His fingers pressed a vulnerable nub, so lightly she almost groaned in need of more.
‘If you need to think about it…’
A hand snaked out and managed a grip onto his chest hair, tightened a little. ‘Don’t toy with me.’
Her husky growl was quickly silenced as his mouth took possession of hers in a kiss that promised flagrant seduction.
When he lifted his head she ran the edge of her tongue over the slightly swollen contours of her mouth.
‘Well, then. That settles it.’ She lifted a hand and pressed fingers to his lips, felt them move in a gentle caress, then she rose to her feet in a single, fluid movement, tugging him upright.
The cruiser was large, the galley and bedroom spacious.
Nicos pulled her in close and rested his cheek against her head.
He took it slowly. They had all the time in the world, and he instigated a leisurely tasting, savouring each shudder, each hitch of her breath.
She was his. The most important thing in his life. Always had been, even when they’d been apart. There could never be anyone else to take her place in his heart.
He said the words, in soft, guttural Greek, then in English, and she felt the moisture well in her eyes at the depth of emotion evident.
She captured his head, let her hands slide to frame his face, searched his beloved features, and saw what she knew in her heart, the depths of her soul. The unconditional love of a man for one woman. Beyond boundaries, forever true. It was an infinitely precious gift. One she would treasure for the rest of her life.
‘Promise me something,’ Katrina began to say gently, and saw his smile.
‘You have to ask?’
‘Let’s work at making every day special.’
‘That’s a given.’
‘There’s just one more thing.’ She reached up and kissed him, a fleeting touch. ‘You have my love, my trust.’ Her mouth shook a little. ‘Always.’
‘As you have mine, agape mou,’ he whispered softly, and proceeded to show her a depth of passion that surpassed anything they’d previously shared.
A Convenient Bridegroom
In the Spaniard’s Bed
The Martinez Marriage Revenge
Helen Bianchin
Helen Bianchin
‘NIGHT, cara. You will be staying over, won’t you?’
Subtle, very subtle, Aysha conceded. It never ceased to amaze that her mother could state a command in the form of a suggestion, and phrase it as a question. As if Aysha had a choice.
For as long as she could remember, her life had been stage-managed. The most exclusive of private schools, extra-curricular private tuition. Holidays abroad, winter resorts. Ballet, riding school, languages ... she spoke fluent Italian and French.
Aysha Benini was a product of her parents’ upbringing. Fashioned, styled and presented as a visual attestation to family wealth and status.
Something which must be upheld at any cost.
Even her chosen career as an interior decorator added to the overall image.
‘Darling?’
Aysha crossed the room and brushed her lips to her mother’s cheek. ‘Probably.’
Teresa Benini allowed one eyebrow to form an elegant arch. ‘Your father and I won’t expect you home.’
Case closed. Aysha checked her evening purse, selected her car key, and turned towards the door. ‘See you later.’
‘Have a good time.’
What did Teresa Benini consider a good time? An exquisitely served meal eaten in a trendy restaurant with Carlo Santangelo, followed by a long night of loving in Carlo’s bed?
Aysha slid in behind the wheel of her black Porsche Carrera, fired the engine, then eased the car down the driveway, cleared the electronic gates, and traversed the quiet tree-lined street towards the main arterial road leading from suburban Vaucluse into the city.
A shaft of sunlight caught the diamond-studded gold band with its magnificent solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. Brilliantly designed, horrendously expensive, it was a befitting symbol representing the intended union of Giuseppe Benini’s daughter to Luigi Santangelo’s son.
Benini-Santangelo, Aysha mused as she joined the flow of city-bound traffic.
Two immigrants from two neighbouring properties in a northern Italian town had travelled in their late teens to Sydney, where they’d worked two jobs every day of the week, saved every cent, and set up a cement business in their mid-twenties.
Forty years on, Benini-Santangelo was a major name in Sydney’s building industry, with a huge plant and a fleet of concrete tankers.
Each man had married a suitable wife, sadly produced only one child apiece; they lived in fine homes, drove expensive cars, and had given their children the best education that money could buy.
Both families had interacted closely on a social and personal level for as long as Aysha could remember. The bond between them was strong, more than friends. Almost family.
The New South Head Road wound down towards Rose Bay, and Aysha took a moment to admire the view.
At six-thirty on a fine late summer’s evening the ocean resembled a sapphire jewel, merging with a sky clear of cloud or pollution. Prime real estate overlooked numerous coves and bays where various sailing craft lay anchored. Tall city buildings rose in differing architectural design, structured towers of glass and steel, providing a splendid backdrop to the Opera House and the wide span of the Harbour Bridge.
Traffic became more dense as she drew close to the city, and there were the inevitable delays at computer-controlled intersections.
Consequently it was almost seven when she drew into the curved entrance of the hotel and consigned her car to valet parking.
She could, should have allowed Carlo to collect her, or at least driven to his apartment. It would have been more practical, sensible.
Except tonight she didn’t feel sensible.
Aysha nodded to the concierge as she entered the lobby, and she hadn’t taken more than three steps towards the bank of sofas and single chairs when a familiar male frame rose to full height and moved forward to greet her.
Carlo Santangelo.
Just the sight of him was enough to send her heart racing to a quickened beat. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to monitor the rise and fall of her chest.
In his late thirties, he stood three inches over six feet and possessed the broad shoulders and hard-muscled body of a man who coveted physical fitness. Sculpted raw-boned facial features highlighted planes and angles, accenting a powerful jaw, strong chin, and a sensuously moulded mouth. Well-cut thick dark brown hair was stylishly groomed, and his eyes were incredibly dark, almost black.
Aysha had no recollection of witnessing his temper. Yet there could be no doubt he possessed one, for his