The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

      Moments later she felt the mattress depress as Carlo joined her, and she measured her breathing into a slow, steady rise and fall. Grateful, she told herself, that Carlo’s breathing gradually acquired a similar pattern.

      Why was it that when you didn’t want something, you felt cheated when you didn’t receive it? Aysha queried silently. The size of the bed precluded any chance of accidentally touching, and she didn’t feel inclined to instigate the contrived kind...

      ‘Come on, sleepyhead, rise and shine.’

      Aysha heard the voice and opened her eyes to brilliant sunshine and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It was morning already?

      ‘Breakfast,’ Carlo announced. ‘You have three quarters of an hour to eat, shower and dress before we need to take the bus to Movieworld.’

      What had happened to the night? You slept right through it, a tiny voice taunted. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

      They boarded the bus with a few minutes to spare, and there were thrills and spills and fun and laughter as the actors went through their paces. The various stuntmen and women earned Aysha’s respect and admiration as more than once a scene made her catch her breath in awe of the sensitive degree of timing and expertise involved.

      They caught the early evening-flight out of Coolangatta Airport, and arrived in Sydney after nine. Carlo collected the car, then headed towards the city.

      For one brief moment Aysha was tempted to choose the apartment, except Carlo pre-empted any decision by driving to Clontarf.

      She told herself fiercely that she wasn’t disappointed as he checked the house and re-set the alarm.

      His kiss was brief, a soft butterfly caress that left her aching for more. Then he turned and retraced his steps to the car.

      Half an hour later Carlo crossed to the phone and punched in a series of digits, within minutes of entering his apartment.

      Samuel Sloane, a legal eagle of some note, picked up on the seventh ring, and almost winced at the grim tone of the man who’d chosen to call him at such an hour on a Sunday evening at home. He listened, counselled and advised, and wasn’t in the least surprised when he was ignored.

      ‘I don’t give a damn for the what-if’s and maybes protecting my investments, my interests. I’m not consulting you for advice. I’m instructing you what to do. Draw up that document. I’ll be in your office just before five tomorrow. Now, do we understand each other?’

      The impulse to slam the receiver down onto the handset was uppermost, and Carlo barely avoided the temptation to do so.

      Aysha spent the morning organising the final soft furnishing items she’d ordered several weeks previously. A message alerting her of their arrival had been on her answering machine when she’d checked it on her return from the Coast.

      At midday she stood back and surveyed the results, and was well pleased with the effect. It was perfect, and just as she’d envisaged the overall look.

      It was amazing how a few cushions, draped pelmets in matching fabric really set the final touch to a room.

      All it needed, she decided with a critical eye, was a superbly fashioned terracotta urn in one corner to complete the image she wanted. Maybe she’d have time to locate the urn before she was due to meet Teresa at one.

      Aysha made it with minutes to spare, and together they spent the next few hours with the dressmaker, checked a few minor details with the wedding organiser, then took time to relax over coffee.

      ‘You haven’t forgotten we’re dining with Gianna and Luigi tonight?’

      Aysha uttered a silent scream in sheer frustration. She didn’t want to play the part of soon-to-be-married adoring fiancée. Nor did she want to dine beneath the watchful eyes of their respective parents.

      When she arrived at the house she checked the answering machine and discovered a message from Carlo indicating he’d collect her at six. An identical message was recorded on her mobile phone.

      Her fingers hovered over the telephone handset as she contemplated returning his call and cancelling out, only to retreat in the knowledge that she had no choice but to see the evening through.

      A shower did little to ease the tension, and she deliberately chose black silk evening trousers and matching halter-necked top, added stiletto pumps, twisted her hair into a simple knot atop her head, and kept make-up to a minimum.

      She was ready when security alerted her that the front gate had been activated, and she opened the front door seconds ahead of Carlo’s arrival.

      He was a superb male animal, she conceded as she caught her first glimpse of him. Tall, broad frame, honed musculature, and he exuded a primitive alchemy that was positively lethal.

      Expensively tailored black trousers, dark blue shirt left unbuttoned at the neck, and a black jacket lent a sophistication she could only admire. ‘Shall we leave?’ Aysha asked coolly, and saw those dark eyes narrow.

      ‘Not yet’

      Her stomach executed a slow somersault, and she tensed involuntarily. ‘We don’t want to be late.’

      He was standing too close, and she suppressed the need to take a backward step. She didn’t need him close. It just made it more difficult to maintain a mental distance. And she needed to, badly.

      He brushed his fingers across one cheek and pressed a thumb to the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re pale.’

      She almost swayed towards him, drawn as if by a magnetic force. Dammit, how could she love him, yet hate him at the same time? It was almost as if her body was detached from the dictates of her brain.

      ‘A headache,’ she responded evenly, and his expression became intensely watchful.

      ‘I’ll ring and cancel.’

      It was easier to handle him when he was angry. At least then she could rage in return. Now, she merely felt helpless, and it irked her that he knew.

      ‘That isn’t an option, and you know it,’ she refuted, and lifted a hand in expressive negation.

      ‘You’ve taken something for it?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Povera piccola,’ he declared gently as he lowered his head and brushed his lips against her temple.

      Sensation curled inside her stomach as his mouth trailed down to the edge of her mouth, and she turned her head slightly, her lips parting in denial, only to have his mouth close over hers.

      He caught her head between both hands, and his tongue explored the inner tissues at will, savouring the sweetness with such erotic sensuousness that all rational thought temporarily fled.

      His touch was sheer magic, exotic, intoxicating, and left her wanting more. Much more.

      It’s just a kiss, she assured herself mentally, and knew she was wrong. This was seductive claim-staking at its most dangerous.

      Aysha pushed against his shoulders and tore her mouth from his, her eyes wide and luminous as they caught the darkness reflected in his. Her mouth tingled, and her lips felt slightly swollen.

      ‘Let’s go.’ Was that her voice? It sounded husky, and her mouth shook slightly as she moved away from him and caught up her evening bag.

      In the car she leaned her head back against the cushioned rest, and stared sightlessly out of the window.

      Summer daylight saving meant warm sunshine at six in the evening, and peak-hour traffic crossing the Harbour Bridge had diminished, ensuring a relatively smooth drive to suburban Vaucluse.

      Aysha didn’t offer anything by way of conversation, and she was somewhat relieved when Carlo brought the Mercedes to a halt behind Teresa and Giuseppe’s car in the driveway of his parents’ home.

      ‘Showtime.’