Latin Lovers. Helen Bianchin

Nina, witnessed her hard, calculating glance before it was quickly masked, and felt a shiver glide down the length of her spine.

      Malevolence, no matter how fleeting, was disconcerting. Envy and jealousy in others were unenviable traits, and something she’d learned to deal with from a young age. It had accelerated with her engagement to Carlo. Doubtless it would continue long after the marriage.

      She wanted love... desperately. But she’d settle for fidelity. Even the thought that he might look seriously at another woman made it feel as if a hand took hold of her heart and squeezed until it bled.

      ‘What do you think, Aysha?’

      Oh, hell. It wasn’t wise to allow distraction to interfere with the thread of social conversation. Especially not when you were a guest of honour.

      She looked at Carlo with a silent plea for help, and met his humorous gaze.

      ‘Luisa doesn’t agree I should keep our honeymoon destination a surprise.’

      A second was all it took to summon a warm smile.

      ‘I need to pack warm clothes.’ Her eyes gleamed and a soft laugh escaped her lips. ‘That’s all I know.’

      ‘Europe. The snowfields?’ The older woman’s eyes twinkled. ‘Maybe North America. Canada?’

      ‘I really have no idea,’ Aysha declared.

      Dessert comprised individual caramelised baskets filled with segments of fresh fruit served with brandied cream.

      ‘Sinful,’ Aysha declared quietly as she savoured a delectable mouthful.

      ‘I shouldn’t, but I will,’ Luisa uttered ruefully. ‘Tomorrow I’ll compensate with fresh juice for breakfast and double my gym workout.’

      Teresa, she noted, carefully removed the cream, speared a few segments of fruit, and left the candied basket. As mother of the bride, she couldn’t afford to add even a fraction of a kilo to her svelte figure.

      It was half an hour before the hostess requested they move into the lounge for coffee.

      Aysha declined the very strong espresso brew and opted for a much milder blend with milk. The men took it short and sweet, added grappa, and converged together to exchange opinions on anything from bocce to the state of the government.

      Argue, Aysha amended fondly, all too aware that familiar company, good food, fine wine all combined to loosen the male Italian tongue and encourage reminiscence.

      She loved to listen to the cadence of their voices as they lapsed into the language of their birth. It was expressive, accompanied by the philosophical shrug of masculine shoulders, the hand movements to emphasise a given point.

      ‘Giuseppe is in his element.’

      Aysha mentally prepared herself as she turned to face Nina. One glance was all it took to determine Nina’s manner was the antithesis of friendly.

      ‘Is there any reason why he shouldn’t be?’

      ‘The wedding is a major coup.’ The smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Congratulations, darling. I should have known you’d pull it off.’

      Aysha inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Nina. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

      There was no one close enough to overhear the quiet exchange. Which was a pity. It merely offered Nina the opportunity to aim another poisoned dart.

      ‘How does it feel to be second-best? And know your inherited share in the family firm is the sole reason for the marriage?’

      ‘Considering Carlo is due to inherit his share in the family firm, perhaps you should ask him the same question.’

      Successfully fielded. Nina didn’t like it. Her eyes narrowed, and the smile moved up a notch in artificial brilliance.

      ‘You’re the one who has to compete with Bianca’s ghost,’ Nina offered silkily, and Aysha waited for the punchline. ‘All cats are alike in the dark, darling. Didn’t you know?’

      Oh, my. This was getting dirty. ‘Really?’ Her cheeks hurt from keeping a smile pinned in place. ‘Perhaps you should try it with the lights on, some time.’

      As scores went, it hardly rated a mention. And the victory was short-lived, for it was doubtful Nina would allow anyone to gain an upper hand for long.

      ‘Aysha.’ Luisa appeared at her side. ‘Teresa has just been telling me about the flowers for the church. Orchids make a lovely display, and the colour combination will be exquisite.’

      She was a guest of honour, the focus her wedding day. It was easy to slip into animated mode and discuss details. Only the wedding dress and the cake were taboo.

      Except talking and answering questions merely reinforced how much there still was to do, and how essential the liaison with the wedding organiser Teresa had chosen to co-ordinate everything.

      The invitation responses were all in, the seating arrangements were in their final planning stage. According to Teresa, any one of the two little flower girls and two page boys could fall victim to a malicious virus, or contract mumps, measles or chicken pox. Alternately, one or all could become paralysed with fright on the day and freeze half-way down the aisle.

      At ages three and four, anything was possible.

      ‘My flower girl scattered rose petals down the aisle perfectly at rehearsal, only to take three steps forward on the day, tip the entire contents of the basket on the carpet, and run crying to her mother,’ recalled one of the guests.

      Aysha remembered the incident, and another wedding where the page boy had carried the satin ring-cushion with such pride and care, then refused to give it up at the appropriate moment. A tussle had ensued, followed by tears and a tantrum.

      It had been amusing at the time, and she really didn’t care if one of the children made a mistake, or missed their cue. It was a wedding, not a movie which relied on talented actors to perform a part.

      Her mother, she knew, didn’t hold the same view.

      Aysha glanced towards Carlo, and felt the familiar pull of her senses. Dark, well-groomed hair, a strong shaped head. Broad shoulders accentuated by perfect tailoring.

      A slight inclination of his head brought his profile into focus. The wide, sculpted bone structure, the strong jaw. Well-defined cheekbones, and the glimpse of his mouth.

      Fascinated, she watched each movement, her eyes clinging to the shape of him, aware just how he felt without the constriction of clothes. She was familiar with his body’s musculature, the feel and scent of his skin.

      At this precise moment she would have given anything to cross to his side and have his arm curve round her waist. She could lean in against him, and savour the anticipation of what would happen when they were alone.

      He was fond of her, she knew. There were occasions when he completely disconcerted her by appearing to read her mind. But that special empathy between two lovers wasn’t there. No matter how desperately she wanted it to be.

      Did he know she could tell the moment he entered a room? She didn’t have to see him, or hear his voice. A developed sixth sense alerted her of his presence, and her body reacted as if he’d reached out and touched her.

      All the fine hairs moved on the surface of her skin, and the back of her neck tingled in recognition.

      Damnable, she cursed silently.

      It was after eleven when the first of the guests took their leave, and almost midnight when Teresa and Giuseppe indicated an intention to depart.

      Aysha thanked their hosts, smiled until her face hurt, and quivered slightly when Carlo caught hold of her hand as they followed her parents down the steps to their respective cars.

      ‘Goodnight, darling.’ Teresa leaned forward and brushed her daughter’s cheek.

      Aysha stood