The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

be anything serious, she dismissed, otherwise he would have mentioned it during the drive in to the city.

      ‘Darling, how are you?’

      The soft feminine purr evoked a warm smile as she turned to greet the tall, slender model. ‘Siobhan.’ Her eyes sparkled. They’d attended the same school, shared much, and were firm friends. ‘I’m fine, and you?’

      ‘Flying out to Rome tomorrow, then it’s Milan followed by Paris.’

      Cassandra uttered a subdued chuckle in amusement. ‘It’s a hard life.’

      Siobhan grinned. ‘But an interesting one,’ she conceded. ‘I have a date with an Italian count in Rome.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Old money, and divine.’

      The musing twinkle in those gorgeous green eyes brought forth a husky laugh as Cassandra shook her head. ‘You’re wicked.’

      ‘This time it’s serious,’ Siobhan declared as Cassandra’s smile widened.

      ‘It always is.’

      ‘Got to go. The parents are in tow.’

      ‘Have fun.’

      ‘I shall. In Italy.’ She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Cassandra’s in a gesture of affection.

      ‘Take care.’

      ‘Always.’

      Soon the ballroom doors would be open, and guests would be called to take their seats. There would be the introductory and explanatory speeches, the wine stewards would do their thing, and the first course served.

      Speaking of which, she was hungry. Lunch had been yoghurt and fruit snatched between the usual weekend chores.

      Cameron appeared deep in conversation with a man she presumed to be a business associate, and she sipped chilled water from her glass as she debated whether to join him.

      At that moment she felt the warning prickle of awareness as her senses went on alert, and she let her gaze skim the guests.

      There was only one man who had this particular effect on her equilibrium.

      Innate instinct? An elusive knowledge based on the inexplicable?

      Whatever, it was crazy. Maddening.

      Maybe this time she had it wrong. Although all it took was one glance at that familiar dark head to determine her instinct was right on target.

      Diego del Santo. Successful entrepreneur, one of the city’s nouveau riche…and her personal nemesis.

      Born in New York of Spanish immigrant parents, it was reported he’d lived in the wrong part of town, fought for survival in the streets, and made his money early, so it was rumoured, by means beyond legitimate boundaries of the law.

      He took risks, it was said, no sensible man would touch. Yet those risks had paid off a million-fold several times over. Literally.

      In idle fascination she watched as he turned towards her, then he murmured something to his companion and slowly closed the distance between them.

      ‘Cassandra.’

      The voice was low, impossibly deep with the barest trace of an accent, and possessed of the power to send tiny shivers feathering the length of her spine.

      Tall, broad-framed, with the sculptured facial features of his Spanish ancestors. Dark, well-groomed hair, dark, almost black eyes, and a mouth that promised a thousand delights.

      A mouth that had briefly tasted her own when she’d disobeyed her father and persuaded Cameron to take her to a party. Sixteen years old, emerging hormones, a sense of the forbidden combined with a desire to play grown-up had proved a volatile mix. Add her brother with his own agenda, a few sips too many of wine, a young man who seemed intent on leading her astray, and she could easily have been in over her head. Except Diego del Santo had materialised out of nowhere, intervened, read her the Riot Act, then proceeded to show her precisely what she should be wary of when she heedlessly chose to flirt. Within minutes he had summoned Cameron and she found herself bundled into her brother’s car and driven home.

      Eleven years had passed since that fateful episode, ten of which Diego had spent in his native New York creating his fortune.

      Yet she possessed a vivid recollection of how it felt to have his mouth savour her own. The electric primitiveness of his touch, almost as if he had reached down to her soul and staked a claim.

      Diego del Santo had projected a raw quality that meshed leashed savagery with blatant sensuality. A dangerously compelling mix, and one that attracted females from fifteen to fifty.

      Now there were no rough edges, and he bore the mantle of power with the same incredible ease he wore his designer clothes.

      In his mid-to-late thirties, Diego del Santo was a seriously rich man whose property investments and developments formed a financial portfolio that edged him close to billionaire status.

      As such, his return to Australia a year ago had soon seen him become an A-list member of Sydney’s social élite, receiving invitations to each and every soirée of note. His acceptance was selective, and his donations to worthy charities, legend.

      Preston-Villers’ involvement with similar charity events and her father’s declining health meant they were frequently fellow guests at one function or another. It was something she accepted, and dealt with by presenting a polite façade.

      Only she knew the effect he had on her. The way her pulse jumped and thudded to a rapid beat. No one could possibly be aware her stomach curled into a painful knot at the mere sight of him, or how one glance at his sensual mouth heated the blood in her veins in a vivid reminder of the way it felt to have that mouth possess her own.

      The slow sweep of his tongue, the promise of passion, the gentle, coaxing quality that caught her tentative response and took it to an undreamt-of dimension.

      Eleven years. Yet his kiss was hauntingly vivid…a taunting example by which she’d unconsciously measured each kiss that followed it. None matched up, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself imagination had merely enhanced the memory.

      There were occasions when she thought she should dispense with her own curiosity and accept one of his many invitations. Yet each time something held her back, an innate knowledge such a step would put her way out of her depth.

      His invitations and her refusals had become something akin to a polite game they each played. What would he do, she mused, if she surprised him by accepting?

      Are you insane? a tiny voice queried insidiously.

      ‘Diego,’ Cassandra acknowledged coolly, meeting his compelling gaze with equanimity, watching as he inclined his head to her brother.

      ‘Cameron.’

      For a millisecond she thought she glimpsed some unspoken signal pass between the men, then she dismissed it as fanciful.

      ‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

      Tonight’s event was a charity fundraiser aiding state-of-the-art equipment for a special wing of the city’s children’s hospital.

      Without doubt there were a number of guests with a genuine interest in the nominated charity. However, the majority viewed the evening as a glitz-and-glamour function at which the women would attempt to outdo each other with designer gowns and expensive jewellery, whilst the men wheeled and dealed beneath the guise of socialising.

      Diego del Santo didn’t fit easily into any recognisable category.

      Not that she had any interest in pigeon-holing him. In fact, she did her best to pretend he didn’t exist. Something he seemed intent on proving otherwise.

      He could have any woman he wanted. And probably did. His photo graced the social pages of numerous newspapers and magazines, inevitably with a stunning female