The Helen Bianchin And The Regency Scoundrels And Scandals Collections. Louise Allen

was fully awake and therefore conscious of his intention.

      Worse, he had stilled any protest she might have voiced with a skilled touch, inflaming her senses and attacking the fragile tenure of her control.

      How could she react with such electrifying passion to a man she professed to hate? To transcend the physical and unleash myriad emotions to become a willing wanton in his arms. Accepting a degree of intimacy she’d never imagined being sufficiently comfortable with to condone.

      Yet she had. Swept away beyond reason or rational thought by sexual chemistry at its zenith.

      Her cellphone buzzed, signalling an incoming text message, and she checked it during her lunch break, then responded by keying in Cameron’s number.

      ‘Just checking in,’ her brother reassured.

      ‘Enquiring how I survived Act One of the three-act night play?’

      ‘Cynicism, Cassandra?’

      ‘I’m entitled, don’t you think?’

      ‘Act Two takes place…when?’

      ‘Saturday night.’

      ‘I appreciate—’

      ‘Don’t,’ she said fiercely, ‘go there.’ She cut the connection, automatically reached for the Caesar salad she’d ordered, only to take one mouthful and push the plate aside. Instead, she ate the accompanying Turkish bread and sipped the latte before returning to the workshop.

      Mid-afternoon she gave in to a throbbing headache and took a painkiller to ease it, then she fixed the binocular microscope, adjusted the light, and set to work.

      Cassandra was relieved when the day came to an end, and she stopped off at a supermarket en route to her apartment and collected groceries, cat food and fresh fruit.

      Essential provisions, she mused as she carried the sack indoors, unpacked it, then she fed the cat, prepared fish and salad for herself. Television interested her for an hour, then she opened her laptop, double-checked design measurements and made some minor adjustments, then she closed everything down and went to bed.

      Within minutes she felt the familiar pad of the cat’s tread as it joined her and settled against her legs. Companionship and unconditional love, she mused with affection as she sought solace in sleep.

      Difficult, when the one man she resented invaded her thoughts, filling her mind, and invaded her dreams.

      Diego del Santo had a lot to answer for, Cassandra swore as the next day proved no less stressful. Her stomach executed a downward dive every time her cellphone rang as she waited for him to confirm arrangements for Saturday night.

      By Friday evening she was a bundle of nerves, cursing him volubly…which did no good at all and startled the cat.

      Consequently when she picked up the phone Saturday morning and heard his voice, it was all she could do to remain civil.

      ‘I’ll collect you at six-thirty. Dinner first, then we’re due to attend a gallery exhibition.’

      ‘If you’ll advise an approximate time you expect to return home,’ Cassandra managed stiffly, ‘I’ll meet you there.’

      ‘No.’

      Her fingers tightened on the cellphone casing. ‘What do you mean…no?’ She felt the anger begin a slow simmer, and took a deep breath to control it. ‘You can take someone else to dinner and the gallery.’

      ‘Go from one woman to another?’

      He sounded amused, damn him. ‘Socialising with you doesn’t form part of the arrangement.’

      ‘It does, however, entitle me to twelve hours of your time on two of our three legally binding occasions. If you’d prefer not to socialise, I’m more than willing to have you spend those twelve hours in my bed.’

      She wanted to kill him. At the very least, she’d do him an injury. ‘Minimising sex with you is my main priority.’ Trying to remain calm took considerable effort. ‘As I’ll need my car for the morning, I’ll drive to your place.’

      ‘Six-thirty, Cassandra.’ He cut the connection before she could say another word.

      Choosing what to wear didn’t pose a problem, for she led a reasonably active social life and possessed the wardrobe to support it.

      For a brief moment she considered something entirely inappropriate, only to dismiss it and go with stunning.

      Soft and feminine was the in style, and she had just the gown in jade silk georgette. Spaghetti straps, a deep V-neckline, and a handkerchief hemline. Guaranteed wow factor, she perceived as she swept her hair into a careless knot and added the finishing touches to her make-up.

      It was six-twenty-five when she drew her car to a halt outside the gates guarding the entrance to Diego’s home. Almost on cue they were electronically released, and she wondered whether it was by advance courtesy on his part or due to a sophisticated alarm system.

      The Aston Martin was parked outside the main entrance, and Diego opened the front door as she slid out from her car.

      Cassandra inclined her head in silent greeting and crossed to the Aston Martin.

      ‘A punctual woman,’ Diego drawled, and incurred a piercing glance.

      ‘You said six-thirty.’ She subjected him to a deliberate appraisal, taking in the dark dinner suit, the crisp white shirt, black bow-tie…and endeavoured to control the sudden leap of her pulse. ‘Shall we leave?’

      Polite, cool. She could do both. For now.

      ‘No overnight bag?’

      ‘I’ll get it.’ She did, and he placed it indoors before tending to the alarm.

      ‘You’ve dressed to impress,’ Diego complimented, subjecting her to a raking appraisal that had male appreciation at its base, and something else she didn’t care to define.

      There was an edge of mockery apparent, and she offered a practised smile. ‘That should be…to kill,’ she amended as he unlocked the car door, saw her seated, then crossed round the front to slide in behind the wheel.

      ‘Should I be on guard for hidden weapons?’

      Cassandra shot him a considering glance. ‘Not my style.’

      ‘But making a fashion statement is?’

      ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative,’ she responded with a certain wryness. ‘Armour for all the visual feminine daggers that’ll be aimed at my back tonight.’

      ‘In deference to my so-called reputation?’

      ‘Got it in one.’

      The sound of his husky laughter became lost as he ignited the engine, and she remained silent for the relatively short drive to Double Bay, electing to attempt civility as the maître d’ seated them at a reserved table.

      ‘Australia must appeal to you,’ she broached in an attempt at conversation. ‘You’ve been based in Sydney for the past year.’

      They’d progressed through the starter and were waiting for the main.

      Diego settled back in his chair and regarded her with thoughtful speculation. ‘I have business interests in several countries.’ He regarded her with musing indolence. ‘And homes in many.’

      ‘Therefore one assumes your time of residence here is fairly transitory.’

      ‘Possibly.’

      Cassandra picked up her wine glass and took an appreciative sip. ‘Hearsay accords you a devious past.’

      ‘Do you believe that?’

      She considered him carefully. ‘Social rumour can be misleading.’

      ‘Invariably.’

      There