The Marriage Arrangement. HELEN BIANCHIN

delicate fish flesh with contrived enjoyment.

      ‘I believe we have a mutual friend,’ Camille commented as Hannah finished the last of her salad.

      It seemed possible, given their combined knowledge of the European fashion industry. ‘I’m sure we have,’ Hannah agreed as she lifted her goblet and took a sip of excellent white wine.

      ‘Luc Dubois.’ The name silvered the air, no less dramatic for its calculated delivery.

      Hannah was conscious of a stillness at the table, as if all conversation had suddenly stopped…or was that just her imagination?

      Her fingers tightened fractionally as she slowly set the goblet down onto the table. Miguel didn’t move, but she could sense the flex of his body muscles beneath the expensive tailoring.

      ‘Luc is not one of my friends,’ she said quietly. ‘He lost any claim to that distinction three years ago.’

      The Frenchwoman arched an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. ‘He particularly asked me to convey his regards.’

      She could simply incline her head and retreat. Except such an action would play into Camille’s hand, and there was something happening here that warned of a need for confrontation.

      ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ Hannah relayed evenly, aware that none of the guests spoke a word. ‘We didn’t part on good terms.’

      ‘Really? He spoke of you in quite—’ she paused deliberately, allowed her eyes to widen, and then appeared to choose her words ‘—glowingly graphic terms.’

      This was a calculated attack, and Hannah felt incredibly angry that Camille had chosen the verbal strike in public. To what purpose?

      ‘Luc was a European playboy who preyed on any woman who could fund his expensive lifestyle,’ Hannah relayed with a calm she didn’t feel. ‘I walked out on him as soon as I discovered he was a superficial leech.’ She lifted her shoulders in a light dismissive shrug. ‘End of story. The press made much of it at the time.’ She even summoned a faint smile, albeit that it held a degree of cynicism. ‘The Australian heiress and the French photographer.’

      She held Camille’s gaze. ‘If you want all the details, I’m sure you could look it up in any of the media archives.’ So be damned, she concluded silently. It was old news, past news, and her only regret was that she’d been very cleverly fooled by a practised master of deceit.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ Camille declared with a stab at contrition. ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t realise…’ She trailed to a halt.

      No, you’re not, Hannah thought, and yes, you already knew. You just wanted to create an awkward situation.

      Miguel covered Hannah’s hand with his own, then he leaned towards her and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘Brava.’

      His action deflated the air of tension, and within seconds everyone began talking at once.

      Dessert was served, and Hannah forced herself to do justice to the tocino de cielo, a rich custard. She sipped excellent vintage wine, conversed with fellow guests, and gave every pretence of having a wonderful time.

      She laughed at humorous anecdotes, commiserated with the Trentons at the difficulty of getting their two-month-old daughter enrolled into an élite private school, and attempted to ignore Camille’s frequent slip in resorting to evocatively delivered French. Did the Frenchwoman imagine no one else understood? Or perhaps she didn’t care if they did.

      Miguel was fluent in French and Italian, as well as his native Spanish. Hannah had the advantage of the former two, but, even if she’d had no knowledge of the spoken word, the cadence of Camille’s voice and its provocative delivery left little doubt Miguel was her target.

      To his credit, Miguel did nothing to encourage the attention. But after almost three hours of observing the coveted glances, the blatant verbal seduction, Hannah was tiring of the pretence.

      Smiling, when all she wanted to do was render Camille some form of injury. Her jaw ached from it, and her palms itched with the need to slap the Frenchwoman’s face.

      Coffee was served in the lounge, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with frustrated irritation when Camille wandered over to join them.

      Dear heaven, the woman was persistent!

      ‘It would be so—’ Camille paused fractionally ‘—pleasant,’ she stated, ‘if you were to include me as a guest, socially.’ She gave an expressive smile. ‘My aunt, her friends…’ She trailed off, and her slender shoulders lifted in a typical Gallic gesture. ‘We have different interests, comprendez-vous?’

      Hardly surprising, considering Camille’s sole interest appeared to be Miguel!

      ‘How long will you be staying?’ Hannah asked, hoping the visit would be extremely short!

      The Frenchwoman lifted an expressive hand, then let it fall. ‘I have no immediate plans. A few weeks, several. Who is to say?’

      ‘I am sure Graziella has made arrangements to entertain you,’ Miguel drawled, and received a sultry smile.

      ‘One must hope you are also included in such…’ she trailed deliberately ‘…arrangements.’

      Not if I can help it, Hannah decided as she endeavoured to subdue her anger.

      Miguel took Hannah’s empty cup and placed it with his own onto a nearby side-table. His expression was polite as he caught hold of his wife’s hand and inclined his head towards Camille.

      ‘If you’ll excuse us?’

      ‘You are leaving? It is so early,’ the Frenchwoman protested.

      ‘Goodnight,’ Miguel bade smoothly, only to discover Camille didn’t give up easily.

      ‘You must both be my guests at dinner. Together with Graziella and Enrico, my aunt.’ She paused, and offered a sweet smile. ‘Miguel, you must bring Esteban.’ She cast Miguel a deliberately seductive look. ‘We shall make a date, yes?’

      ‘We’ll check our social diary and get back to you,’ Hannah intimated smoothly, aware this was one engagement she had no intention of keeping.

      Camille’s expression didn’t change, but Hannah glimpsed a brief malevolent gleam in those dark eyes, and felt the beginnings of unease.

      Cynical bantering on occasion was part of the game a number of people played, for it formed amusing repartee. But instinct warned Hannah the Frenchwoman played by no one’s rules but her own.

      ‘Nothing to say, querida?’ Miguel drawled as he eased the Jaguar out from the driveway.

      She turned towards him, saw the beam of oncoming headlights cast angles and planes to his strong-boned features, and endeavoured to inject amusement into her tone.

      ‘You expect me to condone Camille’s blatant behaviour?’

      ‘I could almost imagine you are jealous.’

      He was amused, damn him!

      ‘Am I supposed to answer that?’ she demanded coolly.

      He spared her a quick glance, caught the fiery blue glare aimed in his direction, then returned his attention to the road.

      ‘It might be interesting to hear you try,’ he declared indolently, and she burst into angry speech.

      ‘What would you have me say?’ Her fingers clenched over the clasp of her evening purse. ‘That I objected to the way Camille monopolised your attention? And flirted outrageously.’ She drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. ‘Dammit, she has designs on you! Anyone would have had to be blind not to notice it!’

      ‘Should I be flattered?’

      ‘Are you?’ She held her breath waiting for his reply.

      ‘No,’ Miguel declared with unruffled ease.