The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN
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go on ahead,’ Teresa suggested. ‘I’ll put these in the room next to yours. We can sort through them tomorrow.’
Aysha raced upstairs to her bedroom, then discarded her clothes and made for the shower. Minutes later she wound a towel round her slim curves, removed the excess moisture from her hair and wielded the hairdrier to good effect.
Basic make-up followed, then she crossed to the walk-in robe, cast a quick discerning eye over the carefully co-ordinated contents, and extracted a figure-hugging gown in black.
The hemline rested at mid-thigh, the overall length extended slightly by a wide border of scalloped lace. The design was sleeveless, backless, and cunningly styled to show a modest amount of cleavage. Thin shoulder straps ensured the gown stayed in place.
Sheer black pantyhose? Or should she settle for bare legs and almost non-existent thong bikini briefs? And very high stiletto-heeled pumps?
Minimum jewellery, she decided, and she’d sweep her hair into a casual knot atop her head.
Half an hour later she descended the stairs to the lower floor and entered the lounge. Teresa and Giuseppe were grouped together sharing a light aperitif.
Her father turned towards her, his expression a comedic mix of parental pride and male appreciation. Any hint of paternal remonstrance was absent, doubtless on the grounds that his beloved daughter was safely spoken for, on the verge of marriage, and therefore he had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Teresa, however, was something else. One glance was all it took for those dark eyes to narrow fractionally and the lips to thin. Appearance was everything, and tonight Aysha did not fit her mother’s required image.
‘Don’t you think that’s a little...?’ Teresa paused delicately. ‘Bold, darling?’
‘Perhaps,’ Aysha conceded, and directed her father a teasing glance. ‘Papà?’
Giuseppe was well versed in the ways of mother and daughter, and sought a diplomatic response. ‘I’m sure Carlo will be most appreciative.’ He gestured towards a crystal decanter. ‘Can I fix you a spritzer?’
She hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, just nibbled on fresh fruit, sipped several glasses of water, and taken three cups of long black coffee. Alcohol would go straight to her head. ‘I stopped by the kitchen when I arrived home and fixed some juice,’ she declined gently. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Carlo now.’
The light crunch of car tires, the faint clunk of a door closing, followed by the distant sound of melodic door chimes heralded his arrival, and within seconds their live-in housekeeper ushered him into the lounge.
Aysha crossed the room and caught hold of his hand, then offered her cheek for his kiss. It was a natural gesture, one that was expected, and only she heard the light teasing murmur close to her ear. ‘Stunning.’
His arm curved round the back of her waist and he drew her with him as he moved to accept Teresa’s greeting.
‘A drink, Carlo?’
‘I’ll wait until dinner.’
It would be easy to lean in against him, and for a moment she almost did. Except there was no one to impress, and the evening lay ahead.
Giuseppe swallowed the remainder of his wine, and placed his glass down onto the tray. ‘In that case, perhaps we should be on our way. Teresa?’
At that moment the phone rang, and Teresa frowned in disapproval. ‘I hope that’s not going to make us late.’
Not unless the call heralded something of dire consequence; there wasn’t a chance. Aysha bit back on the mockery, and sensed her mother’s words even before they were uttered.
‘You and Carlo go on ahead. We won’t be far behind you.’
Sliding into the passenger seat of the car was achieved with greater decorum than she expected, and she was in the process of fastening her seatbelt when Carlo moved behind the wheel.
A deft flick of his wrist and the engine purred to life. Almost a minute later they had traversed the curved driveway and were heading towards the city.
‘Am I correct in assuming the dress is a desire to shock?’
Aysha heard the drawling voice, sensed the underlying cynicism tinged with humour, and turned to look at him. ‘Does it succeed?’
She was supremely conscious of the amount of bare thigh showing, and she fought against the temptation to take hold of the hemline and attempt to tug it down.
He turned slightly towards her, and in that second she was acutely aware of the darkness of his eyes, the faint curve of his mouth, the gleam of white teeth.
‘Teresa didn’t approve.’
‘You know her so well,’ she indicated wryly. ‘Papà seemed to think you’d be appreciative.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Carlo declared. ‘As I’m sure every other man in the room will be.’
She directed him a stunning smile. ‘You say the nicest things.’
‘Careful you don’t overdo it, cara.’
‘I’m aiming for brilliance.’
For one brief second her eyes held the faintest shadow, then it was gone. He lifted a hand and brushed light fingers down her cheek.
‘A few hours, four at the most. Then we can leave.’
Yes, she thought sadly. And tomorrow it will start all over again. The shopping, fittings, social obligations. Each day it seemed to get worse. Fulfilling her mother’s expectations, having her own opinions waved aside, the increasing tension. If only Teresa wasn’t bent on turning everything into such a production.
Suburban Point Piper was a neighbouring suburb and took only minutes to reach.
Carlo turned between ornate wrought-iron gates and parked behind a stylish Jaguar. Four, no, five cars lined the curved driveway, and Aysha experienced a moment’s hesitation as she moved towards the few steps leading to the main entrance.
There had been countless precedents of an evening such as this, Aysha reflected as she accepted a light wine and exchanged pleasantries with fellow guests.
Beautiful home, gracious host and hostess. The requisite mingling over drinks for thirty minutes before dinner. Any number between ten to twenty guests, a splendid table. An exquisite floral centre-piece. The guests carefully selected to complement each other.
‘Carlo, darling.’
Aysha heard the greeting, recognised the sultry feminine purr, and turned slowly to face one of several women who had worked hard to win Carlo’s affection.
Now that the wedding was imminent, most had retired gracefully from the hunt. With the exception of Nina di Salvo.
The tall, svelte fashion consultant was a femme fatale, wealthy, widowed, and selectively seeking a husband of equal wealth and social standing.
Nina was admired, even adored, by men. For her style, beauty and wit. Women recognised the predatory element existent, and reacted accordingly.
‘Aysha,’ Nina acknowledged. ‘You look...’ The pause was deliberate. ‘A little tired. All the preparations getting to you, darling?’
Aysha summoned a winsome smile and honed the proverbial dart. ‘Carlo doesn’t permit me enough sleep.’
Nina’s eyes narrowed fractionally, then she leaned towards Carlo, brushed her lips against his cheek, and lingered a fraction too long. ‘How are you, caro?’
‘Nina.’ Carlo was too skilful a strategist to give anything away, and too much the gentleman to do other than observe the social niceties.
He handled Nina’s overt affection with