The Husband Test. HELEN BIANCHIN
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was a celebration. And he had celebrated it well.
Yet she missed his laughter, his love. He’d been her rock, her safe harbour. In a quirk of misplaced wisdom, he’d appointed Nicos in his place.
Katrina wanted to reiterate she didn’t need or want Nicos’s protection. Except Kevin had played his final card and had given her no choice.
It was well after five when she garaged the Porsche and entered Nicos’s home with three evening gowns draped over her arm.
She reached the stairs as Nicos emerged into the lobby, and she paused, her expression one of controlled politeness.
‘Formal, Katrina,’ Nicos drawled as he reached her. He named the venue, the charity, and glimpsed her momentary disconcertion as they ascended the stairs.
How could she have forgotten? It was one of the city’s prestigious social events, and one Kevin had unfailingly sponsored for as long as she could remember.
She had…how long? Forty-five minutes in which to shower, attend to her hair and make-up, then dress.
She made it with scant seconds to spare, and stood silent beneath Nicos’s appraisal.
The crêpe georgette gown in jade-green with its bias-cut asymmetric flounces and figure-hugging lines accented her slim curves and highlighted her cream-textured skin. To save time she’d simply swept her hair into a careless chignon, had added diamond stud earrings and a matching pendant.
As to Nicos, the sight of him made the breath catch in her throat. He held his thirty-seven years superbly, his masculine frame attesting to a regular exercise regime. Attired in a black evening suit, white shirt and black bow tie, he looked every inch the wealthy sophisticate. Yet it was his innate sexuality and an intrinsic knowledge of the opposite sex that added another dimension. One any thinking woman couldn’t fail to recognise.
A year ago she would have offered a teasing comment, brushed the edge of his jaw with her fingers and placed her mouth against his in a light kiss.
Now she did none of those things. Instead she crossed the lobby in silence at his side and slid into the car parked out front.
‘Should we discuss the evening’s role-play?’ Katrina queried as Nicos cleared the gates and traversed the leafy street.
‘In light of Enrique’s link to a certain gossip columnist?’
‘You knew?’
He cast her a quick, telling glance. ‘Did you imagine I wouldn’t make it my business to find out?’
She didn’t answer. Instead she examined the passing scenery with detached interest. No matter where she’d travelled in the world, Sydney was home.
It was a beautiful city, with a picturesque harbour and buildings of varied architecture. Possessed of a relatively mild climate, the clear blue skies and sparkling waters of Port Jackson, with cliff-top mansions and numerous small craft anchored in the many bays and inlets, provided an endearing sense of familiarity evident as Nicos traversed the inner-city streets before easing the car to a halt adjacent the hotel’s main entrance for valet parking.
Guests mingled in the large lobby adjoining the grand ballroom. Uniformed waiters circled the area proffering trays of drinks, and the buzz of conversational chatter abounded.
The social élite, Katrina mused, dressed in their finest, with the women collectively displaying sufficient jewellery to fund a year’s aid to a Third-World country.
There were many guests present who would have sighted the photo of Katrina and Nicos Kasoulis and its teasing caption in the morning’s newspaper gossip column. Circumspect interest was expected, and she forced herself to ignore the telling glances, the quiet asides as she stood at Nicos’s side and sipped a mix of champagne and orange juice.
A few acquaintances made a point of extending their condolences for the loss of her father, others conveyed silent hand signals indicating they’d catch up through the evening.
Katrina sighted both of her stepmothers standing at opposite ends of the lobby, a presence that issued a silent statement of their individual importance on the social scene. Andrea had her man-of-the-moment in tow, while Chloe was partnered by none other than her son, Enrique.
It was a blessing that Siobhan, at least, didn’t try to compete on any level, much preferring a less fashionably social existence.
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