The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Wife. Helen BianchinЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
‘There you are, darling.’ Liliana appeared at her side, and Ilana leant forward as they pressed cheeks.
‘The architect and interior decorators have done well,’ she offered quietly, and caught her mother’s warm smile.
‘I agree.’ Liliana indicated the wide glass-panelled walls, the planned lay-out. ‘It’s quite something.’
Ilana cast a quick glance at the mingling guests. ‘A good crowd.’
‘Who would refuse Jean-Marc’s invitation?’
The effusive family patriarch was something of a legend in the art field, possessed of a shrewd mind and an almost unfailing instinct for the success of an artist’s work.
Many of his patrons had made a small fortune from his advice, and the opening of new premises was a cause célèbre.
‘Come take a look,’ Liliana bade as she drew Ilana forward.
‘You’ve seen something you like.’
Her mother chuckled. ‘How can you tell?’
She offered an answering laugh. ‘The gleam in your eyes.’
‘I’ll aim for solemn interest in the hope Jean-Marc will negotiate the price.’
Together they moved slowly, pausing to speak to a friend, smile at an acquaintance, until Liliana stopped in front of an exquisite landscape, all trees and sky and almost alive. A lifelike vision in oils, each detail seemingly applied with a master’s stroke.
‘You’re going to buy it.’ A statement, rather than a query, and Ilana could picture the perfect location in her mother’s home.
‘Yes,’ Liliana conceded with a faint smile. ‘The formal dining room.’
The colours would blend beautifully, and she said so.
‘My thoughts, exactly.’ Liliana glanced up as Jean-Paul appeared at her side.
‘Is that a yes, Liliana?’
‘Definitely.’ Her mother waited a bit. ‘With a little negotiation.’
‘I’m sure my father will be amenable.’
A promised five-per-cent discount was offered on the invitation for each purchase…whether Liliana could bargain further was debatable.
A discreet reserved sticker was attached…to be replaced with sold when the purchase became a done deal.
There were other paintings, beautifully showcased, featuring many categories…some impossibly bold, extrovert in the extreme with great slashes of colour and without any definition.
Traditional, a young child’s face with huge sad eyes and a single tear. An incredible seascape, with wild, turbulent, white-tipped angry waves depicted in such detail one could almost sense the salt-spray stinging the skin.
A modern piece depicting the agony of war in a riveting portrayal too close to home.
Emotion, sadness, joy. They were all exigent, portrayed on canvas.
Ilana exchanged an empty flute for one filled with champagne, and filched another three canapés from a proffered tray.
‘I should go talk with Jean-Marc.’
‘Sure. Catch you soon.’ She’d wander a little, savour the light, fizzing bubbles, and maybe something would catch her eye.
It did, but not in the way she wanted it to. The painting held a haunting quality, dark and far too stark for anyone’s peace of mind.
‘Interesting,’ a deep, familiar male voice offered, and she stood still, wondering why her self-defence mechanism had failed to alert Xandro Caramanis’ presence.
Then it kicked in with a vengeance, and sensation scudded down her spine, sending little licks of flame from somewhere deep inside. They touched her central nervous system and sped rapidly through her body, warming her skin.
‘Tell me,’ Xandro drawled, ‘what you see.’
He was standing close, within touching distance, and she had the feeling if she leaned back fractionally her shoulders would bump against his chest.