The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Extraordinary man,’ Francesca commented, silently adding lethal and persistent as she watched him thread his way to the opposite side of the gallery.

  ‘A very successful one,’ Benedict informed her mildly. ‘Who dabbles in art and donates a lot of his work to charity.’

  ‘Accept Dominic’s invitation,’ Gabbi added persuasively. ‘If you don’t, I’ll be outnumbered, and the conversation will be confined to business.’

  Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘Not really a hardship. You excel in business.’

  Gabbi’s eyes sparkled with impish humour. ‘Take a walk on the wild side and say yes. You might enjoy yourself.’

  All Francesca’s instincts shrieked a silent denial. She liked her life as it was, and didn’t need nor want any complications that might upset its even tenure.

  Although it might prove a challenge to play Dominic Andrea at his own game and win.

  ‘What do you think of that sculpture in steel?’ Benedict queried, successfully diverting their attention.

  Ten minutes later Francesca chose to leave, indicating to Gabbi quietly, ‘I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.’

  Leon was effusive as she crossed to his side and thanked him for the invitation, and as she turned towards the door she saw Dominic Andrea deep in conversation with a stunning diminutive blonde.

  Almost as if he sensed her gaze, his head lifted and dark eyes pierced hers with mesmerising awareness.

  There was nothing overt in his expression, just an unwavering knowledge that had an electric effect on her equilibrium. It was almost as if he was staking a claim. Issuing a silent message that he would enjoy the fight, and the victory.

  Fanciful imagination, Francesca dismissed as she gained the foyer, then she descended the short flight of steps and took the well-lit path to her car.

  With the ignition engaged, she eased the vehicle forward and entered the busy thoroughfare.

  Dominic Andrea had no part in her life, she assured herself silently as she headed towards her Double Bay apartment.

  Francesca put the finishing touches to her make-up, examined the careless knot of hair she’d swept on top of her head, then stood back, pleased with the overall image.

  Halter-necked black dress, sheer black tights, perilously high stiletto-heeled black pumps. Cosmetic artistry provided a natural look, and a brilliant red gloss coloured her lips. Jewellery comprised a diamond bracelet and matching ear-studs.

  Without pausing to think, she collected a slim evening purse and car keys, walked out of the apartment and took the lift down to the basement car park.

  Traffic was heavy as she drove through the city, and once clear of the Harbour Bridge she by-passed the expressway and headed towards Beauty Point.

  Exclusive suburbs graced the city’s northern shores, offering magnificent views over the inner harbour.

  Dammit. What was she going? Dressed to kill, on her way to attend a dinner she had no inclination to share with a man she hadn’t wanted to see again.

  She could turn back and go home, ring and apologise, using any one of several plausible excuses.

  So why didn’t she? Instead of turning between wrought-iron gates guarding an imposing concrete-textured Caribbean-style home situated at the crest of a semi-circular driveway?

  All because of Gabbi’s subtle challenge issued the previous evening, and endorsed and encouraged over lunch. Now it was a little late to have second thoughts.

  Francesca parked behind Benedict’s sporty Jaguar and cast a quick glance at the digital clock before she switched off the engine.

  Perfect. By the time she emerged from the car and walked the few steps to the front door, she would be ten minutes late.

  A silent statement that she was here on her own terms.

  Subdued melodic chimes echoed as she depressed the doorbell, and seconds later the thick, panelled door swung open to reveal a middle-aged housekeeper.

  ‘Miss Angeletti? Please come in.’

  High ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass created a sense of spaciousness and light, with folding white-painted wooden shutters. Expensive art adorned the walls, and there were several Oriental rugs adorning pale cream marble floors.

  She was escorted into a large lounge where Dominic’s tall frame drew her attention like a magnet.

  Dark trousers and a casual blue shirt lent an elegance she knew to be deceiving, for beneath the sophisticated veneer there was strength, not only of body but of mind.

  ‘Please accept my apologies.’

  Dominic’s dark eyes held hers, quiet, still. He wasn’t fooled in the slightest, but his voice was smooth as silk as he moved forward to greet her. ‘Accepted.’ He swept an arm towards a soft-cushioned leather sofa. ‘Come and sit down.’

  She crossed to a single chair and sank into it with elegant economy of movement.

  A further insistence on independence? ‘What can I offer you to drink?’

  Something with a kick in it would be nice. Instead, she offered him a singularly sweet smile. ‘Chilled water, with ice.’

  ‘Sparkling or still?’

  She resisted the temptation to request a specific brand-name. ‘Still. Thank you.’

  There was that glance again, laser-sharp beneath dark lashes, the slight lift of one eyebrow before he crossed to the cabinet.

  Benedict looked mildly amused, and Gabbi shook her head in silent remonstrance. Francesca merely smiled.

  Dominic returned and placed a tall glass within her reach on the side table.

  ‘Thank you.’ So achingly polite. Too polite?

  Within minutes the housekeeper appeared to announce the meal was served, and they made their way into a large dining room adjacent to the lounge.

  The table was beautifully set with white damask, on which reposed fine china, silver cutlery and stemmed crystal glasswear.

  Francesca’s gaze idly skimmed the mahogany chiffonnier, the long buffet cabinet, the elegantly designed chairs, and silently applauded his taste in furniture. And in soft furnishings, for the drapes and carpet were uniform in colour, the contrast supplied by artwork and mirrors adorning the walls.

  Dominic seated Francesca beside him, opposite Gabbi and Benedict.

  The courses were varied, and many, and, while exquisitely presented, they were the antithesis of designer food. There was, however, an artistically displayed platter of salads decorated with avocado, mango, and a sprinkling of pine nuts.

  A subtle concession to what Dominic suspected was a model’s necessity to diet?

  Francesca always ate wisely and well, with little need to watch her intake of food. Tonight, however, she forked dainty portions from each course.

  ‘You have a beautiful home.’ The compliment was deserved, and she cast a glance towards the original artwork gracing the walls. Not any of them bore the distinctive style of the abstract she’d sighted at Leon’s gallery.

  As if reading her mind, Dominic enlightened musingly, ‘I keep my work in the studio.’

  One eyebrow lifted, and her voice held a hint of mockery. ‘Is that a subtle invitation to admire your etchings?’

  His fingers brushed her wrist as he leaned forward to replenish her glass with water, and a chill shiver feathered its way over the surface of her skin in silent recognition of something deeply primitive.

  The knowledge disturbed her, and her eyes were faintly wary as they met his.

  ‘The expected cliché?’ The drawled query held wry humour, and his eyes held a warmth she didn’t care to define. ‘At the risk of disappointing you, I paint in the studio and confine lovemaking to the bedroom.’

  Something curled inside her stomach, and she lifted her glass and took a generous swallow before setting it down onto the table. ‘How—prosaic.’

  His husky chuckle held quizzical amusement, and an indolent smile broadened the sensual curve of his mouth. ‘Indeed? You don’t think comfort is a prime consideration?’

  The image of a large bed, satin sheets, and leisurely languorous foreplay
sprang to mind...a damning and totally unwarranted vision she wanted no part of.

  Francesca had a desire to give a stinging response, and probably would have if they’d been alone. Instead, she aimed for innocuous neutrality, and tempered it with a totally false smile that didn’t fool anyone, least of all Dominic, in the slightest. ‘Not always.’

  ‘The chicken is delicious.’ Dear sweet Gabbi, who sought to defuse the verbal direction of their exchange.

  Francesca cast her a sweeping glance that issued a silent statement—I’m having fun. And saw her friend’s eyes widen fractionally in answering warning.

  ‘How was your trip to Italy, Francesca?’ Benedict issued the bland query. ‘Were you able to spend any time outside Rome?’

  She decided to play the social conversational game. ‘No,’ she enlightened evenly. ‘However, I’m due in Milan next month for the European spring collections.’ Closely followed by Paris.

  Her life was like riding a merry-go-round...big cities, bright lights, the adrenalin rush. Then, every so often, she stepped off and took time out in normality. A vacation abroad, or, more often than not, she flew home to spend time with family and friends. They were her rock, the one thing constant in her life she could rely on.

  ‘You enjoy the international scene?’

  Francesca turned slightly to the man seated at her side, glimpsed the remarkable steadiness in his gaze—and something else she was unable to interpret. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you care for more salad?’

  A subtle reminder that she was scarcely doing the sumptuous selection of food much justice? It hardly made sense that she was deliberately projecting the image of a diet fanatic, but there was a tiny gremlin urging her to travel a mildly outrageous path.

  ‘Thank you.’ She reached for the utensils and placed a modest serving onto her plate, then proceeded to fork small portions with delicate precision.

  There was a dessert to die for reposing on the chiffonnier, and she spared the exquisitely decorated torte a regretful glance. A slice of mouth-watering ambrosia she’d have to forego the pleasure of savouring in order to continue the expected accepted image.

  ‘Did Leon manage to sell your abstract?’ She sounded facetious, and felt a momentary pang for the discourtesy.

  ‘It wasn’t for sale,’ Dominic relayed with seemingly careless disregard, and smiled as her eyebrows arched in silent query.

  ‘Really?’ Francesca let her gaze encompass his rugged features and lingered on the strong bone structure before meeting the musing gleam in those dark eyes. ‘You don’t look like an artist.’

  His mouth quirked slightly at the edges. ‘How, precisely, is your impression of an artist supposed to look?’

  Harmless words, but she was suddenly conscious of an elevated nervous tension that had no known basis except a strong, instinctive feeling that she was playing a dangerous game with a man well-versed in every aspect of the hunt.

  Akin to a predator prepared to watch and wait as his prey gambolled foolishly within sight, aware that the time was of his choosing, the kill a foregone conclusion.

  Now you’re being fanciful, she chided, suddenly angry with herself for lapsing into an idiotic mind game.

  ‘Shall we move to the lounge for coffee?’ Dominic suggested with deceptive mildness.

  In a way it was a relief to shift location, and she breathed a silent sigh as the evening moved towards a close.

  The impish gremlin was still in residence as she declined coffee and requested tea. ‘Herbal, if you have it.’ Long lashes gave an imperceptible flutter, then swept down to form a protective veil.

  ‘Of course.’ The request didn’t faze him in the least. It was almost as if he’d been prepared for it, and within minutes she nursed a delicate cup filled with clear brown liquid she had no inclination to taste.

  Terrible, she conceded as she studiously sipped the innocent brew. And smiled as Gabbi, Benedict and Dominic savoured dark, aromatic coffee she would have much preferred to drink.

  Hoist by her own petard, Francesca acknowledged with rueful acceptance. It served her right.

  ‘Another cup?’

  Not if she could help it! ‘Thank you, no. That was delicious.’

  Benedict rose to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes enigmatic as they met those of his wife. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Dominic?’

  ‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ Gabbi said gently as she collected her purse.

  Their imminent departure provided an excellent excuse for Francesca to leave. It was what Dominic expected. But she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.

  Fool, she mentally chastised herself as he escorted Gabbi and Benedict to the front door. Pick up your evening bag and follow them.

  Too late, she decided a few minutes later when he returned to the lounge.

  Francesca watched as he folded his lengthy frame into a cushioned chair directly opposite.

  ‘Your friendship with Gabbi is a long-standing one?’

  ‘Are you going to express a need to explore my background?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘No request for an in-depth profile?’ she queried drily.

  Dominic was silent for several seemingly long seconds, wanting to tear down the barrier she’d erected but aware of the need for caution and a degree of patience. ‘I’m aware of the professional one,’ he drawled with assumed indolence. ‘Tell me about your marriage.’

  She stopped breathing, felt the pressure build, and sought to expel it slowly. She wanted to serve him a volley of angry words, throw something, anything that would release some of her pain. Instead, she resorted to stinging mockery.

  ‘Gabbi failed to fill you in?’

  His eyes were steady. ‘Minimum details.’

  ‘It can be encapsulated in one sentence: champion racing car driver Mario Angeletti killed on the Monaco Grand Prix circuit within months of his marriage to international model Francesca Cardelli.’

  Three years had passed since that fateful day. Yet the vivid horror remained. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t personally witnessed the tearing of metal, the disintegration of car and man as fuel ignited in catastrophic explosion. Television news cameras, newspaper photographs and graphic journalistic reports ensured no detail remained unrecorded.

  Family and close friends had shielded her, protecting and nurturing during the emotional fall-out. And afterwards she had stepped back onto the catwalk, aware every move, every nuance of her expression was being carefully watched for visible signs of distress.

  Some had even attempted to provoke it. Yet not once had she let down her guard. Only those who knew her well saw the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and recognised the smooth social patter as a practised facade.

  ‘It must have been a very painful time for you.’

  Francesca was unable to verbally denounce his sympathy, for there was none. Merely an empathetic statement that ignored conventional platitudes.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Some more tea, coffee?’ The smile held musing warmth. ‘Something stronger, perhaps?’

  Francesca stood to her feet, her expression wary as he mirrored her action. ‘I really must leave.’

  ‘Do I frighten you?’ The query was voiced in a soft drawl, and succeeded in halting her steps.

  No doubt about it, his target aim was deadly.

  ‘Fear’ was a multi-faceted word that encompassed many emotions. Slowly she turned towards him and met his gaze. Her chin tilted fractionally. A mental stiffening of her own resources? ‘No.’

  His eyes never left hers, but she felt as if he’d stripped every protective layer she’d swathed around her frozen heart and laid it bare and bleeding.

  Oh, God, what was happening here? She’d known he was trouble the first time she saw him. Walk away, a tiny voice bade silently. Now.

  A faint smile curved the edges of that sensual mouth, and there was a transitory gleam of humour apparent in the depth of those dark eyes. ‘I’m relieved t
o hear it.’

  ‘Why?’ The demand seemed perfectly logical.

  He looked at her carefully, weighing his words and assessing the damage they might do. And how he would deal with it. ‘I want you,’ he stated gently, lifting a hand to trace a gentle forefinger down the edge of her cheek.

  His touch was like fire, and her pulse jumped, then raced to a quickened beat, almost as if in silent recognition of something she refused to acknowledge.

  ‘Tangled sheets and an exchange of body fluids?’ Inside, her emotions were shredding into pieces. Her eyes seared his, and her chin tilted fractionally as she took a step away from him. ‘I don’t do one-night stands.’

  Courage. And passion. Banked, reserved. But there. He wanted it all. And knew she’d fight him every inch of the way.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  His words sent a shiver feathering down the length of her spine. What was it with this man? She found it annoying that just as she was about to categorise him, he shifted stance.

  Dominic watched the play of emotions in her expressive eyes. No matter how much he wanted it to be different, he could wait. The temptation to pull her up against him and let her feel the effect she had on him was strong. To cover her mouth with his own, explore and vanquish.

  He did neither. It would keep. Until the next time. And he’d ensure there was a next time.

  Francesca felt the need to escape, and good manners instilled since childhood ensured she uttered a few polite words in thanks.

  ‘Why, when you merely sampled a bird-like portion from each course, then picked at the salad?’

  She experienced a momentary tinge of remorse for the manner in which she’d eaten the delectable food. Did he suspect it had been deliberate? Somehow she had the instinctive feeling he saw too much, knew too much of the human psyche.

  ‘My loss of appetite bore no reflection on your housekeeper’s culinary ability.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll refer the compliment.’

  Francesca turned and walked from the room to the front door, acutely aware of his presence at her side. She paused as he reached forward to pull back one of the large, panelled doors.

  ‘What were you doing shopping for food in a supermarket when you employ a housekeeper?’