A Convenient Bridegroom
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Helen Bianchin
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11
Chapter 1
‘NIGHT, cara. You will be staying over, won’t you?’
Subtle, very subtle, Aysha conceded. It never ceased to amaze that her mother could state a command in the form of a suggestion, and phrase it as a question. As if Aysha had a choice.
For as long as she could remember, her life had been stage-managed. The most exclusive of private schools, extra-curricular private tuition. Holidays abroad, winter resorts. Ballet, riding school, languages ... she spoke fluent Italian and French.
Aysha Benini was a product of her parents’ upbringing. Fashioned, styled and presented as a visual attestation to family wealth and status.
Something which must be upheld at any cost.
Even her chosen career as an interior decorator added to the overall image.
‘Darling?’
Aysha crossed the room and brushed her lips to her mother’s cheek. ‘Probably.’
Teresa Benini allowed one eyebrow to form an elegant arch. ‘Your father and I won’t expect you home.’
Case closed. Aysha checked her evening purse, selected her car key, and turned towards the door. ‘See you later.’
‘Have a good time.’
What did Teresa Benini consider a good time? An exquisitely served meal eaten in a trendy restaurant with Carlo Santangelo, followed by a long night of loving in Carlo’s bed?
Aysha slid in behind the wheel of her black Porsche Carrera, fired the engine, then eased the car down the driveway, cleared the electronic gates, and traversed the quiet tree-lined street towards the main arterial road leading from suburban Vaucluse into the city.
A shaft of sunlight caught the diamond-studded gold band with its magnificent solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. Brilliantly designed, horrendously expensive, it was a befitting symbol representing the intended union of Giuseppe Benini’s daughter to Luigi Santangelo’s son.
Benini-Santangelo, Aysha mused as she joined the flow of city-bound traffic.
Two immigrants from two neighbouring properties in a northern Italian town had travelled in their late teens to Sydney, where they’d worked two jobs every day of the week, saved every cent, and set up a cement business in their mid-twenties.
Forty years on, Benini-Santangelo was a major name in Sydney’s building industry, with a huge plant and a fleet of concrete tankers.
Each man had married a suitable wife, sadly produced only one child apiece; they lived in fine homes, drove expensive cars, and had given their children the best education that money could buy.
Both families had interacted closely on a social and personal level for as long as Aysha could remember.
The bond between them was strong, more than friends. Almost family.
The New South Head Road wound down towards Rose Bay, and Aysha took a moment to admire the view.
At six-thirty on a fine late summer’s evening the ocean resembled a sapphire jewel, merging with a sky clear of cloud or pollution. Prime real estate overlooked numerous coves and bays where various sailing craft lay anchored. Tall city buildings rose in differing architectural design, structured towers of glass and steel, providing a splendid backdrop to the Opera House and the wide span of the Harbour Bridge.
Traffic became more dense as she drew close to the city, and there were the inevitable delays at computer-controlled intersections.
Consequently it was almost seven when she drew into the curved entrance of the hotel and consigned her car to valet parking.
She could, should have allowed Carlo to collect her, or at least driven to his apartment. It would have been more practical, sensible.
Except tonight she didn’t feel sensible.
Aysha nodded to the concierge as she entered the lobby, and she hadn’t taken more than three steps towards the bank of sofas and single chairs when a familiar male frame rose to full height and moved forward to greet her.
Carlo Santangelo.
Just the sight of him was enough to send her heart racing to a quickened beat. Her breath caught in her
throat, and she forced herself to monitor the rise and fall of her chest.
In his late thirties, he stood three inches over six feet and possessed the broad shoulders and hard-muscled body of a man who coveted physical fitness. Sculpted raw-boned facial features highlighted planes and angles, accenting a powerful jaw, strong chin, and a sensuously moulded mouth. Well-cut thick dark brown hair was stylishly groomed, and his eyes were incredibly dark, almost black.
Aysha had no recollection of witnessing his temper. Yet there could be no doubt he possessed one, for his eyes could darken to obsidian, the mouth thin, and his voice assume the chill of an ice floe.
‘Aysha.’ He leant down and brushed his mouth against her own, lingered, then he lifted his head and caught both of her hands in his.
Dear God, he was something. The clean male smell of him teased her nostrils, combining with his subtle aftershave.
Her stomach executed a series of somersaults, and her pulse hammered heavily enough to be almost audible. Did she affect him the way he affected her?
Doubtful, she conceded, aware of precisely where she fitted in the scheme of things. Bianca had been his first love, the beautiful young girl he’d married ten years ago, only to lose her in a fatal car accident mere weeks after the honeymoon. Aysha had cried silent tears at the wedding, and wept openly at Bianca’s funeral.
Afterwards he’d flung himself into work, earning
a reputation in the business arena as a superb strategist, able to negotiate with enviable skill.
He had dated many women, and selectively taken what they offered without thought of replacing the beautiful young girl who had all too briefly shared his name.
Until last year, when he’d focused his attention on Aysha, strengthening the affectionate bond between them into something much more personal, more intimate.
His proposal of marriage had overwhelmed her, for Carlo had been the object of her affection for as long as she could remember, and she could pinpoint the moment when teenage hero-worship had changed and deepened into love.
A one-sided love, for she was under no illusion. The marriage would strengthen the Benini-Santangelo conglomerate and forge it into another generation.
‘Hungry?’
At the sound of Carlo’s drawled query Aysha offered a winsome smile, and her eyes assumed a teasing sparkle. ‘Starving.’
‘Then let’s go eat, shall we?’ Carlo placed an arm round her waist and led her towards a bank of elevators.
The top of her head came level with his shoulder, and her slender frame held a fragility that was in direct contrast to strength of mind and body.
She could, he reflected musingly as he depressed the call button, have turned into a terrible brat. Yet for all the pampering, by an indulgent but fiercely
protective mother, Aysha was without guile. Nor did she have an inflated sense of her own importance. Instead, she was a warm, intelligent, witty and very attractive young woman whose smile transformed her features into something quite beautiful.
The restaurant was situated on a high floor offering magnificent views of the city and harbour. Expensive, exclusive, and a personal favourite, for the chef was a true artiste with an expertise and flair that had earned him fame and fortune in several European countries.
The lift doors slid open, and she preceded Carlo into the cubicle, then stood in silence as they were transported with electronic speed.
‘That bad, hmm?’
Aysha cast him a quick glance, saw the musing cynicism apparent, and didn’t know whether to be amused or resigned that he’d divined her silence and successfully attributed it to a ghastly day.
Was she that transparent? Somehow she didn’t think so. At least not with most people. However, Carlo was an entity all on his own, and she’d accepted a long time ago that there was very little she could manage to keep hidden from him.
‘Where would you like me to begin?’ She wrinkled her nose at him, then she lifted a hand and proceeded to tick off each finger in turn. ‘An irate client, an even more irate floor manager, imported fabric caught up in a wharf strike, or the dress fitting from hell?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Choose.’
The elevator slid to a halt, and she walked at his side to the restaurant foyer.
‘Signor Santangelo, Signorina Benini. Welcome.’ The maître d’ greeted them with a fulsome smile, and accorded them the deference of valued patrons. He didn’t even suggest a table, merely led them to the one they preferred, adjacent the floor-to-ceiling window.
There was, Aysha conceded, a certain advantage in being socially well placed. It afforded impeccable service.
The wine steward appeared the instant they were seated, and Aysha deferred to Carlo’s choice of white wine.
‘Iced water, please,’ she added, then watched as Carlo leaned back in his chair to regard her with interest.
‘How is Teresa?’
‘Now there’s a leading question, if ever there was one,’ Aysha declared lightly. ‘Perhaps you could be more specific?’
‘She’s driving you insane.’ His faint drawling tones caused the edges of her mouth to tilt upwards in a semblance of wry humour.
‘You’re good. Very good,’ she acknowledged with cynical approval.
One eyebrow rose, and there was gleaming amusement evident. ‘Shall I try for excellent and guess the current crisis?’ he ventured. ‘Or are you going to tell me?’
‘The wedding dress.’ Visualising the scene earlier in the day brought a return of tension as she vividly recalled Teresa’s calculated insistence and the seamstress’s restrained politeness. Dammit, it should be
so easy. They’d agreed on the style, the material. The fit was perfect. Yet Teresa hadn’t been able to leave it alone.
‘Problems?’ He had no doubt there would be many, most of which would be of Teresa’s making.
‘The dressmaker is not appreciative of Mother’s interference with the design.’ Aysha experienced momentary remorse, for the gown was truly beautiful, a vision of silk, satin and lace.
‘I see.’
‘No,’ she corrected. ‘You don’t.’ She paused as the wine steward delivered the wine, and went through the tasting ritual with Carlo, before retreating.
‘What don’t I see, cara?’ Carlo queried lightly. ‘That Teresa, like most Italian mammas, wants the perfect wedding for her daughter. The perfect venue, caterers, food, wine, bomboniera, the cake, limousines. And the dress must be outstanding.’
‘You’ve forgotten the flowers,’ Aysha reminded him mildly. The florist is at the end of his tether. The caterer is ready to quit because he says his tiramisu is an art form and he will not, not, you understand, use my grandmother’s recipe from the Old Country.’
Carlo’s mouth formed a humorous twist. ‘Teresa is a superb cook,’ he complimented blandly.
Teresa was superb at everything; that was the trouble. Consequently, she expected others to be equally superb. The trouble as such, was that while Teresa Benini enjoyed the prestige of employing the best money could buy, she felt bound to check every little
detail to ensure it came up to her impossibly high standard.
Retaining household staff had always been a problem for as long as Aysha could remember. They came and left with disturbing rapidity due to her mother’s refusal to delegate even the most minor of chores.
The waiter arrived with the menu, and because he was new, and very young, they listened in silence as he explained the intricacies of each dish, gave his considered recommendations, then very solicitously noted their order before retreating with due deference to relay it to the kitchen.
Aysha lifted her glass and took a sip of chilled water, then regarded the man seated opposite over the rim of the stemmed goblet.
‘How seriously would you consider an elopement?’
Carlo swirled the wine in his goblet, then lifted it to his lips and savoured the delicate full-bodied flavour.
‘Is there any particular reason why you’d want to incur Teresa’s wrath by wrecking the social event of the year?’
‘It would never do,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘Although I’m almost inclined to plug for sanity and suffer the wrath.’
One eyebrow slanted, and his dark eyes assumed a quizzical gleam.
The waiter delivered their starters; minestrone and a superb linguini with seafood sauce.
‘Two weeks, cara,’ Carlo reminded her.
It was a lifetime. One she wasn’t sure she’d survive intact.
She should have moved out of home into an apartment of her own. Would have, if Teresa hadn’t dismissed the idea as ridiculous when she had a wing in the house all to herself, complete with gym, sauna and entertainment lounge. She had her own car, her own garage, and technically she could come and go as she pleased.
Aysha picked up her fork, deftly wound on a portion of pasta and savoured it. Ambrosia. The sauce was perfecto.
‘Good?’
She wound on another portion and held it to his lips. ‘Try some.’ She hadn’t intended it to be an intimate gesture, and her eyes flared slightly as he placed his fingers over hers, guided the fork, and then held her gaze as he slid the pasta into his mouth.
Her stomach jolted, then settled, and she was willing to swear she could hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
He didn’t even have to try, and she became caught up with the alchemy that was his alone.
A warm smile curved his lips as he dipped a spoon into his minestrone and lifted it invitingly towards her own. ‘Want to try mine?’
She took a small mouthful, then shook her head when he offered her another. Did he realise just how difficult it was for her to retain a measure of sangfroid at moments like these?
‘We have a rehearsal at the church tomorrow evening,’ Carlo reminded her, and saw her eyes darken.
Aysha replaced her fork, her appetite temporarily diminished. ‘Six-thirty,’ she concurred evenly. ‘After which the wedding party dine together.’
Both sets of parents, the bride and groom to-be, the bridesmaids and their attendants, the flower girls and page boys and their parents.
Followed the next day by a bridal shower. Hardly a casual affair, with just very close friends, a few nibblies and champagne. The guest list numbered fifty, it was being catered, and Teresa had arranged entertainment.
To add to her stress levels, she’d stubbornly refused to begin six weeks’ leave of absence from work until a fortnight before the wedding.
On the positive side, it kept her busy, her mind occupied, and minimised the growing tension with her mother. The negative was hours early morning and evening spent at the breathtaking harbourside mansion Carlo had built, overseeing installation of carpets, drapes, selecting furniture, co-ordinating colours. And doing battle with Teresa when their tastes didn’t match and Teresa overstretched her advisory capacity. Something which happened fairly frequently.
‘Penny for them.’
Aysha glanced across the table and caught Carlo’s teasing smile.
‘I was thinking about the house.’ That much was true. ‘It’s all coming together very well.’
‘You’re happy with it?’
‘How could I not be?’ she countered simply, visualising the modern architectural design with its five
sound-proofed self-contained wings converging onto a central courtyard. The interior was designed for light and space, with a suspended art gallery, a small theatre and games room. A sunken area featured spa and sauna, and a jet pool.
It was a showcase, a place to entertain guests and business associates. Aysha planned to make it a home.
The wine waiter appeared and refilled each goblet, followed closely by the young waiter, who removed their plates prior to serving the main course.
Carlo ate with the enjoyment of a man who consumed nourishment wisely but well, his use of cutlery decisive.
He was the consummate male, sophisticated, dynamic, and possessed of a primitive sensuality that drew women to him like a magnet. Men envied his ruthlessness and charm, and knew the combination to be lethal.
Aysha recognised each and every one of his qualities, and wondered if she was woman enough to hold him.
‘Would you care to order dessert, Miss Benini?’
The young waiter’s desire to please was almost embarrassing, and she offered him a gentle smile. ‘No, thanks, I’ll settle for coffee.’
‘You’ve made a conquest,’ Carlo drawled as the waiter retreated from their table.
Her eyes danced with latent mischief. ‘Ah, you say the nicest things.’
‘Should I appear jealous, do you think?’
She wanted to say, only if you are. And since that was unlikely, it became easy to play the game.
‘Well, he is young, and good-looking.’ She pretended to consider. ‘Probably a university student working nights to pay for his education. Which would indicate he has potential.’ She held Carlo’s dark gleaming gaze and offered him a brilliant smile. ‘Do you think he’d give up the room he probably rents, sell his wheels... a Vespa scooter at a guess... and be a kept toy-boy?’
His soft laughter sent shivers over the surface of her skin, raising fine body hairs as all her nerve-endings went haywire.
‘I think I should take you home.’
‘I came in my own car, remember?’ she reminded him, and saw his eyes darken, the gleam intensify.
‘A bid for independence, or an indication you’re not going to share my bed tonight?’
She summoned a winsome smile, and her eyes shone with wicked humour. ‘Teresa is of the opinion catering to your physical needs should definitely be my priority.’
‘And Teresa knows best?’ His voice was silky-smooth, and she wasn’t deceived for a second.
‘My mother believes in covering all the bases,’ Aysha relayed lightly.
His gaze didn’t shift, and she was almost willing to swear he could read her mind. ‘As you do?’
Her expression sobered. ‘I don’t have a hidden agenda.’ Did he know she was in love with him? Had loved him for as long as she could remember? She
hoped not, for it would afford him an unfair advantage.
‘Finish your coffee,’ Carlo bade gently. ‘Then we’ll leave.’ He lifted a hand in silent summons, and the waiter appeared with the bill.
Aysha watched as Carlo signed the slip and added a generous tip, then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed her thoughtfully.
She was tense, but covered it well. His eyes narrowed faintly. ‘Do we have anything planned next weekend?’
‘Mother has something scheduled for every day until the wedding,’ she declared with unaccustomed cynicism.
‘Have Teresa reorganise her diary.’
Aysha looked at him with interest. ‘And if she won’t?’
‘Tell her I’ve surprised you with airline tickets and accommodation for a weekend on the Gold Coast.’
‘Have you?’
His smile held humour. ‘I’ll make the call the minute we reach my apartment.’
Her eyes shone, and she broke into light laughter. ‘My knight in shining armour.’
Carlo’s voice was low, husky, and held amusement. ‘Escape,’ he accorded. ‘Albeit brief.’ He stood to his feet and reached out a hand to take hold of hers. His gleaming gaze seared right through to her heart. ‘You can thank me later.’
Together they made their way through the room to the front desk.
The maître d’ was courteously solicitous. ‘I’ll arrange
with the concierge to have your cars brought to the front entrance.’
Both vehicles were waiting when they reached the lobby. Carlo saw her seated behind the wheel of her Porsche, then he crossed to his Mercedes to fire the engine within seconds and ease into the line of traffic.
Aysha followed, sticking close behind him as he traversed the inner city streets heading east towards Rose Bay and his penthouse apartment.
When they reached it she drove down into the underground car park, took the space adjoining his private bay, then walked at his side towards the bank of lifts in companionable silence.
They didn’t need a house, she determined minutes later as she stepped into the plush apartment lobby.
The drapes weren’t drawn, and the view out over the harbour was magnificent. Fairy lights, she mused as she crossed the lounge to the floor-to-ceiling glass stretching across one entire wall.
City buildings, street lights, brightly coloured neon vying with tall concrete spires and an indigo sky.
Aysha heard him pick up the phone, followed by the sound of his voice as he arranged flights and accommodation for the following weekend.
‘We could have easily lived here,’ she murmured as he came to stand behind her.
‘So we could.’ He put his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him.
She felt his chin rest on the top of her head, sensed the warmth of his breath as it teased her hair, and was unable to prevent the slight shiver as his lips
sought the vulnerable hollow beneath the lobe of one ear.
She almost closed her eyes and pretended it was real. That love not lust, and need not want, was Carlo’s motivation.
A silent groan rose and died in her throat as his mouth travelled to the edge of her neck and nuzzled, his tongue, his lips erotic instruments as he tantalised the rapidly beating pulse.
His hands moved, one to her breast as he sought a sensitive peak, while the other splayed low over her stomach.
She wanted to urge him to quicken the pace, to dispense with her clothes while she feverishly tore every barrier from his body until there was nothing between them.
She wanted to be lifted high in his arms and sink down onto him, then clutch hold of him as he took her for the ride of her life.
Everything about him was too controlled. Even in bed he never lost that control completely, as she did.
There were times when she wanted to cry out that while she could accept Bianca as an important part of his past, she was his future. Except she never said the words. Perhaps because she was afraid of his response.
Now she turned in his arms and reached for him, her mouth seeking his as she gave herself up completely to the heat of passion.
He caught her urgency and effortlessly swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
Aysha’s fingers worked on his shirt buttons, unfastened
the buckle on his belt, then pulled his shirt free.
His nipples were hard, and she savoured each one in turn, then used her teeth to tease, aware that Carlo had deftly removed most of her clothes.
She heard his intake of breath seconds ahead of the soft thud as he discarded one shoe and the other, then dispensed with his trousers.
‘Wait.’ His voice was low and slightly husky, and she ran her hands over his ribcage, searched the hard plane of his stomach and reached for him.
‘So you want to play, hmm?’
