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

and dispensed, according to one of the nurses, from one of Sydney’s most exclusive floral boutiques. ‘And fruit.’ A bowl containing a varied selection stood within easy reach. ‘I have so many magazines…’ She made a visible effort to inject a little warmth into her voice.’ What more could I possibly want?’

      ‘To come home, perhaps?’ Alejandro queried with teasing indolence, his dark eyes intently watchful as she attempted to veil her startled expression.

      Dear God, no. It was a silent scream dredged up from some hidden recess deep within her soul. The hospital, this particular suite, represented a sanctuary she was reluctant to leave. Yet she couldn’t stay indefinitely.

      She swallowed, aware of the slight lump that had risen in her throat, and her fingers began pleating the sheet’s hem in abstracted agitation. ‘I am to be released?’ She looked at him carefully, attempting to read something more from his expression, yet his features were relaxed and his mouth curved to form a warm smile.

      ‘The neurologist and obstetrician have each assured me there is no reason why it should not be this afternoon.’

      So soon. Why couldn’t it be tomorrow, or the day after? At least then she would have time to get used to the idea.

      Now, the thought of re-entering the home she purportedly shared with him filled her with inexplicable dread.

      It was difficult to pinpoint her reluctance. Was it because there had been no one, other than Alejandro Santanas, to visit her?

      She could accept that she had no immediate family, but what of her friends?

      Was he such a possessive man that he wanted her entirely to himself, to the exclusion of all others?

      She searched his features and saw the assurance evident, the strength of character, and perceived that he was a force to be reckoned with, a man no adversary would choose to have as an enemy.

      And as a lover? A shiver of apprehension slithered down the length of her spine. One couldn’t live with such a man as he and be unaware of his sexuality…or remain unawakened to her own. Without doubt he would have introduced her to every intimacy, every sensual pleasure, and taught her precisely how to respond in kind.

      ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Alejandro growled in husky chastisement.

      Elise closed her eyes in silent chagrin, then opened them again, her gaze wide with a mixture of puzzlement and confusion. ‘You don’t understand.’

      The air seemed charged with emotional intensity, and she seemed to be having trouble regulating her breathing.

      ‘You think not?’

      She gained nothing from his tone of voice. ‘Alejandro——’

      ‘It is no more difficult for you to be faced with a husband you fail to recognise than it is for me to have a woman who is my wife look at me as if I were a stranger.’

      In seeming slow motion she watched as he clasped her uninjured hand and lifted it to his lips, and a gasp emerged from her throat as he gently turned it palm upwards and buried his mouth in the soft hollow.

      Acute sensation arrowed with unerring accuracy to the core of her femininity, flooding it with a heavy languorous warmth, and she was held mesmerised by the depth of emotion evident in his eyes.

      ‘Do you have any conception what it does to me to see your eyes dilate with apprehension every time I touch you? To be aware you would prefer my lips brush your cheek, rather than possess your mouth?’

      The room, its contents, faded to the periphery of her vision, and she could only look at him, unable to utter so much as a word, the moment seemingly freeze-framed in time.

      The knock at the door proved an anticlimax, and she hurriedly tugged her hand free as the kitchen orderly carried in a breakfast-tray.

      ‘Morning,’ the woman greeted cheerfully as she placed the tray on the bed-trolley, then slid it into position before turning towards the man seated close to the bed. ‘Can I bring you some coffee, Mr. Santanas?’

      Alejandro’s smile curved the edges of his mouth, deepening the vertical creases that slashed each cheek. ‘Thank you, no.’

      Elise watched as he unfolded his lengthy frame from the chair. Leaning forward, he covered her mouth lightly with his own, and her lips trembled beneath the brief contact.

      ‘Your discharge is scheduled for two o’clock. Hasta luego, querida.’

      For one crazy second she felt strangely bereft, almost wanting more than that fleeting touch, and something flickered in the depths of his eyes before it was successfully hidden, then he straightened and moved towards the door.

      Elise watched his departing figure with perplexity. The warmth of his lips against her own, the restrained degree of passion that lay just beneath the surface had stirred her senses, almost as if some inner being were intent on forcing recognition.

      ‘There you are, Mrs Santanas,’ the kind-faced kitchen orderly declared as she undid a mini packet of cereal and added it to the bowl of fresh fruit. ‘Which spread would you prefer on your toast?’

      Hospital routine ensured that there was little time in which to brood, Elise accorded wryly, for within ten minutes of the breakfast tray being removed a nursc arrived to assist her in the shower, followed by the doctor’s round, physiotherapy, morning tea, the daily visit from the hairdresser—arranged, she had been informed, by her husband.

      It was a thoughtful gesture, although she couldn’t help attempting to analyse his motivation. And that proved detrimental, for it only brought her relationship with Alejandro Santanas to the fore, and incurred a renewed bout of soul-searching.

      It seemed ludicrous to doubt Alejandro’s depth of caring when there was every evidence of his devotion in this room: the cards carefully placed together in the drawer of her bedside pedestal, each bearing ‘Love’, written in black ink, and signed ‘Alejandro’ in a powerful slashing hand.

      More importantly—did she love him? Certainly she’d married him, but was love her motivation?

      Dear heaven, she wasn’t the sort of woman who had deliberately contrived to trap a wealthy man by using feminine wiles…was she?

      Elise closed her eyes in silent anguish, then slowly opened them again.

      ‘Time, patience,’ the neurologist had stressed solemnly. Yet such an answer was as frustrating as it was ambiguous.

      Lunch was a delectable bowl of beef consomme, followed by thin slices of roast beef with accompanying vegetables, and segments of fresh fruit for dessert.

      Apprehension began to knot in the region of her stomach, only to intensify a short while later as a nurse entered the suite.

      ‘Your husband will be here to collect you in half an hour,’ she informed Elise with a bright smile. ‘I’ll help you dress, then pack your things.’

      I don’t want to go, an inner voice screamed in silent rejection. Several jumbled thoughts raced through her head. Perhaps she could dream up a mild complication—the onset of a headache, her hand—anything that would delay her departure.

      Yet even as she contemplated such an action she dismissed it as futile and, pushing the bedcovers aside, she slid to her feet, watching with detached fascination as the nurse moved to extract clothes from a nearby closet.

      Sage-green trousers in uncrushable silk, a cream silk blouse, wispy briefs and bra in matching cream silk and lace, low-heeled shoes. Each item looked incredibly expensive, and undoubtedly was, given the evident reverence with which they were handled.

      Elise stood still as her nightgown was removed, an exquisite garment in peach satin-finished silk and lace, which made up a set with its matching négligé.

      Obediently she stepped into the briefs and helped draw them up, then the trousers.

      ‘I’ll