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HELEN BIANCHIN was 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 and 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.
Currently Helen resides in Queensland, the three children now married with children of their own. An animal lover, Helen says her two beautiful Birman cats regard her study as much theirs as hers, choosing to leap onto her desk every afternoon to sit upright between the computer monitor and keyboard as a reminder they need to be fed…like right now!
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Passion’s Mistress
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Desert Mistress
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mistress by Arrangement
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS ONE of those beautiful southern hemispheric summer evenings with a soft balmy breeze drifting in from the sea.
An evening more suited to casual entertainment outdoors than a formal gathering, Carly mused as she stepped into a classically designed black gown and slid the zip in place. Beautifully cut, the style emphasised her slim curves and provided a perfect foil for her fine-textured skin.
A quick glance in the mirror revealed an attractive young woman of average height, whose natural attributes were enhanced by a glorious riot of auburn-streaked dark brown curls cascading halfway down her back.
The contrast was dramatic and far removed from the elegant chignon and classically tailored clothes she chose to wear to the office.
Indecision momentarily clouded her expression as she viewed her pale, delicately boned features. Too pale, she decided, and in a moment of utter recklessness she applied more blusher, then added another touch of eyeshadow to give extra emphasis to her eyes.
There, that would have to do, she decided as she viewed her image with critical appraisal, reflecting a trifle wryly that it was ages since she’d attended a social function—although tonight’s soirée was entirely business, arranged for the express purpose of affording a valuable new client introduction to key personnel, and only her employer’s insistence had been instrumental in persuading her to join other staff members at his house.
‘All done,’ she said lightly as she turned towards the small pyjama-clad girl sitting cross-legged on the bed: a beautiful child whose fragility tore at Carly’s maternal heartstrings and caused her to curse silently the implicit necessity to attend tonight’s party.
‘You look pretty.’ The voice held wistful admiration, and a wealth of unreserved love shone from wide, expressive dark eyes.
‘Thank you,’ Carly accepted gently as she leant forward and trailed slightly shaky fingers down the length of her daughter’s dark, silky curls.
Tomorrow the waiting would be over. In a way, it would be a relief to know the medical reason why Ann-Marie’s health had become so precarious in the past few months. The round of referrals from general practitioner to paediatrician, to one specialist and then another, the seemingly endless number of tests and X-rays had proven emotionally and financially draining.
If Ann-Marie required the skills of a surgeon and private hospital care…
Silent anguish gnawed at her stomach, then with a concentrated effort Carly dampened her anxiety and forced her wide, mobile mouth into a warm smile as she clasped Ann-Marie’s hand in her own.
‘Sarah has the telephone number if she needs to contact me,’ she relayed gently as she led the way towards the lounge.
Leaving Ann-Marie, even with someone as competent as Sarah, was a tremendous wrench. Especially tonight, when apprehension heightened her sense of guilt and warred violently with any need for divided loyalty. Yet her work was important, the money earned essential. Critical, she added silently.
Besides, Ann-Marie couldn’t be in better hands than with Sarah, who, as a nursing sister at the Royal Children’s Hospital, was well qualified to cope with any untoward eventuality.
‘The dress is perfect.’
Carly smiled in silent acknowledgement of the warmly voiced compliment. ‘It’s kind of you to lend it to me.’
The attractive blonde rose from the sofa with unselfconscious grace. ‘Your hair looks great. You should wear it like that more often.’
‘Yes,’ Ann-Marie agreed, and, tilting her head to one side, she viewed her mother with the solemn simplicity of the very young. ‘It makes you look different.’
‘Sophisticated,’ Sarah added with a teasing laugh as she collected a book from the coffee-table. It was a popular children’s story, with beautiful illustrations. ‘Ann-Marie and I have some serious reading to do.’
Carly blessed Sarah’s intuitive ability to distract Ann-Marie’s attention—and her own, if only momentarily.
Their friendship went back seven years to the day they’d moved into neighbouring apartments—each fleeing her own home town for differing reasons, and each desperate for a new beginning.
‘I won’t be away any longer than I have to,’ she assured quietly, then she gave Ann-Marie a hug, and quickly left.
In the lobby, Carly crossed to the lift and stabbed the call-button, hearing an answering electronic hum as the lift rose swiftly to the third floor, then just as swiftly transported her down to the basement.
The apartment block comprised three levels, and was one of several lining the northern suburban street, sharing a uniformity of pale brick, tiled roof, and basement car park, the only visual difference being a variation in the grassed verges and gardens, dependent on the generosity of any caring tenant who possessed both the time and inclination to beautify his or her immediate environment.
Carly unlocked her sedan, slid in behind the wheel and urged the aged Ford on to street level, taking the main arterial route leading into the city. It was almost seven-thirty, and unless there were any delays with traffic she should arrive at the requested time.
Clive Mathorpe owned an exclusive harbourside residence in Rose Bay, and a slight frown creased her forehead as she attempted to recall a previous occasion when her employer had organised a social event in his home for the benefit of a client—even the directorial scion of a vast entrepreneurial empire.
Acquiring Consolidated Enterprises had been quite a coup, for Mathorpe and Partners bore neither the size nor standing of any one of the three instantly recognisable internationally affiliated accounting firms.
Carly’s speculation faded as she caught a glimpse of towering multi-level concrete and glass spires vying for supremacy in a city skyline, followed within minutes by an uninterrupted view of the unique architectural masterpiece of the Opera House.
It was a familiar scene she’d come to appreciate, for it was here in this city that she had developed a sense of self-achievement, together with an inner satisfaction at having strived hard against difficult odds and won. Not handsomely, she admitted a trifle wryly, aware of the leasing fee on her apartment and the loan on her car.
Negotiating inner-city evening traffic demanded total concentration, and Carly gave a silent sigh of relief when she reached Rose Bay.
Locating her employer’s address presented no problem, and she slid the car to a halt outside an imposing set of wrought-iron gates.
Minutes later she took a curving path towards the main entrance, and within seconds of pressing the doorbell she was greeted by name and ushered indoors.
It was crazy suddenly to be stricken with an attack of nerves; mad to consider herself a social alien among people she knew and worked with.
Soft muted music vied with the chatter of variously toned voices, and Carly cast the large lounge and its occupants an idle sweeping glance. Without exception the men all wore black dinner-suits, white silk shirts and black bow-ties, while the women had each chosen stylish gowns in a concerted effort to impress.
Within minutes she was offered a drink, and she managed a slight smile as Bradley Williamson moved to her side. He was a pleasant man in his early thirties and considered to be one of Mathorpe and Partners’ rising young executives.
His roving appraisal was brief, and his eyes assumed an appreciative sparkle as he met her steady gaze. ‘Carly, you look sensational.’
‘Bradley,’ she acknowledged, then queried idly, ‘Has Clive’s honoured guest arrived yet?’
His voice took on an unaccustomed dryness. ‘You’re hoping he’ll appear soon and let you off the figurative hook.’
It was a statement she didn’t refute. ‘Maybe he won’t come,’ she proffered absently, and caught Bradley’s negative shake of the head.
‘Doubtful. Mathorpe revealed that the director favours a personal touch in all his business dealings. “Involvement on every level” were his exact words.’
‘Which explains why the company has achieved such success.’
Bradley spared her a quizzical smile that broadened his pleasant features into moderate attractiveness. ‘Been doing your homework?’
Her answering response was without guile. ‘Of course.’ Figures, projections, past successes had been readily available. Yet mystery surrounded Consolidated Enterprises’ top man, inviting intense speculation with regard to his identity.
‘Such dedication,’ he teased. ‘The way you’re heading, you’ll be the first woman partner in the firm.’
‘I very much doubt it.’
His interest quickened. ‘You can’t possibly be considering resigning in favour of working elsewhere.’
‘No,’ Carly disclaimed. ‘I merely expressed the observation that Clive Mathorpe has tunnel vision, and, while an accountant of the feminine gender is quite acceptable in the workforce, taking one on as a partner is beyond his personal inclination.’ A faint smile tugged the corners of her generously moulded mouth. ‘Besides, I’m comfortable with things as they are.’
He absorbed her words and effected a philosophical shrug. ‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Thank you. Something long, cool and mildly alcoholic.’ She smiled at his expression, then added teasingly, ‘Surprise me.’
Carly watched Bradley’s departing back with an odd feeling of restlessness, aware of a time when her slightest need had been anticipated with unerring accuracy, almost as if the man in her life possessed an ability to see beyond the windows of her mind right to the very depths of her soul. Those were the days of love and laughter, when life itself had seemed as exotic and ebullient as the bubbles set free in a flute of the finest champagne.
Entrapped by introspection, Carly fought against the emergence of a vision so vivid, so shockingly compelling, that it was almost as if the image had manifested itself into reality.
Seven years hadn’t dimmed her memory by the slightest degree. If anything the passage of those years had only served to magnify the qualities of a man she doubted she would ever be able to forget.
Their attraction had been instantaneous, a combustible force fired by electric fusion, and everything, everyone, from that moment on, had faded into insignificance. At twenty, she hadn’t stood a chance against his devastating sexual alchemy, and within weeks he’d slipped a brilliant diamond on to her finger, charmed her widowed mother into planning an early wedding, and succeeded in sweeping Carly into the depths of passionate oblivion.
For the first three months of her marriage she had been blissfully, heavenly happy. Then the demands of her husband’s business interests had begun to intrude into their personal life. Initially she hadn’t queried the few occasions he rang to cancel dinner; nor had she thought to doubt that his overnight business trips were anything other than legitimate. Their reunions had always been filled with such a degree of sexual urgency that it never occurred to her that there could be anyone else.
Yet the rumours had begun, persistently connecting her husband with Angelica Agnelli. The two families had been linked together in various business interests for more than a generation, and Angelica, with qualifications in business management to her credit, held a seat on the board of directors of numerous companies.
Tall, slim, soignée, Angelica was the visual image of an assertive, high-powered businesswoman with her eye firmly set on the main chance. And that had included the man at the top of the directorial board. The fact that he had been legally and morally unavailable was considered of little or no consequence, his wife merely a minor obstacle that could easily be dismissed.
Carly’s husband was possessed of an entrepreneurial flair that was the envy of his contemporaries, and his generosity to numerous charities was well known, thus ensuring his presence at prominent social events in and around Perth.
Carly reflected bitterly that it hadn’t taken long for the gossip to take seed and germinate. Nor for the arguments to begin, and to continue unresolved until ultimately a devastating confrontation had finally supplied the will for her to escape.
Throughout her flight east she had been besieged by the machinations of her own imagination as it provided a litany of possible scenarios, and during those first few weeks in Sydney she’d lived on a knife-edge of nervous tension, fearful that her whereabouts might be discovered.
The bitter irony of having figuratively burned her bridges soon had become apparent with the knowledge she was pregnant.
The solution was something she’d chosen to face alone, and even in the depths of her own dilemma it had never occurred to her to consider abortion as the easy way out. Nor in those first few months of her pregnancy had she enlightened her widowed mother, and afterwards it was too late when emergency surgery resulted in her mother’s death.
That initial year after Ann-Marie’s birth had been difficult, caring for a child while juggling study and attempting a career. However, she’d managed…thanks to a private day-care centre and Sarah’s help.
It was a source of pride that not only had she achieved success in her chosen field of accountancy, she’d also added a string of qualifications to her name that had earned respect from her peers.
‘Sorry I took so long.’
Carly was brought sharply back to the present at the sound of Bradley’s voice, and her lashes swept down to form a protective veil as she struggled to shut out the past.
‘Your drink. I hope you like it.’
She accepted the glass with a slight smile, and murmured her thanks.
It was relief when several minutes later one of the firm’s partners joined them and the conversation shifted entirely to business. A recent change in tax legislation had come into effect, and Carly entered into a lengthy debate with both men over the far-reaching implications on various of their clients’ affairs.
Carly became so involved that at first she didn’t notice a change in the background noise until a slight touch on her arm alerted her to examine the source of everyone’s attention.
Clive Mathorpe’s bulky frame was instantly recognisable. The man at his side stood at ease, his height and breadth a commanding entity. Even from this distance there was sufficient familiarity evident to send her heart thudding into an accelerated beat.
A dozen times over the past seven years she’d been shocked into immobility by the sight of a tall, broad-framed, dark-haired man, only to collapse with relief on discovering that the likeness was merely superficial.
Now, Carly stood perfectly still as logic vied with the possibility of coincidental chance, and even as she dismissed the latter there was a subtle shift in his stance so that his profile was revealed, eliminating any doubt as to his identity.
For one horrifying second Carly sensed the dark void of oblivion welling up and threatening to engulf her.
She couldn’t, dared not faint. The humiliation would be too incredible and totally beyond conceivable explanation.
With conscious effort she willed herself to breathe slowly, deeply, in an attempt to retain some measure of composure as every single nerve-end went into a state of wild panic.
Stefano Alessi. Australian-born of Italian parents, he was a proven successor to his father’s financial empire and a noted entrepreneur, having gained accolades and enjoyed essential prestige among his peers. In his late thirties, he was known to head vast multinational corporations, and owned residences in several European cities.
It was seven years since she’d last seen him. Seven years in which she’d endeavoured to forget the cataclysmic effect he’d had on her life.
Even now he had the power to liquefy her bones, and she watched with a sense of dreaded fascination as he glanced with seeming casualness round the room, almost as if an acutely developed sixth sense had somehow alerted him to her presence.
Carly mentally steeled herself for the moment of recognition, mesmerised by the sheer physical force of the man who had nurtured her innocent emotions and stoked them into a raging fire.
His facial features were just as dynamically arresting as she remembered, distinctive by their assemblage of broad-sculpted bone-structure, his wide-spaced, piercing grey eyes able to assess, dissect and categorise with definitive accuracy.
Dark brown, almost black hair moulded his head with well-groomed perfection, and he looked older—harder, she perceived, aware of the indomitable air of power evident that set him aside from every other man in the room.
She shivered, hating the way her body reacted to his presence, and there was nothing she could do to prevent the blood coursing through her veins as it brought all her senses tingling into vibrant life. Even her skin betrayed her, the soft surface hairs rising in silent recognition, attuned to a memory so intense, so incredibly acute, that she felt it must be clearly apparent to anyone who happened to look at her.
In seeming slow motion he captured her gaze, and the breath caught in her throat as his eyes clashed with hers for an infinitesimal second, searing with laser precision through every protective barrier to her soul, only to withdraw and continue an encompassing appraisal of the room’s occupants.
‘Our guest of honour is an attractive man, don’t you think?’
Carly heard Bradley’s voice as if from an immense distance, and she attempted a non-committal rejoinder that choked in her throat.
‘I doubt there’s a woman present who isn’t wondering if he performs as well in the bedroom as he does in the boardroom,’ he assessed with wry amusement.
All Carly wanted to do was escape the room, the house. Yet even as she gathered her scattered wits together she experienced a distinct feeling of dread with the knowledge that any form of retreat was impossible.
It became immediately apparent that Clive Mathorpe intended to effect an introduction to key personnel, and every passing second assumed the magnitude of several minutes as the two men moved slowly round the room.
Consequently, she was almost at screaming point when Clive Mathorpe eventually reached her side.
‘Bradley Williamson, one of my junior partners.’
The lines fanning out from Clive Mathorpe’s astute blue eyes deepened in silent appreciation of Carly’s fashion departure from studious employee. ‘Carly Taylor, an extremely efficient young woman who gives one hundred per cent to anything she undertakes.’ He paused, then added with a degree of reverent emphasis, ‘Stefano Alessi.’
It was a name which had gained much notice in the business section of a variety of newspapers over the past few months. Twice his photograph had been emblazoned in the tabloid Press accompanied by a journalistic report lauding the cementing of yet another lucrative deal. Even in the starkness of black and white newsprint, his portrayed persona had emanated an electrifying magnetism that Carly found difficult to dispel.
She held little doubt that the passage of seven years had seen a marked escalation of his investment portfolio. On a personal level, she couldn’t help wondering whether Angelica Agnelli was still sharing his bed.
An ache started up in the region of her heart with a physicality so intense it became a tangible pain. Even now she could still hurt, and she drew on all her reserves of strength to present a cool, unaffected façade.
Cool grey eyes deliberately raked her slender frame, pausing imperceptibly on the slight fullness of her breasts before lifting to linger briefly on the generous curve of her mouth.
It was worse, much worse, than if he’d actually touched her. Equally mortifying was her body’s instant recognition of the effect he had on all its sensual pleasure spots, and there was nothing she could do to still the betraying pulse at the edge of her throat as it quickened into a palpably visible beat.
Rage flared deep within, licking every nerve-fibre until it threatened to engulf her in overwhelming flame. How dared he subject her to such a sexist scrutiny? Almost as if she was an available conquest he was affording due contemplation.
Then his eyes met hers, and she almost died at the ruthlessness apparent, aware that his slight smile was a mere facsimile as he inclined his head in greeting.
‘Miss Taylor.’ His voice was a barely inflected drawl, each word given an imperceptible mocking emphasis.