Purchased: His Perfect Wife. HELEN BIANCHIN
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All-consuming fear barely came close.
She’d been barely able to function. She’d rarely eaten, and she hadn’t been able to sleep.
At which point she’d put aside pride and appealed for Darius’ help, verbally given without hesitation. He would, he’d assured, attend to it as soon as he accessed a fax machine.
Lara’s relief had been short-lived. Reduced to mere hours, before she’d been alerted that a road accident had claimed both her mother’s and stepfather’s lives.
It was Wolfe who’d relayed the shattering news, taken immediate control, flying from New York to France to attend to formalities before jetting in to Sydney, then conferring with her over arrangements and providing support at the funeral service.
Days during which she’d functioned on auto-pilot and lost track of time as she hid her grief in public and succumbed to it in private.
Tracking down her biological father had resulted in a curt dismissal at being involved in any way.
Lara recalled a host of kaleidoscopic memories…an alcoholic father whose rages had been volatile and many, the bitter arguments and physical abuse her mother had endeavoured to shield from her daughter; the day Marc Sommers had beaten Lara, Suzanne had gathered a few clothes into a suitcase, taken hold of Lara’s hand and fled to another city in another State.
There was no difficulty in picturing their rented two-room flat, the long hours Suzanne had worked, or the school Lara had attended in a less than salubrious inner-city suburb.
Tough beginnings, which Suzanne had toiled hard to change…and succeeded, gradually carving a better life for them both, enhanced by Suzanne’s chance meeting with Darius, his persistent courtship and their marriage.
The subtle change in train speed brought Lara back to the present, and she stifled a grateful sigh as she alighted at the inner-city station.
Several minutes later she took the escalator and reached street level, only to dash to the intersection to catch the lights at a nearby traffic-controlled pedestrian crossing.
Rain pelted down. She stepped into a huge rain puddle, which sent water splashing fountain-like over her black trousers. By the time she reached the opposite pavement she felt, and probably looked, like a drowned cat.
Could the day get any worse?
Don’t even think about it, a mischievous imp taunted silently, whereupon Lara promptly banished it elsewhere. The address housing Darius’ prestigious firm of lawyers was two blocks away, and she dodged the rain and fellow pedestrians at a fast pace, entered the marble-tiled foyer, then paused a few moments to extract a handkerchief to dry off her hair.
A wasted effort, which she discarded with a sense of hopeless fatalism as she crossed to the bank of lifts, pressed the arrowed ‘up’ button and stood waiting for any one of several electronic cubicles to descend to ground level.
The melodic ping announcing the arrival of a lift caught her attention, and she rode it with some trepidation to the designated floor.
Any minute soon she’d face her inimitable stepbrother.
In his late thirties, Wolfe Alexander’s interest was purported to focus as much on women as it did on business. With immense success in both areas, according to Darius, who’d begun to despair of his son marrying and providing an heir…or returning to Sydney to take up a rightful position on the board of directors.
Darius’ son…a man who was a force to be reckoned with on every level. As he’d proven with an incident during her eighteenth birthday party which Lara had chosen to obliterate from her memory…and thought she had, until she’d stood silently at Wolfe’s side two days ago at the formal burial of his father and her mother.
The lift slid to a smooth halt and Lara emerged into the open foyer, where Darius’ legal firm occupied the entire floor, hosting an imposing reception area with an equally soignée receptionist who could, Lara perceived with unaccustomed cynicism, moonlight as a model…and possibly did.
Exceedingly damp and bedraggled wasn’t a good look, Lara conceded as she identified herself, apologized for her lateness…and requested direction to the bathroom.
What did another few minutes matter?
‘Of course.’ The receptionist rose to her feet and extended a hand. ‘Would you like me to take care of your coat?’
‘Thanks.’
It didn’t take long to sweep the wet length of her blonde hair into a loose knot, secure it with a large hinged clip, touch colour to her lips and smooth her black top.
A deep calming breath, and she returned to Reception where an assistant led her to a spacious executive office, announced and ushered her in, then closed the door behind her.
Two men rose to their feet, and Lara acknowledged the lawyer, offered an apology, then turned slightly towards the tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably tailored figure silhouetted against floor-to-ceiling glass, met a pair of dark, enigmatic grey eyes, and inclined her head. ‘Wolfe.’
It was impossible to tell anything from his expression, and she didn’t even try.
‘Lara.’ His voice was a smooth, slightly accented drawl, and she endeavoured to control the nervous tension he managed to arouse without any seeming effort at all.
There was something vaguely primitive apparent, an electric, almost raw sexuality that was dangerous to any woman’s peace of mind…especially hers.
Dear God. How could she ever forget the first time she’d met him mere weeks before the advent of Suzanne’s marriage to Darius?
One look…and she’d melted into an ignominious puddle, aware of every breath, and unable to voice a sensible sentence in his presence.
The image of a high-school jock who held every grade-twelve female student in lascivious thrall had ceased to exist…replaced in a heartbeat by a twenty-seven-year-old tall, dark and ruggedly attractive male whom Lara had elevated to godlike status.
In response, Wolfe had been polite but distant and coolly tolerant whenever they happened to be in the same place at the same time…which hadn’t been too often.
Lara’s eighteenth birthday had been something special… a beautiful gown, friends, music…and Wolfe. She’d felt incredibly grown up. Mature. A flute of champagne on an empty stomach, followed later by another, had provided her with the courage to turn a fleeting, solitary kiss to her cheek from Wolfe into something else as she’d turned her head and met his lips with her own. Emboldened, she’d lifted her arms and linked her hands together at his nape, pressed in against him, opened her mouth and sought his tongue with her own.
She felt his initial hesitation, followed by the involuntary sweep of his tongue against her own…then he slowly lifted his head and gently put her at arm’s length.
His quietly voiced, ‘Meet me later,’ sent her heart soaring, and she was hardly able to wait until the evening came to an end.
He was going to take her in his arms and kiss her again…really kiss her. And it would be everything she’d imagined, and more.
Every nerve-end throbbed into awareness, and she became supremely conscious of every breath she took…its jagged quality as she failed to control the excitement flooding her veins.
Dimmed lights provided the grounds with a shadowed illumination as he led her beneath the spreading branches of a magnificent jacaranda tree.
It was there Wolfe drew her into his arms and brushed his mouth to her own, deepening the kiss as she sighed and sought the play of taut muscle and sinew beneath his cotton shirt.
Pleasure, sweet and evocative, took hold of her vulnerable emotions and captured them. She couldn’t think…and knew she didn’t want to…as his tongue met her own, traced its outline, then began a sensual exploration that promised