A Passionate Surrender. Helen Bianchin
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touches she’d added to the apartment would have no place in Luc’s elegant Vaucluse mansion.
‘I can be ready in fifteen minutes.’ She could do cool. At least for now.
Without a further word she crossed into the bedroom, placed the empty bag onto a chair, and began the task of transferring her belongings.
Luc moved to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and extracted bottled water, filled a glass and swallowed the chilled liquid.
Then he retrieved his cellphone, keyed in a series of digits and instructed his pilot to be on standby for the return flight.
There was, he decided grimly, no point in delaying the inevitable.
Don’t look back, Ana bade silently as she walked at Luc’s side to the car. He stowed her bag in the boot as she slid into the passenger seat, then within minutes he fired the engine and eased the car out from its parking bay.
Luc chose a restaurant at one of the upmarket hotels, and confirmation of their reservation indicated he’d phoned in ahead.
Her appetite seemed to have fled, and she picked at the starter, nibbled a few morsels from the artistically presented main, and chose fresh fruit in lieu of dessert.
‘Not hungry?’
Ana spared him a level glance. ‘No.’ If he suggested she should eat more, she’d be hard pressed not to tip the contents of her plate into his lap.
Luc deferred to her preference for tea and ordered coffee for himself from the hovering waitress.
She watched as he spooned sugar into the dark brew, noting the shape of his hand, the skin texture and the tensile strength evident.
He had the touch, the skill, to drive her mindless with a tactile slide of his fingers, and she hated herself for the sudden increase in the beat of her heart.
Sexual chemistry. It had a power of its own. Damning, lethal.
It took considerable resolve to sip her tea with a semblance of calm, and she felt a sense of relief when he signalled the waitress for their bill.
Three quarters of an hour later they crossed the Tarmac and stepped aboard the luxurious Gulf-stream jet, whose gently whining engines increased in pitch the instant the outer door closed.
Smooth, very smooth, Ana conceded minutes later as the jet wheeled its way out onto the runway, then cleared for take-off, gathered speed and rose like a silver bird into the sky.
The light was fading as dusk approached, and there was an opalescent glow as the sun slipped beneath the horizon in a brilliant flare of orange tinged with pink.
Darkness descended quickly, and all too soon there was nothing to see except an inky blackness and the occasional pinprick of lights as the jet followed the coastline south.
Ana made no attempt at conversation and simply leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, successfully shutting out the sight of the man seated at her side.
It didn’t, however, shut out her chaotic thoughts.
A return to Sydney meant the re-emergence of the lifestyle she’d sought to briefly escape. There was her father, Rebekah, the florist shop.
Worst of all, there was Celine Moore. Her nemesis and her enemy.
Absenting herself for more than a week hadn’t solved a thing. The problems remained. A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat. All that had been achieved was a metaphorical stay of execution.
Who would win? The wife or the mistress?
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