The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

drily.

      She had to ask. ‘Did you love her?’

      He didn’t hesitate. ‘No. Nor did she love me.’ His eyes pierced hers, dark and faintly brooding.

      Elise stared out into the darkness, hardly aware of the tracery of dimmed lamps that sprang to life around the grounds, highlighting the gardens.

      ‘She still wants you,’ she opined slowly.

      ‘Savannah dislikes conceding defeat.’

      She recalled the cruelly spoken words, spiteful in their intention, deliberately chosen to destroy by a woman who was unlikely to find personal happiness with any one man.

      Elise rose slowly to her feet. ‘If you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll return the tray to the kitchen.’

      ‘I’ll take it.’ He moved with lithe ease, and once indoors he activated security before following her through to the rear of the house.

      The kitchen gleamed from Ana’s meticulous care, and it only took a few minutes for Elise to load their cups into the dishwasher and rinse out the coffee-pot.

      She was conscious of Alejandro’s studied gaze, and she tilted her chin to meet it, her eyes clear pools of liquid emerald ringed with gold.

      There were words she wanted to say, achingly poignant and straight from the heart, yet they seemed locked in her throat. For a moment she hesitated, then she slowly extended her hand and caught hold of his, threading her fingers through his own. ‘I want to make love with you.’

      His fingers tightened, then he raised her hand to his lips, and Elise saw the blaze of emotion evident in the darkness of his gaze. Deep, heartfelt, and electrifyingly primitive.

      Then he curved an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest.

      A slow, burning excitement unfurled deep within and radiated through her body until she felt achingly alive. ‘I can walk,’ she protested with a soft laugh.

      His smile was a thing of beauty, warm and passionate, his eyes almost black. ‘Indulge me.’

      Her lips were so close to his throat that it was an irresistible temptation to rest them against the warm pulsing cord and savour the deep thudding beat. Gently she circled it with her tongue, then drew it carefully into her mouth.

      ‘Do you want to be ravished here?’ Alejandro threatened huskily as he gained the stairs.

      Elise gave a soft exultant laugh and bestowed a rain of soft kisses along the edge of his jaw. ‘The bed might be more comfortable,’ she teased, loving his strength, the sheer force of his raw masculinity.

      On reaching the main suite he let her slip gently to her feet and drew her close within the circle of his arms.

      His mouth closed over hers with infinite gentleness, then hardened as she melted against him, taking possession of her mouth in a manner that left her in no doubt of his feelings.

      At last he lifted his head, and she could only look at him in mesmerised wonder as his fingers worked the buttons on her blouse, then dealt with the clasp fastening the contoured strip of silk and lace supporting her breasts.

      They felt heavy, each dusky peak swollen as it ached, hungering for his touch.

      ‘You’re beautiful.’ He traced the curve, shaping it with a reverence that brought the prick of tears, and she blinked rapidly to dispel the threatened spill.

      Slowly she lifted a hand and trailed her fingers along the strong thrust of his jaw, tracing the firm chin, the faint indentation, then the chiselled shape of his mouth.

      Nothing—no one—mattered. Not Savannah, nor any of the other women who had inevitably shared part of his life.

      Who was it who had said you had to make each day count?

      The quote and its source eluded her. The message, however, did not.

      Her eyes searched his, seeing the watchful stillness in those dark eyes, the hint of pain. ‘I tried very hard not to love you,’ she declared in a voice that was unbearably husky. She swallowed the sudden lump that rose in her throat. ‘I don’t remember when it changed, only that it did,’ she continued, without any pretence at hiding her emotions. ‘Now I know I can’t live without you.’

      Alejandro reached for her, his hands shaking slightly as they slid to frame her face. ‘I want to love you, be with you, for as long as it takes to reach forever. Dios mediante,’ he vowed huskily.

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed simply, her heart in her eyes as she brought his head down to meet hers, and there was the hint of an impish smile softening the curve of her mouth as it parted to receive his. ‘Are we through talking?’

      ‘Definitely,’ he murmured as his mouth closed over hers, his actions proving more than mere words could ever convey…

       The Marriage Arrangement

      Helen Bianchin

       CHAPTER ONE

      THE grey skies held a heavy electric potency that threatened to unleash cacophonous fury at any moment.

      Hannah turned on the car’s lights, and flinched as a fork of lightning rent the skyline, followed seconds later by a roll of thunder.

      She could almost smell the imminent onset of rain, and seconds later huge drops hit the windscreen in a rapidly increasing deluge that soon made driving hazardous.

      A muttered curse escaped her lips. Great. A summer storm during peak-hour traffic was just what she needed. As if she weren’t already late, with available time minimising by the second.

      Miguel would be pleased at the delay, she decided grimly.

      Almost on cue, her cell-phone rang, and she activated the speaker button.

      ‘Where in hell are you?’ a slightly accented male voice demanded with chilling softness.

      Speak of the devil! ‘Your concern is overwhelming,’ she returned with silk-edged mockery.

      ‘Answer the question.’

      Rain sheeted down, reducing visibility to a point where she felt cocooned in isolation. ‘Caught in traffic.’

      There were a few seconds’ silence, and she had a mental image of him checking his watch. ‘Where, precisely?’

      ‘Does it matter?’ A resort to wicked humour prompted her to add, ‘I doubt even you can organise some way to get me out of here.’

      Miguel Santanas was a law unto himself, with sufficient wealth and power to command anyone at will.

      Andalusian-born, he’d been educated in Paris, and spent several years based in New York managing the North American arm of his father’s business empire.

      ‘You could have closed the boutique early, missed the worst of traffic, and been home by now,’ Miguel said drily, and she felt anger begin to stir.

      The boutique was hers. She’d studied art and design, worked in fashion houses in Paris and Rome, only to walk out on a disastrous love affair three years ago and return home. Within months she’d leased premises, stocked the boutique with exclusive designer wear, and at the age of twenty-seven she had built up an exclusive clientele.

      ‘I doubt one of my best clients would have appreciated being shoved out the door,’ she returned with marked cynicism.

      ‘Whatever made me think you would assume the mantle of a docile wife?’ Miguel offered in a musing drawl.

      She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I