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

enraptured he could hardly speak, and barely refrained from genuflecting before he began to retreat.

      Cassandra bit back a smile as she sank back in her seat. ‘How was Italy?’

      ‘The catwalk, behind-the-scene diva contretemps, or the most divine piece of jewellery I acquired?’

      ‘Jewellery,’ she said promptly, and gave an appreciative murmur of approval as Siobhan indicated the diamond tennis bracelet at her wrist. Top-grade stones, bezel setting…exquisite. ‘Beautiful. A gift?’

      ‘From me to me.’ Siobhan grinned. ‘Otherwise known as retail therapy.’

      Cassandra gave a delighted laugh. ‘Moving on…tell me about the Italian count.’

      ‘Sustenance first, Cassy, darling. I’m famished.’

      It wasn’t fair that Siobhan could eat a healthy serving of almost anything and still retain the fabulous svelte form required by the world’s top designers to model their clothes.

      Cassandra made a selection, while Siobhan did likewise, and another waiter appeared to take their order the instant Siobhan lowered the menu.

      ‘Dining with you is an incredible experience,’ Cassandra said with an impish grin. ‘The waiters fall over themselves just for the pleasure of fulfilling your slightest whim.’

      Siobhan’s eyes twinkled with devilish humour. ‘Helpful when things are hectic, and I have like—’ she gestured with her glass ‘—five minutes to take a food break.’ Her cellphone rang, and she ignored it.

      ‘Shouldn’t you get that?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘O-K,’ she drew out slowly. ‘You’re not taking phone calls in general, or not from one person in particular?’

      ‘The latter.’

      Their chicken Caesar salads arrived and were placed before them with a stylish flourish.

      ‘Problems?’ Cassandra ventured.

      ‘Some,’ Siobhan admitted, and sipped from her glass.

      ‘The Italian count?’

      ‘The Italian count’s ex-wife.’

      Oh, my. ‘She doesn’t want you to have him?’

      ‘Got it in one.’ Siobhan picked up her cutlery and speared a piece of chicken.

      ‘You’re not going to fill in the gaps?’

      ‘She wants to retain her title by marriage.’ Siobhan’s eyes rolled. ‘Lack of social face, and all that crap.’

      ‘You don’t care a fig about the title.’ It was a statement, not a query.

      ‘They share joint custody of their daughter. The ex is threatening to change the custody arrangements.’

      ‘Can she do that?’

      ‘By questioning my ability to provide reasonable care and attention while the child is in the paternal home due to my occupation and lifestyle.’

      ‘Ouch,’ she managed in sympathy.

      ‘Aside from that, Rome was wonderful. The fashion showing went well…out front,’ she qualified. ‘Out back one of the models threw a hissy fit, and was soothed down only seconds before she was due to hit the catwalk.’ She leaned forward, and made an expressive gesture with her fork. ‘Your turn.’

      Where did she begin? Best not to even start, for how could she justify complex and very personal circumstances?

      ‘The usual.’ She effected a light shrug. ‘Nothing much changes.’

      ‘Word has it you and Diego del Santo are an item.’

      Ah, the speed of the social grapevine! ‘We were guests at a dinner party, and attended the same gallery exhibition.’

      ‘Cassy, this is me, remember? Being fellow guests at the same event is something you’ve done for the past year. It’s a step up to arrive and leave with him.’

      ‘A step up, huh?’

      ‘So,’ Siobhan honed in with a quizzical smile. ‘Tell.’

      ‘It seemed a good idea at the time,’ she responded lightly. It was part truth, and the model’s gaze narrowed.

      ‘You’re hooked.’

      ‘Not in this lifetime.’

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      ‘You’re wrong,’ Cassandra denied. ‘He’s—’

      ‘One hell of a man,’ Siobhan finished, and her expressive features softened. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’

      A delighted laugh escaped her lips as she lifted her glass and touched its rim to the one Cassandra held. ‘Good luck, Cassy, darling.’

      Luck? All she wanted was for the next week to be over and done with!

      They finished their meal and lingered over coffee, parting well after ten with the promise to catch up again soon.

      Thursday morning Cassandra woke when the cat began to miaow in protest at not being fed, and she rolled over to check the time, saw the digital blinking, and muttered an unladylike oath. A power failure during the night had wiped out her alarm, and she scrambled for her wrist-watch to check the time…only to curse again and leap from the bed.

      It didn’t make a good start to the day.

      Minutes later she heard the dull burr of the phone from the en suite and opted to let the machine pick up, rather than dash dripping wet from the shower.

      Towelled dry, she quickly dressed, collected a cereal bar and a banana to eat as she drove to work, caught up her briefcase, and was almost to the door before she remembered to run the machine.

      Cameron’s recorded voice relayed he had tickets to a gala film première that evening, and asked her to return his call.

      She’d planned a quiet night at home, but her brother enjoyed the social scene and she rarely refused any of his invitations. Besides, an evening out would help her forget Diego for a few hours.

      As if.

      His image intruded into every waking thought, intensifying as each day went by. As to the nights…they were worse, much worse. He’d begun to invade her dreams, and she’d wake mid-sequence to discover the touch of his mouth, his hands, was only a figment of an over-active imagination.

      She cursed beneath her breath as she waited for the lift to take her down to the basement car park. Whatever gave her the idea she could enter into Diego’s conditional arrangement and escape emotionally unscathed?

      Fighting peak-hour traffic merely added to her overall sense of disquiet, and it was mid-morning before she managed to return Cameron’s call.

      The workshop prided itself on producing quality work, and there was satisfaction in achieving an outstanding piece. Especially a commissioned item where the designer had worked with the client in the selection of gems and setting.

      Software made it possible to assemble a digital diagram, enhance and produce an example of the finished piece.

      There was real challenge in producing something strikingly unusual, even unique, where price was no object. Occasionally frustration played a part when the client insisted on a design the jeweller knew wouldn’t display the gems to their best advantage.

      It was almost six when she let herself into the apartment, and she fed the cat, watered her plants, then showered and dressed for the evening ahead.

      On a whim she selected an elegant black trouser suit, added a red pashmina, and slid her feet into stiletto-heeled sandals. Upswept hair, skilful use of make-up, and she was ready just as Cameron buzzed through his arrival on the intercom.

      The