Helen Bianchin - Mistress Arrangements

How long she lay awake she had no idea, but it seemed hours before she heard the faint click of the bedroom door as it unlatched, followed by another as it was quietly closed.

Every nerve-end tautened to its furthest limit as she heard the indistinct sound of clothing being discarded, and she unconsciously held her breath as she visualised each and every one of his movements, her memory of his tightly muscled naked frame intensely vivid from the breadth of shoulder to his slim waist, the whorls of dark hair on his chest that arrowed down to his navel before feathering in a delicate line to a flaring montage at the junction of his loins. Firmmuscled buttocks, lean hips, and an enviable length of strong muscled legs. Beautiful smooth skin, a warm shield for the blood that pulsed through his veins and entwined with honed muscle and sinew.

It was a body she had come to know as intimately as her own as he had tutored her where to touch, when to brush feather-light strokes that had made him catch his breath, and how the touch of her lips, her tongue, could drive him almost beyond the edge of sensual sanity.

But it had been little in comparison to the response he was able to evoke in her, for all her senses had leapt with fire at his slightest touch, and she had become a willing wanton in his arms, encouraging everything he chose to give, like a wild untamed being in the throes of unbelievable ecstasy. Abandoned, exultant—passion’s mistress.

Carly closed her eyes, tight, then slowly opened them again. Dear lord, she must have been insane to imagine she could share this room with him and remain unaffected by his presence.

Was this some form of diabolical revenge he’d deliberately chosen? Did he really intend to sleep ?

The acute awareness was still there, a haunting pleasurable ache that fired all her senses and ate into her soul. In the past seven years there hadn’t been a night when she didn’t think of him, and many a time she’d woken shaking at the intensity of her dreaming, almost afraid in those few seconds of regained consciousness that she had somehow regressed into the past. Then she would look at the empty pillow beside her and realise it had all been a relayed figment of her overstimulated imagination.

Several feet separated each bed, yet the distance could have been a yawning chasm ten times that magnitude. Carly heard the almost undetectable sound of the mattress depressing with Stefano’s weight as he slid in between the sheets, followed by the slowly decreasing rhythm of his breathing as it steadied into a deep, regular beat denoting total relaxation.

It seemed unbelievable that he could summon sleep so easily, and a seed of anger took root and began to germinate deep within her, feeding on frustration, pain and a gamut of emotions too numerous to delineate.

Rational thought disappeared as her febrile brain pondered the quality of his lovemaking, and whether it would be any different now from what it had been seven years ago.

In that moment she realised how much she was at his mercy, and that the essence of Stefano Alessi the man now was inevitably different from the lover she had once known.

At some stage she must have fallen into a blissful state of oblivion, for she gradually drifted into wakefulness through various layers of consciousness, aware initially in those few seconds before comprehension dawned that something was different. Then her lashes slowly flickered open, and she saw why.

In sleep she had turned to lie facing the bed opposite her own, and her eyes widened as she encountered Stefano’s steady gaze. Reclining on his side, head propped in one hand, he regarded her with unsmiling appraisal.

Carly’s first instinct was to leap out from the bed, and perhaps something in her expression gave her intention away, for one of his eyebrows arched in silent musing cynicism.

The gesture acted as a challenge, and she forced herself to remain where she was. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked with deliberate sleepiness, as if this were just another morning in a series of mornings she woke to find herself sharing a room.

‘Early. Not long after six.’ His eyes slid lazily down to her mouth, then slipped lower to pause deliberately on the soft swell of her breast. ‘No need to rush into starting the day.’

Carly’s fingers reached automatically for the edge of the sheet and pulled it higher, aware of a tell-tale warmth tingeing her cheeks, and her eyes instantly sparked with fire. ‘If you think I’m going to indulge in an exchange of pleasantries, you’re mistaken!’

‘Define pleasantries ,’ Stefano drawled, and she froze, her eyes widening into huge pools of uncertainty in features that had suddenly become pale. There wasn’t a shred of softness in his voice, and she was frighteningly aware of her own vulnerability in the face of his superior strength.

‘Afraid, Carly?’

‘Of a display of raging male hormones?’ she managed with a calmness she was far from feeling. He looked dangerous, like a sleek panther contemplating a helpless prey, and it was impossible not to feel apprehensive.

Her lashes flicked wide as his gaze travelled to the base of her throat, then his eyes captured hers with an indolent intensity, and she dredged up all her resources in an attempt to portray some measure of ease.

‘Is that all you imagine it will be?’ he queried silkily.

‘Sex simply to satisfy a base animal need?’

‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you,’ he said in a voice that was deadly soft.

‘I’ve learnt to survive,’ she returned with innate dignity. ‘Without benefit of anyone other than myself.’

Stefano looked at her for what seemed an age, his gaze dark and inscrutable. ‘Until now.’

‘Payback time, Stefano?’ She forced herself to study him, noting the almost indecently broad shoulders, the firm, sculptured features that embodied an inherent strength of will. ‘Are you implying I should slip into your bed and allow you to score the first instalment?’

‘With you playing the role of reluctant martyr?’ He paused, and his voice hardened slightly. ‘I think not, my little cat. I don’t feel inclined to give you that satisfaction.’

Her stomach lurched, then appeared to settle. It was only a game, a by-play of words designed to attack her composure. Well, she would prove she was a worthy opponent.

‘What a relief to know I don’t have to fake it,’ she told him sweetly. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before I hit the shower?’

There was lurking humour evident in those dark eyes, and a measure of respect. ‘Last week I extended an invitation to Charles and his wife to dine here this evening. They flew in from the States yesterday.’

The thought of having to act the part of gracious hostess in his home, while appearing capable and serene, was a hurdle she wasn’t sure she was ready to surmount—yet. However, Charles Winslow the Third was a valued colleague, who, the last time she’d dined in his presence, had been in the throes of divorcing one wife in favour of wedding another.

‘What time had you planned for them to arrive?’ she queried cautiously, unwilling to commit herself.

‘Eight. Sylvana will prepare and serve the meal.’

She had to ask. ‘Are they the only guests?’

‘Charles’s daughter, Georgeanne.’

Seven years ago Georgeanne had been a precocious teenager. Time could only have turned her into a stunning beauty. ‘Another conquest, Stefano?’ she queried with musing mockery.

‘I don’t consciously set out to charm every female I come into contact with,’ he drawled, and she gave a soundless laugh.

‘You don’t have to. Your potent brand of sexual chemistry does it for you.’

‘An admission, Carly?’