The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

fulfilling.

      ‘I’ll call in later.’

      Hannah barely resisted the temptation to say please don’t as the girl behind the counter handed over a capped take-away cup and a plastic container with her sandwich.

      ‘Bye, Camille.’ The words were merely a courtesy as she turned towards the door. She didn’t want to play friend with the stunning Frenchwoman. If she had a choice, she’d prefer not to have anything to do with her at all! However, the chances of that were slim, given Camille’s determination.

      The phone was ringing when she unlocked the boutique and she hurried forward to answer it. Within minutes of replacing the receiver, it pealed again.

      ‘I’ve been gifted tickets to a film premiere tonight,’ Miguel began without preamble. He named the title and the venue. ‘I’ll be home at six.’

      ‘Gracias,’ Hannah declared, and his husky laughter was almost her undoing.

      ‘Take care, querida. Don’t work too hard.’

      Fat chance, Hannah thought as she juggled attending to clients and phone calls in between snatching a bite to eat.

      There was satisfaction in selecting beautifully crafted garments to suit a certain occasion for a favoured client. Offering suggestions for footwear, accessories, even jewellery, was something she viewed as an art form. The client’s pleasure and continued loyalty was her reward. So much so that when she bought she did so with specific clients in mind.

      It wasn’t just a job. It never had been. Hannah doubted it ever would be. The prospect of selling the boutique, or retiring and letting a vendeuse manage it, hadn’t occurred to her. Although there would probably come a time when she considered children. Having a child was an important issue in their marriage, given the main reason for the union was to legally ensure two united family fortunes continued into another generation.

      However, when this should happen hadn’t consciously been decided. Miguel had agreed to her suggestion they wait a year or two, and she had considered maybe thirty might be a good age to discard contraception.

      Why was she suddenly given to thinking like this? Because Camille posed a threat?

      Dammit, you didn’t have a child to use as a bargaining tool, much less a weapon!

      The electronic buzzer dispersed her train of thought, and she endeavoured to keep her smile in place as she recognised Camille.

      Talk of the devil!

      ‘I enjoyed a long lunch, then spent an hour or two browsing the boutiques,’ Camille informed her as she crossed to where several silk shirts were displayed.

      ‘I caught sight of something here yesterday that I thought I should have.’ She slid hangers every which way and a slight frown creased her brow. ‘Perhaps you’ve put it aside?’ She described the shirt, named the label, the size, then looked askance at Hannah as if she might conjure it up out of thin air.

      ‘I sold it yesterday afternoon.’

      ‘Order one in for me.’

      It was a command, not a request, and Hannah held her breath for a few seconds before slowly releasing it. ‘I can try,’ she said evenly. ‘However, everything here is limited edition stock.’

      Camille gave her a long considering look. ‘Make the call. I want it.’

      Hannah viewed her carefully, then threw politeness out the window. ‘You can’t always have what you want.’

      There was no mistaking her meaning.

      The Frenchwoman examined her perfectly manicured nails, then seared Hannah with a vindictive glare.

      ‘You’re wrong, chérie. I always get what I want.’

      ‘Really?’ Her cynicism was marked. ‘Maybe it’s time you didn’t.’

      Camille resembled a hissing cat about to strike. ‘So you intend to fight?’

      This could rapidly digress into something feral. ‘I won’t gift-wrap Miguel and hand him to you on a platter.’

      ‘Why, chérie. I don’t need for you to gift me anything. I reach out and take what I want.’

      She could feel her fingers curling in against each palm, and it was all she could do to stay calm. ‘Even if it doesn’t belong to you?’

      ‘The fact it doesn’t belong to me merely adds to the attraction. Marriage? What is it?’ Camille emphasised the point with a Gallic shrug. ‘Merely a piece of paper.’

      ‘Try sacred vows citing fidelity, trust and honour,’ Hannah cited, and heard the Frenchwoman’s pitying laughter.

      ‘Poor enfant,’ Camille chided. ‘So naive and caught up with ideals.’

      Ideals, huh? She was as well versed in reality as the next person. More so, because she’d grown up very aware there were those who would adopt any façade if they thought it would work to their advantage. Luc was the only one who’d managed to pull the wool over her eyes.

      ‘What if Miguel won’t play your game?’ Hannah queried deliberately.

      Camille broke into disbelieving laughter and shot her a pitying look. ‘That is not an option.’

      ‘You’re so sure of yourself?’

      ‘Sure of my—’ she paused fractionally ‘—ability, darling.’

      ‘Singular?’ Hannah posed with wry cynicism, determined not to concede this verbal match in any way.

      ‘Perhaps we should agree to confer a week from now. You might not be so confident.’ With that parting shot, Camille swept out of the boutique and soon disappeared from sight.

      Phew! She might not have won that round, but she hadn’t exactly lost.

      It was after five when she left the boutique, and she drove to the hospital, visited a slightly wan Cindy, then headed home.

      Miguel had showered and was in the process of dressing when Hannah entered the bedroom.

      His taut, steel-muscled body projected an enviable aura of power. A strength that was also of the mind and spirit, and she would have given anything to be able to go to him, have him enfold her close, and make the world go away.

      Well, maybe the world was asking too much. All she wanted was for Camille Dalfour to be gone.

      ‘Bad day?’

      She lifted her head and threw him a wry look as she shrugged out of her jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse. ‘Tomorrow has to be better.’

      He reached for his shirt and pulled it on. ‘Want to cancel out tonight?’

      What she wanted was to relax in the spa-bath for as long as it took for her tense muscles to unknot, then indulge in a long, sweet loving.

      ‘No. The movie received good reviews overseas,’ she said evenly.

      Miguel’s hands stilled at the faint catch in her voice, and he cast her a discerning look, saw the soft shadows beneath her eyes, cheeks that were devoid of colour, and he covered the distance between them in a few easy steps.

      He cupped her chin, lifting it so she had no recourse but to meet his gaze. ‘Something bothers you?’

      Yes, it bothers me like hell. ‘As I said,’ she prevaricated as both of his thumbs smoothed a soothing pattern along the edge of her jaw, ‘a bad day.’

      ‘Hannah.’ His voice was a silky drawl. ‘Don’t take me for a fool. Honesty, remember?’

      Well, this was it. There wasn’t going to be a better time. ‘Camille wants you.’

      His eyes darkened, although his expression didn’t change. ‘She has told you this?’ The query held an icy softness. ‘When?’

      She