Helen Bianchin - Mistress Arrangements

There were several current glossy magazines to attract her interest, an excellent view of the inner city if she chose to observe it through the wide expanse of plate-glass window. Even television, if she were so inclined, and a well-stocked drinks cabinet, which Carly found tempting—except that even the mildest measure of alcohol on an empty stomach would probably have the opposite effect on her nerves.

Coffee would be wonderful, and her hand hovered over the telephone console, only to return seconds later to her side. What if the connection went straight through to Stefano’s office, instead of to his secretary?

Minutes passed, and she began to wonder if he wasn’t playing some diabolical game.

Dear lord, he must know how difficult it was for her to approach him. Surely she’d suffered enough, without this latest insult?

The thought of seeing him again, alone, without benefit of others present to diffuse the devastating effect on her senses, made her feel ill.

Her stomach began to clench in painful spasms, and a cold sweat broke over her skin.

What was taking him so long? A quick glance at her watch determined that ten minutes had passed. How much longer before he deigned to make an appearance?

At that precise moment the door opened, and Carly’s eyes flew to the tall masculine frame outlined in the aperture.

Unbidden, she rose to her feet, and her heart gave a sudden jolt, disturbed beyond measure by the lick of flame that swept through her veins. It was mad, utterly crazy that he could still have this effect, and she forced herself to breathe slowly in an attempt to slow the rapid beat of her pulse.

Attired in a dark grey business suit, blue silk shirt and tie, he appeared even more formidable than she’d expected, his height an intimidating factor as he entered the room.

The door closed behind him with a faint decisive snap, and for one electrifying second she felt trapped. Imprisoned, she amended, verging towards silent hysteria as her eyes lifted towards his in a gesture of contrived courage.

His harshly assembled features bore an inscrutability that was disquieting, and she viewed him warily as he crossed to stand within touching distance.

He embodied a dramatic mesh of blatant masculinity and elemental ruthlessness, his stance that of a superior jungle cat about to stalk a vulnerable prey, assessing the moment he would choose to pounce and kill.

Dammit, she derided silently. She was being too fanciful for words! A tiny voice taunted that he had no need for violence when he possessed the ability verbally to reduce even the most worthy opponent to a state of mute insecurity in seconds.

The silence between them was so acute that Carly was almost afraid to breathe, and she became intensely conscious of the measured rise and fall of her breasts, the painful beat of her heart as it seemed to leap through her ribcage. Her eyes widened fractionally as he thrust a hand into his trouser pocket with an indolent gesture, and she tilted her head, forcing herself to retain his gaze.

‘Shall we dispense with polite inanities and go straight to the reason why you’re here?’ Stefano queried hardily.

There was an element of tensile steel beneath the sophisticated veneer, a sense of purpose that was daunting. She was aware of an elevated nervous tension, and it took every ounce of courage to speak calmly. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d see me.’

The eyes that speared hers were deliberately cool, and an icy chill feathered across the surface of her skin.

‘Curiosity, perhaps?’ His voice was a hateful drawl, and her eyes gleamed with latent anger, their depths flecked with tawny gold.

She wanted to hit him, to disturb his tightly held control. Yet such an action was impossible, for she couldn’t afford to indulge in a display of temper. She needed him—or, more importantly, Ann-Marie needed the sort of help his money could bring.

‘Coffee?’

She was tempted to refuse, and for a moment she almost did, then she inclined her head in silent acquiescence. ‘Please.’

Dark grey eyes raked her slim form, then returned to stab her pale features with relentless scrutiny. Without a word he crossed to the telephone console and lifted the handset, then issued a request for coffee and sandwiches before turning back to face her.

His expression became chillingly cynical, assuming an inscrutability that reflected inflexible strength of will. ‘How much, Carly?’

Her head lifted of its own volition, her eyes wide and clear as she fought to utter a civil response.

One eyebrow slanted in a gesture of deliberate mockery. ‘I gather that is why you’re here?’

She had already calculated the cost and added a fraction more in case of emergency. Now she doubled it. ‘Twenty thousand dollars.’

He directed her a swift calculated appraisal, and when he spoke his voice was dangerously soft. ‘That’s expensive elective surgery.’

Carly’s eyes widened into huge pools of incredulity as comprehension dawned, and for one brief second her eyes filled with incredible pain. Then a surge of anger rose to the surface, palpable, inimical, and beyond control.

Without conscious thought she reached for the nearest object at hand, uncaring of the injury she could inflict or any damage she might cause.

Stefano shifted slightly, and the rock-crystal ashtray missed its target by inches and crashed into a framed print positioned on the wall directly behind his shoulder.

The sound was explosive, and in seeming slow motion Carly saw the glass shatter, the framed print spring from its fixed hook and fall to the carpet. The ashtray followed its path, intact, to bounce and roll drunkenly to a halt in the centre of the room.

Time became a suspended entity, the silence so intense that she could hear the ragged measure of her breathing and feel the pounding beat of her heart.

She didn’t move, couldn’t, for the muscles activating each limb appeared suspended and beyond any direction from her brain.

It was impossible to gauge his reaction, for the only visible sign of anger apparent was revealed in the hard line of his jaw, the icy chill evident in the storm-grey darkness of his eyes.

The strident ring of the phone made her jump, its shrill sound diffusing the electric tension, and Carly watched in mesmerised fascination as Stefano crossed to the console and picked up the handset.

He listened for a few seconds, then spoke reassuringly to whoever was on the other end of the line.

More than anything, she wanted to storm out of the room, the building, his life. Yet she couldn’t. Not yet.

Stefano slowly replaced the receiver, then he straightened, his expression an inscrutable mask.

‘So,’ he intoned silkily. ‘Am I to assume from that emotive reaction that you aren’t carrying the seed of another man’s child, and are therefore not in need of an abortion?’

I carried yours, she longed to cry out. With determined effort she attempted to gather together the threads of her shattered nerves. ‘Don’t presume to judge me by the numerous women you bed,’ she retorted in an oddly taut voice.

His eyes darkened until they resembled shards of obsidian slate. ‘You have no foundation on which to base such an accusation.’

Carly closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. ‘It goes beyond my credulity to imagine you’ve remained celibate for seven years.’ As I have, she added silently.

‘You’re here to put me on trial for supposed sexual misdemeanours during the years of our enforced separation?’

His voice was a hatefully musing drawl that made her palms itch with the need to resort to a display of physical anger.

‘If you could sleep with Angelica during our marriage, I can’t even begin to imagine what you might have done after I left!’ Carly hurled with the pent-up bitterness of years.