The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ had no need to disappear,’ Cameron chastised as she moved to his side.

      ‘Diego del Santo might be serious eye candy, but he’s not my type.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘No.’ She managed a smile, held it, and began threading her way towards their table.

      ‘Do you know who else is joining us?’ Cassandra queried lightly as she slid into one of four remaining seats, and took time to greet the six guests already seated.

      ‘Here they are now.’

      She registered Cameron’s voice, glanced up from the table…and froze.

      Diego del Santo and the socialite and model, Alicia Vandernoot.

      No. The silent scream seemed to echo inside her head.

      It was bad enough having to acknowledge his presence and converse for a few minutes. To have to share a table with him for the space of an evening was way too much!

      Had Cameron organised this? She wanted to rail against him and demand Why? Except there wasn’t the opportunity to do so without drawing unwanted attention.

      If Diego chose the chair next to hers, she’d scream!

      Of course he did. It was one of the correct dictums of society when it came to seating arrangements. Although she had little doubt he enjoyed the irony.

      Cassandra murmured a polite greeting, and her faint smile was a mere facsimile.

      This close she was far too aware of him, the clean smell of freshly laundered clothes, the subtle aroma of his exclusive cologne.

      Yet it was the man himself, his potent masculinity and the sheer primitive force he exuded that played havoc with her senses.

      A few hours, she consoled herself silently. All she had to do was sip wine, eat the obligatory three courses set in front of her, and make polite conversation. She could manage that, surely?

      Not so easy, Cassandra acknowledged as she displayed intent interest in the charity chairperson’s introduction prior to revealing funding endeavours, results and expectations.

      Every nerve in her body was acutely attuned to Diego del Santo, supremely conscious of each move he made.

      ‘More water?’

      He had topped up Alicia’s goblet, and now offered to refill her own.

      ‘No, thank you.’ Her goblet was part-empty, but she’d be damned if she’d allow him to tend to her.

      Did he sense her reaction? Probably. He was too astute not to realise her excruciating politeness indicated she didn’t want anything to do with him.

      Uniformed waiters delivered starters with practised efficiency, and she forked the artistically arranged food without appetite.

      ‘The seafood isn’t to your satisfaction?’

      His voice was an accented drawl tinged with amusement, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity, almost inclined to offer a negation just to see what he’d do, aware he’d probably summon the waiter and insist on a replacement.

      ‘Yes.’

      The single affirmative surprised her, and she deliberately widened her eyes. ‘You read minds?’

      The edge of his mouth curved, and there was a humorous gleam apparent. ‘It’s one of my talents.’

      Cassandra deigned not to comment, and deliberately turned her attention to the contents on her plate, unsure if she heard his faint, husky chuckle or merely imagined it.

      He was the most irritating, impossible man she’d ever met. Examining why wasn’t on her agenda. At least that’s what she told herself whenever Diego’s image intruded…on far too many occasions for her peace of mind.

      It was impossible to escape the man. He was there, a constant in the media, cementing another successful business deal, escorting a high-profile female personality to one social event or another. Cameron accorded him an icon, and mentioned him frequently in almost reverent tones.

      Tonight Diego del Santo had chosen to invade her personal space. Worse, she had little option but to remain in his immediate proximity for a few hours, and she resented his manipulation, hated him for singling her out as an object for his amusement.

      For that was all it was…and it didn’t help that she felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall.

      Cassandra took a sip of wine, and deliberately engaged Cameron in conversation, the thread of which she lost minutes later as the waiter removed plates from their table.

      She was supremely conscious of Diego’s proximity, the shape of his hand as he reached for his wine goblet, the way his fingers curved over the delicate glass…and couldn’t stop the wayward thought as to how his hands would glide over a woman’s skin.

      Where had that come from?

      Dear heaven, the wine must have affected her brain! The last thing she wanted was any physical contact with a man of Diego del Santo’s ilk.

      ‘Your speciality is gemmology, I believe?’

      Think of the devil and he speaks, she alluded with silent cynicism as she turned towards him. ‘Polite conversation, genuine interest,’ she inclined, and waited a beat. ‘Or an attempt to alleviate boredom?’

      His expression didn’t change, although she could have sworn something moved in the depths of those dark eyes. ‘Let’s aim for the middle ground.’

      There was a quality to his voice, an inflexion she preferred to ignore. ‘Natural precious gemstones recovered in the field by mining or fossiking techniques are the most expensive.’ Such facts were common knowledge. ‘For a jewellery designer, they give more pleasure to work with, given there’s a sense of nature and the process of their existence. It becomes a personal challenge to have the stones cut in such a way they display maximum beauty. The designer’s gift to ensure the design and setting reflect the stone’s optimal potential.’ A completed study of gemmology had led to her true passion of jewellery design.

      Diego saw the way her mouth softened and her eyes came alive. It intrigued him, as she intrigued him.

      ‘You are not in favour of the synthetic or simulants?’

      Her expression faded a little. ‘They’re immensely popular and have a large market.’

      His gaze held hers. ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’ He lifted a hand and fingered the delicate argyle diamond nestling against the hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Your work?’ It was a rhetorical question. He’d made it his business to view her designs, without her knowledge, and was familiar with each and every one of them.

      She flinched at his touch, hating his easy familiarity almost as much as she hated the tell-tale warmth flooding her veins.

      If she could, she’d have flung the icy contents of her glass in his face. Instead, she forced her voice to remain calm. ‘Yes.’

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