The Helen Bianchin Collection

With only days until the wedding, the pressure was beginning to build. Teresa seemed to discover a host of last-minute things that needed organising, and by the end of the day she began to feel as if the weekend at the Coast had been a figment of her imagination.

The need to feel supremely confident was essential, and Aysha chose a long, slim-fitting black gown with a sheer lace overlay. The scooped neckline and ribbon shoulder straps displayed her lightly tanned skin to advantage, and she added minimum jewellery: a slender gold chain, a single gold bangle on one wrist, and delicate drop earrings. Stiletto-heeled evening pumps completed the outfit, and she spared her reflection a cursory glance.

Black was a classic colour, the style seasonally fashionable. She looked OK. And if anyone noticed the faint circles beneath her eyes, she had every excuse for their existence. A bride-to-be was expected to look slightly frazzled with the surfeit of social obligations prior to the wedding.

Carlo’s recorded message on the answering machine had specified he’d collect her at seven-thirty. The party they were to attend was at Palm Beach, almost an hour’s drive from Vaucluse, depending on traffic.

She would have given anything not to go. The thought of mixing and mingling with numerous social friends and acquaintances didn’t appeal any more than having to put on an act for their benefit.

Security beeped as Carlo used the remote module to release the gates, and Aysha’s stomach executed a series of somersaults as she collected her evening purse and made her way down to the lower floor.

She opened the front door as he alighted from the car, and she crossed quickly down the few steps and slid into the passenger seat.

His scrutiny was swift as he slid in behind the wheel, encompassing, and she wondered if he was able to define just how much effort it cost her to appear cool and serene.

Inside, her nerves were stretched taut, and she felt like a marionette whose body movements were governed by a disembodied manipulator.

She met his dark gaze with clear distant grey eyes. No small acting feat, when her body warmed of its own accord, heating at the sight of him and his close proximity.

His elusive cologne invaded her senses, stimulating them into active life, and every nerve-end, every fibre seemed to throb with need.

The wanting didn’t get any better. If anything, each passing hour made it worse. Especially the long, empty nights when she hungered for his touch.

‘How are you?’

Three words spoken in a commonplace greeting, yet they had the power to twist Aysha’s stomach into a painful knot.

‘Fine.’ She didn’t aim to tell him anything different.

Carlo eased the car forward, past the gates, then he accelerated along the suburban street with controlled ease.

She directed her attention beyond the windscreen and didn’t see the muscle bunch at the edge of his jaw.

Would Nina be an invited guest? Dear Lord, she hoped not. Yet it was a possibility. A probability, she amended, aware that with each passing day the wedding drew closer. Which meant Nina would become more desperate to seize the slightest opportunity.

Aysha cursed beneath her breath at the thought of playing a part beneath Nina’s watchful gaze. Worse, having to clash polite verbal swords with a woman whose vindictiveness was aimed to maim.

The harbour, with its various coves and inlets provided a scenic beauty unsurpassed anywhere in Australia, and she focused on the numerous small craft anchored at various moorings, cliff-top mansions dotted in between foliage.

Peak hour traffic had subsided, although it took the best part of an hour to reach their destination. A seemingly endless collection of long minutes when polite, meaningless conversation lapsed into silence.

‘I guess our presence tonight is essential?’

Carlo cast her a direct look. ‘If you’re concerned Nina might be there... don’t be. She won’t have the opportunity to misbehave.’

‘Do you really think you’ll be able to stop her?’ Aysha queried cynically.

He met her gaze for one full second, then returned his attention to the road. ‘Watch me.’

‘Oh, I intend to.’ It could prove to be an interesting evening.

They reached the exclusive Palm Beach suburb at the appointed time, and Aysha viewed the number of cars lining the driveway with interest. At a guess there were at least thirty guests.

Fifty, she re-calculated as their host drew them through the house and out onto the covered terrace.

It was strictly smile-time, and she was so well versed in playing the part that it was almost second nature to circulate among the guests and exchange small-talk.

A drink in one hand, she took a sip of excellent champagne and assured the hostess that almost every wedding detail was indeed organised, Claude, the wedding organiser, was indeed a gem, and, yes, she was desperately looking forward to the day.

Details she repeated many times during the next hour. She was still holding on to her first glass of champagne, and she took a hot savoury from a proffered platter, then reached for another.

‘You missed dinner?’

Aysha spared Carlo a slow, sweet smile. ‘How did you guess?’

His mouth curved, and his dark eyes held a musing gleam. ‘You should have told me.’

‘Why?’

The need to touch her was paramount, and he brushed fingertips down her cheek. ‘We could have stopped somewhere for a meal.’

Her eyes flared, then dilated to resemble deep grey pools. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Am I intruding on a little tiff?’

Aysha heard the words, recognised the feminine voice, and summoned a credible smile.

‘Nina.’

Nina avidly examined Aysha’s features, then fastened on the object of her obsession. She pressed exquisitely lacquered nails against the sleeve of Carlo’s jacket. ‘Trouble in paradise, caro?’

‘What makes you think there might be?’ His voice was pleasant, but there was no mistaking the icy hardness in his eyes as he removed Nina’s hand from his arm.

Her pout was contrived to portray a sultry sexiness. ‘Body language, darling.’

‘Really?’ The smile that curved his lips was a mere facsimile. ‘In that case I would suggest your expertise is sadly lacking.’

Oh, my, Aysha applauded silently. If she could detach herself emotionally, the verbal parrying was shaping into an interesting bout.

‘You know that isn’t true.’

‘Only by reputation. Not by personal experience.’

His voice was silk-encased steel, tempered to a dangerous edge. Only a fool would fail to recognise the folly of besting him.

‘Darling, really. Your memory is so short?’

‘We’ve frequented the same functions, sat at the same table. That’s all.’