The Helen Bianchin Collection

Aysha mentally prepared herself as she turned to face Nina. One glance was all it took to determine Nina’s manner was the antithesis of friendly.

‘Is there any reason why he shouldn’t be?’

‘The wedding is a major coup.’ The smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Congratulations, darling. I should have known you’d pull it off.’

Aysha inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Nina. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

There was no one close enough to overhear the quiet exchange. Which was a pity. It merely offered Nina the opportunity to aim another poisoned dart.

‘How does it feel to be second-best? And know your inherited share in the family firm is the sole reason for the marriage?’

‘Considering Carlo is due to inherit his share in the family firm, perhaps you should ask him the same question.’

Successfully fielded. Nina didn’t like it. Her eyes narrowed, and the smile moved up a notch in artificial brilliance.

‘You’re the one who has to compete with Bianca’s ghost,’ Nina offered silkily, and Aysha waited for the punchline. ‘All cats are alike in the dark, darling. Didn’t you know?’

Oh, my. This was getting dirty. ‘Really?’ Her cheeks hurt from keeping a smile pinned in place. ‘Perhaps you should try it with the lights on, some time.’

As scores went, it hardly rated a mention. And the victory was short-lived, for it was doubtful Nina would allow anyone to gain an upper hand for long.

‘Aysha.’ Luisa appeared at her side. ‘Teresa has just been telling me about the flowers for the church. Orchids make a lovely display, and the colour combination will be exquisite.’

She was a guest of honour, the focus her wedding day. It was easy to slip into animated mode and discuss details. Only the wedding dress and the cake were taboo.

Except talking and answering questions merely reinforced how much there still was to do, and how essential the liaison with the wedding organiser Teresa had chosen to co-ordinate everything.

The invitation responses were all in, the seating arrangements were in their final planning stage. According to Teresa, any one of the two little flower girls and two page boys could fall victim to a malicious virus, or contract mumps, measles or chicken pox. Alternately, one or all could become paralysed with fright on the day and freeze half-way down the aisle.

At ages three and four, anything was possible.

‘My flower girl scattered rose petals down the aisle perfectly at rehearsal, only to take three steps forward on the day, tip the entire contents of the basket on the carpet, and run crying to her mother,’ recalled one of the guests.

Aysha remembered the incident, and another wedding where the page boy had carried the satin ring-cushion with such pride and care, then refused to give it up at the appropriate moment. A tussle had ensued, followed by tears and a tantrum.

It had been amusing at the time, and she really didn’t care if one of the children made a mistake, or missed their cue. It was a wedding, not a movie which relied on talented actors to perform a part.

Her mother, she knew, didn’t hold the same view.

Aysha glanced towards Carlo, and felt the familiar pull of her senses. Dark, well-groomed hair, a strong shaped head. Broad shoulders accentuated by perfect tailoring.

A slight inclination of his head brought his profile into focus. The wide, sculpted bone structure, the strong jaw. Well-defined cheekbones, and the glimpse of his mouth.

Fascinated, she watched each movement, her eyes clinging to the shape of him, aware just how he felt without the constriction of clothes. She was familiar with his body’s musculature, the feel and scent of his skin.

At this precise moment she would have given anything to cross to his side and have his arm curve round her waist. She could lean in against him, and savour the anticipation of what would happen when they were alone.

He was fond of her, she knew. There were occasions when he completely disconcerted her by appearing to read her mind. But that special empathy between two lovers wasn’t there. No matter how desperately she wanted it to be.

Did he know she could tell the moment he entered a room? She didn’t have to see him, or hear his voice. A developed sixth sense alerted her of his presence, and her body reacted as if he’d reached out and touched her.

All the fine hairs moved on the surface of her skin, and the back of her neck tingled in recognition.

Damnable, she cursed silently.

It was after eleven when the first of the guests took their leave, and almost midnight when Teresa and Giuseppe indicated an intention to depart.

Aysha thanked their hosts, smiled until her face hurt, and quivered slightly when Carlo caught hold of her hand as they followed her parents down the steps to their respective cars.

‘Goodnight, darling.’ Teresa leaned forward and brushed her daughter’s cheek.

Aysha stood as Carlo unlocked the car, then she slid into the passenger seat, secured her belt, and leaned back against the headrest as Carlo fired the engine.

‘Tired?’

She was conscious of his discerning glance seconds before he set the car in motion.

‘A little.’ She closed her eyes, and let the vehicle’s movement and the quietness of the night seep into her bones.

‘Do you want me to take you home?’

A silent sigh escaped her lips, and she effected a rueful smile. ‘Now there’s a question. Which home are you talking about? Yours, mine or ours?’

‘The choice is yours.’

Was it? The new house was completely furnished, and awaiting only the final finishing touches. Her own bedroom beckoned, but that was fraught with implication Teresa would query in the morning.

Besides, she coveted the touch of his hands, the feel of his body, his mouth devastating her own.

Then she could pretend that good lovemaking was a substitute for love. That no one was meant to have it all, and in Carlo, their future together, she had more than her share.

‘The penthouse.’

Carlo didn’t comment, and she wondered if it would have made any difference if she’d said home.

An ache started up in the pit of her stomach, and intensified until it became a tangible pain as he slowed the car, de-activated the security system guarding entrance to the luxury apartment building, then eased down into the underground car park and brought the vehicle to a halt in his allotted space.

They rode the lift to the top floor in silence, and inside the apartment Aysha went willingly into his arms, his bed, an eager supplicant to anything he chose to bestow.

It was just after nine when Aysha eased the Porsche into an empty space in an inner city car park building, and within minutes she stepped off the escalator and emerged onto the pavement.

It was a beautiful day, the sky a clear azure with hardly a cloud in sight, and the sun’s warmth bathed all beneath it with a balmy summer brilliance. Her needs were few, the purchases confined to four boutiques, three of which were within three blocks of each other.

Two hours, tops, she calculated, then she’d meet her bridesmaids for lunch. At two she had a hair appointment, followed by a manicure, and tonight she was attending an invitation-only preview of the first in a series of foreign films scheduled to appear over the next month.

Each evening there was something filling their social engagement diary. Although last night when Carlo had suggested dining out she’d insisted they eat in... and somehow the decision hadn’t got made one way or the other. She retained a vivid recollection of why, and a secret smile curved her lips as she slid her sunglasses into place.

Selecting clothes was something she enjoyed, and she possessed a natural flair for colour, fashion and design.