Mistress By Arrangement. HELEN BIANCHIN

give her mother credit, she knew when to withdraw. ‘I promised Emilio I’d be at the Gallery at two-thirty.’

      Chantelle savoured the last mouthful of cos lettuce, then replaced her fork. ‘In that case, darling, do finish your pasta. We’ll share a coffee later, shall we?’

      Clothes, shoes, lingerie, perfume. Any one, or all four, could prove a guaranteed distraction, and Michelle accompanied her mother into one boutique after another in her quest to purchase.

      An hour and a half later Chantelle held no less than three brightly emblazoned carry bags, and there was no time left to share coffee.

      ‘See you tomorrow, darling. Don’t work too hard.’

      Michelle placed a light kiss on her mother’s cheek, then watched as Chantelle stowed her purchases in the boot before crossing to slide in behind the wheel of her Mercedes.

      It was almost two-thirty when Michelle entered the Gallery. A converted house comprising three levels, it had been completely renovated. Polished wooden floors gleamed with a deep honey stain, and the walls were individually painted in several different pale colours providing a diverse background for carefully placed exhibits. Skylights threw angled shafts of sunlight, accenting subtle shadows as the sun moved from east to west throughout the day.

      She experienced a degree of pride at the decor, and what she’d been able to achieve in the past three years.

      ‘Emilio?’

      She returned her keys to her bag and carefully closed the door behind her.

      ‘Up here, cara,’ an accented voice called from the mezzanine level. ‘Brett is with me.’

      A short flight of stairs led to the next level. Above that were Emilio’s private rooms.

      Michelle moved swiftly towards the upstairs studio where Brett’s exhibition was to be held. ‘Hi,’ she greeted warmly as she joined them. Both men glanced up, gave her a penetrating look, then switched their attention to the stack of paintings propped carefully against one wall.

      ‘Cara, stand over there, and tell us what you think,’ Emilio commanded.

      For the next four hours they worked side by side, then when the artist left they ordered in pizza, effected a few minor changes, satisfied themselves that every exhibit was strategically placed according to their original plan.

      ‘He’s nervous,’ Michelle noted as she bit into a slice of piping hot pizza. Melted cheese, pepperoni, capsicum... delicious.

      ‘It’s his first exhibition,’ Emilio granted, following her action.

      The light glinted in reflection from the ear-stud he wore. Designer stubble was at odds with his peroxided crew cut. A lean sinewy frame clothed in designer jeans and T-shirt, he bore the visual persona of an avant garde. His sexual preferences were the subject for conjecture, and he did nothing to dispel a certain image. However, it was part of the tease, the glamour associated with a role he chose to play, and the knowledge very few close friends knew he was straight and not at all what he appeared to be, only amused him.

      Behind the image lay a very shrewd business brain, an almost infallible instinct for genuine talent, and an indefinable nous for what appealed to the buying public.

      It was something Michelle also shared, and their friendship was platonic, based on mutual knowledge, affection and respect.

      ‘You are pensive. Why?’

      Forthright, even confrontational, Emilio possessed the ability to divine whenever anything bothered her. She delayed answering him by pulling the tab on a can of soft drink and taking a long swallow of the ice-cold liquid.

      ‘A man, huh?’ Emilio pronounced. ‘Do I know him?’

      She replaced the can onto the table, and took another bite of pizza. ‘What makes you so sure it’s a man?’

      ‘You have soft shadows beneath those beautiful green eyes.’ His smile was gentle, but far too discerning. ‘Lack of sleep, sweetheart. And as you rarely party ‘til dawn, I doubt a late night among the social elite was the cause.’

      ‘I could merely be concerned about tomorrow’s exhibition.’

      ‘No,’ he declared with certainty. ‘If you don’t want to talk about him, that’s fine.’

      Michelle cast him a level look. ‘He was a guest at a dinner I attended.’ She paused fractionally. ‘And if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.’

      ‘Trouble,’ Emilio accorded softly. ‘Definitely.’

      ‘No,’ she corrected. ‘Because I won’t allow him to be.’

      ‘Cara, I don’t think you’ll have a choice.’ His quiet laughter brought forth a vexed grimace.

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Because you’re a beautiful young woman whose fierce protection of self lends you to eat lesser men for breakfast,’ he mocked. ‘The fact you haven’t been able to succeed with this particular one is intriguing. I shall look forward to meeting him.’

      ‘It won’t happen,’ Michelle vowed with certainty.

      ‘You don’t think so?’

      ‘I know so,’ she responded vehemently.

      ‘OK.’ Emilio lifted both hands in a conciliatory gesture, although his smile held humour. ‘Eat your pizza.’

      ‘I intend to.’ She bit into the crisp crust, then reached forward, caught up a paper napkin and wiped her fingers. ‘I’ll help you clean up, then I’m going home.’

      ‘An empty pizza carton, a few glasses, soft drink cans. What’s to clean?’

      ‘In that case,’ she inclined, standing to her feet in one fluid movement. ‘I’m out of here.’ She leaned forward and brushed her cheek to his. ‘Ciao.’

      The Gallery opened at four, and an hour later the full complement of guests had gathered, mingling in small clutches, glass in hand. Taped baroque music flowed softly through strategically placed speakers, a soothing background to the muted buzz of conversation.

      Michelle had selected a classic fitted dress in black with a lace overlay. Stiletto heels, sheer black hose, her hair swept high, and understated make-up with emphasis on her eyes completed a picture that portrayed elegance and style.

      Hired staff proffered trays containing a selection of hors d’oeuvres, and already a number of Brett’s paintings displayed a discreet sold sticker.

      Success, Michelle reflected with a small sigh of relief. Everything was going splendidly. The finger food couldn’t be faulted, the champagne was superb, and the ambience was perfecto, as Emilio would say.

      She glanced across the room, caught his eye, and smiled.

      ‘Another triumph, darling.’

      Her stomach tightened fractionally as she recognised Jeremy’s cynical voice, and she summoned a polite smile as she turned to face him. ‘I didn’t expect you to honour the invitation.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

      He leaned forward and she moved slightly so that his lips brushed her cheek. An action which resulted in a faint intake of breath, the momentary hardening of his eyes.

      ‘The eminently eligible Nikos has yet to put in an appearance, I see.’ He moved back a pace, and ran light fingers down her arm.

      Michelle tilted her head a little and met his dark gaze. ‘A little difficult, when he wasn’t issued an invitation.’

      ‘Dear sweet Michelle,’ Jeremy chided with sarcastic gentleness. ‘Nikos was an invited guest on the parents’ cruiser today. The enchanting Chantelle issued the invitation to your Gallery soiree.’ He paused for effect before delivering the