The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN

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.’

      ‘Don’t overdo it, cara,’ he warned quizzically, and she offered him a particularly direct look.

      Did he know just how much she hurt deep inside? Somehow she doubted it. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

      She saw one eyebrow lift. ‘Not guilty,’ Carlo responded, then added drily, ‘on any count.’

      Now there was a double entendre if ever there was one. ‘You underestimate yourself.’

      His eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Take care, Aysha.’

      She reached for the door-clasp. ‘If we stay here much longer, our parents will think we’re arguing.’

      ‘And we’re not?’

      ‘Now you’re being facetious.’ She opened the door and stood to her feet, then summoned a warm smile as he crossed to her side.

      Gianna Santangelo’s affectionate greeting did much to soothe Aysha’s unsettled nerves. This was family, although she was under no illusions, and knew that both mothers were attuned to the slightest nuance that might give hint to any dissension.

      Dinner was an informal meal, although Gianna had gone to considerable trouble, preparing gnocchi in a delicious sauce, followed by chicken pieces roasted in wine with rosemary herbs and accompanied by a variety of vegetables.

      Gianna was a superb cook, with many speciality dishes in her culinary repertoire. Even Teresa had the grace to offer a genuine compliment.

      ‘Buona, Gianna. You have a flair for gnocchi that is unsurpassed by anyone I know.’

      ‘Grazie. I shall give Aysha the recipe.’

      Ah, now there was the thing. Teresa’s recipe versus that of Gianna. Tricky, Aysha concluded. Very tricky. She’d have to vary the sauce accordingly whenever either or both sets of parents came to dinner. Or perhaps not serve it at all? Maybe she could initiate a whole new range of Italian cuisine? Or select a provincial dish that differed from Trevisian specialities?

      ‘I won’t have time for much preparation except at the weekends.’ She knew it was a foolish statement the moment the words left her mouth, as both Teresa and Gianna’s heads rose in unison, although it was her mother who voiced the query.

      ‘Why ever not, cara?’

      Aysha took a sip of wine, then replaced her glass down onto the table. ‘Because I’ll be at work, Mamma.’

      ‘But you have finished work.’

      ‘I’m taking a six-week break, then I’ll be going back.’

      ‘Part-time, of course.’

      ‘Full-time.’

      Teresa stated the obvious. ‘There is no need for you to work at all. What happens when you fall pregnant?’