The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

total knowledge that Miguel was not most men, and his fidelity and loyalty to her were a given.

      The soup plates were removed and a starter served. Hannah looked at the artistically displayed smoked salmon dribbled with a caper sauce nestling in a nest of finely cut salad, and felt her appetite diminish.

      Tension curled inside her stomach, and she took a sip of wine, then picked up her fork and attempted to do justice to the starter.

      Miguel was an attractive man, possessed of a primitive masculinity that drew women like a magnet. There had been occasions when she’d been mildly amused by other women’s attempts at coquetry, all too aware the flirtation was merely a harmless game.

      Instinct warned her that Camille didn’t fit into the harmless category, and that bothered her more than she cared to admit, for it raised questions to which she had no answers.

      Could Miguel be tempted? Would he be sufficiently cavalier to indulge in an extra-marital affair? Somehow she didn’t think so, but did she really know?

      Theirs was a mutually convenient marriage that had business as its base. Love wasn’t an issue…at least, not on Miguel’s part. He cared for her, and she told herself it was enough.

      One thing she was sure of—she wanted a relationship built on trust and loyalty. Not fabrication and empty excuses.

      ‘Not hungry?’

      Hannah turned towards her husband, met his steady gaze and glimpsed an indefinable quality in the depth of those dark eyes.

      She summoned a light smile. ‘Concern, Miguel?’ His close proximity had a disturbing effect, for it made her aware of his exclusive brand of cologne meshing with freshly laundered cotton. His olive-toned skin was smooth, yet there was the hint of shadow despite the fact he’d only shaved an hour before.

      ‘For you? Always.’

      ‘Protecting your investment,’ she ventured quietly, and caught the faintest glimmer of anger evident. So fleeting, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

      ‘Of course,’ he agreed silkily, and she tried to view the arrival of a superb paella with enthusiasm.

      Camille seemed bent on engaging Miguel in conversation, and Hannah turned to the guest seated next to her and found herself caught up in an animated dissertation on the merits of boarding school education within Australia versus exclusive establishments overseas. Something which lasted until the paella was eaten, the plates removed, and a delicate seafood stew was served.

      ‘Graziella mentioned you have an interest in the fashion scene,’ Hannah ventured, in a bid to distract Camille’s attention from Miguel.

      ‘I model.’

      Two words that supposedly said it all, Hannah reflected. ‘Any particular fashion house?’

      Camille proffered a haughty smile. ‘Whoever offers the highest fee.’

      ‘I was in Paris for the latest season’s showing,’ she mentioned conversationally, aware she hadn’t seen Camille on the catwalks. Such striking looks wouldn’t have escaped her notice, she was sure.

      ‘I did Milan and Rome.’ Camille lifted a hand and smoothed back a fall of hair in a gesture designed to focus attention on beautifully lacquered nails and her superb facial bone structure.

      It had undoubtedly taken her hours to dress and perfect her make-up. Far removed from the nineteen minutes Hannah had allowed herself!

      The main course comprised pescado a la sal served with a delicious salad, and she ate a small portion of the 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