The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin

held hers. ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’ He lifted a hand and fingered the delicate argyle diamond nestling against the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Your work?’ It was a rhetorical question. He’d made it his business to view her designs, without her knowledge, and was familiar with each and every one of them.

      She flinched at his touch, hating his easy familiarity almost as much as she hated the tell-tale warmth flooding her veins.

      If she could, she’d have flung the icy contents of her glass in his face. Instead, she forced her voice to remain calm. ‘Yes.’

      A woman could get lost in the depths of those dark eyes, for there was warm sensuality lurking just beneath the surface, a hint, a promise, of the delights he could provide.

      Sensation feathered the length of her spine, and she barely repressed a shiver at the thought of his mouth on hers, the touch of his hands…how it would feel to be driven wild, beyond reason, by such a man.

      ‘Have dinner with me tomorrow night.’

      ‘The obligatory invitation?’ Her response was automatic, and she tempered it with a gracious, ‘Thank you. No.’

      The edge of his mouth lifted. ‘The obligatory refusal…because you have to wash your hair?’

      ‘I can come up with something more original.’ She could, easily. Except she doubted an excuse, no matter how legitimate-sounding, would fool him.

      ‘You won’t change your mind?’

      Cassandra offered a cool smile. ‘What part of no don’t you understand?’

      Diego reached for the water jug and refilled her glass. The sleeve of his jacket brushed her arm, and her stomach turned a slow somersault at the contact.

      It was as well the waiters began delivering the main course, and she sipped wine in the hope it would soothe her nerves.

      Chance would be a fine thing! She was conscious of every move he made, aware of the restrained power beneath the fine Armani tailoring, the dangerous aura he seemed to project without any effort at all.

      Another two hours. Three at the most. Then she could excuse herself and leave. If Cameron wanted to stay on, she’d take a cab home.

      Cassandra drew a calming breath and regarded the contents on her plate. The meal was undoubtedly delicious, but her appetite had vanished.

      With determined effort she caught Cameron’s attention, and deliberately sought his opinion on something so inconsequential that afterwards she had little recollection of the discussion.

      There were the usual speeches, followed by light entertainment as dessert and coffee were served. Never had time dragged quite so slowly, nor could she recall an occasion when she’d so badly wanted the evening to end.

      To her surprise, it was Cameron who initiated the desire to leave, citing a headache as the reason, and Cassandra rose to her feet, offered a polite goodnight to the occupants of their table, then preceded her brother out to the foyer.

      ‘Are you OK?’

      He looked pale, too pale, and a slight frown creased her brow as they headed towards the bank of lifts. ‘Headache?’ She extended her hand as he retrieved his car keys. ‘Want me to drive?’