Married For Convenience. Helen Bianchin

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      It was almost as if her body recognised what her conscious mind was reluctant to accept, urging a blatant display of passion that was vaguely shocking.

      With the grace of an uninhibited Circe she traced the length of his spine, then gently kneaded his tightly muscled flank. Almost of their own volition her fingers trailed to his hip, then began a slow exploratory inner path to the highly sensitised base of his sex.

      Gently, very gently she squeezed the sensitive glans, and exulted in his indrawn breath. Not content, she initiated a seeking path with her lips until they discovered a sensitive male nipple, and she suckled shamelessly, nipping occasionally with her teeth until she felt his powerful body shudder in the initial throes of sensual ecstasy.

      She wanted… Dear heaven, what did she want? More, more than this carefully controlled pacing. All of him, plunging deep inside her in a torrent of wild strokes that would take them both to the heights.

      Elise was hardly conscious of the soft sounds emerging from her throat as her body reacted with instinctive ease, lifting, angling with a will of its own as she intuitively matched each and every one of his movements.

      His hands on either side of her shoulders braced his weight, and she met his mouth hungrily as it closed over hers, his kiss so deep, so consummate, it mirrored the sexual act itself in an erotic joining that culminated in a wild journey to the centre of her sensual universe.

      Her mind might deny any conscious acknowledgement of her primeval soul, but every sensitive chord in her awakened body was attuned to this one man, honed by his expertise, tutored with a mesmeric passion that surpassed every restrictive boundary.

      There could be no vestige of doubt that she was his. The traitorous proof was apparent in every sensitive nerve-ending, the acute vibrancy that thrummed through her veins, heating her blood to a fervent flame of desire that could only lead to a conflagration of all the senses. Passion—pagan, primitive, and wildly erotic.

      When it was finally over, she was so emotionally enervated that she doubted her ability to move so much as a muscle.

      She felt tinglingly alive, as if every nerve-ending had become acutely sensitised by his touch, yet drowsy and deliciously spent. Languid, she corrected, smiling as she felt his lips caress the curve of her neck, then slip down to bestow an openmouthed kiss on each breast in turn.

      He was…magnificent, she acknowledged dreamily. A tender lover, caring, considerate of her needs. Had he enjoyed himself with her as much as she had with him? Was he satisfied, complete? Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to ask.

      She felt him move, and she shifted her head to look at him as he retrieved the support for her arm and carefully fixed it in place.

      His eyes were dark, slumberous, and her own skittered to a point somewhere beyond his left shoulder.

      ‘Don’t,’ Alejandro chided huskily as he cradled her head and forced her to look at him, ‘attempt to hide what was an intensely beautiful experience for both of us.’ His thumb probed the swollen softness of her mouth. ‘Exquisito.’

      He slid down to lie beside her, gathering her close so that her head nestled beneath his shoulder. With minimum effort he caught hold of the sheet and drew it over them. ‘Go to sleep, querida,’ he bade her gently.

      Yet she couldn’t, not for a long time. Instead she lay still, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

      Had it always been like this, right from the beginning? Or had it taken time and practice to reach such a pinnacle of sexual satisfaction?

      Sadly, she didn’t know. There was just the aching acceptance that her body remembered what her mind could not.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      THE beach was peaceful, with the merest breeze slipping in from the ocean to caress Elise’s skin and tease the length of her hair.

      The water was a deep blue, its surface smooth in the distance, cresting as it neared the shore to swirl foam-laced over the hard-packed sand.

      A strange feeling of ambivalence held her in its spell…and a degree of sadness. She felt safe here. Secure.

      The past ten days had been idyllic: lazily spent sunshine-filled days and easy companionship, long moonlit nights and gentle loving.

      Tomorrow they were to return to Point Piper. Next week she was to begin physiotherapy, and there were appointments with the obstetrician and neurologist. Within a very short time Alejandro would drive into the city each morning to spend most of each day in his office atop one of Sydney’s inner-city modern architectural masterpieces, and she would be alone…

      An office. Atop a modern city architect-designed building…

      She saw it clearly.

      A large, sumptuously furnished room, clean lines, expensive prints on the walls, and a wide expanse of tinted plate glass with splendid views over the city and harbour.

      An encapsulated vision of a room with a tall, broad-framed figure leaning against the edge of a large executive desk. Alejandro, his expression harsh and forbidding, his silent anger a vivid entity.

      She was there, recapturing her anger…his. Hearing the words with frightening clarity.

      ‘My respect for your father,’ Alejandro declared in a dangerously soft, slightly accented voice that was chilling in its intensity, ‘allowed you to get past my secretary and buy five minutes of my valuable time.’ Dark eyes became icily dispassionate. ‘I suggest you make good use of it.’

      ‘My father doesn’t know I’ve initiated a personal appeal,’ Elise assured him in immediate defence.

      ‘It makes no difference. My decision is irrevocable.’

      The words were clipped, hard, and horribly final. ‘How can you say that?’ she demanded, launching into passionate speech. ‘He deserves——’

      ‘Another chance?’

      ‘Why don’t you let me finish a sentence?’ she parried with mounting antipathy, and encountered his visible cynicism.

      ‘Four minutes and thirty seconds doesn’t allow for verbose explanation.’

      She wanted to hit him. She almost did. Yet there was something electrifyingly primitive beneath his sophisticated façade that warned her that he would retaliate in kind without the slightest qualm.

      ‘Without your help, my father faces bankruptcy,’ she enlightened him starkly, and glimpsed no visible change in his expression.

      ‘I head a multinational corporation which has a complex variety of investments throughout the world. Although I retain a controlling percentage, as director I am responsible to a number of shareholders. Your father’s latest appeal for a further extension resulted in extensive feasibility studies. The findings negate any possibility of directorial board approval for either an increase in borrowings or an extension of time.’

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