An Awakening Desire Read online

  An Awakening Desire

  By

  Helen Bianchin

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Her reaction was anger.

  "How dare you!" she whispered furiously.

  Nick was silent for several seconds, then he slowly shook his head. "Oh, I dare, Emma," he mocked gently. "And I really fail to comprehend a reason for such anger."

  "Next you'll tell me your intentions are strictly honorable, I suppose?" She was so consumed with antipathy that her whole body began to shake.

  "Are you so sure they're not?"

  Her eyes widened, dilating with confusion and, conscious of the painful thudding of her heart, she forced herself to breathe slowly in an effort to gain some measure of control.

  "If this is a game," she said unsteadily, "I don't want to play."

  "Afraid I might win?"

  Helen Bianchin, originally from New Zealand, met the man she would marry on a tobacco farm in Australia. Danilo, an Italian Immigrant, spoke little English. Helen's Italian was nil. But communicate they did, and within eight weeks Danilo found the words to ask Helen to marry him with such romantic beginnings, it's a wonder that the author waited until after the birth of their third child to begin her prolific romance-writing career.

  Books by Helen Bianchin

  HARLEQUIN PRESENTS

  271—VINES OF SPLENDOUR

  289—STORMY POSSESSION

  409—DEVIL IN COMMAND

  415—EDGE OF SPRING

  457—THE SAVAGE TOUCH

  527—WILDFIRE ENCOUNTER

  695—YESTERDAY'S SHADOW

  720—SAVAGE PAGAN

  744—SWEET TEMPEST

  751—DARK TYRANT

  839—BITTER ENCORE

  975—DARK ENCHANTMENT

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

  2010—BEWILDERED HAVEN

  2084—AVENGING ANGEL

  2175—THE HILLS OF HOME

  2387—MASTER OF ULURU

  For Danilo,

  Angelo and Peter

  Harlequin Presents first edition October 1988

  ISBN 0-373-11111-8

  Original hardcover edition published in 1987

  by Mills & Boon Limited

  Copyright © 1987 by Helen Bianchin.

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Darling, are you quite sure about this trip?'

  Emma secured the lock on the expensive piece of luggage and bit back a strangled sound as a tiny hysterical laugh rose and died in her throat. She wasn't sure about anything, much less flying half-way across the world, but indecision at this late stage was impossible.

  A wry smile tugged at the corners of her generously curved mouth. Maternal devotion could prove daunting, especially when its entire gamut was focused on one sibling.

  'I'm twenty-four, not seventeen,' she reminded her mother gently, and Mrs. Templeton lifted a hand only to let it fall again in a gesture of helpless self-defeat.

  'If you'd waited, we could have taken a holiday together, Hawaii, Hong Kong—anywhere.'

  Which was precisely the reason Emma had insisted on taking a break now. The need to get away on her own had become increasingly necessary over the past few months as familial solicitude threatened to destroy each renewed attempt at independence.

  Emma refrained from commenting as she crossed to the dressing-table to add the finishing touches to her make-up. Via mirrored reflection she glimpsed the anxiety clouding her mother's attractive features, and for a brief second she was consumed with guilt.

  Damn! Why did leaving have to prove so difficult? Her lipstick slipped, and she plucked a tissue from its nearby box with shaking fingers.

  'It's only a year since—' Mrs Templeton's voice faltered to an awkward halt, and Emma finished quietly, 'Since Marc died.' Her eyes captured her mother's and held them with a steadiness that was uncontrived. 'Believe me, I won't go to pieces if you say it.'

  There was a measurable silence, one she didn't attempt to fill as she finished outlining her mouth. Mascara came next, and she applied the brushed wand to her lashes with skill before capping and tossing it among the array of cosmetics in her make-up pouch.

  'Your father and I are concerned you're attempting too much, too soon.'

  Oh, lord, what could she say? Admit her mother was voicing her own uncertainties? No, she reflected wearily. For both their sakes, she had to project enthusiasm. Anything less would be intolerable. Three weeks is hardly a lifetime,' she chided gently.

  Standing back from the mirror, she viewed her image with critical appraisal, studying the dark auburn curls with something akin to resignation. Reaching her shoulders, the tapered length of her hair was an encumbrance she'd learnt to bear with over the years. Expensive experiments by a number of hair designers had elicited the unanimous opinion she should retain her natural curls, and for the past seven years she'd opted for a casual windswept style which served to highlight her delicately boned features.

  Of average height and fashionably slim, she bore feminine curves in all the right places. Tawny-coloured eyes were set wide apart above a retroussee nose and a soft, curved mouth. Identical dimples deepened whenever she smiled, alluding to a captivating personality whose warm spontaneity was totally without guile.

  Selecting something suitable to wear for the long flight had afforded more than scant deliberation, and she viewed the emerald-green dress in uncrushable silk with approval. Elegant, slim-heeled black shoes completed the outfit, and her only jewellery—aside from her wedding ring—was a gold roped chain and matching bracelet. The overall effect portrayed designer élan at its most chic.

  Emma fastened her make-up pouch and slipped it into her overnight bag, checked her travel documents, then she slid her arms into a fine wool coat that was light, yet warm, and could be discarded on arrival in Rome.

  'Shall we go?'

  It would take thirty minutes to reach Sydney's International Air Terminal, and a further half-hour to check in her luggage and attend to formalities.

  However, two delayed flights resulted in the passenger lounge being overcrowded, and Emma felt as awkward as her parents did, uttering inanities that had little perspective and merely served to compound her own insecurity.

  'I'll send you a postcard every few days,' she promised with a shaky smile as the threat of tears added impetus to the need for a swiftly taken farewell.

  Once past the security barrier and out of their sight she was able to regain a measure of control, although her emotions seemed caught up in an unenviable tangle, conversely urging her to stay now that she was actually going.

  A hollow laugh rose up in her throat as she joined the queue of passengers waiting to complete the electronic check of hand-luggage prior to boarding the huge Boeing. If she didn't summon some semblance of inner calm, she'd soon be reduced to a quivering mass of nerves!

  Her designated seat was next to a window, and as soon as they were airborne she ordered a vermouth and soda, glad of its relaxing effect as she gazed sightlessly at the pale grey sky with its heavy banks of slow-moving cloud.

  Despite a determination not to lapse into retrospection, it was all too easy to recall a multitude of bittersweet memories centred around one painful figure.

  Dear, sweet Marc. Loquacious, fun-loving, endearing. Why you? she demanded silently.

  Two of Sydney's elite families, the marriage of the year between respective only children, their future had promised so much. A fatal car accident a mere week af
ter their wedding had robbed her of childhood sweetheart, husband and lover, in one brutal swoop, whereas she had been pulled from the passenger seat virtually unscathed apart from some lacerations, two cracked rite and severe bruising.

  After her release from hospital and necessary convalescence, her work as a fashion coordinator to an exclusive designer became all-important, and during the ensuing months she devoted long, hard hours in an effort to dull the edges of an inconsolable loss.

  It hadn't needed a physician to point out the telltale signs of exhaustion, both mental and physical. His cautioning merely aided her decision to get away from loving, over-protective parents and parents-in-law, as well as a cluster of well-meaning friends whose combined solicitude enveloped her like a shroud, almost to a point whereby she thought she might suffocate from so much caring attention.

  'Please fasten your seat-belt.'

  The hostess's smooth reminder jolted Emma out of her reverie, and she automatically attended to the clasp as the Boeing began its descent towards Melbourne's Tullamarine Airport, the last Australian port and the shortest of three scheduled stop-overs.

  The adjacent seat became occupied by a sweet-faced woman of middle years who regaled Emma with the life history of her five children and four grandchildren all the way to Singapore where she disembarked, and Emma took the opportunity while the jet was stationary to stretch her legs and freshen up. She felt tired and had the vague beginnings of a headache. With luck, the seat next to her would remain empty. If not, she'd feign sleep all the way to Bombay!

  Fate elected to be unkind, and she cursed beneath her breath as a tall, masculine frame eased itself down beside her just prior to take-off.

  Perhaps if she immersed herself in a magazine he would correctly assume her disinterest in indulging in polite conversation and leave her alone? With that thought in mind she reached into her overnight bag, selected one of three glossy magazines, and began studiously leafing through its pages.

  After a while her attention wandered, drawn as if by some elusive magnet to the man at her side, dispassionately noting the quality and cut of his dark grey business suit. The faint aroma of his aftershave teased her nostrils—Yves St Laurent's Kouras, she identified, reluctantly approving his choice. A gold Rolex graced his wrist, and she saw that his hands were broad with strong, tapering fingers and clean square-cut nails.

  A man who spent his time jetting between one country and another, closing corporate deals? Emma mused speculatively, assessing his age to be in the vicinity of mid-to-late thirties. He extracted a folder from his briefcase and became engrossed for the next few hours with an impressive sheaf of papers. Perhaps a member of one of the accepted professions embarking on a conference? Somehow he looked more like a high-powered executive—in control, rather than beneath directorial domination.

  A faint smile lifted the edges of her lips. People-watching could be an absorbing pastime, allowing one's imagination to weave a fantasy that was in all probability the antithesis of reality.

  Choosing another magazine she selected an article and read it, then another, before settling for an unconventional short story which proved interesting, if a trifle avant-garde for her taste.

  She must have dozed, for she came sharply awake at the faint thudding sound of the jet's wheels touching down on the runway, followed within minutes by the discovery that her seat-belt had been fastened while she slept. By whom? The man at her side? Somehow the fact that he'd reached across and calmly tended to the task without her being aware of it was vaguely disturbing.

  The need to freshen up elicited a murmured request to slip past him, and as he stood to his feet and moved into the aisle she registered that even in three-inch heels her eyes were barely level with the impeccable knot of his dark silk tie.

  Emma's cool 'Thanks' evoked a vaguely mocking smile, and in those few seconds she was made aware of strong, arresting features: a composite of chiselled bone-structure and smooth tanned skin, dark, well groomed hair, and a pair of wide-set, piercing brown eyes.

  Ten minutes later she resumed her seat, relieved that this was the final stop-over. It brought her destination closer, despite the sad reminder that Marc should have been sharing this trip as a celebration of their first wedding anniversary. Now she was doing it alone, and she hadn't been able to explain to anyone precisely why.

  'A pleasure trip?'

  At the sound of that deep, slightly accented drawl Emma schooled her expression into a polite mask, not really wanting to converse with him at all; and she glimpsed his lips twist into the semblance of a smile as she accorded him a faint nod in silent acquiescence.

  'I shan't eat you.'

  He sounded amused, and it rankled unbearably. With considerable coolness she let her eyes sweep his features in deliberate appraisal. 'Whatever makes you think I'd allow it?' she inclined with arctic civility, her dismissal containing such crystal clarity that only the most audacious male would have dared pursue another word.

  His gaze was assessing beneath its indolent veneer, yet strangely watchful, almost as if he sensed an acute vulnerability beneath her icy facade, and after seemingly endless seconds her lashes slowly fluttered down as her ability to out-stare him diminished.

  A prickle of unease slithered the length of her spine, and she shivered, instinctively aware that he was the sort of man who commanded most women at will, and took pleasure in every sensual pursuit.

  Perhaps if she adjusted her seat and leaned back against the cushioned head-rest she might manage to escape into sleep. Surely she should be able to? Her body clock was attuned to another time sequence, and she closed her eyes in the hope of drifting into blessed oblivion.

  The touch of a hand on her arm caused her to stir, and she blinked, disorientated for a few seconds by her surroundings. Then she became humiliatingly aware that her head was resting against a hard, muscular shoulder!

  She moved at once, conscious of a faint tinge of pink colouring her cheeks as her fingers sought the appropriate button to restore the seat to an upright position.

  'I'm sorry.' The words emerged scarcely before she could give them thought, and she felt flustered and curiously fragile. Why, for God's sake? The man was a stranger, and the chance of them meeting again had to be in the vicinity of one in a thousand.

  'Whatever for?' His voice held quiet mockery, and to Emma's ears it sounded impossibly cynical.

  Perhaps he was so used to women flinging themselves at him, using every known ruse, that he thought she was merely trying to gain his attention.

  Deep inside a tiny seed of resentment flared into antagonism, and for the remainder of the flight she alternately read, became lost in reflective thought, and obviously slept, for when she woke the sky beyond the window was tinged with the first opalescent glow of a new day's dawn, and she watched in idle fascination as the deep blue gradually lightened, casting a pale, eerie illumination of the jet's silver-metalled wing.

  Breakfast was served an hour before their scheduled arrival in Rome, and Emma eyed the array of food with uninterest, selecting a croissant which she broke in half and spread with apricot conserve. After drinking a second cup of coffee she silently admitted to feeling almost human.

  Disembarkation at Fiumicino International Airport and dealing with Customs took considerable time. There was a brief glimpse of her companion's tall frame as he joined a separate queue, then when next she glanced into the bustling crowd he was no longer in sight.

  At last she was free to emerge into the Arrival Lounge with her luggage, and she stood searching for a familiar face in the sea of waiting people, wondering whether Marc's grandparents would come to meet her themselves or despatch their chauffeur.

  'Emma!'

  She might be in a strange city—country, she amended silently—but the elderly man threading his way towards her was endearingly familiar. For as long as she could remember, Marc's grandparents had regularly flown to Sydney each year to spend Christmas with their son and his family.

  'Cara!
It is so good to see you.'

  'And you,' Emma greeted shakily, blinking quickly as she became enveloped in his embrace.

  'Come, the car is outside,' Enzo Martinero bade, taking charge of the luggage trolley, and she walked at his side to a large saloon car parked at the kerb, with a chauffeur at the wheel.

  The air was hot and dry, and filled with a cacophony of sound. Jarring hornblasts as taxis jostled with privately driven vehicles for space; voices raised in voluble Italian, altercations which, if Emma's reasonable command of the language proved correct, questioned parentage and managed to blaspheme the Deity with formidable disregard.

  Within minutes her luggage was stored and, seated in the rear beside Marc's grandfather, Emma watched as the chauffeur eased the car clear of immediate traffic.

  This was Rome! Where great emperors had ruled and been defeated, she mused, and ancient civilisation dated back to the years before the birth of Christ. Little wonder they called it the Eternal City.

  'Rosa would have accompanied me to meet you, but Annalisa, our young guest, was not feeling well when she woke this morning.' A smile creased Marc's grandfather's kindly features. The result of too much excitement, I think.' As if he sensed her curiosity, he sought to elaborate. 'Annalisa is the daughter of our nephew and godson.' He paused fractionally and gave a slight, philosophical shrug. 'Each year Annalisa travels from Milan with her governess to spend the summer holidays with us.'

  Emma was intrigued. 'How old is she ?'

  'Nine. Nick is a devoted father,' Enzo hastened to assure as he caught her perplexed frown. 'Unfortunately his business interests demand much of his time, hence Annalisa attends a boarding school run by the good Catholic Sisters.'

  Emma conjured up a picture of a child trapped in a strict scholastic regime, and felt her interest quicken. 'Surely a governess is superfluous?'