The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

later she exited the driveway and headed towards Toorak Road, her mood reflective as she bore with morning peak traffic.

      It would have been nice to have woken in Miguel’s arms, stirred by his touch, enticed into sex by his passion in an early-morning ritual. She missed the shimmering sensual heat, the electrifying hunger followed by a languid after-play, for it was then they talked awhile before sharing a leisurely shower.

      Camille’s features sprang all too readily to mind, intrusive and vaguely taunting.

      The power of pre-emptive thought? Hannah pondered as she dispelled the Frenchwoman from her mind and focused on the day ahead.

      The courier service was scheduled to deliver some new stock this morning, and she mentally selected a stunning ensemble as window display, its accessories, and the rearrangement and placement of existing stock.

      By the time she unlocked the boutique Camille temporarily ceased to exist.

      Twice during the next hour her hand hovered over the phone. She badly needed to hear Miguel’s voice, if only to say ‘hi’. Discussing what lay ahead in their respective days had become an early-morning habit. Dammit, she’d ring and ask him to meet her for lunch. Cindy could manage the boutique for an hour, longer if necessary.

      Without hesitation she keyed in the digits for his mobile phone, only to have the call go to voice-mail. She left her name and invitation, then busied herself with routine chores.

      Cindy, a friend with a flair for fashion who welcomed part-time work while her daughter was in school, arrived at ten, closely followed by the courier.

      Unpacking, checking invoices and preparing stock for display took time, and there were the serious clients who came to buy and not-so-serious passers-by who merely wanted to browse.

      Then there were the phone calls, none of which was Miguel. Until eleven-thirty, when Hannah had all but given up on him.

      ‘It’s the man,’ Cindy indicated as she extended the cordless handset.

      Hannah moved a few paces away. ‘I thought we might do lunch.’ She drew a slight breath, then released it. ‘I can get away any time between now and two.’

      ‘I’m tied up with meetings all afternoon,’ Miguel drawled. ‘Can it wait until tonight?’

      He sounded mildly amused, almost as if he sensed the reason behind her call. ‘Of course.’

      ‘Hasta luego, querida,’ he bade indolently, and cut the line.

      ‘Will you finish doing the window, or shall I?’ Cindy queried seconds later, and Hannah gestured towards the clothed mannequin.

      ‘Be my guest.’ A cleverly draped scarf, an elegant brooch would add the final touches, together with heeled shoes and matching handbag. Something that would take only minutes to complete.

      The end result was stunning, and Hannah was quick to add her compliment. ‘Why don’t you take a break for lunch?’ she suggested, checking her watch. ‘I can manage for a while.’

      Most of the regular clientele chose to do their shopping mid-morning or mid-afternoon. For the most part, the time between midday and two was spent lunching at any one of several trendy cafés or restaurants in and around the city and its élite suburbs.

      Cindy collected her bag and made for the door.

      ‘See you soon.’

      Hannah crossed to the CD player, removed the morning selection and inserted sufficient discs to provide soothing unobtrusive background music until closing time.

      The electronic buzzer heralded the arrival of a prospective client, and Hannah turned with a welcome smile in place, only to have it momentarily freeze as she caught sight of Camille.

      Tall, proportionately slender, the Frenchwoman exuded confidence and a degree of arrogance as she stepped forward. Dressed in designer clothes and wearing expensive perfume, she was elegance personified.

      ‘Bonjour, Hannah.’ She inclined a perfectly coiffed head, and scanned the carefully arranged racks.

      ‘I thought I might visit.’

      Somehow Hannah doubted clothes were Camille’s main purpose. ‘How nice of you to call in.’ At what point did politeness cross the line and become a white lie? She indicated a rack of imported designer labels. ‘Is there anything in particular I can help you with?’ She crossed the floor and extracted a gown that would look stunning on Camille’s tall frame.

      ‘Darling, I can get that in Paris.’ Her mouth pursed, and her eyes assumed a hardened gleam as she riffled through carefully spaced hangers with total disregard for their existing presentation.

      Hannah watched as the Frenchwoman pulled out a hanger, examined the garment with disdainful criticism, then returned it carelessly back onto the rack before moving a pace or two and repeating the process.

      There was little doubt as to the deliberateness of the action, and Hannah wondered just how long it would take for Camille to cut to the chase.

      Exhausting garments displayed on one side of the boutique, the Frenchwoman crossed the floor and began a similar examination of various silk shirts.

      ‘How does it feel being manipulated into a loveless marriage?’

      Four minutes, give or take a few seconds, Hannah calculated. If Camille wanted to conduct a verbal altercation, then so be it. She met the woman’s hard stare, and arched a delicate eyebrow. ‘Manipulated by whom?’

      Camille’s gaze narrowed. ‘It doesn’t bother you Miguel’s motivation was born out of duty? To his father, and the Sanmar conglomerate?’

      Hannah took time to ponder the Frenchwoman’s words. ‘For someone who has only been in Melbourne a short time, you seem to have acquired considerable information.’

      ‘Graziella is very discreet. However, my interest in Miguel was captured several weeks ago at a party in Rome,’ Camille enlightened with a secretive smile. ‘Miguel attended briefly with a business associate.’

      Hannah had instant recall. She’d flown in to buy new season’s stock, tying the visit in with one of Miguel’s Italian business meetings. She even remembered the evening in question, and a wretched migraine that had seen her creep into bed while issuing instructions for Miguel to go on to the party without her.

      ‘I made it my business to discover everything about Miguel Santanas,’ Camille continued relentlessly. ‘His marriage, his wife, her background.’

      This was far more complex than idle curiosity. Almost chilling, Hannah realised silently.

      ‘And your affair with Luc Dubois,’ the Frenchwoman revealed, intent on analysing Hannah’s expressive features. ‘Interesting man.’

      Interesting didn’t come close. The man was a practised rogue, and it still irked that it had taken her a few months to lose the fantasy and face reality.

      ‘I imagine this is leading somewhere?’ Hannah queried coolly.

      ‘Of course, darling. You’re hardly naive.’

      It didn’t take much imagination for it all to fall into place. ‘Let me guess,’ she began pensively. ‘You came here purposely with your aunt, who conveniently happens to be a good friend of the del Santos, aware of their social standing and the opportunity to use them to include you in numerous invitations around the city. Thus ensuring regular social contact with Miguel.’

      A tinkling laugh escaped Camille’s lips. ‘How clever of you, chérie. Naturally, the Australian visit was my suggestion.’

      Hannah’s eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘Do we draw battle lines?’

      ‘As long as you understand Miguel is mine.’ Camille’s smile was entirely lacking in humour.

      ‘Really?’ Hannah posed with deliberate sarcasm. ‘Aren’t you forgetting I have