The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      Anger rose like newly ignited flame, and she thrust the photographs back into the envelope, closed the boot, then slid in behind the wheel of her car.

      There were many ways to hurt someone, but betrayal was right up there. She wanted to march into his office and instigate a confrontation. Now.

      Except she knew she’d yell, and say things it would be preferable for no one else to overhear.

      Wait, an inner voice cautioned as she negotiated peak hour traffic travelling the main east suburban road leading towards Vaucluse.

      The car in front braked suddenly, and only a split-second reaction saved her from running into the back of it.

      All her fine anger erupted in a stream of language that was both graphic and unladylike. Horns blared in rapid succession, car doors slammed, and there were voices raised in conflict.

      Traffic banked up behind her, and it was ten minutes before she could ease her car forward and slowly clear an intersection clogged with police car, ambulance, tow-truck.

      Consequently it was after five when she parked the car out front of her parents’ home, and she’d no sooner entered the house than Teresa called her into the kitchen.

      ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes,’ Aysha responded. ‘After I’ve taken everything up to my room.’

      A momentary stay of execution, she reflected as she made her way up the curved staircase. The carry-bags could be unpacked later. The photographs were private, very private, and she tucked them beneath her pillow.

      She took a few minutes to freshen up, then she retraced her steps to the foyer. The kitchen was redolent with the smell of herbs and garlic, and a small saucepan held simmering contents on the ceramic hotplate.

      Teresa stood, spoon in hand, as she added a little wine, a little water, before turning to face her daughter.

      ‘You didn’t tell me what happened at the bridal boutique.’

      Aysha relayed the details, then waited for her mother’s anticipated reaction. She wasn’t disappointed.

      ‘Why weren’t they couriered out? Why weren’t we told before this there might be a problem? I’ll never use that boutique again!’

      ‘You won’t have to,’ Aysha said drily. ‘Believe me, I’ve no intention of doing a repeat performance in this lifetime.’

      ‘We should have used someone else.’

      ‘As most of the bridal boutiques get all their supplies from the same source, I doubt it would have made a difference.’

      ‘You don’t know that,’ Teresa responded sharply. ‘I should have dealt with it myself. Can’t they get anything right? Now we learn the wedding lingerie doesn’t match.’

      ‘I’m sure Carlo won’t even notice.’

      Teresa gave her a look which spoke volumes. ‘It doesn’t matter whether he notices or not. You’ll know. I’ll know. And so will everyone else when you lift your dress and he removes the garter.’ The volume of her voice increased. ‘We spent hours selecting each individual item. Now nothing matches.’

      ‘Mother.’ Mother was bad. Its use forewarned of frazzled nerves, and a temper stretched close to breaking point. ‘Calm down.’ One look at Teresa’s face was sufficient to tell a verbal explosion was imminent, and she took a deep breath and released it slowly. ‘I’m just as disappointed as you are, but we have to be practical.’ Assertiveness probably wasn’t a good option at this precise moment. ‘I’ve already chosen something I’m happy with and they’ve guaranteed delivery within days.’

      ‘I’ll check it out in the morning.’

      ‘There’s no need to do that.’

      ‘Of course there is, Aysha.’ Teresa was adamant. ‘We’ve put a great deal of business their way.’

      If she stayed another minute, she’d spit the dummy and they’d have a full-scale row. ‘I haven’t got time to discuss it now. I have to shower and change, and meet Carlo in less than an hour.’

      It was a cop-out, albeit a diplomatic one, she decided as she quickly ascended the stairs. Differences of opinion were one thing. All-out war was another. Teresa was Teresa, and she was unlikely to change.

      Damn Nina and her Mission. She was a bitch of the first order. Desperate, and dangerous.

      The worst kind, Aysha determined viciously as she stripped off her clothes and stepped beneath the cascade of water.

      Five minutes later she emerged, wound a towel around her slender curves and crossed into the bedroom bent on selecting something mind-blowing to wear.

      Dressed to kill. What a marvellous analogy, she decided. One look at her mirrored reflection revealed a slender young woman in a black beaded gown that was strapless, backless, with a hemline that fell to her ankles. A long chiffon scarf lay sprawled across the bed and she draped it round her neck so both ends trailed down her back.

      Make-up was, she determined, a little overstated. Somehow it seemed appropriate. Warriors painted themselves before they went into battle, didn’t they? And there would be a battle fought before the night was over. She could personally guarantee it.

      Teresa was setting the table in the dining room. ‘Mamma, I’m on my way.’

      Was it something in her voice that caused her mother to cast her a sharp glance? When it came to maternal instincts, Teresa’s were second to none. ‘Have a good time.’

      That was entirely debatable. Dinner à deux followed by an evening at the ballet had definitely lost its appeal. ‘Thanks.’

      Fifteen minutes later she garaged her car in the underground car park, then rode the lift to Carlo’s apartment. The envelope containing the photographs was in her hand, and the portrayed images on celluloid almost scorched her fingers.

      He opened the door within seconds, and she saw his pupils widen in gleaming male appreciation. A shaft of intense satisfaction flared, and she took in the immaculate cut of his dark suit, the startling white cotton shirt, the splendid tie.

      The perfectly groomed, wildly attractive fiancé. Loving, too, she added a trifle viciously as he drew her close and nuzzled the sensitive curve of her neck.

      The right touch, the expert moves. It was almost too much to expect him to be faithful as well. His love, she knew, would never be hers to have. But fidelity... That was something she intended to insist on.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      Add intuitive, Aysha accorded. At least some of his senses were on track. She moved back a step, away from the traitorous temptation of his arms. It would be far too easy to lean in against him and offer her mouth for his kiss. But then she’d kiss him back, and that wouldn’t do at all.

      ‘What makes you think that?’ she queried with deliberate calm, and saw his eyes narrow.

      ‘We’ve never played guessing games, and we’re not going to start now.’

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