrived. A practised set of moves that pushed all the right buttons.
Once, just once she wanted to feel the tremors of need shake his body … for her, only her. To know that she could make him so crazy with desire that he had no restraint.
Was it asking too much to want love? She wore his ring. Soon she would bear his name. It should be enough.
She wanted to mean so much more to him than just a satisfactory bed partner, a charming hostess.
Take what he’s prepared to give, and be grateful, a tiny voice prompted. A cup half-full is better than one that is empty.
Her hands linked at his nape and she drew his head down to hers, exulting in the feel of his mouth as he shaped her own.
She let her tongue slide against his, then conducted a slow, sweeping circle before initiating a probing dance that was almost as evocative as the sexual act itself.
His hand shaped her nape and held fast her head, while the other slipped low over one hip, cupped her bottom and drew her close in against him.
She wanted him now, hard and fast, without any preliminaries. To be able to feel the power, the strength, without caution or care. As if he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer to effect possession.
The familiar slide of his fingers, the gentle probing exploration as he sought the warm moistness of her feminine core brought a gasping sigh from her lips.
Followed by a despairing groan as he began an evocative stimulation. It wasn’t fair that he should have such intimate knowledge and be aware precisely how to wield it to drive a woman wild.
His mouth hardened, and his jaw took control of hers, moving it in rhythm with his own.
She clutched hold of his shoulders and held on as his fingers probed deeper, and just as she thought she could bear it no longer he shifted position.
A cry rose and died in her throat as he slid into her in one long, thrusting movement.
Dear God, that felt good. So good. She murmured her pleasure, then gave a startled gasp as he tumbled her down onto the bed and withdrew.
His mouth left hers, and began a seeking trail down her throat, tasting the vulnerable hollows at the base of her neck, the soft, quivering flesh of each breast, the indentation of her navel.
She knew his intention, and felt the flame lick along every nerve-end, consuming every sensitised nerve-cell until she was close to conflagration.
Her head tossed from one side to the other as sensation took hold of her whole body. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop before it became unbearable, but the husky admonition sounded so low in her throat as to be indistinguishable.
He was skilled, so very highly skilled in giving a woman pleasure. The slight graze of his teeth, the erotic laving of his tongue. He knew just where to touch to urge her towards the edge. And how to hold her there, until she begged for release.
Aysha thought she cried out, and she bit down hard as Carlo feathered light kisses over her quivering stomach, then paused to suckle at her breast,
His mouth closed on hers, and she arched up against him as he entered her in one surging movement, stretching delicate tissues to their utmost capacity.
He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing depth and strength as she became consumed with the feel of him.
His skin, her own, was warm and slick with sweat, and the blood ran through her veins like quicksilver.
It was more than a physical joining, for she gifted him her heart, her soul, everything. She was his. Only his. At that moment she would have died for him, so complete was her involvement.
Frightening, shattering, she reflected a long time later as she lay curled into the warmth of his body. For it almost destroyed her concept of who and what she had become beneath his tutelage.
The steady rise and fall of his chest was reassuring, the beat of his heart strong. The lazy stroke of his fingers along her spine indicated he wasn’t asleep yet, and the slight pressure against the indentations of each vertebrae was soothing. She could feel his lips brush lightly over her hair as she drifted into a peaceful sleep.
It was the soft, hazy aftermath of great lovemaking. A time for whispered avowals of love, Aysha thought as she woke, the affirmation of commitment.
Aysha wanted to utter the words, and hear them in return. Yet she knew she would die a silent death if he didn’t respond in kind. She pressed a light butterfly kiss to the muscled ridge of his chest and traced a gentle circle with the tip of her tongue.
He tasted of musk, edged with a faint tang that was wholly male. She nipped the hard flesh with her teeth and bestowed a love-bite, then she soothed it gently before moving close to a sensitive male nipple.
She trailed her fingers over one hip, lingered near his groin, and felt his stomach muscles tense.
‘That could prove dangerous,’ Carlo warned as she began to caress him with gentle intimacy.
The soft slide of one finger, as fleeting as the tip of a butterfly’s wing, in a careful tactile exploration. Incredible how the male organ could engorge and enlarge in size. Almost frightening, its degree of power as instrument to a woman’s pleasure.
Aysha had the desire to tantalise him to the brink of madness, and unleash everything that was wild and untamed, until there were no boundaries. Just two people as one, attuned and in perfect accord on every level. Spiritual, mental and physical.
A gasp escaped her throat as he clasped both hands on her waist and swept her to sit astride him.
Excitement spiralled through her body as he arched his hips and sent her tumbling down against his chest.
One hand slid to her nape as he angled her head to his, then his mouth was on hers, all heat and passion as he took possession.
The kiss seared her heart, branding her in a way that made her his … totally. Mind, body, and soul. She had no thought for anything but the man and the storm raging within.
It made anything she’d shared before seem less. Dear Lord, she’d ached for his passion. But this … this was raw, primitive. Mesmeric. Ravaging.
She met and matched his movements, driven by a hunger so intense she had no recollection of time or place.
Aysha wasn’t even aware when he reversed positions, and it was the gentling of his touch, the gradual loss of intensity that intruded on her conscious mind and brought with it a slow return to sanity.
There was a sense of exquisite wonderment, a sensation of wanting desperately to hold onto the moment in case it might fracture and fragment.
She didn’t feel the soft warmth of tears as they slid slowly down her cheeks. Nor was she aware of the sexual heat emanating from her skin, or the slight trembling of her body as Carlo used his hands, his lips to bring her down.
He absorbed the dampness on one cheek, then pressed his lips against one closed eyelid, before moving to effect a similar supplication on the other. His hands shifted as he gently rolled onto his back, carrying her with him so she lay cradled against the length of his body.
Slight tremors shook her slim form, and he brought her mouth to his in a soft, evocative joining. His fingers trailed the shape of her, gently exploring the slim supple curves, the slender waist, the soft curve of her buttocks.
It was Carlo who broke contact long minutes later, and she trailed a hand down the edge of his cheek.
‘I get first take on the shower. You make the coffee,’ she whispered.
His slow smile caused havoc with her pulse-rate. ‘We share the shower, then I’ll organise coffee while you cook breakfast.’
‘Chauvinist,’ Aysha commented with musing tolerance.
His lips caressed her breast, and desire arrowed through her body, hot, needy, and wildly wanton. ‘We can always miss breakfast and focus on the shower.’
His arousal was a potent force, and her eyes danced with mischief as she contemplated the option. ‘As much as the offer attracts me, I need food to charge my energy levels.’ She placed the tip of a finger over his lips, then gave a mild yelp as he nipped it with his teeth. ‘That calls for revenge.’
Carlo’s hands spanned her waist and he shifted her to one side, then he leaned over her. ‘Try it.’
She rose to the challenge at once, although the balance of power soon became uneven, and then it hardly seemed to matter any more who won or lost.
Afterwards she had the quickest shower on record, then she dressed, swept her hair into a twist at her nape, added blusher, eye colour and mascara.
She looked, Carlo noted with respect, as if she’d spent thirty minutes on her grooming instead of the five it had taken her.
‘Sit down and eat,’ he commanded as he slid an omelette onto a plate. ‘Coffee’s ready.’
‘You’re a gem among men,’ Aysha complimented as she sipped the coffee. Pure nectar on the palate, and the omelette was perfection.
‘From chauvinist to gem in the passage of twenty minutes,’ he drawled with unruffled ease, and she spared him a wicked grin in between mouthfuls.
‘Don’t get a swelled head.’
She watched as he poured himself some coffee then joined her at the table. The dark navy towelling robe accented his breadth of shoulder, and dark curling hair showed at the vee of the lapels. Her eyes slid down to the belt tied at his waist, and lingered.
‘You don’t have time to find out,’ he mocked lazily, and she offered a stunning smile.
‘It’s my last day at work.’ She rose to her feet and gulped the last mouthful of coffee. ‘But as of tomorrow …’
‘Promises,’ Carlo taunted, and she reached up to brush her lips to his cheek, except he moved his head and they touched his mouth instead.
‘Got to rush,’ she said with genuine regret. ‘See you tonight.’
Her job was important to her, and she loved the concept of using colour and design to make a house a home. The right furnishings, furniture, fittings, so that it all added up to a beautiful whole that was both eye-catching and comfortable. She’d earned a reputation for going that extra mile for a client, exploring every avenue in the search to get it right.
However, there were days when phone calls didn’t produce the results she wanted, and today was one of them. Added to which she had to run a final check over all the orders that were due to come in while she was away. An awesome task, just on its own.
Then there was lunch with some of her fellow staff, and the presentation of a wedding gift … an exquisite crystal platter. The afternoon seemed to fly on wings, and it was after six when she rode the lift to Carlo’s penthouse.
‘Ten minutes,’ she promised him as she entered the lounge, and she stepped out of heeled pumps en route to the shower.
Aysha was ready in nine, and he snagged her arm as she raced towards the door.
‘Slow down,’ he directed, and she threw him an urgent glance.
‘We’re late. We should have left already.’ She tugged her hand and made no impression. ‘They’ll be waiting for us.’
He pulled her close, and lowered his head down to hers. ‘So they’ll wait a little longer.’
His mouth touched hers with such incredible gentleness her insides began to melt, and she gave a faint despairing groan as her lips parted beneath the pressure of his.
Minutes later he lifted his head and surveyed the languid expression softening those beautiful smoky grey eyes. Better, he noted silently. Some of the tension had ebbed away, and she looked slightly more relaxed.
‘OK, let’s go.’
‘That was deliberate,’ Aysha said a trifle ruefully as they rode the lift down to the underground car park, and caught his musing smile.
‘Guilty.’
He’d slowed her galloping pace down to a relaxed trot, and she offered a smile in silent thanks as they left the lift and crossed to the Mercedes.
‘How was your day?’ she queried as she slid into the passenger seat and fastened her belt.
‘Assembling quotes, checking computer print-outs, checking a building site. Numerous phone calls.’
‘All hands-on stuff, huh?’
The large car sprang into instant life the moment he turned the key, and he spared her a wry smile as they gained street level.
‘That about encapsulates it.’
The church was a beautiful old stone building set back from the road among well-tended lawns and gardens. Symmetrically planted trees and their spreading branches added to the portrayed seclusion.
There was an air of peace and grace apparent, meshing with the mystique of blessed holy ground.
Aysha drew a deep breath as she saw the several cars lining the curved driveway. Everyone was here.
Attending someone else’s wedding, watching the ceremony on film or television, was a bit different from participating in one’s own, albeit this was merely a rehearsal of the real thing.
‘I want to carry the basket,’ Emily, the youngest flower girl, insisted, and tried to wrest it from Samantha’s grasp.
‘I don’t want to hold a pillow. It looks sissy,’ Jonathon, the eldest page boy declared.
Oh, my. If he thought carrying a small satin lace-edged pillow demeaned his boyhood, then just wait until he had to get dressed in a miniature suit, satin waistcoat, buttoned shirt and bow-tie.
‘Sissy,’ the youngest page boy endorsed.
‘You have to,’ Emily insisted importantly.
‘Don’t.’
‘Do so.’
Aysha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘What if Samantha carries the basket of rose petals, and Emily carries the pillow?’
It was almost possible to see the ensuing mental tussle as each little girl weighed the importance of each task.
‘I want the pillow,’ Samantha decided. Rings held more value than rose-petals to be strewn over the carpeted aisle.
‘You can have the basket.’ Emily, too, had done her own calculations.
Teresa rolled her eyes, the girls’ respective mothers attempted to pacify, and when that failed they tried bribery.
The four bridesmaids looked tense, for they’d each been assigned a child to care for during the formal ceremony.
‘OK.’ Aysha lifted both hands in a gesture of expressive defeat. ‘This is how it’s going to be. Two baskets, so Emily and Samantha get to carry one each.’ She cast both boys a stern look. ‘Two pillows.’
‘Two?’ Teresa queried incredulously, and Aysha inclined her head.
‘Two.’
The little girls beamed, and both boys bent their heads in sulky disagreement.
Maybe it would have been wiser not to give the children a rehearsal at all, and simply tell them what to do on the day and hope they’d concentrate so hard there wouldn’t be the opportunity for error.
Celestial assistance was obviously going to be needed, Aysha mused as she listened to the priest’s instructions.
An hour later they were all seated at a long table in a restaurant nominated as children-friendly. The food was good, the wine did much to relax fraught nerves, and Aysha enjoyed the informality of it all as she leaned back against Carlo’s supporting arm.
‘Tired?’
She lifted her face to his, and her eyes sparkled with latent intimacy. ‘It’s been a long day.’
He leaned in close and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘You can sleep in in the morning.’
‘Generous of you. But I need to be home early to help Teresa with preparations for the bridal shower. Remember?’
It was almost eleven when everyone began to make a move, and a further half-hour before Aysha and Carlo were able to leave, for the bridesmaids lingered and Teresa had last-minute instructions to impart.
The witching hour of midnight struck as she preceded Carlo into the penthouse, and she slipped off her shoes, took the clip from her hair and shook it loose, then she padded through to the kitchen.
‘Coffee?’
Aysha sensed rather than heard him move behind her, and she murmured her approval as his hands kneaded tense shoulder muscles.
‘Good?’
Oh, yes. So good, she was prepared to beg him to continue. ‘Please. Don’t stop.’ It was bliss, almost heaven, and she closed her eyes as his fingers worked a magic all on their own.
‘Any ideas for tomorrow night?’
She heard the lazy quality in his voice and smiled. ‘You mean we have a free evening?’
‘I can book dinner.’
‘Don’t,’ she said at once. ‘I’ll pick up something.’
‘I could do this much better if you lay down on the bed.’
Her senses were heightened, and her pulse began to quicken. ‘That might prove dangerous.’
‘Eventually,’ Carlo agreed lazily. ‘But there are advantages to a full body massage.’
Aysha’s blood pressure moved up a notch. ‘Are you seducing me?’
His soft laughter sounded deep and husky close to her ear. ‘Am I succeeding?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ she promised with wicked intent. ‘In about an hour from now.’
‘An hour?’
‘The quality of the massage will govern your reward,’ Aysha informed him solemnly, and he laughed as he swept her into his arms and carried her through to the bedroom.
To lay prone on towels as Carlo slowly smoothed aromatic oil over every inch of her body was sensual torture of the sweetest kind.
Whatever had made her think she’d last an hour? After thirty minutes the pleasure was so intense, it was all she could do not to roll onto her back and beg him to take her.
‘I think,’ she said between gritted teeth, ‘that’s enough.’
His fingertips smoothed up her thighs and lingered a hair’s breadth away from the apex, then shaped each buttock before settling at her waist.
‘You said an hour,’ Carlo reminded her, and gently rolled her onto her back.
Aysha looked at him from beneath long-fringed lashes. ‘I’ll make you pay,’ she promised as liquid heat spilled through her veins.
He leaned down and took her mouth in a brief hard kiss. ‘I’m counting on it.’
The sweet sorcery of his touch nearly sent her mad, and afterwards it was she who drove him to the brink, aware of those dark eyes watching her with an almost predatory alertness that gradually shifted and changed as she tried to break his control.
Desire, raw and primitive, tore through her body, and she felt bare, exposed, as her own fragile control shredded into a thousand pieces.
Aysha had no recollection of the tears that slowly spilled down each cheek until Carlo cupped her face and erased them with a single movement of his thumb.
His lips brushed hers, gently, back and forth, then angled in sensual possession.
Afterwards he simply held her until her breathing slowed and steadied into a regular beat, then he gently eased her to lie beside him and held her close through the night.
She barely stirred when he rose at eight, and he showered in a spare bathroom, then dressed and made breakfast.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee stirred Aysha’s senses, and she fought through the final mists of sleep into wakefulness.
‘The tousled look suits you,’ Carlo teased as he placed the tray down onto the bedside pedestal. Her cheeks were softly flushed, her eyes slumberous, the dilated pupils making them seem too large for her face.
‘Hi.’ She made an attempt to pull the sheet a little higher, and incurred his husky laughter.
‘Your modesty is adorable, cara.’
‘Breakfast in bed,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘You’ve excelled yourself.’
He lowered his head and bestowed an open-mouthed kiss to the edge of her throat, teased the tender skin with his teeth, then trailed a path to the gentle swell of her breast.
‘I aim to please.’
Oh, yes, he did that. She retained a very vivid memory of just how well he’d managed to please her. Not that it had been entirely one-sided … She’d managed to take him further towards the edge than before. One of these days … nights, she amended, she planned to tip him over and watch him free-fall.
‘Naturally, your mind is more on food than me at this point, hmm?’
Go much lower, and I won’t get to the food. ‘Of course,’ she offered demurely. ‘I’m going to need stamina to make it through the day.’
‘The bridal shower,’ he mused. His eyes met hers, and she regarded him solemnly.
‘Teresa wants the occasion to be memorable.’
Carlo sank down onto the bed. ‘There’s orange juice, and caffeine to kick-start the day.’
Together with toast, croissants, fruit preserve, cheese, wafer-thin slices of salami and prosciutto. A veritable feast.
Aysha slid up in the bed, paying careful attention to keep the sheet tucked beneath her arms, and took the glass of juice from Carlo’s extended hand. Next came the coffee, then a croissant with preserve, followed by a piece of toast folded in half over a layer of cheese and prosciutto.
‘More coffee?’
She hesitated, checked the time, then shook her head. ‘I said I’d be home around nine.’
Carlo stood to his feet and collected the tray. ‘I’ll take this downstairs.’
Ten minutes later she had showered, dressed and was ready to face the day. Light blue jeans sheathed her slim legs, hugged her hips, and she wore a fitted top that accentuated the delicate curve of her breasts.
She skirted the servery, reached up and planted a light kiss against the edge of his jaw. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’
He caught her close and slanted his mouth over hers with a possession that wreaked havoc with her equilibrium. Then he eased the pressure and brushed his lips over the swollen contours of her own, lingered at one corner, then gently released her.
‘I consider myself thanked.’
Her eyes felt too large, and she quickly blinked in an effort to clear her vision. That had been … ‘cataclysmic’ was a word that came immediately to mind. And passionate, definitely passionate.
Maybe she was beginning to scratch the surface of his control after all.
That thought stayed with her as she took the lift down to the underground car park, and during the few kilometres to her parents’ home.
CHAPTER THREE
AYSHA’S four bridesmaids were the first to arrive, followed by Gianna and a few of Teresa’s friends. Two aunts, three cousins, and a number of close friends.
There were beautifully wrapped gifts, much laughter, a little wine, some champagne, and the exchange of numerous anecdotes. Entertainment was provided by a gifted magician whose expertise in pulling at least a hundred scarves from his hat and jacket pockets had to be seen to be believed.
Coffee was served at three-thirty, and at four Teresa was summoned to the front door to accept the arrival of an unexpected guest.
The speed with which Lianna, Aysha’ chief bridesmaid, joined Teresa aroused suspicion, and there was much laughter as a good-looking young man entered the lounge.
‘You didn’t—’ Aysha began, and one look at Lianna, Arianne, Suzanne and Tessa was sufficient to determine that her four bridesmaids were as guilty as sin.
A portable tape-recorder was set on a coffee table, and when the music began he went into a series of choreographed movements as he began to strip.
It was a tastefully orchestrated act, as such acts went. The young man certainly had the frame, the body, the muscles to execute the traditional bump-and-grind routine.
‘You refused to let us give you a ladies’ night out, so we had to do something,’ Lianna confided with an impish grin as everyone began to leave.
‘Fiend,’ Aysha chastised with affectionate remonstrance. ‘Wait until it’s your turn.’
‘What’ll you do to top it, Aysha? Hire a group of male strippers?’
‘Don’t put thoughts into my head,’ she threatened direly.
The caterers tidied and cleaned up, then left fifteen minutes later, and Aysha crossed to the table where a selection of gifts were on display.
From the intensely practical to the highly decorative, they were all beautiful and reflected the giver’s personality. A smile curved her lips. Lianna’s gift of a male stripper had been the wackiest.
‘You had no idea of Lianna’s surprise?’ Teresa queried as she crossed to her side.
‘None,’ Aysha answered truthfully, and curved an arm around her mother’s waist. ‘Thanks, Mamma, for a lovely afternoon.’
‘My pleasure.’
Aysha grinned unashamedly. ‘Even the stripper?’ she teased, and glimpsed the faint pink colour in her mother’s cheeks.
‘No comment.’
She began to laugh. ‘All right, let’s change the subject. What shall we do with these gifts?’
They set them on a table in one of the rooms Teresa had organised for displaying the wedding presents, and when that was done Aysha went upstairs and changed into tailored trousers and matching silk top.
It was after six when she entered Carlo’s penthouse apartment, and she crossed directly into the kitchen to deposit the carry-sack containing a selection of Chinese takeaways she’d collected en route from home.
‘Let me guess. Chinese, Thai, Malaysian?’ Carlo drawled as he entered the kitchen, and she directed him a winsome smile.
‘Chinese. And I picked up some videos.’
‘You have plans to spend a quiet night?’
She opened cupboards and extracted two plates, then collected cutlery. ‘I think I’ve had enough excitement for the day.’ And through last night.
‘Care to elaborate on the afternoon?’
Her eyes sparkled with hidden devilry. ‘Lianna ordered a male stripper.’ She decided to tease him a little. ‘He was young, built, and gorgeous.’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Ask Gianna; she was there.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyes speared hers. ‘Perhaps I need to hear more about this gorgeous hunk.’
Carlo had her heart, her soul. It never ceased to hurt that she didn’t have his.
‘Well …’ She deliberated. ‘There was the body to die for.’ She ticked off each attribute with teasing relish. ‘Longish hair, tied in this cute little ponytail, and when he let it free … wow, so sexy. No apparent body hair.’ Her eyes sparkled with devilish humour. ‘Waxing must be a pain … literally. And he had the cutest butt.’
Carlo’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and she gave him an irrepressible grin. ‘He stripped down to a thong bikini brief.’
‘I imagine Teresa and Gianna were relieved.’
She tried hard not to laugh, and failed as a chuckle emerged. ‘They appeared to enjoy the show.’
His lips twitched. ‘An unexpected show, unless I’m mistaken.’
‘Totally,’ she agreed, and viewed the various cartons she’d deposited on the servery. ‘Let’s be really decadent,’ she suggested lightly. ‘And watch a video while we eat.’
The first was a thriller, the acting sufficiently superb to bring an audience to the edge of their seats, and the second was a comedy about a wedding where everything that could go wrong, did. It was funny, slapstick, and over the top, but in amongst the frivolity was a degree of reality Aysha could identify with.
In between videos she’d tidied cartons and rinsed plates, made coffee, and now she carried the cups through to the kitchen.
She felt pleasantly tired as she ascended the stairs to the main bedroom, and after a quick shower she slid between the sheets to curl comfortably in the circle of Carlo’s arms with her head pillowed against his chest.
Within minutes she fell asleep, and she was unaware of the light touch as Carlo’s lips brushed the top of her head, or the feather-light trail of his fingers as they smoothed a path over the surface of her skin.
They woke late, lingered over breakfast, then took Giuseppe’s cabin cruiser for a day trip up the Hawkesbury River. They returned as the sun set in a glorious flare of fading colour and the cityscape sprang to life with a myriad of pin-prick lights.
Magic, Aysha reflected, as the wonder of nature and manmade technology overwhelmed her.
Tomorrow the shopping would begin in earnest as Teresa initiated the first of her many lists of Things to Do.
‘Mamma, is this really necessary?’
As shopping went, it had been a profitable day with regard to acquisitions. Teresa, it appeared, was bent on spending money … Serious money.
‘You’re the only child I have,’ Teresa said simply. ‘Don’t deny me the pleasure of giving my daughter the best wedding I can provide.’
Aysha tucked her hand through her mother’s arm and hugged it close. ‘Don’t rain on my parade, huh?’
‘Exactly.’
‘OK. The dress, if you insist. But …’ She paused, and cast Teresa a stern look. ‘That’s it,’ she admonished.
‘For today.’
They joined the exodus of traffic battling to exit choked city streets, and made it to Vaucluse at five-thirty, leaving very little time to shower, change and be ready to leave the house at six thirty.
‘You go on ahead,’ Teresa suggested. ‘I’ll put these in the room next to yours. We can sort through them tomorrow.’
Aysha raced upstairs to her bedroom, then discarded her clothes and made for the shower. Minutes later she wound a towel round her slim curves, removed the excess moisture from her hair and wielded the hairdrier to good effect.
Basic make-up followed, then she crossed to the walk-in robe, cast a quick discerning eye over the carefully co-ordinated contents, and extracted a figure-hugging gown in black.
The hemline rested at mid-thigh, the overall length extended slightly by a wide border of scalloped lace. The design was sleeveless, backless, and cunningly styled to show a modest amount of cleavage. Thin shoulder straps ensured the gown stayed in place.
Sheer black pantyhose? Or should she settle for bare legs and almost non-existent thong bikini briefs? And very high stiletto-heeled pumps?
Minimum jewellery, she decided, and she’d sweep her hair into a casual knot atop her head.
Half an hour later she descended the stairs to the lower floor and entered the lounge. Teresa and Giuseppe were grouped together sharing a light aperitif.
Her father turned towards her, his expression a comedic mix of parental pride and male appreciation. Any hint of paternal remonstrance was absent, doubtless on the grounds that his beloved daughter was safely spoken for, on the verge of marriage, and therefore he had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Teresa, however, was something else. One glance was all it took for those dark eyes to narrow fractionally and the lips to thin. Appearance was everything, and tonight Aysha did not fit her mother’s required image.
‘Don’t you think that’s a little …?’ Teresa paused delicately. ‘Bold, darling?’
‘Perhaps,’ Aysha conceded, and directed her father a teasing glance. ‘Papà?’
Giuseppe was well versed in the ways of mother and daughter, and sought a diplomatic response. ‘I’m sure Carlo will be most appreciative.’ He gestured towards a crystal decanter. ‘Can I fix you a spritzer?’
She hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, just nibbled on fresh fruit, sipped several glasses of water, and taken three cups of long black coffee. Alcohol would go straight to her head. ‘I stopped by the kitchen when I arrived home and fixed some juice,’ she declined gently. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Carlo now.’
The light crunch of car tires, the faint clunk of a door closing, followed by the distant sound of melodic door chimes heralded his arrival, and within seconds their live-in housekeeper ushered him into the lounge.
Aysha crossed the room and caught hold of his hand, then offered her cheek for his kiss. It was a natural gesture, one that was expected, and only she heard the light teasing murmur close to her ear. ‘Stunning.’
His arm curved round the back of her waist and he drew her with him as he moved to accept Teresa’s greeting.
‘A drink, Carlo?’
‘I’ll wait until dinner.’
It would be easy to lean in against him, and for a moment she almost did. Except there was no one to impress, and the evening lay ahead.
Giuseppe swallowed the remainder of his wine, and placed his glass down onto the tray. ‘In that case, perhaps we should be on our way. Teresa?’
At that moment the phone rang, and Teresa frowned in disapproval. ‘I hope that’s not going to make us late.’
Not unless the call heralded something of dire consequence; there wasn’t a chance. Aysha bit back on the mockery, and sensed her mother’s words even before they were uttered.
‘You and Carlo go on ahead. We won’t be far behind you.’
Sliding into the passenger seat of the car was achieved with greater decorum than she expected, and she was in the process of fastening her seatbelt when Carlo moved behind the wheel.
A deft flick of his wrist and the engine purred to life. Almost a minute later they had traversed the curved driveway and were heading towards the city.
‘Am I correct in assuming the dress is a desire to shock?’
Aysha heard the drawling voice, sensed the underlying cynicism tinged with humour, and turned to look at him. ‘Does it succeed?’
She was supremely conscious of the amount of bare thigh showing, and she fought against the temptation to take hold of the hemline and attempt to tug it down.
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HELEN BIANCHIN
With just two weeks until the wedding, it was too late for Aysha to back out of marrying Carlo Santangelo.Everyone expected her to be a radiant bride, blissfully entering a marriage of convenience that would unite two powerful families…Aysha would gain wealth, status - and a fabulously good-looking husband! Only, she couldn't ignore two painful facts:1) She desperately loved Carlo.2) He clearly had no intention of giving up his glamorous mistress.Could she convince Carlo to be more than a convenient bridegroom?
About the Author
HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and travelled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons and then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco share-farmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as as much theirs as hers.
Recent titles by the same author:
ALESSANDRO’S PRIZE
PUBLIC MARRIAGE, PRIVATE SECRETS
THE ANDREOU MARRIAGE ARRANGEMENT
BRIDE, BOUGHT AND PAID FOR
Did you know these are also available as eBooks?Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
A Convenient
Bridegroom
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘NIGHT, cara. You will be staying over, won’t you?’
Subtle, very subtle, Aysha conceded. It never ceased to amaze that her mother could state a command in the form of a suggestion, and phrase it as a question. As if Aysha had a choice.
For as long as she could remember, her life had been stage-managed. The most exclusive of private schools, extra-curricular private tuition. Holidays abroad, winter resorts. Ballet, riding school, languages … she spoke fluent Italian and French.
Aysha Benini was a product of her parents’ upbringing. Fashioned, styled and presented as a visual attestation to family wealth and status.
Something which must be upheld at any cost.
Even her chosen career as an interior decorator added to the overall image.
‘Darling?’
Aysha crossed the room and brushed her lips to her mother’s cheek. ‘Probably.’
Teresa Benini allowed one eyebrow to form an elegant arch. ‘Your father and I won’t expect you home.’
Case closed. Aysha checked her evening purse, selected her car key, and turned towards the door. ‘See you later.’
‘Have a good time.’
What did Teresa Benini consider a good time? An exquisitely served meal eaten in a trendy restaurant with Carlo Santangelo, followed by a long night of loving in Carlo’s bed?
Aysha slid in behind the wheel of her black Porsche Carrera, fired the engine, then eased the car down the driveway, cleared the electronic gates, and traversed the quiet tree-lined street towards the main arterial road leading from suburban Vaucluse into the city.
A shaft of sunlight caught the diamond-studded gold band with its magnificent solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. Brilliantly designed, horrendously expensive, it was a befitting symbol representing the intended union of Giuseppe Benini’s daughter to Luigi Santangelo’s son.
Benini-Santangelo, Aysha mused as she joined the flow of city-bound traffic.
Two immigrants from two neighbouring properties in a northern Italian town had travelled in their late teens to Sydney, where they’d worked two jobs every day of the week, saved every cent, and set up a cement business in their mid-twenties.
Forty years on, Benini-Santangelo was a major name in Sydney’s building industry, with a huge plant and a fleet of concrete tankers.
Each man had married a suitable wife, sadly produced only one child apiece; they lived in fine homes, drove expensive cars, and had given their children the best education that money could buy.
Both families had interacted closely on a social and personal level for as long as Aysha could remember. The bond between them was strong, more than friends. Almost family.
The New South Head Road wound down towards Rose Bay, and Aysha took a moment to admire the view.
At six-thirty on a fine late summer’s evening the ocean resembled a sapphire jewel, merging with a sky clear of cloud or pollution. Prime real estate overlooked numerous coves and bays where various sailing craft lay anchored. Tall city buildings rose in differing architectural design, structured towers of glass and steel, providing a splendid backdrop to the Opera House and the wide span of the Harbour Bridge.
Traffic became more dense as she drew close to the city, and there were the inevitable delays at computer-controlled intersections.
Consequently it was almost seven when she drew into the curved entrance of the hotel and consigned her car to valet parking.
She could, should have allowed Carlo to collect her, or at least driven to his apartment. It would have been more practical, sensible.
Except tonight she didn’t feel sensible.
Aysha nodded to the concierge as she entered the lobby, and she hadn’t taken more than three steps towards the bank of sofas and single chairs when a familiar male frame rose to full height and moved forward to greet her.
Carlo Santangelo.
Just the sight of him was enough to send her heart racing to a quickened beat. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to monitor the rise and fall of her chest.
In his late thirties, he stood three inches over six feet and possessed the broad shoulders and hard-muscled body of a man who coveted physical fitness. Sculpted raw-boned facial features highlighted planes and angles, accenting a powerful jaw, strong chin, and a sensuously moulded mouth. Well-cut thick dark brown hair was stylishly groomed, and his eyes were incredibly dark, almost black.
Aysha had no recollection of witnessing his temper. Yet there could be no doubt he possessed one, for his eyes could darken to obsidian, the mouth thin, and his voice assume the chill of an ice floe.
‘Aysha.’ He leant down and brushed his mouth against her own, lingered, then he lifted his head and caught both of her hands in his.
Dear God, he was something. The clean male smell of him teased her nostrils, combining with his subtle aftershave.
Her stomach executed a series of somersaults, and her pulse hammered heavily enough to be almost audible. Did she affect him the way he affected her?
Doubtful, she conceded, aware of precisely where she fitted in the scheme of things. Bianca had been his first love, the beautiful young girl he’d married ten years ago, only to lose her in a fatal car accident mere weeks after the honeymoon. Aysha had cried silent tears at the wedding, and wept openly at Bianca’s funeral.
Afterwards he’d flung himself into work, earning a reputation in the business arena as a superb strategist, able to negotiate with enviable skill.
He had dated many women, and selectively taken what they offered without thought of replacing the beautiful young girl who had all too briefly shared his name.
Until last year, when he’d focused his attention on Aysha, strengthening the affectionate bond between them into something much more personal, more intimate.
His proposal of marriage had overwhelmed her, for Carlo had been the object of her affection for as long as she could remember, and she could pinpoint the moment when teenage hero-worship had changed and deepened into love.
A one-sided love, for she was under no illusion. The marriage would strengthen the Benini-Santangelo conglomerate and forge it into another generation.
‘Hungry?’
At the sound of Carlo’s drawled query Aysha offered a winsome smile, and her eyes assumed a teasing sparkle. ‘Starving.’
‘Then let’s go eat, shall we?’ Carlo placed an arm round her waist and led her towards a bank of elevators.
The top of her head came level with his shoulder, and her slender frame held a fragility that was in direct contrast to strength of mind and body.
She could, he reflected musingly as he depressed the call button, have turned into a terrible brat. Yet for all the pampering, by an indulgent but fiercely protective mother, Aysha was without guile. Nor did she have an inflated sense of her own importance. Instead, she was a warm, intelligent, witty and very attractive young woman whose smile transformed her features into something quite beautiful.
The restaurant was situated on a high floor offering magnificent views of the city and harbour. Expensive, exclusive, and a personal favourite, for the chef was a true artiste with an expertise and flair that had earned him fame and fortune in several European countries.
The lift doors slid open, and she preceded Carlo into the cubicle, then stood in silence as they were transported with electronic speed.
‘That bad, hmm?’
Aysha cast him a quick glance, saw the musing cynicism apparent, and didn’t know whether to be amused or resigned that he’d divined her silence and successfully attributed it to a ghastly day.
Was she that transparent? Somehow she didn’t think so. At least not with most people. However, Carlo was an entity all on his own, and she’d accepted a long time ago that there was very little she could manage to keep hidden from him.
‘Where would you like me to begin?’ She wrinkled her nose at him, then she lifted a hand and proceeded to tick off each finger in turn. ‘An irate client, an even more irate floor manager, imported fabric caught up in a wharf strike, or the dress fitting from hell?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Choose.’
The elevator slid to a halt, and she walked at his side to the restaurant foyer.
‘Signor Santangelo, Signorina Benini. Welcome.’ The maître d’ greeted them with a fulsome smile, and accorded them the deference of valued patrons. He didn’t even suggest a table, merely led them to the one they preferred, adjacent the floor-to-ceiling window.
There was, Aysha conceded, a certain advantage in being socially well placed. It afforded impeccable service.
The wine steward appeared the instant they were seated, and Aysha deferred to Carlo’s choice of white wine.
‘Iced water, please,’ she added, then watched as Carlo leaned back in his chair to regard her with interest.
‘How is Teresa?’
‘Now there’s a leading question, if ever there was one,’ Aysha declared lightly. ‘Perhaps you could be more specific?’
‘She’s driving you insane.’ His faint drawling tones caused the edges of her mouth to tilt upwards in a semblance of wry humour.
‘You’re good. Very good,’ she acknowledged with cynical approval.
One eyebrow rose, and there was gleaming amusement evident. ‘Shall I try for excellent and guess the current crisis?’ he ventured. ‘Or are you going to tell me?’
‘The wedding dress.’ Visualising the scene earlier in the day brought a return of tension as she vividly recalled Teresa’s calculated insistence and the seamstress’s restrained politeness. Dammit, it should be so easy. They’d agreed on the style, the material. The fit was perfect. Yet Teresa hadn’t been able to leave it alone.
‘Problems?’ He had no doubt there would be many, most of which would be of Teresa’s making.
‘The dressmaker is not appreciative of Mother’s interference with the design.’ Aysha experienced momentary remorse, for the gown was truly beautiful, a vision of silk, satin and lace.
‘I see.’
‘No,’ she corrected. ‘You don’t.’ She paused as the wine steward delivered the wine, and went through the tasting ritual with Carlo, before retreating.
‘What don’t I see, cara?’ Carlo queried lightly. ‘That Teresa, like most Italian mammas, wants the perfect wedding for her daughter. The perfect venue, caterers, food, wine, bomboniera, the cake, limousines. And the dress must be outstanding.’
‘You’ve forgotten the flowers,’ Aysha reminded him mildly. ‘The florist is at the end of his tether. The caterer is ready to quit because he says his tiramisu is an art form and he will not, not, you understand, use my grandmother’s recipe from the Old Country.’
Carlo’s mouth formed a humorous twist. ‘Teresa is a superb cook,’ he complimented blandly.
Teresa was superb at everything; that was the trouble. Consequently, she expected others to be equally superb. The trouble as such, was that while Teresa Benini enjoyed the prestige of employing the best money could buy, she felt bound to check every little detail to ensure it came up to her impossibly high standard.
Retaining household staff had always been a problem for as long as Aysha could remember. They came and left with disturbing rapidity due to her mother’s refusal to delegate even the most minor of chores.
The waiter arrived with the menu, and because he was new, and very young, they listened in silence as he explained the intricacies of each dish, gave his considered recommendations, then very solicitously noted their order before retreating with due deference to relay it to the kitchen.
Aysha lifted her glass and took a sip of chilled water, then regarded the man seated opposite over the rim of the stemmed goblet.
‘How seriously would you consider an elopement?’
Carlo swirled the wine in his goblet, then lifted it to his lips and savoured the delicate full-bodied flavour.
‘Is there any particular reason why you’d want to incur Teresa’s wrath by wrecking the social event of the year?’
‘It would never do,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘Although I’m almost inclined to plug for sanity and suffer the wrath.’
One eyebrow slanted, and his dark eyes assumed a quizzical gleam.
The waiter delivered their starters; minestrone and a superb linguini with seafood sauce.
‘Two weeks, cara,’ Carlo reminded her.
It was a lifetime. One she wasn’t sure she’d survive intact.
She should have moved out of home into an apartment of her own. Would have, if Teresa hadn’t dismissed the idea as ridiculous when she had a wing in the house all to herself, complete with gym, sauna and entertainment lounge. She had her own car, her own garage, and technically she could come and go as she pleased.
Aysha picked up her fork, deftly wound on a portion of pasta and savoured it. Ambrosia. The sauce was perfecto.
‘Good?’
She wound on another portion and held it to his lips. ‘Try some.’ She hadn’t intended it to be an intimate gesture, and her eyes flared slightly as he placed his fingers over hers, guided the fork, and then held her gaze as he slid the pasta into his mouth.
Her stomach jolted, then settled, and she was willing to swear she could hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
He didn’t even have to try, and she became caught up with the alchemy that was his alone.
A warm smile curved his lips as he dipped a spoon into his minestrone and lifted it invitingly towards her own. ‘Want to try mine?’
She took a small mouthful, then shook her head when he offered her another. Did he realise just how difficult it was for her to retain a measure of sangfroid at moments like these?
‘We have a rehearsal at the church tomorrow evening,’ Carlo reminded her, and saw her eyes darken.
Aysha replaced her fork, her appetite temporarily diminished. ‘Six-thirty,’ she concurred evenly. ‘After which the wedding party dine together.’
Both sets of parents, the bride and groom to-be, the bridesmaids and their attendants, the flower girls and page boys and their parents.
Followed the next day by a bridal shower. Hardly a casual affair, with just very close friends, a few nibblies and champagne. The guest list numbered fifty, it was being catered, and Teresa had arranged entertainment.
To add to her stress levels, she’d stubbornly refused to begin six weeks’ leave of absence from work until a fortnight before the wedding.
On the positive side, it kept her busy, her mind occupied, and minimised the growing tension with her mother. The negative was hours early morning and evening spent at the breathtaking harbourside mansion Carlo had built, overseeing installation of carpets, drapes, selecting furniture, co-ordinating colours. And doing battle with Teresa when their tastes didn’t match and Teresa overstretched her advisory capacity. Something which happened fairly frequently.
‘Penny for them.’
Aysha glanced across the table and caught Carlo’s teasing smile.
‘I was thinking about the house.’ That much was true. ‘It’s all coming together very well.’
‘You’re happy with it?’
‘How could I not be?’ she countered simply, visualising the modern architectural design with its five sound-proofed self-contained wings converging onto a central courtyard. The interior was designed for light and space, with a suspended art gallery, a small theatre and games room. A sunken area featured spa and sauna, and a jet pool.
It was a showcase, a place to entertain guests and business associates. Aysha planned to make it a home.
The wine waiter appeared and refilled each goblet, followed closely by the young waiter, who removed their plates prior to serving the main course.
Carlo ate with the enjoyment of a man who consumed nourishment wisely but well, his use of cutlery decisive.
He was the consummate male, sophisticated, dynamic, and possessed of a primitive sensuality that drew women to him like a magnet. Men envied his ruthlessness and charm, and knew the combination to be lethal.
Aysha recognised each and every one of his qualities, and wondered if she was woman enough to hold him.
‘Would you care to order dessert, Miss Benini?’
The young waiter’s desire to please was almost embarrassing, and she offered him a gentle smile. ‘No, thanks, I’ll settle for coffee.’
‘You’ve made a conquest,’ Carlo drawled as the waiter retreated from their table.
Her eyes danced with latent mischief. ‘Ah, you say the nicest things.’
‘Should I appear jealous, do you think?’
She wanted to say, only if you are. And since that was unlikely, it became easy to play the game.
‘Well, he is young, and good-looking.’ She pretended to consider. ‘Probably a university student working nights to pay for his education. Which would indicate he has potential.’ She held Carlo’s dark gleaming gaze and offered him a brilliant smile. ‘Do you think he’d give up the room he probably rents, sell his wheels … a Vespa scooter at a guess … and be a kept toy-boy?’
His soft laughter sent shivers over the surface of her skin, raising fine body hairs as all her nerve-endings went haywire.
‘I think I should take you home.’
‘I came in my own car, remember?’ she reminded him, and saw his eyes darken, the gleam intensify.
‘A bid for independence, or an indication you’re not going to share my bed tonight?’
She summoned a winsome smile, and her eyes shone with wicked humour. ‘Teresa is of the opinion catering to your physical needs should definitely be my priority.’
‘And Teresa knows best?’ His voice was silky-smooth, and she wasn’t deceived for a second.
‘My mother believes in covering all the bases,’ Aysha relayed lightly.
His gaze didn’t shift, and she was almost willing to swear he could read her mind. ‘As you do?’
Her expression sobered. ‘I don’t have a hidden agenda.’ Did he know she was in love with him? Had loved him for as long as she could remember? She hoped not, for it would afford him an unfair advantage.
‘Finish your coffee,’ Carlo bade gently. ‘Then we’ll leave.’ He lifted a hand in silent summons, and the waiter appeared with the bill.
Aysha watched as Carlo signed the slip and added a generous tip, then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed her thoughtfully.
She was tense, but covered it well. His eyes narrowed faintly. ‘Do we have anything planned next weekend?’
‘Mother has something scheduled for every day until the wedding,’ she declared with unaccustomed cynicism.
‘Have Teresa reorganise her diary.’
Aysha looked at him with interest. ‘And if she won’t?’
‘Tell her I’ve surprised you with airline tickets and accommodation for a weekend on the Gold Coast.’
‘Have you?’
His smile held humour. ‘I’ll make the call the minute we reach my apartment.’
Her eyes shone, and she broke into light laughter. ‘My knight in shining armour.’
Carlo’s voice was low, husky, and held amusement. ‘Escape,’ he accorded. ‘Albeit brief.’ He stood to his feet and reached out a hand to take hold of hers. His gleaming gaze seared right through to her heart. ‘You can thank me later.’
Together they made their way through the room to the front desk.
The maître d’ was courteously solicitous. ‘I’ll arrange with the concierge to have your cars brought to the front entrance.’
Both vehicles were waiting when they reached the lobby. Carlo saw her seated behind the wheel of her Porsche, then he crossed to his Mercedes to fire the engine within seconds and ease into the line of traffic.
Aysha followed, sticking close behind him as he traversed the inner city streets heading east towards Rose Bay and his penthouse apartment.
When they reached it she drove down into the underground car park, took the space adjoining his private bay, then walked at his side towards the bank of lifts in companionable silence.
They didn’t need a house, she determined minutes later as she stepped into the plush apartment lobby.
The drapes weren’t drawn, and the view out over the harbour was magnificent. Fairy lights, she mused as she crossed the lounge to the floor-to-ceiling glass stretching across one entire wall.
City buildings, street lights, brightly coloured neon vying with tall concrete spires and an indigo sky.
Aysha heard him pick up the phone, followed by the sound of his voice as he arranged flights and accommodation for the following weekend.
‘We could have easily lived here,’ she murmured as he came to stand behind her.
‘So we could.’ He put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.
She felt his chin rest on the top of her head, sensed the warmth of his breath as it teased her hair, and was unable to prevent the slight shiver as his lips sought the vulnerable hollow beneath the lobe of one ear.
She almost closed her eyes and pretended it was real. That love not lust, and need not want, was Carlo’s motivation.
A silent groan rose and died in her throat as his mouth travelled to the edge of her neck and nuzzled, his tongue, his lips erotic instruments as he tantalised the rapidly beating pulse.
His hands moved, one to her breast as he sought a sensitive peak, while the other splayed low over her stomach.
She wanted to urge him to quicken the pace, to dispense with her clothes while she feverishly tore every barrier from his body until there was nothing between them.
She wanted to be lifted high in his arms and sink down onto him, then clutch hold of him as he took her for the ride of her life.
Everything about him was too controlled. Even in bed he never lost that control completely, as she did.
There were times when she wanted to cry out that while she could accept Bianca as an important part of his past, she was his future. Except she never said the words. Perhaps because she was afraid of his response.
Now she turned in his arms and reached for him, her mouth seeking his as she gave herself up completely to the heat of passion.
He caught her urgency and effortlessly swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
Aysha’s fingers worked on his shirt buttons, unfastened the buckle on his belt, then pulled his shirt free.
His nipples were hard, and she savoured each one in turn, then used her teeth to tease, aware that Carlo had deftly removed most of her clothes.
She heard his intake of breath seconds ahead of the soft thud as he discarded one shoe and the other, then dispensed with his trousers.
‘Wait.’ His voice was low and slightly husky, and she ran her hands over his ribcage, searched the hard plane of his stomach and reached for him.
‘So you want to play, hmm?’
CHAPTER TWO
CARLO caught hold of her arms and let his hands slide up to cup her shoulders as he buried his mouth in the vulnerable hollow at the edge of her neck.
Her subtle perfume teased his senses, and he nuzzled the sensitive skin, tasted it, nipped ever so gently with his teeth, and felt the slight spasm of her body’s reaction to his touch.
She was a generous lover. Passionate, with a sense of adventure and fun he found endearing.
He trailed his lips down the slope of her breast and suckled one tender peak, savoured, then moved to render a similar supplication to its twin.
Did he know what he did to her? Aysha felt a stab of pain at the thought that his lovemaking might be contrived. A practised set of moves that pushed all the right buttons.
Once, just once she wanted to feel the tremors of need shake his body … for her, only her. To know that she could make him so crazy with desire that he had no restraint.
Was it asking too much to want love? She wore his ring. Soon she would bear his name. It should be enough.
She wanted to mean so much more to him than just a satisfactory bed partner, a charming hostess.
Take what he’s prepared to give, and be grateful, a tiny voice prompted. A cup half-full is better than one that is empty.
Her hands linked at his nape and she drew his head down to hers, exulting in the feel of his mouth as he shaped her own.
She let her tongue slide against his, then conducted a slow, sweeping circle before initiating a probing dance that was almost as evocative as the sexual act itself.
His hand shaped her nape and held fast her head, while the other slipped low over one hip, cupped her bottom and drew her close in against him.
She wanted him now, hard and fast, without any preliminaries. To be able to feel the power, the strength, without caution or care. As if he couldn’t bear to wait a second longer to effect possession.
The familiar slide of his fingers, the gentle probing exploration as he sought the warm moistness of her feminine core brought a gasping sigh from her lips.
Followed by a despairing groan as he began an evocative stimulation. It wasn’t fair that he should have such intimate knowledge and be aware precisely how to wield it to drive a woman wild.
His mouth hardened, and his jaw took control of hers, moving it in rhythm with his own.
She clutched hold of his shoulders and held on as his fingers probed deeper, and just as she thought she could bear it no longer he shifted position.
A cry rose and died in her throat as he slid into her in one long, thrusting movement.
Dear God, that felt good. So good. She murmured her pleasure, then gave a startled gasp as he tumbled her down onto the bed and withdrew.
His mouth left hers, and began a seeking trail down her throat, tasting the vulnerable hollows at the base of her neck, the soft, quivering flesh of each breast, the indentation of her navel.
She knew his intention, and felt the flame lick along every nerve-end, consuming every sensitised nerve-cell until she was close to conflagration.
Her head tossed from one side to the other as sensation took hold of her whole body. Part of her wanted to tell him to stop before it became unbearable, but the husky admonition sounded so low in her throat as to be indistinguishable.
He was skilled, so very highly skilled in giving a woman pleasure. The slight graze of his teeth, the erotic laving of his tongue. He knew just where to touch to urge her towards the edge. And how to hold her there, until she begged for release.
Aysha thought she cried out, and she bit down hard as Carlo feathered light kisses over her quivering stomach, then paused to suckle at her breast,
His mouth closed on hers, and she arched up against him as he entered her in one surging movement, stretching delicate tissues to their utmost capacity.
He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing depth and strength as she became consumed with the feel of him.
His skin, her own, was warm and slick with sweat, and the blood ran through her veins like quicksilver.
It was more than a physical joining, for she gifted him her heart, her soul, everything. She was his. Only his. At that moment she would have died for him, so complete was her involvement.
Frightening, shattering, she reflected a long time later as she lay curled into the warmth of his body. For it almost destroyed her concept of who and what she had become beneath his tutelage.
The steady rise and fall of his chest was reassuring, the beat of his heart strong. The lazy stroke of his fingers along her spine indicated he wasn’t asleep yet, and the slight pressure against the indentations of each vertebrae was soothing. She could feel his lips brush lightly over her hair as she drifted into a peaceful sleep.
It was the soft, hazy aftermath of great lovemaking. A time for whispered avowals of love, Aysha thought as she woke, the affirmation of commitment.
Aysha wanted to utter the words, and hear them in return. Yet she knew she would die a silent death if he didn’t respond in kind. She pressed a light butterfly kiss to the muscled ridge of his chest and traced a gentle circle with the tip of her tongue.
He tasted of musk, edged with a faint tang that was wholly male. She nipped the hard flesh with her teeth and bestowed a love-bite, then she soothed it gently before moving close to a sensitive male nipple.
She trailed her fingers over one hip, lingered near his groin, and felt his stomach muscles tense.
‘That could prove dangerous,’ Carlo warned as she began to caress him with gentle intimacy.
The soft slide of one finger, as fleeting as the tip of a butterfly’s wing, in a careful tactile exploration. Incredible how the male organ could engorge and enlarge in size. Almost frightening, its degree of power as instrument to a woman’s pleasure.
Aysha had the desire to tantalise him to the brink of madness, and unleash everything that was wild and untamed, until there were no boundaries. Just two people as one, attuned and in perfect accord on every level. Spiritual, mental and physical.
A gasp escaped her throat as he clasped both hands on her waist and swept her to sit astride him.
Excitement spiralled through her body as he arched his hips and sent her tumbling down against his chest.
One hand slid to her nape as he angled her head to his, then his mouth was on hers, all heat and passion as he took possession.
The kiss seared her heart, branding her in a way that made her his … totally. Mind, body, and soul. She had no thought for anything but the man and the storm raging within.
It made anything she’d shared before seem less. Dear Lord, she’d ached for his passion. But this … this was raw, primitive. Mesmeric. Ravaging.
She met and matched his movements, driven by a hunger so intense she had no recollection of time or place.
Aysha wasn’t even aware when he reversed positions, and it was the gentling of his touch, the gradual loss of intensity that intruded on her conscious mind and brought with it a slow return to sanity.
There was a sense of exquisite wonderment, a sensation of wanting desperately to hold onto the moment in case it might fracture and fragment.
She didn’t feel the soft warmth of tears as they slid slowly down her cheeks. Nor was she aware of the sexual heat emanating from her skin, or the slight trembling of her body as Carlo used his hands, his lips to bring her down.
He absorbed the dampness on one cheek, then pressed his lips against one closed eyelid, before moving to effect a similar supplication on the other. His hands shifted as he gently rolled onto his back, carrying her with him so she lay cradled against the length of his body.
Slight tremors shook her slim form, and he brought her mouth to his in a soft, evocative joining. His fingers trailed the shape of her, gently exploring the slim supple curves, the slender waist, the soft curve of her buttocks.
It was Carlo who broke contact long minutes later, and she trailed a hand down the edge of his cheek.
‘I get first take on the shower. You make the coffee,’ she whispered.
His slow smile caused havoc with her pulse-rate. ‘We share the shower, then I’ll organise coffee while you cook breakfast.’
‘Chauvinist,’ Aysha commented with musing tolerance.
His lips caressed her breast, and desire arrowed through her body, hot, needy, and wildly wanton. ‘We can always miss breakfast and focus on the shower.’
His arousal was a potent force, and her eyes danced with mischief as she contemplated the option. ‘As much as the offer attracts me, I need food to charge my energy levels.’ She placed the tip of a finger over his lips, then gave a mild yelp as he nipped it with his teeth. ‘That calls for revenge.’
Carlo’s hands spanned her waist and he shifted her to one side, then he leaned over her. ‘Try it.’
She rose to the challenge at once, although the balance of power soon became uneven, and then it hardly seemed to matter any more who won or lost.
Afterwards she had the quickest shower on record, then she dressed, swept her hair into a twist at her nape, added blusher, eye colour and mascara.
She looked, Carlo noted with respect, as if she’d spent thirty minutes on her grooming instead of the five it had taken her.
‘Sit down and eat,’ he commanded as he slid an omelette onto a plate. ‘Coffee’s ready.’
‘You’re a gem among men,’ Aysha complimented as she sipped the coffee. Pure nectar on the palate, and the omelette was perfection.
‘From chauvinist to gem in the passage of twenty minutes,’ he drawled with unruffled ease, and she spared him a wicked grin in between mouthfuls.
‘Don’t get a swelled head.’
She watched as he poured himself some coffee then joined her at the table. The dark navy towelling robe accented his breadth of shoulder, and dark curling hair showed at the vee of the lapels. Her eyes slid down to the belt tied at his waist, and lingered.
‘You don’t have time to find out,’ he mocked lazily, and she offered a stunning smile.
‘It’s my last day at work.’ She rose to her feet and gulped the last mouthful of coffee. ‘But as of tomorrow …’
‘Promises,’ Carlo taunted, and she reached up to brush her lips to his cheek, except he moved his head and they touched his mouth instead.
‘Got to rush,’ she said with genuine regret. ‘See you tonight.’
Her job was important to her, and she loved the concept of using colour and design to make a house a home. The right furnishings, furniture, fittings, so that it all added up to a beautiful whole that was both eye-catching and comfortable. She’d earned a reputation for going that extra mile for a client, exploring every avenue in the search to get it right.
However, there were days when phone calls didn’t produce the results she wanted, and today was one of them. Added to which she had to run a final check over all the orders that were due to come in while she was away. An awesome task, just on its own.
Then there was lunch with some of her fellow staff, and the presentation of a wedding gift … an exquisite crystal platter. The afternoon seemed to fly on wings, and it was after six when she rode the lift to Carlo’s penthouse.
‘Ten minutes,’ she promised him as she entered the lounge, and she stepped out of heeled pumps en route to the shower.
Aysha was ready in nine, and he snagged her arm as she raced towards the door.
‘Slow down,’ he directed, and she threw him an urgent glance.
‘We’re late. We should have left already.’ She tugged her hand and made no impression. ‘They’ll be waiting for us.’
He pulled her close, and lowered his head down to hers. ‘So they’ll wait a little longer.’
His mouth touched hers with such incredible gentleness her insides began to melt, and she gave a faint despairing groan as her lips parted beneath the pressure of his.
Minutes later he lifted his head and surveyed the languid expression softening those beautiful smoky grey eyes. Better, he noted silently. Some of the tension had ebbed away, and she looked slightly more relaxed.
‘OK, let’s go.’
‘That was deliberate,’ Aysha said a trifle ruefully as they rode the lift down to the underground car park, and caught his musing smile.
‘Guilty.’
He’d slowed her galloping pace down to a relaxed trot, and she offered a smile in silent thanks as they left the lift and crossed to the Mercedes.
‘How was your day?’ she queried as she slid into the passenger seat and fastened her belt.
‘Assembling quotes, checking computer print-outs, checking a building site. Numerous phone calls.’
‘All hands-on stuff, huh?’
The large car sprang into instant life the moment he turned the key, and he spared her a wry smile as they gained street level.
‘That about encapsulates it.’
The church was a beautiful old stone building set back from the road among well-tended lawns and gardens. Symmetrically planted trees and their spreading branches added to the portrayed seclusion.
There was an air of peace and grace apparent, meshing with the mystique of blessed holy ground.
Aysha drew a deep breath as she saw the several cars lining the curved driveway. Everyone was here.
Attending someone else’s wedding, watching the ceremony on film or television, was a bit different from participating in one’s own, albeit this was merely a rehearsal of the real thing.
‘I want to carry the basket,’ Emily, the youngest flower girl, insisted, and tried to wrest it from Samantha’s grasp.
‘I don’t want to hold a pillow. It looks sissy,’ Jonathon, the eldest page boy declared.
Oh, my. If he thought carrying a small satin lace-edged pillow demeaned his boyhood, then just wait until he had to get dressed in a miniature suit, satin waistcoat, buttoned shirt and bow-tie.
‘Sissy,’ the youngest page boy endorsed.
‘You have to,’ Emily insisted importantly.
‘Don’t.’
‘Do so.’
Aysha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘What if Samantha carries the basket of rose petals, and Emily carries the pillow?’
It was almost possible to see the ensuing mental tussle as each little girl weighed the importance of each task.
‘I want the pillow,’ Samantha decided. Rings held more value than rose-petals to be strewn over the carpeted aisle.
‘You can have the basket.’ Emily, too, had done her own calculations.
Teresa rolled her eyes, the girls’ respective mothers attempted to pacify, and when that failed they tried bribery.
The four bridesmaids looked tense, for they’d each been assigned a child to care for during the formal ceremony.
‘OK.’ Aysha lifted both hands in a gesture of expressive defeat. ‘This is how it’s going to be. Two baskets, so Emily and Samantha get to carry one each.’ She cast both boys a stern look. ‘Two pillows.’
‘Two?’ Teresa queried incredulously, and Aysha inclined her head.
‘Two.’
The little girls beamed, and both boys bent their heads in sulky disagreement.
Maybe it would have been wiser not to give the children a rehearsal at all, and simply tell them what to do on the day and hope they’d concentrate so hard there wouldn’t be the opportunity for error.
Celestial assistance was obviously going to be needed, Aysha mused as she listened to the priest’s instructions.
An hour later they were all seated at a long table in a restaurant nominated as children-friendly. The food was good, the wine did much to relax fraught nerves, and Aysha enjoyed the informality of it all as she leaned back against Carlo’s supporting arm.
‘Tired?’
She lifted her face to his, and her eyes sparkled with latent intimacy. ‘It’s been a long day.’
He leaned in close and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘You can sleep in in the morning.’
‘Generous of you. But I need to be home early to help Teresa with preparations for the bridal shower. Remember?’
It was almost eleven when everyone began to make a move, and a further half-hour before Aysha and Carlo were able to leave, for the bridesmaids lingered and Teresa had last-minute instructions to impart.
The witching hour of midnight struck as she preceded Carlo into the penthouse, and she slipped off her shoes, took the clip from her hair and shook it loose, then she padded through to the kitchen.
‘Coffee?’
Aysha sensed rather than heard him move behind her, and she murmured her approval as his hands kneaded tense shoulder muscles.
‘Good?’
Oh, yes. So good, she was prepared to beg him to continue. ‘Please. Don’t stop.’ It was bliss, almost heaven, and she closed her eyes as his fingers worked a magic all on their own.
‘Any ideas for tomorrow night?’
She heard the lazy quality in his voice and smiled. ‘You mean we have a free evening?’
‘I can book dinner.’
‘Don’t,’ she said at once. ‘I’ll pick up something.’
‘I could do this much better if you lay down on the bed.’
Her senses were heightened, and her pulse began to quicken. ‘That might prove dangerous.’
‘Eventually,’ Carlo agreed lazily. ‘But there are advantages to a full body massage.’
Aysha’s blood pressure moved up a notch. ‘Are you seducing me?’
His soft laughter sounded deep and husky close to her ear. ‘Am I succeeding?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ she promised with wicked intent. ‘In about an hour from now.’
‘An hour?’
‘The quality of the massage will govern your reward,’ Aysha informed him solemnly, and he laughed as he swept her into his arms and carried her through to the bedroom.
To lay prone on towels as Carlo slowly smoothed aromatic oil over every inch of her body was sensual torture of the sweetest kind.
Whatever had made her think she’d last an hour? After thirty minutes the pleasure was so intense, it was all she could do not to roll onto her back and beg him to take her.
‘I think,’ she said between gritted teeth, ‘that’s enough.’
His fingertips smoothed up her thighs and lingered a hair’s breadth away from the apex, then shaped each buttock before settling at her waist.
‘You said an hour,’ Carlo reminded her, and gently rolled her onto her back.
Aysha looked at him from beneath long-fringed lashes. ‘I’ll make you pay,’ she promised as liquid heat spilled through her veins.
He leaned down and took her mouth in a brief hard kiss. ‘I’m counting on it.’
The sweet sorcery of his touch nearly sent her mad, and afterwards it was she who drove him to the brink, aware of those dark eyes watching her with an almost predatory alertness that gradually shifted and changed as she tried to break his control.
Desire, raw and primitive, tore through her body, and she felt bare, exposed, as her own fragile control shredded into a thousand pieces.
Aysha had no recollection of the tears that slowly spilled down each cheek until Carlo cupped her face and erased them with a single movement of his thumb.
His lips brushed hers, gently, back and forth, then angled in sensual possession.
Afterwards he simply held her until her breathing slowed and steadied into a regular beat, then he gently eased her to lie beside him and held her close through the night.
She barely stirred when he rose at eight, and he showered in a spare bathroom, then dressed and made breakfast.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee stirred Aysha’s senses, and she fought through the final mists of sleep into wakefulness.
‘The tousled look suits you,’ Carlo teased as he placed the tray down onto the bedside pedestal. Her cheeks were softly flushed, her eyes slumberous, the dilated pupils making them seem too large for her face.
‘Hi.’ She made an attempt to pull the sheet a little higher, and incurred his husky laughter.
‘Your modesty is adorable, cara.’
‘Breakfast in bed,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘You’ve excelled yourself.’
He lowered his head and bestowed an open-mouthed kiss to the edge of her throat, teased the tender skin with his teeth, then trailed a path to the gentle swell of her breast.
‘I aim to please.’
Oh, yes, he did that. She retained a very vivid memory of just how well he’d managed to please her. Not that it had been entirely one-sided … She’d managed to take him further towards the edge than before. One of these days … nights, she amended, she planned to tip him over and watch him free-fall.
‘Naturally, your mind is more on food than me at this point, hmm?’
Go much lower, and I won’t get to the food. ‘Of course,’ she offered demurely. ‘I’m going to need stamina to make it through the day.’
‘The bridal shower,’ he mused. His eyes met hers, and she regarded him solemnly.
‘Teresa wants the occasion to be memorable.’
Carlo sank down onto the bed. ‘There’s orange juice, and caffeine to kick-start the day.’
Together with toast, croissants, fruit preserve, cheese, wafer-thin slices of salami and prosciutto. A veritable feast.
Aysha slid up in the bed, paying careful attention to keep the sheet tucked beneath her arms, and took the glass of juice from Carlo’s extended hand. Next came the coffee, then a croissant with preserve, followed by a piece of toast folded in half over a layer of cheese and prosciutto.
‘More coffee?’
She hesitated, checked the time, then shook her head. ‘I said I’d be home around nine.’
Carlo stood to his feet and collected the tray. ‘I’ll take this downstairs.’
Ten minutes later she had showered, dressed and was ready to face the day. Light blue jeans sheathed her slim legs, hugged her hips, and she wore a fitted top that accentuated the delicate curve of her breasts.
She skirted the servery, reached up and planted a light kiss against the edge of his jaw. ‘Thanks for breakfast.’
He caught her close and slanted his mouth over hers with a possession that wreaked havoc with her equilibrium. Then he eased the pressure and brushed his lips over the swollen contours of her own, lingered at one corner, then gently released her.
‘I consider myself thanked.’
Her eyes felt too large, and she quickly blinked in an effort to clear her vision. That had been … ‘cataclysmic’ was a word that came immediately to mind. And passionate, definitely passionate.
Maybe she was beginning to scratch the surface of his control after all.
That thought stayed with her as she took the lift down to the underground car park, and during the few kilometres to her parents’ home.
CHAPTER THREE
AYSHA’S four bridesmaids were the first to arrive, followed by Gianna and a few of Teresa’s friends. Two aunts, three cousins, and a number of close friends.
There were beautifully wrapped gifts, much laughter, a little wine, some champagne, and the exchange of numerous anecdotes. Entertainment was provided by a gifted magician whose expertise in pulling at least a hundred scarves from his hat and jacket pockets had to be seen to be believed.
Coffee was served at three-thirty, and at four Teresa was summoned to the front door to accept the arrival of an unexpected guest.
The speed with which Lianna, Aysha’ chief bridesmaid, joined Teresa aroused suspicion, and there was much laughter as a good-looking young man entered the lounge.
‘You didn’t—’ Aysha began, and one look at Lianna, Arianne, Suzanne and Tessa was sufficient to determine that her four bridesmaids were as guilty as sin.
A portable tape-recorder was set on a coffee table, and when the music began he went into a series of choreographed movements as he began to strip.
It was a tastefully orchestrated act, as such acts went. The young man certainly had the frame, the body, the muscles to execute the traditional bump-and-grind routine.
‘You refused to let us give you a ladies’ night out, so we had to do something,’ Lianna confided with an impish grin as everyone began to leave.
‘Fiend,’ Aysha chastised with affectionate remonstrance. ‘Wait until it’s your turn.’
‘What’ll you do to top it, Aysha? Hire a group of male strippers?’
‘Don’t put thoughts into my head,’ she threatened direly.
The caterers tidied and cleaned up, then left fifteen minutes later, and Aysha crossed to the table where a selection of gifts were on display.
From the intensely practical to the highly decorative, they were all beautiful and reflected the giver’s personality. A smile curved her lips. Lianna’s gift of a male stripper had been the wackiest.
‘You had no idea of Lianna’s surprise?’ Teresa queried as she crossed to her side.
‘None,’ Aysha answered truthfully, and curved an arm around her mother’s waist. ‘Thanks, Mamma, for a lovely afternoon.’
‘My pleasure.’
Aysha grinned unashamedly. ‘Even the stripper?’ she teased, and glimpsed the faint pink colour in her mother’s cheeks.
‘No comment.’
She began to laugh. ‘All right, let’s change the subject. What shall we do with these gifts?’
They set them on a table in one of the rooms Teresa had organised for displaying the wedding presents, and when that was done Aysha went upstairs and changed into tailored trousers and matching silk top.
It was after six when she entered Carlo’s penthouse apartment, and she crossed directly into the kitchen to deposit the carry-sack containing a selection of Chinese takeaways she’d collected en route from home.
‘Let me guess. Chinese, Thai, Malaysian?’ Carlo drawled as he entered the kitchen, and she directed him a winsome smile.
‘Chinese. And I picked up some videos.’
‘You have plans to spend a quiet night?’
She opened cupboards and extracted two plates, then collected cutlery. ‘I think I’ve had enough excitement for the day.’ And through last night.
‘Care to elaborate on the afternoon?’
Her eyes sparkled with hidden devilry. ‘Lianna ordered a male stripper.’ She decided to tease him a little. ‘He was young, built, and gorgeous.’ She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Ask Gianna; she was there.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyes speared hers. ‘Perhaps I need to hear more about this gorgeous hunk.’
Carlo had her heart, her soul. It never ceased to hurt that she didn’t have his.
‘Well …’ She deliberated. ‘There was the body to die for.’ She ticked off each attribute with teasing relish. ‘Longish hair, tied in this cute little ponytail, and when he let it free … wow, so sexy. No apparent body hair.’ Her eyes sparkled with devilish humour. ‘Waxing must be a pain … literally. And he had the cutest butt.’
Carlo’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and she gave him an irrepressible grin. ‘He stripped down to a thong bikini brief.’
‘I imagine Teresa and Gianna were relieved.’
She tried hard not to laugh, and failed as a chuckle emerged. ‘They appeared to enjoy the show.’
His lips twitched. ‘An unexpected show, unless I’m mistaken.’
‘Totally,’ she agreed, and viewed the various cartons she’d deposited on the servery. ‘Let’s be really decadent,’ she suggested lightly. ‘And watch a video while we eat.’
The first was a thriller, the acting sufficiently superb to bring an audience to the edge of their seats, and the second was a comedy about a wedding where everything that could go wrong, did. It was funny, slapstick, and over the top, but in amongst the frivolity was a degree of reality Aysha could identify with.
In between videos she’d tidied cartons and rinsed plates, made coffee, and now she carried the cups through to the kitchen.
She felt pleasantly tired as she ascended the stairs to the main bedroom, and after a quick shower she slid between the sheets to curl comfortably in the circle of Carlo’s arms with her head pillowed against his chest.
Within minutes she fell asleep, and she was unaware of the light touch as Carlo’s lips brushed the top of her head, or the feather-light trail of his fingers as they smoothed a path over the surface of her skin.
They woke late, lingered over breakfast, then took Giuseppe’s cabin cruiser for a day trip up the Hawkesbury River. They returned as the sun set in a glorious flare of fading colour and the cityscape sprang to life with a myriad of pin-prick lights.
Magic, Aysha reflected, as the wonder of nature and manmade technology overwhelmed her.
Tomorrow the shopping would begin in earnest as Teresa initiated the first of her many lists of Things to Do.
‘Mamma, is this really necessary?’
As shopping went, it had been a profitable day with regard to acquisitions. Teresa, it appeared, was bent on spending money … Serious money.
‘You’re the only child I have,’ Teresa said simply. ‘Don’t deny me the pleasure of giving my daughter the best wedding I can provide.’
Aysha tucked her hand through her mother’s arm and hugged it close. ‘Don’t rain on my parade, huh?’
‘Exactly.’
‘OK. The dress, if you insist. But …’ She paused, and cast Teresa a stern look. ‘That’s it,’ she admonished.
‘For today.’
They joined the exodus of traffic battling to exit choked city streets, and made it to Vaucluse at five-thirty, leaving very little time to shower, change and be ready to leave the house at six thirty.
‘You go on ahead,’ Teresa suggested. ‘I’ll put these in the room next to yours. We can sort through them tomorrow.’
Aysha raced upstairs to her bedroom, then discarded her clothes and made for the shower. Minutes later she wound a towel round her slim curves, removed the excess moisture from her hair and wielded the hairdrier to good effect.
Basic make-up followed, then she crossed to the walk-in robe, cast a quick discerning eye over the carefully co-ordinated contents, and extracted a figure-hugging gown in black.
The hemline rested at mid-thigh, the overall length extended slightly by a wide border of scalloped lace. The design was sleeveless, backless, and cunningly styled to show a modest amount of cleavage. Thin shoulder straps ensured the gown stayed in place.
Sheer black pantyhose? Or should she settle for bare legs and almost non-existent thong bikini briefs? And very high stiletto-heeled pumps?
Minimum jewellery, she decided, and she’d sweep her hair into a casual knot atop her head.
Half an hour later she descended the stairs to the lower floor and entered the lounge. Teresa and Giuseppe were grouped together sharing a light aperitif.
Her father turned towards her, his expression a comedic mix of parental pride and male appreciation. Any hint of paternal remonstrance was absent, doubtless on the grounds that his beloved daughter was safely spoken for, on the verge of marriage, and therefore he had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Teresa, however, was something else. One glance was all it took for those dark eyes to narrow fractionally and the lips to thin. Appearance was everything, and tonight Aysha did not fit her mother’s required image.
‘Don’t you think that’s a little …?’ Teresa paused delicately. ‘Bold, darling?’
‘Perhaps,’ Aysha conceded, and directed her father a teasing glance. ‘Papà?’
Giuseppe was well versed in the ways of mother and daughter, and sought a diplomatic response. ‘I’m sure Carlo will be most appreciative.’ He gestured towards a crystal decanter. ‘Can I fix you a spritzer?’
She hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, just nibbled on fresh fruit, sipped several glasses of water, and taken three cups of long black coffee. Alcohol would go straight to her head. ‘I stopped by the kitchen when I arrived home and fixed some juice,’ she declined gently. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Carlo now.’
The light crunch of car tires, the faint clunk of a door closing, followed by the distant sound of melodic door chimes heralded his arrival, and within seconds their live-in housekeeper ushered him into the lounge.
Aysha crossed the room and caught hold of his hand, then offered her cheek for his kiss. It was a natural gesture, one that was expected, and only she heard the light teasing murmur close to her ear. ‘Stunning.’
His arm curved round the back of her waist and he drew her with him as he moved to accept Teresa’s greeting.
‘A drink, Carlo?’
‘I’ll wait until dinner.’
It would be easy to lean in against him, and for a moment she almost did. Except there was no one to impress, and the evening lay ahead.
Giuseppe swallowed the remainder of his wine, and placed his glass down onto the tray. ‘In that case, perhaps we should be on our way. Teresa?’
At that moment the phone rang, and Teresa frowned in disapproval. ‘I hope that’s not going to make us late.’
Not unless the call heralded something of dire consequence; there wasn’t a chance. Aysha bit back on the mockery, and sensed her mother’s words even before they were uttered.
‘You and Carlo go on ahead. We won’t be far behind you.’
Sliding into the passenger seat of the car was achieved with greater decorum than she expected, and she was in the process of fastening her seatbelt when Carlo moved behind the wheel.
A deft flick of his wrist and the engine purred to life. Almost a minute later they had traversed the curved driveway and were heading towards the city.
‘Am I correct in assuming the dress is a desire to shock?’
Aysha heard the drawling voice, sensed the underlying cynicism tinged with humour, and turned to look at him. ‘Does it succeed?’
She was supremely conscious of the amount of bare thigh showing, and she fought against the temptation to take hold of the hemline and attempt to tug it down.
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HELEN BIANCHIN
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: With just two weeks until the wedding, it was too late for Aysha to back out of marrying Carlo Santangelo.Everyone expected her to be a radiant bride, blissfully entering a marriage of convenience that would unite two powerful families…Aysha would gain wealth, status – and a fabulously good-looking husband! Only, she couldn′t ignore two painful facts:1) She desperately loved Carlo.2) He clearly had no intention of giving up his glamorous mistress.Could she convince Carlo to be more than a convenient bridegroom?