The Wedding Ultimatum. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      WHAT did one wear to a date with the devil?

      Danielle cast a practised eye over the clothes in her wardrobe, made a considered decision, and began dressing with care.

      The penthouse suite she shared with her mother in Melbourne’s exclusive Brighton suburb had been home for as long as she could remember. Luxurious, spacious, it represented the epitome of moneyed class.

      But not for much longer. The writing, she reflected grimly, was on the wall. Valued paintings had been sold, secondhand pieces replaced priceless antique furniture. Items of jewellery pawned and auctioned. A standard sedan replaced the stylish Bentley, and creditors circled with shark-like anticipation for the moment bankruptcy was declared and the ultimate mortgaged-to-the-hilt penthouse went on the auction block.

      Her mother’s collection of credit cards had long reached their ceiling limit, and the La Femme lingerie boutique she jointly owned with Ariane could at best be described as floundering, Danielle admitted wryly as she fixed a diamond stud in each ear. An heirloom that had once belonged to her maternal grandmother, and the only jewellery Danielle had kept.

      In less than a week they’d have to walk out of the penthouse, take what personal belongings the bankruptcy court would allow them, seek mediocre rental accommodation, close La Femme, and find employment.

      She was twenty-seven, and destitute. It wasn’t a good feeling, she reflected as she caught up her evening purse and made her way out to the lift.

      It was almost a year since they’d entertained at home, and social occasions were limited to gratis invitations from a few remaining friends loyal to the widow of a man linked to a revered Spanish dynasty.

      This evening’s meeting was a last-ditch effort to appeal for some form of clemency from the man who owned their apartment building and the shopping complex which housed their boutique. That he also owned a considerable slice of prime city and industrial real estate was immaterial.

      In the city’s social echelon, Rafe Valdez represented new money, Danielle reflected as she reached the basement car park.

      An almost obscene fortune accumulated from means, it was rumoured, that didn’t bear too close scrutiny.

      In his late thirties, he was known to gift large sums to worthy charities, and had, some waspish tongues snidely wagged, used his generous beneficence as an entrée into the élite social circle of the city’s rich and famous.

      An élite circle to which Danielle and Ariane no longer held access.

      Yet she couldn’t fail to be aware of his existence. His photo graced the business section of the country’s newspapers on occasion, and was reproduced among the social pages at one function or another…inevitably accompanied by the latest beautiful young thing clinging to his arm, a known society matron anxious to receive media coverage, or any one of several attractive young women who fought for his attention.

      Danielle had met him once, almost a year ago, at a dinner hosted by a so-called friend who, as Ariane’s financial position became known, no longer chose to extend her hospitality.

      Then, she’d taken one look at him and retreated behind a slight smile and polite but distant social conversation. Self-preservation, she’d qualified at the time, for to have anything to do with a man of Rafe Valdez’s calibre would be akin to dancing with the devil.

      Now, she had no option. It had taken weeks to arrange an appointment with him, and it was he who insisted they meet over dinner.

      The restaurant he’d nominated was situated in the inner city, down a one-way narrow lane housing no fewer than five boutique eating houses. No parking signs were posted on both sides of the lane, and she circled the block in the slim hope of finding a vacant space.

      Consequently she was ten minutes late…a forgivable time-lag, but not one Rafe Valdez would view favourably.

      She saw him at once, leaning against the small semicircular bar, and, even as she gave her name to the maître d’, he straightened and made his way towards her.

      Tall, dark and dangerous, he bore the chiselled bone structure of his Andalusian ancestors. Eyes as black as sin locked with hers…electric, mesmerising.

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