‘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.