The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  Francesca was waiting at the door when he came out of the lift, and he took one look at her pale face, the dark bruised eyes, then gently pushed her inside the lounge and closed the door.

  ‘That bad, hmm?’ He brushed his lips to her temple. ‘You’ve taken medication? OK, let’s get you into bed.’

  She struggled between comfort and propriety. ‘The couch.’ Her protest was less than a whisper, for it would be heaven to rest her head against his chest and close her eyes.

  Ignoring her, he put an arm beneath her knees, lifted her into his arms, and took a calculated guess as to which room was hers.

  The bedroom was much as he had imagined it would be. Feminine, but not overly so. There were no frills, no clutter on flat surfaces, and the colour scheme was pale peach and green.

  Without a word he closed the drapes, folded back the bedcovers, then, ignoring her protest, he carefully removed her outer clothes and gently deposited her onto the bed.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  The medication was allowing her to sink into numbing, almost pain-free oblivion. ‘Yes.’

  Dominic drew the sheet up to her shoulders then sank into a nearby chaise, his expression enigmatic as he watched her breathing deepen.

  Unless he was mistaken, she’d sleep through until the early-morning hours. He’d stay for a while, then he’d leave.

  She looked peaceful. Her features in repose bore a classic beauty, the facial bone structure in perfect symmetry, alabaster skin as soft and smooth as silk. And a generous mouth that could tilt with laughter and curve with sensual promise.

  Yet there was a vulnerability evident he knew she would just hate anyone—him especially—to witness. An inner fragility that tugged at something deep inside him and made him feel immensely protective.

  Dammit, he wanted the right to be part of her life. To earn her respect, her trust. And her love. The forever kind. Commitment. Marriage.

  After one union that had ended tragically, it wasn’t going to be an easy task to persuade her to marry again. Nor would she readily believe it was love he felt for her, not merely physical lust.

  The temptation to cancel out of tonight and be here when she woke was strong. However, she’d resent such vigilance rather than thank him for it.

  He left quietly, secured the door, then took the lift down to the lobby and drove home.

  It was dark when Francesca stirred, and she opened her eyes long enough to determine she was in bed, then she closed them again, drifting easily back to sleep.

  The sun was filtering through the drapes, lightening the room when she woke again, and she groaned as she glanced at the bedside clock.

  Food. And something to drink. She tossed the sheet aside, slid to her feet, then padded into the kitchen.

  A glass of fresh orange juice did much to begin the revitalising process, and she switched on the coffeemaker, slid bread into the toaster, and nibbled a banana while she waited. Cereal, a hardboiled egg, toast and an apple ought to do it, she mused as the coffee began to filter. Toast popped up, and when the coffee was ready she sank onto a high stool and took the first appreciative sip of caffeine. Bliss. Absolute bliss.

  When she’d finished eating she’d take a leisurely shower, then dress and decide what to do with the day.

  Meanwhile, she reflected on Dominic’s ministrations, and his presence in her bedroom before the medication had taken its full effect. How long had he stayed? And why? She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer.

  The phone rang twice while she was in the shower, and when she checked the answering machine the first call was from Dominic, the second from Gabbi.

  She dialled Gabbi’s number first, and apologised for her absence the previous night.

  Gabbi’s voice was full of concern. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Fully recovered and ready to face the day,’ she reassured her. ‘How were things last night?’

  There was a momentary pause. ‘It was a sell-out. Dinner was fine, and everyone declared the fashion parade to be a huge success.’

  ‘You’re hedging, Gabbi. I take it Annaliese played up?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Much as it goes against the grain, I think you’re going to have to get down and dirty with that young lady.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a thought. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Yell? Throw something?’

  ‘All out war, Francesca?’ There was amusement evident. ‘Think of the repercussions.’

  Francesca wrinkled her nose. ‘Benedict wouldn’t give a damn.’

  ‘Annaliese and her mother are a formidable pair,’ Gabbi responded soberly.

  Indeed. Francesca considered herself fortunate her own step-siblings were of the loving kind. And Madeline, although fiercely territorial, wasn’t sufficiently vindictive to deliberately drive a wedge between Rick and his daughter.

  ‘I suggest you sharpen your claws,’ Francesca indicated with a touch of wry humour, and heard Gabbi’s laugh echo down the line.

  ‘Filed and ready.’

  They ended the call on a light note, and Francesca was about to punch in the digits to connect with Dominic’s mobile when the phone rang.

  ‘Francesca.’ Her pulse quickened and went into overdrive at the sound of Dominic’s voice. ‘You slept well?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she added politely.

  ‘For what, precisely?’

  His indolent query raised goosebumps where goosebumps had no right to be. Why was she thanking him? For caring enough to be there for her? Ensuring she was comfortably settled and waiting until the medication took effect? ‘Just—thank you.’

  She could almost see his features relaxing with a degree of humour, and that sensuously moulded mouth curve into a smile.

  ‘Want to join me on a picnic?’

  The question startled her, and she hesitated, torn by an image of finger food eaten alfresco.

  ‘If I refuse, will you seclude yourself in the studio and paint?’

  He gave a husky laugh. ‘Something like that.’

  There was a pull of the senses she found difficult to ignore, and she aimed for a light response. ‘How about a compromise?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I’ll come watch you paint, then we go on a picnic.’

  ‘You just want to see my etchings.’

  She couldn’t help the smile that curved the edges of her mouth. ‘You’ve seen me at work.’

  ‘Much more glamorous than a pile of blank canvas, numerous quantities of oil paint and mineral turps, I can assure you.’

  ‘We have a deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ he responded easily.

  ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be on my way.’

  She retrieved a spare pair of sunglasses from the bedroom and slipped them into her bag. Should she contribute some food? Her refrigerator wasn’t exactly a receptacle of gourmet treats. Fruit and frozen bread did not a feast make. OK, so she’d stop off somewhere en route and collect a few things.

  Which was precisely what she did, arriving at Dominic’s front door with no less than two carrybags held in each hand.

  ‘I invited you to join me on a picnic, not provide one,’ he remonstrated as he divested her of her purchases.

  ‘I got carried away. Besides, I owe you a meal.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  She followed him through to the kitchen. ‘Humour me. I have an independent streak.’

  A friendly room with modern appliances, she decided as he unpacked the bags and stored a cold-pack in the refrigerator.

  She cast him an all-encompassing look, appraising the sleeveless shirt, the cut-off jeans, the trainers on his feet.

  One eyebrow slanted. ‘What did you expect? An enveloping artist’s cape?’ His eyes gleamed as he reached out a hand and touched one cheek, glimpsed the faint uncertainty evident and sought to alleviate it. ‘Shall we go?’

  She didn’t resist as he led her to the glassed walkway, connecting the
large studio above a multicar garage to the house.

  It was, she conceded, an artist’s dream, with sections of floor-to-ceiling glass and sliding floor-to-ceiling cupboard doors closing storage areas. Even the roof held panels of glass to capture every angle of sunlight.

  There were the tools of trade in evidence—pots and tubes of oil paint, three easels, canvas, frames—all tidily stored on racks.

  Yet she saw splotches of paint on the bare wooden floor, denoting it as a functional room where work was achieved.

  ‘Do you need to paint in silence? Or doesn’t noise bother you?’

  ‘Depends on the mood, and the creative muse,’ Dominic answered, watching her closely. This was his sanctum, a room which revealed more of himself than he liked. Consequently he allowed very few people access.

  ‘Tell me where you’d prefer me to sit or stand while you paint.’

  ‘You don’t want to explore?’

  ‘I imagine if there’s something you want to show me, you will,’ Francesca said evenly.

  ‘Take a seat, while I create a colourful abstract to be auctioned off for charity next week.’

  She watched him turn a blank canvas into a visual work of art. First the block of colour, covered by bold strokes and strong slashes. It looked so easy, his movements sure as one hour passed, then another, and she sat there enthralled by his artistic ability to transfer image to canvas. It didn’t seem to matter that she possessed little comprehension of the portrayed abstract or its symmetry. The creative process itself was inspiring.

  His involvement was total, and interest, rather than curiosity, impelled a strong desire to see some of his completed works. She would have given much to examine the tiered rack where several canvases were stored. Maybe next time.

  At last he stood back satisfied. ‘That’s enough for today.’ He deftly deposited brushes, cleaned paint from his hands, then crossed to a nearby sink and washed.

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  He left her in the kitchen. ‘I’ll go shower and change while you pack food into the cooler.’

  He reappeared ten minutes later, dressed in casual trousers and a short-sleeved polo shirt.

  They drove north to a delightful inlet that was relatively isolated.

  ‘Hungry?’ Dominic queried as he spread a rug on a grassy bank overlooking a curved half moon of sand and sea.

  It was almost mid-afternoon. ‘Famished.’

  Francesca began unpacking the cooler while he unfurled a large beach umbrella and staked it firmly into the ground to provide essential shade.

  She set out plates, fresh bread rolls, sliced ham, chicken and salads, brie, fruit.

  ‘A soda?’

  ‘Please,’ she accepted gratefully, uncapping the bottle and taking a long swallow of iced liquid.

  Dominic split the bread rolls in half and began filling them, then handed her one. ‘OK?’

  She took a bite, then grinned. ‘Excellent.’ She felt relaxed, despite the intimacy of their solitude. Carefree, she realized. Something she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

  Deep down she knew she should be wary, on guard against the mood between them taking a subtle shift. As it inevitably would. But not today. Today she needed some light-hearted fun, and the opportunity to get to know Dominic Andrea, the man beneath the projected persona.

  ‘Tell me about yourself.’

  He finished one bread roll and filled another. The look he directed her was piercing, steady. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Where you were born, family.’

  ‘The personal profile?’ he mocked gently. ‘Athens. My parents emigrated to Australia when I was seven. I have two younger sisters, one lives in America, the other in Santorini. My mother returned there five years ago when my father died from a heart attack.’

  ‘Do you see them often?’

  His smile held amusement. ‘Every year.’

  Somehow she’d pictured him as self-sufficient and a loner. ‘I guess you have nieces, nephews?’

  ‘Two of each, aged from three months to six years.’

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine him hoisting a squealing child astride his shoulders, or playing ball. Why hadn’t he married and begun a family of his own?

  ‘How about you?’

  It was a fair question, and one she sought to answer with equal brevity. ‘Sydney-born and educated. Two step-siblings on my father’s side. Several from my mother’s numerous marriages.’

  She wasn’t willing to provide him with any more facts than he already knew. ‘Let’s walk along the beach.’

  She rose to her feet in one graceful movement and glanced at her watch, saw that it was four. ‘What time do you want to leave?’

  ‘There’s no particular hurry to get back.’ He stacked the remains of their picnic in the cooler, then stored it in the boot together with the umbrella and rug.

  Together they traversed the grassy slope down onto the sand and walked to the water’s edge. There was a slight breeze that teased the length of her hair and gently billowed the soft material of her blouse.

  The inlet was small, with a rocky outcrop bordering each point as it curved into the sea. Dominic reached for her hand, and she didn’t tug it away, nor did she protest when he indicated they walk the width of the inlet.

  They exchanged anecdotes, enjoyed shared laughter, and Francesca was aware of a growing friendship that was quite separate from the sexual attraction simmering between them.

  The awareness was always there, sometimes just hovering beneath the surface. And on other occasions, when she became conscious of every breath she took, every beat of her heart. Part of her wanted to relax and let her emotions go any which way, and be damned to the consequences. Then logic kicked in and persuaded her to take the cautious path.

  It was almost five when they returned to the car, and Dominic deactivated the alarm then unlocked the passenger door.

  Francesca reached for the latch, then caught her breath as he placed an arm either side of her, caging her in an inescapable trap.

  She glimpsed the darkness in his eyes in the one brief second it took for his head to descend, then his mouth was on hers, seeking what she was too afraid to give.

  His lips were warm, evocative, and his tongue slid between her teeth before she had the chance to think.

  He was patient, when all he wanted to do was possess. Gentle, not willing to frighten. And coaxing, persuasive, waiting for her response.

  Francesca felt the betrayal of her body, the rapid pulse-beat, the slight quiver that began deep inside and invaded her limbs. The ache of awareness throbbed, radiating until she felt alive with sensation, and she kissed him back, luxuriating in the brush of his tongue against her own in a light mating dance that soon began to imitate the sexual act itself.

  She wanted him closer, much closer, and her arms lifted to encircle his neck as she leant against him.

  His arousal was a potent force, and a silent gasp died in her throat as his hand slid down to cup her bottom, pressing her even closer.

  Then he began to move, slowly, creating a barely perceptible friction that was so evocative it became almost unbearable to have the barrier of clothes between them.

  A hand moved to her breast, outlined its shape, then slipped inside her blouse, beneath the lacy bra to tease the sensitised peak.

  Her faint moan was all he needed, and his lips hardened as he took total possession of her mouth.

  No one had kissed her with quite this degree of passion. Desire was there, raging almost out of control. His, hers. There was no sense of time or place, just total and complete absorption in each other.

  It was a child’s voice, pitched high and piercing, that succeeded in bringing a rapid return to sanity.

  Dominic’s breathing was no less heavy than her own as he buried his forehead in her hair. Her skin was warm and moist, as was his as she withdrew her arms and tried to gain leverage against the powerful body pressing far too close to her own.

&nb
sp; ‘Dominic—’ The protest left her lips and he lifted his head.

  ‘I know.’ With effort he straightened and unlatched the front passenger door, waited until she slid into the seat, then closed it before crossing to the driver’s side.

  Seconds later the engine fired and the car reversed in a semi-circle, then purred towards the gravelled apron bordering the bitumen road.

  Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid them into place, grateful for the tinted lenses. Dear heaven, they’d behaved like unrestrained teenagers! Hard after that came the thought of what might have happened had they not been interrupted.

  Dominic could feel her withdrawal, and sought to prevent it. With a skilled movement he pulled onto the side of the road and brought the car to a halt.

  Her face was pale, her eyes far too large as she turned towards him. ‘Why are you stopping?’

  He leaned an arm on the steering wheel and shifted in the seat. ‘Don’t close up and go silent on me.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? Shame about the timing?’ Her eyes were clear, and there was a faint tilt to her chin. ‘Or perhaps I should attempt to comment about the weather, the scenery, in a banal attempt at conversation.’

  ‘I wanted you. You wanted me. If there’s any blame, it falls on both of us. Equally. That’s as basic as it gets,’ he said hardily.

  ‘We were like two animals in heat. In a public area, in full sight of anyone who happened by.’

  ‘Fully clothed,’ he reminded her. ‘And in control.’

  Her mouth opened, then closed again. That had been control? What the hell was he like without it? ‘Let’s forget it, shall we?’

  ‘Nice try, Francesca.’ His voice was satin-smooth with a hint of dry humour as he fired the engine and eased the car back onto the road.

  She wanted to hit him, and would have if the car had been stationary. He should consider himself fortunate that it took thirty minutes to reach his home at Beauty Point. By then her temper had cooled down somewhat.

  As soon as the car drew to a halt she slid from the seat, closed the door, and prepared to cross to where her own car was parked.

  He took his fill of her set features, the straight back, and her defensive stance. ‘Running away won’t achieve a thing.’