“Whatever made me think you would assume the mantle of a docile wife?”

Hannah drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I didn’t promise to obey.”

“I vividly recall your insistence the word should be deleted from our vows,” Miguel acknowledged.

“We made a deal,” she reminded him, all too aware of the circumstances that had initiated their marriage.

“So we did,” Miguel drawled.

HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. And animal lover, she says her terrier and new Persian kitten consider her study to be as much theirs as hers.

The Marriage Arrangement
Helen Bianchin

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

THE grey skies held a heavy electric potency that threatened to unleash cacophonous fury at any moment.

Hannah turned on the car’s lights, and flinched as a fork of lightning rent the skyline, followed seconds later by a roll of thunder.

She could almost smell the imminent onset of rain, and seconds later huge drops hit the windscreen in a rapidly increasing deluge that soon made driving hazardous.

A muttered curse escaped her lips. Great. A summer storm during peak-hour traffic was just what she needed. As if she weren’t already late, with available time minimising by the second.

Miguel would be pleased at the delay, she decided grimly.

Almost on cue, her cell-phone rang, and she activated the speaker button.

‘Where in hell are you?’ a slightly accented male voice demanded with chilling softness.

Speak of the devil! ‘Your concern is overwhelming,’ she returned with silk-edged mockery.

‘Answer the question.’

Rain sheeted down, reducing visibility to a point where she felt cocooned in isolation. ‘Caught in traffic.’

There were a few seconds’ silence, and she had a mental image of him checking his watch. ‘Where, precisely?’

‘Does it matter?’ A resort to wicked humour prompted her to add, ‘I doubt even you can organise some way to get me out of here.’

Miguel Santanas was a law unto himself, with sufficient wealth and power to command anyone at will.

Andalusian-born, he’d been educated in Paris, and spent several years based in New York managing the North American arm of his father’s business empire.

‘You could have closed the boutique early, missed the worst of traffic, and been home by now,’ Miguel said drily, and she felt anger begin to stir.

The boutique was hers. She’d studied art and design, worked in fashion houses in Paris and Rome, only to walk out on a disastrous love affair three years ago and return home. Within months she’d leased premises, stocked the boutique with exclusive designer wear, and at the age of twenty-seven she had built up an exclusive clientele.

‘I doubt one of my best clients would have appreciated being shoved out the door,’ she returned with marked cynicism.

‘Whatever made me think you would assume the mantle of a docile wife?’ Miguel offered in a musing drawl.

She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I didn’t promise to obey.’

‘I vividly recall your insistence the word be deleted from our vows.’

‘We made a deal,’ she reminded, all too aware of the circumstances that had initiated their marriage.

Two equally prominent, independently wealthy families whose fortunes were interwoven in an international conglomerate. What better method of cementing it and taking it into the next generation than to have the son of one family marry the daughter of the other?

It had taken subtle manipulation to entice the son to relocate to Melbourne from New York, whereupon an intricate strategy had been put in place to ensure Miguel and Hannah were frequent guests at a variety of social functions.

The master parental plan had involved anonymous tips to the media, whose printed speculation had seeded the idea and waived the need for further familial interference.

Hannah, tiring of dealing with some of the city’s eligible and not-so-eligible bachelors bent on adding her wealth to their own, was not averse to the security marriage offered, with the proviso she continued to maintain her independence. Love wasn’t an issue, and it seemed sensible to choose a husband with her head, rather than her heart.

Despite the family business connection, ten years’ difference in age, his boarding-school education both in Australia and overseas ensured their paths had rarely met, and she had been only eleven when he’d transferred to New York.

‘So we did,’ Miguel drawled. ‘Have you reason to complain, amante?’

‘No,’ she responded evenly.

Miguel was an attractive man, whose strong masculine features and tall broad-shouldered frame portrayed a leashed strength emphasised by a dramatic mesh of latent sensuality and an animalistic sense of power.

At thirty-seven, he echoed his eminent success in the business arena in the bedroom. She hadn’t known his equal as a lover. And wouldn’t want to, she added mentally, for he satisfied needs she hadn’t been aware existed.

Even thinking about his lovemaking made her nerve-ends curl, and sent heat flaring through her veins.

A sudden horn-blast alerted her attention as the car in front inched forward, then came to a halt.

In the distance she heard the wail of a siren, soon joined by another, and her stomach twisted as she envisaged the probability of a car crash up ahead, the twisted metal, the resultant injuries.

‘I think there’s been an accident,’ Hannah revealed quietly. ‘It might take a while for me to get through.’

‘Where are you?’ Miguel demanded.

‘On Toorak Road, about a mile from home.’

‘Drive carefully. I’ll phone Graziella and tell her we’ll be late.’

‘Do that,’ she responded with dulcet charm. It wouldn’t create a drama if they arrived fifteen minutes after the specified time. Their hosts were known to allow up to an hour for their guests to mix and mingle before serving dinner.

The lights changed, and Hannah offered a silent prayer in thanks as the traffic began to move slowly forward.

The Deity, however, was not in a benevolent mood, and consequently it was almost six when she turned into the leafy avenue leading to the remote-controlled gates guarding entrance to Miguel’s spacious double-storeyed home.

Landscaped gardens and manicured lawns provided a perfect background for an imposing residence set back from the road. Spanish in design, with thick cream-plastered walls, high arched windows, and a terracotta-tiled roof.

Hannah urged the white Porsche up the curved driveway at speed, and brought the vehicle to a swift halt beneath the wide portico.

Heavy panelled double doors opened the instant she slid from behind the wheel, and she spared the housekeeper Miguel employed a warm smile as she entered the foyer.

‘Thanks, Sofia.’ It had saved her fumbling for her key and bypassing the security alarm system. ‘Would you mind asking Antonio to garage my car?’ Sofia’s husband took care of the grounds and the cars while Sofia tended to the meals and the house five days out of seven.

‘Miguel is already upstairs?’ At Sofia’s verbal affirmative, she moved quickly towards the wide curving stairs leading to the upper floor.

Seconds later she gained the semi-circular gallery bounded by ornately designed balustrades. Five bedrooms, each with en suite, plus a large informal sitting room comprised the upper level. Original paintings were strategically placed on the walls, and there were occasional tables, magnificent ceramic urns and arte-facts set in majestic splendour along the entire gallery.

The main bedroom was situated at the front of the house, and she moved quickly towards it, freeing the buttons on her jacket with one hand while slipping off one heeled shoe with the other.

Seconds later she entered the spacious bedroom with its elegant furniture and separate walk-in robes.

Miguel was in the process of fixing a cuff-link, and she took in the look of him, his stance, the superbly tailored trousers, white shirt, his broad, chiselled features, and the dark well-groomed hair.

Beneath his sophisticated façade there lay the heart of a warrior. Compelling, dangerous, she added silently.

At that moment he glanced towards her, caught her expression, and raised one eyebrow in silent query.

Eyes so dark, they were almost black, met hers, and she fought to control the way her blood coursed through her veins like quicksilver.

Was he aware how he affected her? Sexually, without a doubt, she acknowledged wryly. He had the touch, the skill, to turn her into a mindless wanton, for in his arms she lacked the power to be anything else.

Get a grip, she mentally chastised as she crossed towards her wardrobe.

‘Twenty minutes?’ Hannah intimated, extracting a black knee-length gown with a fine lace-patterned overlay. Stiletto-heeled black shoes, sheer black stockings. The effect would be understated style, and offset her honey-coloured skin and blonde hair.

‘Try for fifteen.’

She made it in just under twenty, emerging into the bedroom freshly showered, dressed, her make-up complete. It took only minutes to step into her gown and close the zip fastener, then add minimum jewellery.

‘Done.’ She caught up an evening purse, and offered Miguel a sparkling smile. ‘Shall we leave?’

Together they traversed the gallery and began descending the stairs. Even though she was in heels, her head barely topped his shoulders.

‘New perfume?’

Hannah met his faintly quizzical expression and matched it with one of her own. ‘A woman’s weapon,’ she asserted solemnly, and suppressed the feather-light shiver that slid across the surface of her skin as Miguel reached out and traced a slow finger along her collar-bone.

‘You have no need of one.’

Her smile tilted the edge of her mouth. ‘Are you seducing me?’

One eyebrow arched, and his teeth gleamed white as he slanted her a teasing look. ‘Am I succeeding?’

Oh yes. But she wasn’t about to tell him so. ‘We have a dinner party to attend, remember?’

His husky chuckle almost undid her. ‘Anticipation, querida,’ he drawled. ‘Is a game lovers play.’

‘Is that how you regard our marriage?’ Hannah queried lightly. ‘As a game?’

Together they crossed the splendid foyer and made their way along a hallway leading to the internal garage.

‘You know better than that.’

‘Do I?’ The words slipped out before she thought to stop them.

‘You want I should show you?’ Miguel countered with silky indolence as he paused to face her.

‘I imagine you will, later.’

There was something in her voice, some indefinable quality that caused his eyes to narrow slightly and search for something beyond her carefully composed features.

She possessed a vulnerability beneath the sophisticated façade, a genuine empathy that held no artifice. A rare trait among the women of his acquaintance. He doubted she was aware he could define each tone of her voice, every expression, no matter how fleeting.

Tonight, for whatever reason, she was on edge, and he sought to alleviate it a little.

He lifted a hand and cupped her nape, tilting her head, then he covered her mouth with his own in an evocative tasting that brought forth a faint sighing sound as she leaned into him and kissed him back.

How long did it last? Seconds, minutes? She had no sense of time, only the feeling of regret as he broke contact.

His eyes were dark, unfathomable, and she was conscious of every breath she took, each beat of her heart as it thudded in her breast.

‘There’s a difference between sex and lovemaking, mi mujer,’ Miguel said gently. ‘You might do well to remember it.’ He smoothed the pad of his thumb along the lower curve of her lip, and proffered a faint smile. ‘You have no lipstick.’

Hannah gathered her wits together quickly. ‘While you, hombre, have a mouth rimmed with hazelnut noisette.’ She considered him carefully. ‘It’s not a good look.’

He laughed, a soft, deep, husky sound that curled round her heart and tugged a little. ‘Minx. I don’t suppose you have a tissue in that minuscule bag you carry?’

‘Of course,’ she said solemnly, extracting a tissue and handing it to him. ‘I am always prepared for any eventuality.’

He used the tissue and discarded it, deactivated the car alarm, then unlocked the door and she slid into the passenger seat. Restoring colour to her lips took only seconds, and it was done by the time Miguel slipped behind the wheel.

Minutes later he eased the powerful Jaguar towards the remote-controlled gates, picking up speed as he gained the street.

Summer daylight saving time bathed their surroundings with a soft golden glow, and while the heat of the day still hovered it was offset by the car’s air-conditioning.

The rain-storm had passed, the wet bitumen the only evidence of its brief intensity.

‘Who are our fellow guests? Do you know?’ Hannah queried idly.

‘Forewarned is forearmed?’ Miguel posed as he paused at an intersection, and she offered him a faintly wry smile.

‘Something like that.’ There were a few socialites of her acquaintance who delighted in setting a cat among the pigeons, then observing the result. It was very cleverly orchestrated, and provided amusing entertainment to the perpetrators.

A few years ago she had been an object of their speculation. Gossip, she amended, was unavoidable, but she detested any deliberate attempt to hurt or offend.

‘Graziella mentioned Angelina and Roberto Moro, Suzanne and Peter Trenton,’ Miguel relayed, shooting her a quick glance as the lights changed and traffic began to move. ‘Esteban also has an invitation.’

Two partners in a prominent law firm and their wives, Hannah mused, together with Miguel’s widowed father.

The del Santos invariably invited between ten and fourteen guests to share their table, and rarely revealed the identity of everyone attending. Graziella always commented that it made the evening interesting.

Hannah wondered who Graziella had invited to partner her charming father-in-law. A widow? Perhaps a divorcee?

‘Is there any earth-shattering news I should be aware of?’ Hannah queried as the car cleared another intersection.

‘In the need to conduct scintillating conversation?’

Hannah bit back a wry retort. ‘It negates any nasty little surprises.’

‘Such as?’

‘The fall of a prominent businessman due to tax avoidance. His wife cranked up her credit card in several élite boutiques.’

Miguel spared her a sharp look. ‘Yours was one of them?’

‘You got it in one.’ It wasn’t a fortune, she could write off the loss, but it left a nasty taste in her mouth that someone she trusted had deliberately ripped her off.

‘Leave it with me.’

Resentment flared. ‘I can handle it.’

‘You don’t need to,’ he responded smoothly.

Hannah wanted to hit him. ‘My business,’ she said firmly. ‘My problem.’

It could wait, Miguel decided, aware that pursuing it now would only exacerbate the situation.

Kew was an old, well-established suburb with large stately mansions, and Miguel turned the car into a leafy avenue, then halted outside an impressive set of gates leading to Graziella and Enrico del Santo’s imposing residence.

‘We’ll discuss this later.’ The window slid down and he pressed the intercom, gave his name, then waited as the gates swung open.

‘The responsibility is mine, the action my decision,’ she insisted as he parked the car on a wide pebbled apron adjacent the main entrance.

‘Independence in a woman is an admirable quality,’ Miguel intoned silkily. ‘But there are times when you take it too far.’

He slid from behind the wheel, and she stepped out, then closed the door.

‘And a man’s indomitable will is a pain in the butt.’

‘Pax,’ Miguel slanted coolly, and she offered him a brilliant smile.

‘Of course, amante,’ Hannah offered in a deliberately facetious response. ‘I wouldn’t dream of tarnishing our image.’

‘Behave,’ he admonished as they mounted the few steps to the massive double entrance doors.

They swung open as they reached them, and a tall well-built man in his fifties offered an affectionate greeting.

‘Hannah.’ Enrico leant forward and pressed his lips lightly to one cheek, then the other, and pumped Miguel’s extended hand. ‘Come through to the lounge.’

As they drew close it was possible to hear the light hum of conversation, and Enrico led them into a large spacious room filled with heavy antique chairs and sofas grouped into comfortable facing sets.

Men stood, resplendent in formal dinner suits, and each of the women resembled a model out of Vogue, the epitome in elegance and cosmetic perfection.

Hannah let her gaze skim a few familiar faces, her smile genuinely warm as she moved forward. She was one of them, born into established old money, educated and groomed to become part of an élite social clique. Hell, she’d even married into it.

Graziella enveloped them warmly, then she placed an arm through one each of theirs and drew them towards the centre of the room.

‘You know most everyone. Except some dear people I very much want you to meet. They are visiting from Europe this summer.’

Graziella and Enrico had friends in almost every city in the world, and frequently entertained guests in their home.

‘Aimee Dalfour, and her niece, Camille,’ Graziella indicated in introduction. ‘Hannah and Miguel Santanas.’

Camille was tall, slender, and startlingly beautiful, with hair that cascaded way down past her shoulders in a fall of lustrous sable. Exquisitely applied make-up, flawless textured skin, and a body to die for. Add a designer gown and shoes, expensive jewellery, and the result was drop-dead gorgeous.

‘Miguel,’ Camille purred in a sultry accented drawl. ‘C’est opportune.’ She extended her hand and silently dared him to take it, her dark eyes simmering with blatant challenge.

This woman was trouble, Hannah decided with a sinking heart. Camille’s fascination with Miguel was glaringly obvious. Also apparent was her intention to charm.

Hannah unconsciously held her breath as instinct caused all her fine body hairs to rise in protective self-defence, watching as Miguel brushed his lips to the manicured fingers, then released them.

‘Hannah,’ Camille acknowledged with pseudo politeness, and returned her attention to Miguel.

‘Enrico will get you a drink,’ Graziella informed them, ever the benevolent hostess. ‘What would you like?’

Hannah was tempted to request something exotic, but she hadn’t eaten since midday and then only a yoghurt followed an hour later by an apple. Alcohol on an empty stomach was not conducive to a clear head.

‘Thank you. Orange juice,’ she requested, and glimpsed Camille’s faint moue at her choice.

‘You don’t drink?’ she queried in a tone that indicated not to imbibe was a social faux pax.

Hannah inclined her head. ‘In this instance I’d prefer to wait and have wine with dinner.’

‘You do not have the head for it?’

Hannah chose not to rise to the bait, and merely smiled.

Minutes later she sipped the cool liquid from a stemmed goblet, aware Camille excelled in her role as temptress.

Keep it up, Hannah warned silently, and I’ll scratch your eyes out!

At that moment Miguel placed an arm along the back of her waist. A gesture that didn’t seem to have any effect at all.

The brush of beautifully lacquered nails as the Frenchwoman touched Miguel’s sleeve. The deliberately seductive smile. The promise lurking beneath those impossibly long curled eyelashes.

Why, she was practically eating him alive!

Hannah decided enough was enough. She didn’t have to stand here and watch Camille’s blatant seduction.

‘If you’ll excuse me?’ She offered Camille a stunning smile, let it drift to settle on her inimitable husband for a few seconds before she moved away a few paces to join her father-in-law.

‘May I say you look beautiful tonight?’ Esteban complimented lightly as he leaned forward and brushed his lips to her cheek.

‘Thank you,’ Hannah responded gently. ‘It’s a few weeks since you’ve been to the house. You must have dinner with us soon. We don’t see enough of you.’

His smile was affectionately warm. ‘Gracias. But you know how it is?’ He gave a light shrug, and she couldn’t resist teasing him a little.

‘A full social calendar,’ she said gravely. ‘And several women vying for your attention?’

‘Ah, you flatter me.’

‘No,’ she assured him kindly. ‘You’re a very nice man, of whom I’m very fond.’ And one any woman in her right mind would snap up in a minute. Except his late wife Isabella held a special place in his heart, and he had no desire to find a substitute.

A mutual acquaintance joined them, and after a few minutes she moved away.

‘I think,’ a light feminine voice suggested, ‘you might need to sharpen your claws.’

Hannah turned towards Suzanne Trenton. ‘Really? And use them on whom? Miguel?’

‘Camille, darling. There are other methods a wife can use to tame her husband.’

It was meaningless repartee, spoken with jesting cynicism for the benefit of mutual amusement.

‘Such as?’ Hannah ventured, and Suzanne gave a soft laugh.

‘Expensive jewellery.’

‘Do enlighten me,’ Miguel drawled as he threaded his fingers through those of his wife.

Hannah stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then she allowed her gaze to meet his. ‘Pink and white diamonds,’ she fabricated. ‘A drop necklace and matching earrings.’ A bewitching smile tilted the edge of her lips. ‘They’re quite beautiful.’

‘Is this a wifely hint?’ His mouth slanted into a humorous curve, at variance with the still watchfulness evident as he raked her features, noting the over-bright smile, her tense stance.

At that moment Graziella announced dinner was about to be served, and began directing guests towards the dining room.

‘There was no need for you to desert me,’ Miguel intoned mildly as they moved across the room.

‘You appeared to be doing quite well on your own.’

‘Careful, querida,’ he drawled musingly. ‘Your claws are showing.’

She gave him a winsome smile. ‘Why, amante,’ she offered with quiet emphasis, ‘I haven’t even begun to unsheathe them.’

If Graziella seated them close to Camille, she’d scream. The gods couldn’t be that unkind, could they?

It appeared they could.

‘I thought I’d place you opposite Camille,’ Graziella remarked as she suggested prearranged seating arrangements. ‘Hannah studied French and lived in Paris for more than a year,’ she informed Camille graciously. ‘As you’re both in the fashion industry, you’ll have much in common.’

Oh, my, this was going to be a fun evening!

CHAPTER TWO

‘GRAZIELLA tells me you have a boutique on Toorak Road,’ Camille began soon after they were seated. ‘I must call in and check it out.’

‘Please do,’ Hannah said civilly, for what else could she say? Miguel was engaged in conversation with Peter Trenton, exploring the mores of legalese.

‘Do you carry a range of accessories?’

A hired waitress began serving the first course, a delicate clear broth.

‘A small selection of scarves, belts,’ Hannah elaborated. ‘Exclusive hosiery.’

Camille lifted an expressive eyebrow. ‘Miguel has no objection?’

‘To what, specifically?’ she countered, reluctant to play Camille’s game.

‘Your little hobby.’

Considering the hours she worked, the responsibility to her clients, the sheer expertise required in running a successful business, the Frenchwoman’s words were an insult…as they were meant to be.

Hannah summoned a sweet smile. ‘He’s relieved I have something constructive to do with my time.’

‘Surely he would prefer you to be available for him?’

Hannah looked at the Frenchwoman, caught the avaricious gleam apparent, and opted for blatant honesty. ‘On call to accommodate his slightest whim?’

Camille spread her hands expressively. ‘Why…naturally, darling. If you don’t, there are others who will oblige.’

‘Such as you?’ There was nothing like going direct for the jugular!

Camille appeared to choose her words with care. ‘He’s a very wealthy man, is he not?’

‘And wealth is everything?’

Camille’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It wields a power of its own.’

‘A reciprocal power.’ There was no need for pretence. It was no secret the Santanas-Martinez marriage had been conveniently arranged to legally combine two family fortunes.

‘Power versus sexual attraction,’ Camille pondered. ‘Which would Miguel choose, do you think?’

Hannah held Camille’s gaze, and discarded subtlety. ‘I would say he already has.’

The other woman glanced at the wide baguette diamond wedding ring adorning Hannah’s left hand. ‘Most men will stray, given sufficient provocation.’

She wanted to dispute the words. Insist with total knowledge that Miguel was not most men, and his fidelity and loyalty to her were a given.

The soup plates were removed and a starter served. Hannah looked at the artistically displayed smoked salmon dribbled with a caper sauce nestling in a nest of finely cut salad, and felt her appetite diminish.

Tension curled inside her stomach, and she took a sip of wine, then picked up her fork and attempted to do justice to the starter.

Miguel was an attractive man, possessed of a primitive masculinity that drew women like a magnet. There had been occasions when she’d been mildly amused by other women’s attempts at coquetry, all too aware the flirtation was merely a harmless game.

Instinct warned her that Camille didn’t fit into the harmless category, and that bothered her more than she cared to admit, for it raised questions to which she had no answers.

Could Miguel be tempted? Would he be sufficiently cavalier to indulge in an extra-marital affair? Somehow she didn’t think so, but did she really know?

Theirs was a mutually convenient marriage that had business as its base. Love wasn’t an issue…at least, not on Miguel’s part. He cared for her, and she told herself it was enough.

One thing she was sure of—she wanted a relationship built on trust and loyalty. Not fabrication and empty excuses.

‘Not hungry?’

Hannah turned towards her husband, met his steady gaze and glimpsed an indefinable quality in the depth of those dark eyes.

She summoned a light smile. ‘Concern, Miguel?’ His close proximity had a disturbing effect, for it made her aware of his exclusive brand of cologne meshing with freshly laundered cotton. His olive-toned skin was smooth, yet there was the hint of shadow despite the fact he’d only shaved an hour before.

‘For you? Always.’

‘Protecting your investment,’ she ventured quietly, and caught the faintest glimmer of anger evident. So fleeting, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

‘Of course,’ he agreed silkily, and she tried to view the arrival of a superb paella with enthusiasm.

Camille seemed bent on engaging Miguel in conversation, and Hannah turned to the guest seated next to her and found herself caught up in an animated dissertation on the merits of boarding school education within Australia versus exclusive establishments overseas. Something which lasted until the paella was eaten, the plates removed, and a delicate seafood stew was served.

‘Graziella mentioned you have an interest in the fashion scene,’ Hannah ventured, in a bid to distract Camille’s attention from Miguel.

‘I model.’

Two words that supposedly said it all, Hannah reflected. ‘Any particular fashion house?’

Camille proffered a haughty smile. ‘Whoever offers the highest fee.’

‘I was in Paris for the latest season’s showing,’ she mentioned conversationally, aware she hadn’t seen Camille on the catwalks. Such striking looks wouldn’t have escaped her notice, she was sure.

‘I did Milan and Rome.’ Camille lifted a hand and smoothed back a fall of hair in a gesture designed to focus attention on beautifully lacquered nails and her superb facial bone structure.

It had undoubtedly taken her hours to dress and perfect her make-up. Far removed from the nineteen minutes Hannah had allowed herself!

The main course comprised pescado a la sal served with a delicious salad, and she ate a small portion of the delicate fish flesh with contrived enjoyment.

‘I believe we have a mutual friend,’ Camille commented as Hannah finished the last of her salad.

It seemed possible, given their combined knowledge of the European fashion industry. ‘I’m sure we have,’ Hannah agreed as she lifted her goblet and took a sip of excellent white wine.

‘Luc Dubois.’ The name silvered the air, no less dramatic for its calculated delivery.

Hannah was conscious of a stillness at the table, as if all conversation had suddenly stopped…or was that just her imagination?

Her fingers tightened fractionally as she slowly set the goblet down onto the table. Miguel didn’t move, but she could sense the flex of his body muscles beneath the expensive tailoring.

‘Luc is not one of my friends,’ she said quietly. ‘He lost any claim to that distinction three years ago.’

The Frenchwoman arched an eyebrow in obvious disbelief. ‘He particularly asked me to convey his regards.’

She could simply incline her head and retreat. Except such an action would play into Camille’s hand, and there was something happening here that warned of a need for confrontation.

‘I find that difficult to believe,’ Hannah relayed evenly, aware that none of the guests spoke a word. ‘We didn’t part on good terms.’

‘Really? He spoke of you in quite—’ she paused deliberately, allowed her eyes to widen, and then appeared to choose her words ‘—glowingly graphic terms.’

This was a calculated attack, and Hannah felt incredibly angry that Camille had chosen the verbal strike in public. To what purpose?

‘Luc was a European playboy who preyed on any woman who could fund his expensive lifestyle,’ Hannah relayed with a calm she didn’t feel. ‘I walked out on him as soon as I discovered he was a superficial leech.’ She lifted her shoulders in a light dismissive shrug. ‘End of story. The press made much of it at the time.’ She even summoned a faint smile, albeit that it held a degree of cynicism. ‘The Australian heiress and the French photographer.’

She held Camille’s gaze. ‘If you want all the details, I’m sure you could look it up in any of the media archives.’ So be damned, she concluded silently. It was old news, past news, and her only regret was that she’d been very cleverly fooled by a practised master of deceit.

‘Oh, dear,’ Camille declared with a stab at contrition. ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t realise…’ She trailed to a halt.

No, you’re not, Hannah thought, and yes, you already knew. You just wanted to create an awkward situation.

Miguel covered Hannah’s hand with his own, then he leaned towards her and brushed his lips to her temple. ‘Brava.’

His action deflated the air of tension, and within seconds everyone began talking at once.

Dessert was served, and Hannah forced herself to do justice to the tocino de cielo, a rich custard. She sipped excellent vintage wine, conversed with fellow guests, and gave every pretence of having a wonderful time.

She laughed at humorous anecdotes, commiserated with the Trentons at the difficulty of getting their two-month-old daughter enrolled into an élite private school, and attempted to ignore Camille’s frequent slip in resorting to evocatively delivered French. Did the Frenchwoman imagine no one else understood? Or perhaps she didn’t care if they did.

Miguel was fluent in French and Italian, as well as his native Spanish. Hannah had the advantage of the former two, but, even if she’d had no knowledge of the spoken word, the cadence of Camille’s voice and its provocative delivery left little doubt Miguel was her target.

To his credit, Miguel did nothing to encourage the attention. But after almost three hours of observing the coveted glances, the blatant verbal seduction, Hannah was tiring of the pretence.

Smiling, when all she wanted to do was render Camille some form of injury. Her jaw ached from it, and her palms itched with the need to slap the Frenchwoman’s face.

Coffee was served in the lounge, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with frustrated irritation when Camille wandered over to join them.

Dear heaven, the woman was persistent!

‘It would be so—’ Camille paused fractionally ‘—pleasant,’ she stated, ‘if you were to include me as a guest, socially.’ She gave an expressive smile. ‘My aunt, her friends…’ She trailed off, and her slender shoulders lifted in a typical Gallic gesture. ‘We have different interests, comprendez-vous?’

Hardly surprising, considering Camille’s sole interest appeared to be Miguel!

‘How long will you be staying?’ Hannah asked, hoping the visit would be extremely short!

The Frenchwoman lifted an expressive hand, then let it fall. ‘I have no immediate plans. A few weeks, several. Who is to say?’

‘I am sure Graziella has made arrangements to entertain you,’ Miguel drawled, and received a sultry smile.

‘One must hope you are also included in such…’ she trailed deliberately ‘…arrangements.’

Not if I can help it, Hannah decided as she endeavoured to subdue her anger.

Miguel took Hannah’s empty cup and placed it with his own onto a nearby side-table. His expression was polite as he caught hold of his wife’s hand and inclined his head towards Camille.

‘If you’ll excuse us?’

‘You are leaving? It is so early,’ the Frenchwoman protested.

‘Goodnight,’ Miguel bade smoothly, only to discover Camille didn’t give up easily.

‘You must both be my guests at dinner. Together with Graziella and Enrico, my aunt.’ She paused, and offered a sweet smile. ‘Miguel, you must bring Esteban.’ She cast Miguel a deliberately seductive look. ‘We shall make a date, yes?’

‘We’ll check our social diary and get back to you,’ Hannah intimated smoothly, aware this was one engagement she had no intention of keeping.

Camille’s expression didn’t change, but Hannah glimpsed a brief malevolent gleam in those dark eyes, and felt the beginnings of unease.

Cynical bantering on occasion was part of the game a number of people played, for it formed amusing repartee. But instinct warned Hannah the Frenchwoman played by no one’s rules but her own.

‘Nothing to say, querida?’ Miguel drawled as he eased the Jaguar out from the driveway.

She turned towards him, saw the beam of oncoming headlights cast angles and planes to his strong-boned features, and endeavoured to inject amusement into her tone.

‘You expect me to condone Camille’s blatant behaviour?’

‘I could almost imagine you are jealous.’

He was amused, damn him!

‘Am I supposed to answer that?’ she demanded coolly.

He spared her a quick glance, caught the fiery blue glare aimed in his direction, then returned his attention to the road.

‘It might be interesting to hear you try,’ he declared indolently, and she burst into angry speech.

‘What would you have me say?’ Her fingers clenched over the clasp of her evening purse. ‘That I objected to the way Camille monopolised your attention? And flirted outrageously.’ She drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. ‘Dammit, she has designs on you! Anyone would have had to be blind not to notice it!’

‘Should I be flattered?’

‘Are you?’ She held her breath waiting for his reply.

‘No,’ Miguel declared with unruffled ease.

‘Hold that thought,’ Hannah said darkly.

‘Why, amante?’ he teased mercilessly as he gained the main street. ‘What would you do if I succumbed to her charms?’

‘Commit grievous bodily harm.’ And die a little, she added silently. ‘Then divorce you.’

He cast her a sombre glance. ‘Extreme measures.’

‘What would you do if I showed an interest in another man?’ Hannah retorted, unable to resist taunting, ‘Turn the cheek and look the other way?’

‘I’d kill you.’ His voice held a dangerous softness that sent shivers feathering a path down her spine.

‘Wonderful,’ she remarked facetiously. ‘A few hours in Camille’s company, and we’re not only arguing, we’re threatening divorce and murder.’

The Frenchwoman was a witch, Miguel acknowledged grimly, and, unless he was mistaken, a very dangerous one.

‘While we’re on this particular subject,’ Hannah continued, ‘what importance do you place on Camille’s deliberate mention of my bête noir?’

‘Luc Dubois?’

‘That’s the one,’ she conceded.

‘Do you still retain an interest in him?’

‘No,’ Hannah declared vehemently. Even now she found it difficult to accept the Frenchman had penetrated her guard. She, who could tag a man’s superficial charm in an instant, aware his main interest was her family’s wealth, not her. Except Luc had been incredibly patient, known which buttons to push, and when. She’d fallen into his arms like a peach ripe for the picking.

‘So sure, Hannah?’ Miguel pursued silkily.

How could he ask that, when Luc didn’t even begin to compare with the man who was now her husband?

‘Yes.’ She turned towards him. ‘You have my word.’

‘Gracias.’

‘Such is the recipe for a happy marriage.’

‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you, mi mujer,’ Miguel drawled.

‘Ah, but I love this honesty we share. It is très bonne, don’t you agree?’

‘I can think of a more apt description.’

It didn’t take long to reach their tree-lined street and traverse the driveway. Minutes later she followed Miguel indoors.

‘Get the credit slips from your briefcase,’ he instructed as they reached the foyer. At her puzzled look, he elaborated, ‘The client who ran up debt all over town. I’ll take care of it.’

‘No, you won’t,’ she said emphatically. ‘I can do it myself.’

‘Why?’ he queried steadily. ‘When I can do it so much more easily?’

She flung him a baleful glare. ‘Because I’m independent.’

‘And stubborn,’ Miguel added.

‘No,’ she disagreed. ‘Self-sufficient.’

‘Tenacious.’

‘That, too,’ she admitted, then allowed, ‘If I have a problem, I promise I’ll call on you.’

It would have to suffice, Miguel conceded. ‘Are we going to stand here bandying words, or do we go to bed?’

She felt inclined to deny him. To turn her back and ascend the stairs alone. Yet to deny him was to deny herself. And she needed the reassurance of his touch, the possession of her body. To feel, in the darkness of the night, that she meant more to him than just part of his life as a convenient wife. To pretend for a while that the marriage was real, and what they shared was special, not just very good sex.

‘Oh, bed,’ she agreed. ‘Definitely.’

‘Minx,’ he declared. ‘What if I’m tired?’

‘Are you?’ she asked seriously, then wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I wouldn’t think of overtaxing your strength.’

He laughed, and the sound curled round her nerve-ends as he caught hold of her hand and led her upstairs. ‘Let’s see who cries wolf first, shall we?’

This, Hannah breathed shakily minutes later as Miguel slid the zip fastening free from her gown, was like entering a sensual heaven. He had the touch, the knowledge, the skill, to divine a woman’s needs.

And fulfil them, she added with a silent gasp as the gown slid in a silken heap to the floor. The light brush of his fingertips trailed an evocative path over sensitised skin as he eased the silken briefs down over her thighs.

She stepped free of them and at the same time discarded the heeled shoes that added four inches to her height.

He was wearing too many clothes, and she pushed his jacket from his shoulders, tugged at his tie, then freed shirt buttons with restless speed.

His lips settled at the sensitive hollow at the edge of her neck, and sensation arrowed through her body as he used his tongue and his teeth to tease a tantalising kiss that had her arching towards him.

His shirt fell onto the carpet, and her fingers feverishly attacked the buckle on his belt, then tended to the zip on his trousers.

Miguel’s contribution to shucking his clothes was to step out of his shoes and pull off his socks.

She reached for his briefs, and slid them free, awed by the state of his arousal. It fascinated her that such a part of man’s anatomy could drive a woman wild, and provide such pleasure.

Unbidden, she drew the pads of her fingers lightly over its silken length, caressing with a sense of captive thrall.

‘Amada,’ Miguel growled softly. ‘If you don’t want to be tossed down onto the bed and possessed without delay, I suggest you stop that now.’

She lifted her head and offered him an infinitely sweet smile. ‘Why?’

He uttered a faint groan. ‘Madre de Dios.’ The words left his lips in a ragged supplication as he dragged her close.

His mouth covered hers in a kiss that drugged her senses and tore at the very fabric of her soul.

Control, she had none. There were only the man, the moment, and an intensity of emotions so overwhelming she simply held on and joined him as he took her to the heights and beyond before free-falling down to a state of exotic warmth and satiation.

Her body felt like a finely tuned instrument that had been played by a virtuoso. Exultant, still clinging to the sweet sorcery of a master’s exquisite touch.

She loved the feel of him, his sheer strength and passion, tempered by a control she sorely wanted to break. What would it be like to experience his unbridled lovemaking? To crash through the barriers of restraint and be taken with a raw primitive hunger that knew no bounds?

Dear Lord. Just thinking about it sent renewed heat racing through her veins and had her moving restlessly against him.

His lips brushed her temple, almost as if he were attuned to the depths of her innermost needs, and his arms tightened as she found his mouth with her own.

This time it was she who nurtured his desire and sent it spiralling towards hungry passion in a mesmeric coupling that left them both slick with sensual sweat and fighting to regain a steady breath.

‘Witch,’ Miguel teased huskily as he buried his lips against her breast.

‘Hmm,’ Hannah murmured with bemused contentment, only to give a tiny gasp as he began teasing the tender peak, alternately with his tongue and the edge of his teeth, taking her to the brink between pleasure and pain.

Then with one fluid movement he slid from the bed, scooped her into his arms, carried her into the en suite and stepped into the large shower stall.

Seconds later warm water cascaded from four strategically positioned shower-heads, and Hannah slid to her feet as Miguel reached for the soap.

Evocatively sensual, they lingered for a while, then Miguel closed the water dial, snagged two towels, and once dry, they returned to bed to sleep.

Except after the first few hours Hannah was plagued by dreams that had her tossing restlessly until dawn, followed by a deep fitful sleep as light began filtering through the curtains.

She was unaware of the soothing touch of the man who lay beside her, or that he curled her body close in to his more than once through the night.

Nor was she aware that he woke early, and propped himself comfortably on his side to watch her sleep.

She had delicate features, and the softest, silkiest skin of any woman he’d had the pleasure to touch, he mused gently. The tousled length of her hair lent an abandoned look, and her lashes were long, curling upwards at the ends. The mouth was lush, the lips softly curved in sleep. Capable hands, slender, displaying the band of diamonds and splendid pear-shaped solitaire that claimed her as his own.

She bore an air of fragility that was deceptive, for she possessed an inner strength, an innate honesty that decried artifice or deceit.

He would have liked to rouse her into wakefulness, to feather light kisses over every inch of her skin until she reached for him, then make long, slow love.

The generosity of her response never failed to move him, physically, mentally, emotionally.

Miguel felt his senses stir, and knew if he remained in bed she wouldn’t sleep much longer. With a husky groan he rolled over and slid to his feet, then he walked naked into the en suite and stood beneath the shower.

CHAPTER THREE

HANNAH woke late, took one look at the digital clock and raced to the shower, then she dressed and applied basic make-up in record time before running lightly downstairs.

Miguel was in the process of draining the last of his coffee when she entered the kitchen, and heat flared through her veins at the mere sight of him.

It was as if she could still feel his touch, the masculine heat of his possession, the passion…

Dear heaven, she cursed shakily. This was post-coital awareness at its most provocative!

He looked at her and glimpsed the faint tremor that shook her lush mouth. Did she have any conception of her beauty? Something that went far beyond the visual, to the depths of her soul. At this precise moment she was remarkably transparent, and it moved him almost beyond measure.

He watched as she collected a glass and poured herself some fresh orange juice, then she plucked a slice of toast from the rack and spread it with marmalade.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Hannah queried in the quest for normality. She took a bite of the toast and followed it down with black sweet coffee.

He looked every inch the corporate executive, his tailoring impeccable, a dark silk tie resting against a pristine white shirt.

‘I reset the alarm,’ Miguel relayed imperturbably, and checked his watch. ‘Timed to go off around now.’ He cast her a quizzical glance. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

Hannah shook her head. ‘No time.’

Dammit, he looked good. She wanted to slide her fingers through his hair, lower her head down to his, and kiss him until they both had to pause for breath.

Dangerous thoughts, she perceived as she took a long swallow of coffee. If she gave in to them, she’d be even later for work, and that would never do!

Instead, she finished the toast, downed the last of her coffee, then she extracted a banana and an apple from a silver fruit bowl, caught up her car keys and followed him through to the garage.

Miguel unlocked the door, and regarded her steadily over the top of the Jaguar. ‘A restless night, no breakfast to speak of, and food on the run isn’t an ideal way to start the day.’

She effected a light shrug. ‘So I’ll grab coffee and something to eat later.’

He wanted to wring her slender neck. ‘See that you do.’ He pulled open the door and slid in behind the wheel.

‘Yes-sir.’

He shot her a dark speaking glance, freed the electronic garage mechanism, then he fired the engine and eased the car towards the gates.

Hannah’s soft curse feathered the air accompanied by an exasperated sigh. Work beckoned, and there was no time to dally if she was to open the boutique on time.

Seconds later she exited the driveway and headed towards Toorak Road, her mood reflective as she bore with morning peak traffic.

It would have been nice to have woken in Miguel’s arms, stirred by his touch, enticed into sex by his passion in an early-morning ritual. She missed the shimmering sensual heat, the electrifying hunger followed by a languid after-play, for it was then they talked awhile before sharing a leisurely shower.

Camille’s features sprang all too readily to mind, intrusive and vaguely taunting.

The power of pre-emptive thought? Hannah pondered as she dispelled the Frenchwoman from her mind and focused on the day ahead.

The courier service was scheduled to deliver some new stock this morning, and she mentally selected a stunning ensemble as window display, its accessories, and the rearrangement and placement of existing stock.

By the time she unlocked the boutique Camille temporarily ceased to exist.

Twice during the next hour her hand hovered over the phone. She badly needed to hear Miguel’s voice, if only to say ‘hi’. Discussing what lay ahead in their respective days had become an early-morning habit. Dammit, she’d ring and ask him to meet her for lunch. Cindy could manage the boutique for an hour, longer if necessary.

Without hesitation she keyed in the digits for his mobile phone, only to have the call go to voice-mail. She left her name and invitation, then busied herself with routine chores.

Cindy, a friend with a flair for fashion who welcomed part-time work while her daughter was in school, arrived at ten, closely followed by the courier.

Unpacking, checking invoices and preparing stock for display took time, and there were the serious clients who came to buy and not-so-serious passers-by who merely wanted to browse.

Then there were the phone calls, none of which was Miguel. Until eleven-thirty, when Hannah had all but given up on him.

‘It’s the man,’ Cindy indicated as she extended the cordless handset.

Hannah moved a few paces away. ‘I thought we might do lunch.’ She drew a slight breath, then released it. ‘I can get away any time between now and two.’

‘I’m tied up with meetings all afternoon,’ Miguel drawled. ‘Can it wait until tonight?’

He sounded mildly amused, almost as if he sensed the reason behind her call. ‘Of course.’

‘Hasta luego, querida,’ he bade indolently, and cut the line.

‘Will you finish doing the window, or shall I?’ Cindy queried seconds later, and Hannah gestured towards the clothed mannequin.

‘Be my guest.’ A cleverly draped scarf, an elegant brooch would add the final touches, together with heeled shoes and matching handbag. Something that would take only minutes to complete.

The end result was stunning, and Hannah was quick to add her compliment. ‘Why don’t you take a break for lunch?’ she suggested, checking her watch. ‘I can manage for a while.’

Most of the regular clientele chose to do their shopping mid-morning or mid-afternoon. For the most part, the time between midday and two was spent lunching at any one of several trendy cafés or restaurants in and around the city and its élite suburbs.

Cindy collected her bag and made for the door.

‘See you soon.’

Hannah crossed to the CD player, removed the morning selection and inserted sufficient discs to provide soothing unobtrusive background music until closing time.

The electronic buzzer heralded the arrival of a prospective client, and Hannah turned with a welcome smile in place, only to have it momentarily freeze as she caught sight of Camille.

Tall, proportionately slender, the Frenchwoman exuded confidence and a degree of arrogance as she stepped forward. Dressed in designer clothes and wearing expensive perfume, she was elegance personified.

‘Bonjour, Hannah.’ She inclined a perfectly coiffed head, and scanned the carefully arranged racks.

‘I thought I might visit.’

Somehow Hannah doubted clothes were Camille’s main purpose. ‘How nice of you to call in.’ At what point did politeness cross the line and become a white lie? She indicated a rack of imported designer labels. ‘Is there anything in particular I can help you with?’ She crossed the floor and extracted a gown that would look stunning on Camille’s tall frame.

‘Darling, I can get that in Paris.’ Her mouth pursed, and her eyes assumed a hardened gleam as she riffled through carefully spaced hangers with total disregard for their existing presentation.

Hannah watched as the Frenchwoman pulled out a hanger, examined the garment with disdainful criticism, then returned it carelessly back onto the rack before moving a pace or two and repeating the process.

There was little doubt as to the deliberateness of the action, and Hannah wondered just how long it would take for Camille to cut to the chase.

Exhausting garments displayed on one side of the boutique, the Frenchwoman crossed the floor and began a similar examination of various silk shirts.

‘How does it feel being manipulated into a loveless marriage?’

Four minutes, give or take a few seconds, Hannah calculated. If Camille wanted to conduct a verbal altercation, then so be it. She met the woman’s hard stare, and arched a delicate eyebrow. ‘Manipulated by whom?’

Camille’s gaze narrowed. ‘It doesn’t bother you Miguel’s motivation was born out of duty? To his father, and the Sanmar conglomerate?’

Hannah took time to ponder the Frenchwoman’s words. ‘For someone who has only been in Melbourne a short time, you seem to have acquired considerable information.’

‘Graziella is very discreet. However, my interest in Miguel was captured several weeks ago at a party in Rome,’ Camille enlightened with a secretive smile. ‘Miguel attended briefly with a business associate.’

Hannah had instant recall. She’d flown in to buy new season’s stock, tying the visit in with one of Miguel’s Italian business meetings. She even remembered the evening in question, and a wretched migraine that had seen her creep into bed while issuing instructions for Miguel to go on to the party without her.

‘I made it my business to discover everything about Miguel Santanas,’ Camille continued relentlessly. ‘His marriage, his wife, her background.’

This was far more complex than idle curiosity. Almost chilling, Hannah realised silently.

‘And your affair with Luc Dubois,’ the Frenchwoman revealed, intent on analysing Hannah’s expressive features. ‘Interesting man.’

Interesting didn’t come close. The man was a practised rogue, and it still irked that it had taken her a few months to lose the fantasy and face reality.

‘I imagine this is leading somewhere?’ Hannah queried coolly.

‘Of course, darling. You’re hardly naive.’

It didn’t take much imagination for it all to fall into place. ‘Let me guess,’ she began pensively. ‘You came here purposely with your aunt, who conveniently happens to be a good friend of the del Santos, aware of their social standing and the opportunity to use them to include you in numerous invitations around the city. Thus ensuring regular social contact with Miguel.’

A tinkling laugh escaped Camille’s lips. ‘How clever of you, chérie. Naturally, the Australian visit was my suggestion.’

Hannah’s eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘Do we draw battle lines?’

‘As long as you understand Miguel is mine.’ Camille’s smile was entirely lacking in humour.

‘Really?’ Hannah posed with deliberate sarcasm. ‘Aren’t you forgetting I have an advantage or two?’

‘Miguel might view you as an obligation,’ the Frenchwoman relayed with pitiless asperity, ‘but, darling, I intend to be his titillation.’

The peal of the telephone came as a welcome interruption, and Hannah crossed to take the call, aware as she did so that the Frenchwoman had turned towards the door. Within seconds she had departed, and Hannah gathered her wits together, answering a client’s query, then, when she was done, she set to restoring order to the racks Camille had deliberately disorganised.

Tension knotted her stomach. It was worse, much worse than she’d envisaged. How would Miguel react if she told him? Be amused, probably. But what would lie beneath the humour? Male satisfaction? The thrill of the chase, the challenge? More pertinently, would he indulge in an extra-marital affair?

Dear God, she hoped not. Even the thought that he might almost destroyed her.

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