The Wedding Ultimatum. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

      One dark eyebrow rose slightly. ‘Is that an apology?’

      His voice was a deep drawl, and held a faint American-accented inflexion.

      There was a hint of leashed savagery beneath the sophisticated veneer, an elemental ruthlessness that lent credence to the rumour he’d spent his youth on the Chicago back-streets where only the tough survived.

      ‘Yes.’ She met his gaze without flinching. ‘If you require an explanation as to why…parking was a bitch.’

      ‘You could have taken a taxi.’

      ‘No,’ she said evenly. ‘I couldn’t.’ Her budget didn’t stretch to taxi fares, and a woman alone didn’t choose to use the public-transport system at night.

      He lifted a hand and signalled the maître d’, whose attentiveness almost bordered on the obsequious as he led them to their table and summoned the drinks steward with an imperious click of his fingers.

      Danielle declined wine, ordered a light starter, settled on a main and declined dessert.

      ‘I imagine you’re aware why I initiated this meeting?’

      He studied her carefully, seeing the pride, the courage…as well as the degree of desperation. ‘Why not relax a little, enjoy some food and conversation before we discuss business?’

      She held his gaze. ‘My sole reason for conversing with you is business.’

      His faint smile was devoid of humour. ‘It’s as well I don’t possess a fragile ego.’

      ‘I doubt there’s anything fragile about you.’ He was granite, with a heart of stone. What hope did she have of persuading him not to foreclose? Yet she had to try.

      ‘Honesty,’ Rafe concluded, ‘is an admirable trait.’

      The waiter delivered their starter, and she forked a few morsels without appetite, careful not to destroy the chef’s artistry as she ate.

      All she had to do was get through the next hour…or two. When she left here he would have given her an answer, and her mother’s fate as well as her own would be sealed.

      She was sure the food was delectable, but her taste-buds appeared to have gone on strike, and she toyed with the main course when it was served, and sipped sparkling mineral water.

      He ate with evident enjoyment, his hand movements economical as he utilised cutlery. He looked what he had become, Danielle mused idly…a man among men, attired in impeccable clothes, his suit fashioned by a master tailor. Armani? His deep blue shirt was of the finest cotton, his knotted tie pure silk. The watch adorning his wrist was expensive.

      But what of the man beneath the fine clothes? He had a reputation for ruthlessness in the business arena, a power that was utterly merciless on occasion.

      Would he be equally inflexible when she voiced her request?

      Danielle schooled her nervous system and waited only as long as it took for the waiter to remove their plates before launching into well-rehearsed words.

      ‘Would you be willing to grant us an extension?’

      ‘To what purpose?’

      He was going to refuse. Her stomach clenched with tangible pain. ‘Ariane can manage the boutique on her own,’ she offered. ‘While I go to work for someone else.’

      ‘For a wage that will barely cover week-to-week living expenses?’ He leaned back in his chair, and indicated the drinks waiter could refill his wine glass. ‘It isn’t a viable proposition.’

      Their debt amounted to a fortune, and one she could never hope to recoup. She met his gaze. ‘Does it give you satisfaction to have me beg?’

      One eyebrow rose. ‘Is that what you are doing?’

      Danielle got to her feet and caught up her evening purse. ‘Tonight was a mistake.’ She turned, only to have her wrist caught in a firm grip.

      ‘Sit down.’

      ‘Why? So you can continue to watch me squirm?’ Pink coloured her cheeks, and her brown eyes held a gleam of anger. ‘Thanks, but no, thanks.’

      He applied pressure and saw her eyes widen with pain. ‘Sit down,’ he reiterated with deadly softness. ‘We’re far from done.’

      She looked at her water glass, and for one wild moment she considered flinging its contents in his face.

      ‘Don’t.’ A silky warning that held immeasurable threat.

      ‘Let go of my wrist.’

      ‘When you resume your seat.’

      It was a battle of wills, his—hers, and one she didn’t want to relinquish. Except there was something prevalent in his dark gaze that warned she could never win against him, and after several tense seconds she sank back into her chair, unconsciously soothing her wrist.

      A faint shiver slid over the surface of her skin at the knowledge he could easily have snapped her fragile bones.

      ‘What do you want?’ The words slipped out before she could heed them.

      Rafe picked up his glass and took a sip of wine, then replaced it on the table as he studied her. ‘Let us first discuss what it is that you want.’

      Wariness curled inside her stomach to mesh with apprehension.

      ‘A wish-list which features a freehold apartment with antique furniture restored, art works, jewellery, all debts cleared.’ He waited a beat. ‘Ariane’s boutique relocated to Toorak Road with an advantageous lease.’

      It was impossible to guess his motives, and she didn’t even try. ‘That amounts to a considerable sum,’ she ventured slowly.

      ‘A million and a half dollars, give or take a few thousand.’

      ‘What did you do?’ Her anger simmered beneath the surface, and she held onto it with difficulty. ‘Conduct a running inventory?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Her fingers clenched until the knuckles showed white. ‘Why?’

      ‘You want me to spell it out?’

      He’d sat on the fringes of her life and watched as Ariane’s treasured belongings were sold off, one by one? To what purpose?

      ‘I instructed an agent to buy every item you and your mother have been forced to sell.’

      What manner of man was he?

      One who was prepared to do anything to achieve his objective.

      Something which chilled her to the bone.

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