The Marriage Arrangement. HELEN BIANCHIN
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and a degree of arrogance as she stepped forward. Dressed in designer clothes and wearing expensive perfume, she was elegance personified.
‘Bonjour, Hannah.’ She inclined a perfectly coiffed head, and scanned the carefully arranged racks.
‘I thought I might visit.’
Somehow Hannah doubted clothes were Camille’s main purpose. ‘How nice of you to call in.’ At what point did politeness cross the line and become a white lie? She indicated a rack of imported designer labels. ‘Is there anything in particular I can help you with?’ She crossed the floor and extracted a gown that would look stunning on Camille’s tall frame.
‘Darling, I can get that in Paris.’ Her mouth pursed, and her eyes assumed a hardened gleam as she riffled through carefully spaced hangers with total disregard for their existing presentation.
Hannah watched as the Frenchwoman pulled out a hanger, examined the garment with disdainful criticism, then returned it carelessly back onto the rack before moving a pace or two and repeating the process.
There was little doubt as to the deliberateness of the action, and Hannah wondered just how long it would take for Camille to cut to the chase.
Exhausting garments displayed on one side of the boutique, the Frenchwoman crossed the floor and began a similar examination of various silk shirts.
‘How does it feel being manipulated into a loveless marriage?’
Four minutes, give or take a few seconds, Hannah calculated. If Camille wanted to conduct a verbal altercation, then so be it. She met the woman’s hard stare, and arched a delicate eyebrow. ‘Manipulated by whom?’
Camille’s gaze narrowed. ‘It doesn’t bother you Miguel’s motivation was born out of duty? To his father, and the Sanmar conglomerate?’
Hannah took time to ponder the Frenchwoman’s words. ‘For someone who has only been in Melbourne a short time, you seem to have acquired considerable information.’
‘Graziella is very discreet. However, my interest in Miguel was captured several weeks ago at a party in Rome,’ Camille enlightened with a secretive smile. ‘Miguel attended briefly with a business associate.’
Hannah had instant recall. She’d flown in to buy new season’s stock, tying the visit in with one of Miguel’s Italian business meetings. She even remembered the evening in question, and a wretched migraine that had seen her creep into bed while issuing instructions for Miguel to go on to the party without her.
‘I made it my business to discover everything about Miguel Santanas,’ Camille continued relentlessly. ‘His marriage, his wife, her background.’
This was far more complex than idle curiosity. Almost chilling, Hannah realised silently.
‘And your affair with Luc Dubois,’ the Frenchwoman revealed, intent on analysing Hannah’s expressive features. ‘Interesting man.’
Interesting didn’t come close. The man was a practised rogue, and it still irked that it had taken her a few months to lose the fantasy and face reality.
‘I imagine this is leading somewhere?’ Hannah queried coolly.
‘Of course, darling. You’re hardly naive.’
It didn’t take much imagination for it all to fall into place. ‘Let me guess,’ she began pensively. ‘You came here purposely with your aunt, who conveniently happens to be a good friend of the del Santos, aware of their social standing and the opportunity to use them to include you in numerous invitations around the city. Thus ensuring regular social contact with Miguel.’
A tinkling laugh escaped Camille’s lips. ‘How clever of you, chérie. Naturally, the Australian visit was my suggestion.’
Hannah’s eyes assumed a fiery sparkle. ‘Do we draw battle lines?’
‘As long as you understand Miguel is mine.’ Camille’s smile was entirely lacking in humour.
‘Really?’ Hannah posed with deliberate sarcasm. ‘Aren’t you forgetting I have an advantage or two?’
‘Miguel might view you as an obligation,’ the Frenchwoman relayed with pitiless asperity, ‘but, darling, I intend to be his titillation.’
The peal of the telephone came as a welcome interruption, and Hannah crossed to take the call, aware as she did so that the Frenchwoman had turned towards the door. Within seconds she had departed, and Hannah gathered her wits together, answering a client’s query, then, when she was done, she set to restoring order to the racks Camille had deliberately disorganised.
Tension knotted her stomach. It was worse, much worse than she’d envisaged. How would Miguel react if she told him? Be amused, probably. But what would lie beneath the humour? Male satisfaction? The thrill of the chase, the challenge? More pertinently, would he indulge in an extra-marital affair?
Dear God, she hoped not. Even the thought that he might almost destroyed her.
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