Helen Bianchin: Purchased: His Perfect Wife

‘I’ll ensure the funds you requireare transferred into your bankaccount within twenty-fourhours.’

‘You’re being unbelievably generous.’ An instinctive wariness began to unfold, together with suspicion.

‘I’ll clear the restaurant mortgage debt, and cover all necessary refurbishment.’ There had to be a catch. A price she’d have to pay. How many possibilities were there? Too few, she acknowledged silently, and in reality…only one.

Yet she had to ask. ‘In return for what?’

One dark eyebrow slanted, and his voice held an edge of mockery. ‘Occupying my home, my bed.’

Her eyes blazed blue fire. ‘As your mistress?’

‘No.’

He sounded mildly amused, and at that moment she truly hated him.

‘My wife.’

Helen Bianchinwas born in New Zealand and travelled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian cat regard her study as as much theirs as hers.

BY

HELEN BIANCHIN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

‘DAMN it.’

The despairing oath emerged as a barely audible condemnation as Lara checked her watch and cast the empty train-tracks a despairing glance.

The train was late. Not exactly a surprise, given the Sydney rail-system rarely kept to its timetable.

There was a general restlessness among the passengers lining the station platform, waiting to board.

An irritated feminine voice demanded querulously close by, ‘Does anyone have any idea how inconvenient this delay is?’

Like you wouldn’t believe, Lara answered silently.

‘I have an important appointment!’

Oh my. As if you’re the only one?

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose and died in her throat. Her own appointment was akin to life or death…figuratively, but almost equally as dire.

Help ; the financial magnitude of it was hopeless.

Impossible, she perceived, unless a miracle occurred.

And she no longer believed in miracles. If she ever had. She spared the still-empty train tracks another anxious glance. Oh, come on , she silently begged, and barely refrained from uttering something incredibly unladylike.

Don’t do this to me . Especially not today.

Silent prayers and unexpressed angst made not the slightest difference as the minutes ticked on, and she took a steadying breath and resigned herself to being late.

Alerting anyone to her delay wasn’t going to happen, as she no longer possessed a mobile phone. She could access a phone booth, although the chances of finding one that actually worked in this particular station were minimal.

Several waiting passengers began to pace restlessly along the platform, their impatience matching her own, until collective sighs of relief heralded a train’s arrival.

Lara boarded an overloaded carriage and was forced to stand. Worse, as the train cleared the station, it met torrential rain slanting down in wind-driven sheets that didn’t show signs of ceasing any time soon.

Great . She hadn’t brought an umbrella.

A sign the day…and the power of the Deity…wasn’t done with her?

Somehow it seemed appropriate, given she was due—make that overdue —for an appointment with a prestigious firm of lawyers in order to be apprised of the contents of two wills, as a result of the tragic accidental death of her mother and stepfather in France.

Emotion welled up inside, and she willed herself not to cry. The shedding of tears in public wasn’t going to happen.

Caring, affectionate Darius Alexander had provided the happiness sorely missing in her mother’s first marriage, accepting and treating Lara as if she’d been his own.

Not so his son Wolfe, who ten years ago had viewed Suzanne and her seventeen-year-old daughter Lara predominantly as fortune-hunters planning to live the high life at his father’s expense.

Something so not true it was pathetic, given Suzanne had insisted on signing a pre-nup prior to her marriage to Darius. A fact Wolfe would be forced to accept when the contents of both Darius and Suzanne’s wills were revealed. Together with the addendum, citing Lara’s welfare was Suzanne’s financial responsibility.

Within a year of the marriage Wolfe had declined Darius’ offer to join his conglomerate’s directorial board and had taken up a lucrative offer in New York, choosing instead to forge his own path in the business arena.

Lara had completed her studies, qualified as a chef, and spent time in France and Italy for a few years, honing her skills before returning to Sydney.

Two years ago she’d formed a business partnership with Paul Evans, sunk all her savings into a restaurant in a trendy suburb, and had worked long hours to make it a success.

Something she’d achieved, providing fine food at reasonable prices for a steadily increasing clientele.

Life had been good…until Paul had fled the country after clearing out their business bank account, and her own, because she’d foolishly trusted him.

Not coincidentally, the theft had been timed to occur the day after Darius and Suzanne had embarked on a lengthy European tour, ensuring lack of hands-on parental support. The police were called in, lawyers consulted, charges laid, but the wheels of justice had moved slowly.

Pride had ensured the resultant mess was her problem, and in an effort to conserve funds she’d given up her leased apartment and downsized to lodgings, sold her car and resorted to public transport.

However, the financial damage had been acute, and minimizing staff by personally working long shifts had done little to ease the situation. Bank assistance was withdrawn, and she’d dealt with lack of funds as best she could with a short term high-interest loan from a less than desirable source.

A man who’d spelt out terms in cold hard facts.

Pay on time, and everything will be fine .

Followed by a succinct and frightening, don’t…and it won’t .

The implications had been vividly clear, and only a fool would have failed to recognize them.

Borrowing money in such circumstances had not been a wise move, she reflected grimly. The reality of missing a payment had provided a vivid reminder of just who she was dealing with.

Not a bank-loan officer trained to provide a psychologically couched response with seeming regret.

Instead, a ruthless man who dealt with desperate people who were denied access to normal lending-institutions and who accepted the terms, aware of the risks.

Something he’d revealed in chilling detail, elaborating precisely on what she could expect if she failed to pay on time.