The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN

helped herself. Precisely as he’d anticipated she would do, she conceded wryly.

      There was hot crusty bread, and she accepted a small glass of light red wine which she sipped throughout the meal.

      ‘Better?’

      It wasn’t difficult to smile, and she could almost feel the relaxing effect of the wine releasing the knots of tension that curled tightly around her nerve-ends. ‘Yes.’

      ‘More tea?’

      Aysha shook her head.

      ‘Do you want to stay for a while, or shall we leave?’

      She looked at him carefully, and was unable to define anything from his expression. There was a waiting, watchful quality apparent, a depth to his eyes that was impossible to interpret.

      She spared a glance to the dance floor, and the few couples sharing it. Part of her wanted the contact, the closeness of his embrace. Yet there was another part that was truly torn.

      Nina’s accusations were too fresh in her mind, the image too vivid for it not to cloud her perspective.

      Everything was wedding-related. And right now, the last thing she wanted to think about, let alone discuss, was the wedding.

      ‘I adore the music. It’s so poignant.’

      Was she aware just how wistful she sounded? Or the degree of fragility she projected? Carlo wanted to smite a fist onto the table, or preferably close his hands around Nina’s neck.

      More than anything, he wanted to take Aysha to bed and make love with her until every last shred of doubt was removed. Yet he doubted she’d give him the opportunity. At least, not tonight.

      Now, he had to be content to play the waiting game. Tomorrow, he assured himself grimly, he’d have everything he needed. And damned if he was going to wait another day.

      He leaned across the table and caught hold of her hand, then lifted it to his lips.

      It was an evocative gesture, and sent spirals of sensation radiating through her body. Her eyes dilated, and her lips shook slightly as he kissed each finger in turn.

      ‘Dance with me.’

      The shaking seemed to intensify, and she couldn’t believe it was evident. Dear God, dared she walk willingly into his arms?

      And afterwards? What then? Let him lead her into the house, and into bed? That wouldn’t resolve anything. Worse, the lack of a resolution would only condone her acquiescence to the status quo.

      ‘Is dancing with me such a problem?’ Carlo queried gently, and watched her eyes dilate to their fullest extent.

      ‘It’s what happens when I do.’

      His eyes acquired a faint gleam, and the edges of his mouth tilted. ‘Believe it’s mutual.’

      Aysha held his gaze without any difficulty at all. An hour ago she’d been furious with him. And Nina. Especially Nina.

      ‘Pheromones,’ she accorded sagely, and he uttered a soft laugh as he stood and drew her gently to her feet.

      ‘The recognition by one animal of a chemical substance secreted by another,’ Aysha informed him.

      ‘You think so?’

      She could feel her whole body begin to soften, from the inside out. A melting sensation that intensified as he brushed his lips against her temple.

      ‘Yes.’

      Would it always be like this? A smile, the touch of his mouth soothing the surface of her skin? Is it enough? a tiny voice taunted. Affection and sexual satisfaction, without love.

      Many women settled for less. Much less.

      He led her onto the dance floor and into his arms, and she didn’t think about anything except the moment and the haunting, witching quality of the music as it stirred her senses and quickened the pace of her pulse.

      Aysha wanted to close her eyes and think of nothing but the man and the moment.

      For the space of a few minutes it was almost magic, then the music ceased as the band took a break, and she preceded Carlo back to the table.

      ‘Another drink?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ she refused.

      He picked up the account slip, summoned the waitress, paid, then led the way out to the car.

      It didn’t take long to reach Clontarf, and within minutes Carlo activated the gates, then drew the Mercedes to a halt outside the main entrance.

      Aysha reached for the door-clasp as he released his seatbelt and opened the car door.

      ‘There’s no need—’

      He shot her a glance that lost much of its intensity under cover of night. ‘Don’t argue,’ he directed, and slid out from the car.

      Indoors she turned to face him, and felt the sexual tension apparent. There was a slumberous quality in the depths of his eyes that curled all her nerve-ends, and she looked at him, assessing the leashed sensuality and matching it with her own,

      ‘All you have to do is ask me to stay,’ Carlo said quietly, and she looked at him with incredibly sad eyes.

      It would be so easy. Just hold out her hand and follow wherever he chose to lead.

      For a moment she almost wavered. To deny him was to deny herself. Yet there were words she needed to say, and she wasn’t sure she could make them sound right.

      ‘I know.’

      He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles gently across her cheekbone. ‘Go to bed, cara. Tomorrow is another day.’

      Then he released her hand and turned towards the door.

      Seconds later she heard the refined purr of the engine, and saw the bright red tail-lights disappear into the night.

      He’d gone, when she’d expected him to employ unfair persuasion to share her bed. There was an ache deep inside she refused to acknowledge as disappointment.

      If he’d pressed to stay, she’d have told him to leave. So why did she feel cheated?

      Oh, for heaven’s sake, this was ridiculous!

      With a mental shake she locked the door and activated security, then she set the alarm and climbed the stairs to her room. ‘Mamma,’ Aysha protested. ‘I don’t need any more lingerie.’

      

      ‘Nonsense, darling,’ Teresa declared firmly. ‘Nonna Benini sent money with specific instructions for you to buy lingerie.’

      Aysha spared a glance at the exquisite bras, briefs and slips displayed in the exclusive lingerie boutique. Pure silk, French lace, and each costing enough money to feed an average family for a week.

      After a sleepless night spent tossing and turning in her lonely bed, which had seen her wake with a headache, the last thing she needed was a confrontational argument with her mother.

      ‘Then I guess we shouldn’t disappoint her.’

      Each garment had to be tried on for fit and size, and it was an hour before Aysha walked out of the boutique with bras and briefs in ivory, peach and black. Ditto slips, cobweb-fine pantyhose, and, the pièce de resistance, a matching nightgown and negligee.

      ‘Superfluous,’ she’d assured her mother when Teresa had insisted on the nightgown, and had stifled a sigh at her insistent glance.

      Now, she tucked a hand beneath Teresa’s arm and led her in the direction of the nearest café. ‘Let’s take five, Mamma, and share a cappuccino.’

      ‘And we’ll revise our list.’

      Aysha thought if she heard the word list again, she’d scream. ‘I can’t think of a single thing.’

      ‘Perfume.