The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife. Helen Bianchin

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СКАЧАТЬ music filtered through strategically placed speakers, providing a reason for guests to move freely among the tables, converse…and for many it signalled an end to a pleasant evening.

      Any minute soon Liliana would rise to her feet, thank fellow table guests for their patronage, bid them good night…and Ilana would be free of Xandro’s disturbing presence.

      Except her relief was short-lived, as Xandro expressed his intention to escort them to the lobby.

      ‘It isn’t necessary.’

      ‘On the contrary.’ He cupped her elbow, exerting slight pressure as she surreptitiously endeavoured to put some distance between them.

      Don’t, she wanted to protest.

      ‘I’m considering setting up an auction to benefit the Leukaemia Foundation, and I’d appreciate Liliana’s advice.’

      Her mother showed genuine delight. ‘How generous of you. Of course I’ll be only too pleased to help in any way I can.’

      ‘Good,’ Xandro concurred smoothly. ‘With that in mind, perhaps you’ll both accept an invitation to dine with me in order to discuss details? Shall we say Thursday of next week?’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Liliana would, Ilana knew, rearrange her social schedule in the blink of an eye to accommodate Xandro Caramanis.

      They reached the lobby, and Xandro signalled the concierge to have his car and her own brought up from valet parking.

      Within minutes a silver Bentley GT slid to a halt outside the main entrance.

      ‘Seven o’clock,’ Xandro indicated, withdrawing a card from his billfold and penning a few lines on the reverse side. ‘My home.’

      With an economy of movement he passed a tip to the bellboy, then he slid in behind the wheel and eased the sleek car out into the flow of traffic.

      Seconds later Ilana’s dark blue BMW slid to a halt, and Liliana waited only until Ilana cleared the hotel vicinity before voicing,

      ‘What a lovely invitation, darling. And quite a coup to have Xandro request my help.’

      What could she say, other than…‘So it would seem’?

      ‘You have reservations?’

      Several. Although she refused to settle on any one.

      ‘You must go, of course.’

      ‘We, darling. As in both of us.’

      Ilana brought the car to a halt at an intersection. ‘Maman, no,’ she said gently.

      Liliana offered a pensive look. ‘You won’t change your mind?’

      Not any time this century, she silently vowed. The less she came into contact with Xandro Caramanis the better!

      CHAPTER TWO

      PREPARATIONS FOR THE current Fashion Design Awards ensured Ilana spent most of the weekend in the workroom as she checked and re-checked the selection of garments both she and her partner, Micki, had chosen to enter in the various sections.

      The judging process comprised examination of the fabric, stitching and finishing by a panel of experts who provided a grading in advance of the final catwalk judging.

      Which meant ensuring every detail was perfect…or as near to perfect as it was possible to get.

      Winning in any category added to a designer’s status, lifting interest and sales. Although for Ilana, the focus was on fashioning quality fabric into faultlessly assembled stylish garments.

      As a child she’d adored dressing her dolls, and with Liliana’s help she had made patterns and cut and fashioned her own range of dolls’ clothes, progressing to designing and making her own outfits.

      A degree in fashion design followed by an apprenticeship with one of Australia’s top designers had eventually provided the opportunity to work overseas for a few years…Paris, Milan and London, before she returned to Sydney, where she’d set up her own workroom.

      Diligence and hard work had seen her acquire recognition among her peers, with the Arabelle label rated highly among the social set.

      While Ilana possessed the talent and expertise with design, needle and thread, it was her childhood friend, Micki Taylor, whose business nous completed their successful partnership.

      Micki’s flair for selecting the right accessories was faultless, for she had the ability to put together a successful fashion showing that lifted it above the rest.

      Ilana loved the creative aspect of transforming a vision into reality. To be able to look at a fabric and visualise the finished garment was a gift…one she didn’t regard lightly. Colour, fabric, style. She lived to make it work and come alive. Infinitely special to the woman who bought it. Any accolades and awards were a bonus.

      The week leading up to the design-awards night involved long hours double-checking everything was covered, including back-up plans should a contracted model call in sick…or any one of several things that could go wrong.

      Days when she seemed to only take time out to eat and sleep, she reflected wearily as she entered her apartment early Tuesday evening after a fraught day.

      The thought of a long soak in a bubble bath and a decent meal was tempting, except it wasn’t going to happen.

      Instead she only had time for a quick shower, a change into a cocktail dress in café-au-lait lace, the application of make-up and fixing her hair into a simple knot before driving to Double Bay to attend the evening’s gallery showing with Liliana.

      A prestigious affair, invitation-only, it heralded the grand opening of new premises in three adjoining villas whose interiors had been gutted and converted into a spacious gallery owned by an established family known in the art world for discovering and fostering artists.

      Cars lined the wide, tree-lined street in suburban Double Bay, and Ilana circled the block twice before finding a space.

      Two security guards flanked the gallery entrance, one of whom checked her name off the invitation list whilst the other indicated the foyer.

      ‘Darling.’ The family’s eldest son took her hand and leaned in close to brush his cheek against her own. ‘Welcome.’

      ‘Jean-Paul.’

      Jean preceded each male name in the family…Jean-Marc, the patriarch, his two sons, Jean-Paul and Jean-Pierre.

      People mingled in groups sipping champagne and accepting proffered canapés from uniformed staff. Muted music emitted from concealed speakers, a suitable background to the guests’ conversation.

      A waitress offered a tray laden with flutes of champagne and orange juice. As much as she needed the lift of champagne, she selected the latter. There were trays of canapes making the rounds and she accepted a napkin, added a few bite-size morsels and sampled each of them in relatively quick succession.

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