‘Yet you chose to establish a façade.’ he pursued, and her eyes remained steady.
‘Monique congratulated me after the wedding.’ The words were almost painful as she forced them past the lump in her throat. ‘On winning an eminently successful husband. I hadn’t realised marrying you was a competition, or that Annaliese had been a contender.’
The leap of anger was clearly evident in the depths of his eyes. ‘You believed her?’
‘It all seemed to fit.’ Too well, Gabbi reflected. ‘Monique is James’s wife. I would never say or do anything to destroy his happiness.’
‘I don’t share your generosity.’
‘I can afford to be generous,’ she said gently. And it was true.
The light was fading to dusk. Already the candles were being lit outside on the terrace tables, and electric lamps provided a welcome glow.
A faint smile tilted the edges of Gabbi’s mouth. ‘Are you going to feed me?’
His features softened. ‘We could always order Room Service.’
The smile deepened. ‘The food is superb at the Sheraton Waikiki’s restaurant.’ Set on a high floor, the restaurant offered panoramic views from every window. She cast him a teasing glance. ‘We could dance a little, linger over coffee.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
She laughed, a light, bubbly sound that echoed her happiness and deepened the teasing gleam in her eyes. ‘It’ll suffice, for a few hours.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We have the night.’
A low chuckle escaped from his throat. ‘Sounds interesting.’
Gabbi fought the temptation to lean forward and kiss him. ‘You can count on it.’
She made no protest as he stood and pulled her to her feet. Then together they walked down to the main entrance and crossed the path to the Sheraton Waikiki hotel.
It was early, and there was a choice of several empty tables. Gabbi chose one by the window, and Benedict ordered champagne—Cristal.
The food was presented with imaginative flair, and each course was a superb attestation to the chef s culinary skill.
‘Magical,’ Gabbi declared as she glanced at the fairy tracery of lit high-rise buildings lining the darkening foreshore as it curved towards Diamond Head.
‘Yes.’
Except Benedict wasn’t looking at the view. A delicate blush coloured her cheeks at the degree of warmth evident as his gaze lingered on her features.
‘Shall we dance?’
When they reached the dance floor he gathered her close, and she melted against him, unselfconsciously lifting her arms to link her hands together at his nape.
The music was slow and dreamy, the lights low, and she rested against him as they drifted together. Her body stirred, warming with the promise of passion.
It was quite remarkable, she mused, how she could almost feel the blood coursing through her veins, the heavy, faster beat of her heart. And the kindling fire deep within her that slowly invaded every nerve, every cell, until she was aware of nothing else but a deep, physical need for more than his touch.
Yet there was a certain pleasure in delaying the moment when they would leave and wander back to their suite. It heightened the senses, deepened the desire, and slowly drove her wild.
His breath whispered against her ear. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
She lifted her face and brushed his lips with her own. ‘Soon.’
As soon as they reached their table a waiter appeared.
‘Would you care for coffee? A liqueur?’
Benedict deferred the decision to Gabbi, and his eyes assumed a musing gleam when she agreed with the waiter that a liqueur coffee would be an excellent choice with which to end the meal.
It was late when they entered their suite, and Gabbi slid off her heeled sandals, then reached to loosen the pins confining her hair.
His hands closed over her shoulders and pulled her close, then he lowered his head and took possession of her mouth.
Heat suffused her body, bringing it achingly alive. A tiny groan emerged from her throat as his lips slid down the sensitive cord of her neck, teased the hollows, then trailed the edge of her gown.
Layer by layer they slowly dispensed with their clothes, and Gabbi stifled a moan as Benedict began a slow tasting of each breast before tracing a path down to savour the most intimate crevice of all.
She felt the initial wave of sensation and gloried in it, and caught the next, exulting in each successive contraction as she rode higher and higher before soaring over the precipice to sensual nirvana.
It was so intensely erotic that her whole body shook with emotional involvement, and afterwards she lay still, enjoying the gentle drift of his fingers over her skin.
With one sinuous movement she rose up and placed her lips against his, initiating a long, evocative kiss. Now it was his turn, and she took her time, treasuring each indrawn breath, every tensed muscle, the faint sound deep in his throat as she teased and tantalised.
So much power, harnessed, yet almost totally beneath her control. It was a heady sensation to take him to the brink, and see how long she could hold him there before he tumbled her down beside him.
His possession was swift, and she gasped at the level of his penetration, arching again and again as she rose to meet each deep thrust.
Afterwards he rolled onto his back, carrying her with him, and he cradled her close, his lips brushing across her temple as he trailed his fingers lazily up and down her spine.
‘I love you.’ She felt fulfilled and at peace. Gone were the agonising afterthoughts, the wishful longing for something more.
Benedict slid a hand beneath her chin and sought her mouth with his own in a slow, sweet kiss.
Afterwards she settled her head down onto his chest.
‘Comfortable?’
‘Mmm,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Want me to move?’
Gentle fingers stroked through her hair. ‘No.’
Gabbi smiled and pressed her lips into the hollow at the base of his throat. This was as close to heaven as it was possible to get.
‘How do you feel about babies?’
‘In general?’
‘Ours.’
The fingers stilled. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
Her lips teased a path along his collarbone. ‘It should be a mutual decision, don’t you think?’
‘Gabbi.’ Her name emerged as a soft growl, and she smiled.
‘Is that a yes, or a no?’
‘Of course—yes. The thought of you enceinte is enough to—’
A husky laugh escaped from her throat. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured appreciatively as she felt his length harden and extend deep within her. ‘Such a positive reaction.’
Benedict’s possession of her mouth was an evocative experience, and she sighed as she trailed a butterfly caress along the edge of his jaw.
‘I’d like to continue my role with Stanton-Nicols. Flexibility, an office at home when I’m pregnant and afterwards...’ She deliberated, her expressive eyes becoming pensive. ‘Once the children are in school I’d like to return to the city. Part-time,’ she added, knowing she’d want to be home to greet them, to be involved in their extra-curricular activities.
She indulged herself in a fleeting image of a small, dark-haired boy, a petite, pale-haired girl. Ball practice, swimming lessons, ballet, music, gymnastics. Homework. Walks in the park, picnics at the beach. Laughter. Family. And Benedict. Dear God, always Benedict at her side.
‘I love you,’ Gabbi reiterated quietly.
Benedict kissed her deeply, then slowly rolled until she lay beneath him. ‘You’re my life,’ he assured her simply, and kissed her again.
She gave a satisfied sigh as he began to move, and she linked her hands together behind his neck.
Magic, she concluded a long time later as she lay curved close against his side. Sheer magic. The merging of two bodies, two souls, in a mutual exploration of pleasure. And love. Always
love.
The Marriage Campaign
Helen Bianchin
CHAPTER ONE
IT DIDN’T matter how far or how frequent the journey, returning home had a significant effect on her emotions, Francesca mused as the jet banked over the harbour and prepared its descent.
Sydney’s cityscape provided a panoramic vista of sparkling blue ocean, numerous coves and inlets, tall city buildings, the distinctive bridge, the Opera House.
Brilliant sunshine held the promise of warm summer temperatures, a direct contrast to those she’d left behind in Rome the day before.
The Boeing lined up the runway and within seconds wheels thudded against the Tarmac, accompanied by the scream of engines thrown into reverse, followed by the slow cruise into an allotted bay.
Collecting baggage and clearing Customs was achieved in minimum time, and Francesca was aware of a few circumspect glances as she made her way through the arrivals lounge.
The deep aqua-coloured trouser suit adorning her tall, slender frame was elegantly cut, her make-up minimal, and she’d caught her dark auburn hair into a loose knot atop her head. The result was an attractive image, but downplayed her status as an international model.
There were no photographers or television cameras in sight as she emerged onto the pavement, nor was there the customary chauffeured limousine waiting at the kerb.
Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid the dark-lensed frames into place.
She wanted, needed, a few days’ grace with family and friends before stepping onto the carousel of scheduled modelling assignments, contracted photographic shoots and public appearances.
Cabs formed a swiftly moving queue at the kerb and she quickly hired one, providing the driver with a Double Bay address as he slid out into traffic exiting the international terminal.
Cars, buses, trucks—all bent on individual destinations. Warehouses, tree-lined parks, graffiti decorating—or desecrating, depending on one’s opinion—numerous concrete walls. It could be any city in the world, Francesca mused.
Yet it was her city, the place where she’d been born and raised of an Italian immigrant father and an Australian mother who had never quite come to terms with the constraints of marriage.
Francesca retained a vivid recollection of voices raised in bitter recrimination, followed soon after by boarding school, with vacation time spent equally between each parent.
Happy families; she mused with a rueful grimace as she reflected on the years that had followed. Three stepfathers: two who’d bestowed genuine affection and one whose predilection for pubescent girls had become apparent during a school vacation soon after the honeymoon. Acquired step-siblings who had passed briefly in and out of her life. And then, there was Madeline, her father’s beautiful blonde wife.
The modelling career which had begun on a whim had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Paris, Rome, New York. She had an apartment in each city and was sought after by every major fashion house in Europe.
“Twenty-five dollars.’
The cab-driver’s voice intruded, and Francesca delved into her shoulder bag, extracted two notes, and handed them to the driver. ‘Keep the change.’
The tip earned her a toothy grin, a business card and the invitation to call him any time she needed a cab.
Francesca slid a coded card into a slot adjacent to double glass doors, and stepped into the lobby as they slid open.
The girl on Reception offered a bright smile. ‘Nice to have you back.’ She reached beneath the desk for a set of keys and a slim packet of mail. ‘The hire car is parked in your usual space. Paperwork’s in the glovebox.’
‘Thanks.’
Francesca rode the lift to the top floor, deactivated her security system, then entered her apartment.
Beeswax mingled with the scent of fresh flowers. Delicate peach-coloured roses stood in a vase on the sofa table, with a card from her mother. ‘Welcome home, darling.’
A bold display with strelitzia and Australian natives reposed in the middle of the dining room table, with a card from her father, who had inscribed an identical greeting.
The answering machine recorded no less than five messages, and she played them through. A call from her agent; the rest were social. Seven faxes, none of which were urgent, she determined as she flicked through the pages. All, she decided, could wait until she’d had time to shower and unpack. Then she’d go through her mail.
It was good to be home. Satisfying to see familiar things and to know that she would enjoy them for several weeks.
Oriental rugs graced the marble-tiled floor, and there were soft leather sofas in the large lounge area. A formal dining room, modern kitchen, two bedrooms with en suite facilities, and floor-to-ceiling glass. Ivory drapes flowed on from ivory silk-covered walls, and the marble tiles were ivory too. Framed prints in muted blue, pink, aqua and lilac graced the walls, the colours accented by several plump cushions placed with strategic precision on sofas and single chairs.
Understated elegance combined with the rich tapestry of individual taste. Lived in, and not just a showcase, she assured herself silently as she took her bags through to the main bedroom.
Unpacking could wait until later, she decided as she stripped off her clothes and entered the en suite bathroom.
A leisurely shower did much to ease the strain of too many hours’ flight time, and she riffled through her wardrobe, selecting casual cotton trousers and a matching sleeveless blouse, then thrust bare feet into low-heeled sandals.
Collecting shoulder bag and keys, she rode the lift down to the underground car park.
Sydney traffic was swift, but civilised, and far different from the hazardous volume of cacophonous vehicles that hurtled the city streets of Rome.
Italy. The birthplace of her paternal ancestors and the place where she’d met and married world-renowned racing-driver Mario Angeletti three years ago during a photo shoot in Milan, only to weep at his funeral a few months after their wedding when a spectacular crash claimed his life. Last week she’d stood beside an adjacent grave site as her widowed mother-in-law had been laid to rest.
Nothing could be achieved by focusing on the sadness, she rationalised as she drove to the nearest shopping complex.
Her immediate priorities were to access Australian currency and do some food shopping.
Minutes later she parked the car, then crossed to the bank.
There were several people queuing at the automatic teller machine, and she opted for the bank’s air-conditioned interior rather than wait in the blazing heat, only to give a resigned sigh at the lengthy column of customers waiting for vacant teller locations.
For a moment she considered saving time by utilising her bank card at the foodhall, then dismissed the idea.
The man in front of her moved two paces forward, and her attention was captured by his cologne. A light, musky exclusive brand that aroused a degree of idle speculation over the man who wore it.
Impressive height, dark, well-groomed hair. Broad shoulders, the muscle structure outlined beneath a fitted polo shirt. Tapered waist, well-cut trousers. Tight butt.
Accountant? Lawyer? Probably neither, she mused. Either would have worn the requisite two-piece suit during office hours.
The queue was dissipating more quickly than she’d anticipated, and she watched as he moved to a vacant teller.
Mid-to-late thirties, Francesca judged as she caught his features in profile. The strong jaw, wide-spaced cheekbones and chiselled mouth indicated a European heritage. Italian, maybe? Or Greek?
The adjoining teller became vacant, and she moved to the window, handed over her access card and keyed in her PIN code, requested an amount in cash, then folded the notes into her wallet.
Francesca turned to leave, and collided with a hard male frame. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The startled apology tumbled automatically from her lips, and her eyes widened at the steadying clasp of his hand on her elbow.
Dominic’s scrutiny was unhurried as it sli
d negligently down her slim form, then travelled back to linger on the soft curve of her mouth before his eyes lifted to capture hers.
There was something about her that teased his memory. Classical fine-boned features, clear creamy skin that was too pale, gold-flecked brown eyes. But it was the hair that fascinated him. Twisted into a knot at her nape, he wondered at its length. And imagined how it would look flowing loose down her back, its vibrant colour spread out against the bedsheets.
It was an evocative image, and one he banked down.
The breath caught in Francesca’s throat at the primitive, almost electric awareness evident, and for endless seconds the room and its occupants faded into obscurity.
Crazy to feel so absorbed Francesca decided shakily as she forced herself to breathe normally.
She came into contact with attractive men almost every day of her life. There was nothing special about this particular man. Merely sexual chemistry, she rationalised, at its most magnetic.
Recognition was one thing. It was quite another to feel the tug of unbidden response.
She didn’t like it, didn’t want it.
And he knew. She could see it in the faint curve of that sensually moulded mouth, the slight darkening of those deep, almost black eyes. His smile deepened fractionally, and he inclined his head in silent acknowledgement as he released her arm.
Francesca kept her expression coolly aloof, and with a deliberately careless movement she slipped her wallet into the capacious shoulder bag, then turned with the intention of exiting the bank.
He was a few paces ahead of her, and it was difficult to ignore the animalistic grace of well-honed muscle and sinew. Leashed power and steel. Of body, and mind.
A man most women would find a challenge to explore, mentally as well as physically. To discover if the hinted knowledge in those dark eyes delivered the promise of sensual excitement beyond measure.
Ridiculous, she dismissed, more shaken than she was prepared to admit by the passage of wayward thought. It was merely a figment of an over-active imagination, stimulated by the effects of a long flight and the need to adjust to a different time-zone.
The Helen Bianchin Collection Page 178