The Marriage Campaign (Harlequin Presents)

by Helen Bianchin

  It was shaping up to be a hectic day, Francesca perceived a trifle ruefully as she shed the gown, then pulled on her trousers and top. At lunch she was booked to tread another catwalk, and this evening she was due to dine at her father’s home. With deft movements she twisted her hair into a knot atop her head, then slid her feet into sandals.

  ‘Care to share coffee before we each get on with the day?’ Tony queried as she emerged from the tent.

  ‘Love to,’ Francesca accepted, grateful for their easy friendship as they trod a path across the sand to the parked cars.

  They each stowed their bags, locked the boot, then crossed the road to the beachside café.

  ‘I’ll order,’ Tony indicated as they slid into an empty booth. ‘Short black?’

  ‘Please,’ she responded gratefully, and sipped the dark aromatic brew from the cup placed in front of her shortly afterwards.

  ‘You’re covering today’s charity luncheon at the Hilton?’

  “fraid so, darling.’ He drained his cup and signalled for the waitress to refill it.

  ‘All those dowagers dressed to kill, fawning over you in a bid to have their photo appear in the society pages, huh?’ Francesca teased, and caught his faint grimace.

  ‘They send me gifts. Champagne, expensive trinkets. One matron even went so far as to offer an unforgettable all-expenses-paid weekend on Hayman Island.’

  ‘Tell me you declined.’

  He offered a wry smile. ‘I don’t accept bribes, as tempting as some appear.’

  It was almost eight when Francesca slid behind the wheel of her car and drove to the gym. An exercise routine was so much a part of her daily regime that she scarcely gave it a thought.

  There was little time to spare when she returned to her apartment in order to shower, dress, and drive into the city.

  The fundraising luncheon in aid of the Australian Cancer Society was a major event. The venue was prestigious, and the guest list read like an excerpt from the city’s register of the city’s rich and famous.

  ‘Sell-out’ was whispered from one to the other as the speeches progressed and lunch was served. Then the compère announced the start of the fashion parade and the music began.

  The main lights dimmed and strategically aimed arc lights lit the catwalk. Showtime.

  Afterwards, Francesca tidied her hair, retouched her make-up, then collected her bag. With luck she’d be able to slip out and make an exit without too much delay.

  She was halfway across the room when she heard a familiar voice call her name.

  ‘Francesca.’

  Her stepmother, with Katherine at her side, seated at a nearby table. ‘You’ll join us for a coffee, won’t you?’

  Madeline was adept at making a query sound like a command, and there was little Francesca could do other than slip into the indicated seat.

  Katherine offered a conspiratorial wink, well aware that her mother’s main purpose in issuing the invitation was to bolster her own social prestige. Smart girl, Katherine.

  It was thirty minutes before Francesca could orchestrate her escape, and a further half an hour before she joined the flow of traffic leaving the city. Consequently it was almost five when she re-entered her apartment.

  After a day exchanging one elegant outfit for another, she would have preferred to slip on a robe, eat a light chicken salad, watch television, then settle for an early night.

  Instead, she selected a stunning black silk trouser suit, added a touch of gold jewellery, applied minimum make-up, highlighted her eyes, and left her hair loose to cascade onto her shoulders.

  Lights blazed in welcome as Francesca traversed the long, curved driveway leading to Rick and Madeline’s elegant double-storeyed Tudor-style home situated high in suburban Vaucluse.

  The interior reflected Madeline’s exquisite taste, and Francesca greeted Katherine and John with affection, brushed cheeks with her stepmother and accepted Rick’s warm bear-hug.

  ‘Have a seat, Francesca,’ Madeline bade. ‘Rick will get you a drink.’

  Diplomacy and an adeptness born of many years’ experience in recognising Madeline’s modus operandi ensured that Francesca kept within the unwritten boundaries. Once you knew the game, it was relatively easy to play.

  ‘Orange juice? A wine spritzer?’

  ‘A spritzer would be great,’ she accepted warmly.

  The sound of the door chimes provided an interruption, and Madeline turned towards Rick. ‘That will be Dominic. Let him in, darling.’ She turned to Francesca. ‘You don’t mind the inclusion of another guest?’

  There was nothing she could do except smile. ‘Of course not.’

  Rick knew better than to matchmake. Madeline, however, had no such qualms, and was adept at assembling people together in order to create an interesting evening.

  Dominic Andrea’s motives for accepting the invitation were open to conjecture.

  ‘He’s really a hunk, isn’t he?’ Katherine enthused with teenage fervour, and Francesca was saved from making comment as her father ushered Dominic into the lounge.

  In her line of business she came into contact with many visually attractive men, but few possessed this man’s aura of power. It went beyond the physical, and meshed with a dangerous sexuality that threatened a woman’s equilibrium. A potent combination, she conceded as she took in his expensive suit, silk tie, hand-stitched shoes, before allowing her gaze to settle on those broad, chiselled features.

  Generous mouth, cleaved from a sensual mould. Eyes so dark, yet as expressive as he chose them to be. At this precise moment there was a tinge of humour beneath the projected warmth.

  ‘Madeline.’ He moved forward with fluid grace, took hold of his hostess’s hand, then turned towards her stepdaughter.

  ‘Francesca.’

  ‘Dominic,’ she acknowledged coolly. She felt on edge already, and he’d only just entered the room. What on earth would she be like at the end of the evening?

  Unsettled, if he had anything to do with it.

  ‘A drink, Dominic?’ Rick was a considerate host who kept a well-stocked liquor cabinet designed to cater to the whim of any guest.

  ‘Thanks. A soda.’

  Madeline smiled. ‘The need for a clear head?’

  ‘Perhaps Dominic has an ulcer,’ Francesca offered sweetly. ‘I imagine an artistic temperament and the pressure of business play havoc with the stress levels.’

  ‘Not an inclination to minimise alcohol to one glass of wine with the evening meal?’

  She tilted her head and viewed him in silence for several long seconds. ‘How.’ She paused deliberately. ‘Boring.’

  His mouth curved slightly. ‘You prefer a man whose mind and actions are clouded with alcohol?’

  Oh, my. Was she the only one present who picked up on that double entendre?

  Francesca silently willed the evening to pass quickly so that she could make her escape at the soonest possible moment without causing Madeline or her father offence.

  She caught Dominic’s faintly raised eyebrow, and realised that he’d accurately assessed her thoughts.

  ‘I had no idea you were joining us tonight.’ As a conversational gambit, it lacked inspiration.

  His eyes held hidden warmth and a degree of cynical humour. ‘Madeline issued an invitation to look at the positioning of two of my paintings in her home.’

  Her head tilted fractionally. ‘Do you make it a practice to approve where your paintings hang in all your buyers’ homes?’

  ‘Rarely,’ he conceded.

  ‘Rick and Madeline should feel duly honoured.’

  His soft laughter was unexpected, the humour tilting the curve of his mouth and fanning tiny lines from each corner of his eyes. Eyes that were remarkably steady, even watchful as he caught each fleeting expression on her finely boned features.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Dominic lifted a hand and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear in a gesture deliberately designed to startle. ‘Although let there be no doubt that th
e main reason I’m here tonight is you.’

  He glimpsed the faint widening of her eyes, the momentary shock, before she successfully masked her expression.

  ‘Dinner is served, ma’am.’ The cook’s intrusion was a timely one, and Francesca expelled a relieved sigh as Madeline led the way.

  Seating was arranged with Madeline and Rick facing each other at the head of the table, Katherine and John on one side, with Dominic and Francesca seated together.

  Vichyssoise was followed by barbecued prawns on a bed of rice, with steamed fish, hollandaise sauce and salad as a main course. Crème caramel and fresh fruit sufficed as dessert.

  A pleasant meal in what would have been relaxing company—if it hadn’t been for Dominic’s presence. Francesca was acutely aware of his every action, the smell of clean tailoring mingling with the subtle tones of his exclusive cologne.

  He used his cutlery with precise, decisive movements, his enjoyment of the food evident, and he skilfully drew Katherine and John into the conversation, transforming John into an amusing raconteur while Katherine bloomed beneath his attention.

  Madeline was at her best. Fame or fortune in a guest was a bonus. To have two dine at her table who could lay claim to both was a considerable coup. Rick, sensing his wife’s satisfaction, became more expansive as the evening progressed.

  ‘Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?’ Madeline queried, signalling just that intention by standing to her feet.

  Everyone followed her directive, but Francesca was unprepared when Dominic moved behind her and drew out her chair.

  She hadn’t expected the courtesy, didn’t want it, and had to consciously refrain from pulling her arm away as his fingers lightly clasped her elbow.

  ‘Katherine, John,’ Madeline invited graciously. ‘If you choose, you can retire upstairs and view television.’

  An exemplary mother, and a very shrewd one. Political correctness and good manners were something Madeline insisted upon. It said much that neither of her children grasped the excuse to leave.

  Fifteen minutes max, Francesca decided, then she would express her thanks and depart. She sank gracefully into a lounge chair and accepted coffee.

  It had been a long day, and tomorrow, after seeing her mother, she’d agreed to join a panel of judges assembled to select three junior models from twenty young hopefuls parading their stuff on the catwalk.

  Friday, Saturday and Sunday were free, and she’d designated them as hers. For pampering, a professional haircut, a massage. Sheer indulgence.

  Unbidden, her eyes met those of Dominic, and she glimpsed the degree of sensual warmth evident in those dark depths. He presented a disturbing factor, and she was in no doubt of the steel-willed determination beneath the surface.

  Francesca finished her coffee, declined a refill, and rose to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must leave.’ Her warm smile encompassed Rick, Madeline, Katherine and John. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Dominic accorded with ease as he unwound his length from the chair. ‘It’s been very enjoyable.’

  Why was he timing his departure to coincide with her own? Why shouldn’t he? a silent voice demanded as she crossed the lounge at Rick’s side, brushed a quick kiss to his cheek at the front door, then stepped quickly down the steps.

  ‘Running away?’ Dominic’s voice held slight amusement as he matched his pace to her own.

  She withdrew a keyring from her evening purse in readiness, and walked past a black Lexus to where her own car was parked. She selected a key and inserted it into the door.

  His arm brushed hers as he reached forward and undid the latch, then drew open the door.

  ‘How was your day?’

  She slipped past him and slid into the driver’s seat. ‘You can’t really want to know.’

  He placed an arm on the roof and leaned in towards her. ‘Yes. Humour me, Francesca.’

  She slid the safety belt across and clipped it into position. She should have felt in control, yet somehow the advantage appeared to be his.

  ‘A three-thirty a.m. start for a dawn photographic shoot, a fashion parade at the Hilton, dinner with family.’

  ‘And guest.’

  ‘Unexpected guest,’ she amended.

  ‘Whom you would have preferred not to be present.’

  She tilted her head in order to meet his gaze. ‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten me as to how you came by the invitation.’

  ‘I occasionally do business with your father.’ His shoulders shifted in a slight shrugging gesture. ‘Madeline appears to appreciate my paintings. It wasn’t difficult to make a phone call.’

  No, she supposed. Not difficult at all for a skilful manipulator to pose a few pertinent questions within a conversation in order to gain his objective.

  She looked at him carefully, and his sloping smile had the strangest effect, causing sensation to unfurl deep inside and creep insidiously through her body.

  ‘What should I expect next?’ She kept her voice deliberately cool. ‘The “Your place or mine?” spiel?’

  Dominic regarded her steadily. ‘Interpreted as, “Let’s get between the sheets and I’ll show you what you’re missing”? I don’t play that particular game.’

  ‘With any woman?’

  ‘With you,’ he declared with soft emphasis. He reached forward and caught hold of her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Now, shall we begin again? Tomorrow—’

  ‘There isn’t going to be a tomorrow.’ Her voice sounded thick and vaguely husky.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘There is. The day after, or the one after that. Next week. Whenever.’

  Francesca looked at him long and hard, saw the calm awareness in his eyes, and felt exposed in a way she’d never experienced before. Fear, apprehension—both were prevalent And a strange sense of recognition. Almost as if something deep inside her had sought and found the matching half of a whole.

  She didn’t want to deal with it, with him, and what he represented. She wanted time to think, to evaluate. Saying yes to this man, on any level, would lead her towards a path she was hesitant to tread.

  ‘This is one situation where your persistence won’t pay off,’ she assured him.

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  ‘Then prove me wrong and share lunch with me. Nominate a day.’ A challenge. Would she accept or refuse?

  Fine, she accorded a trifle grimly. If that was what it took to convince him she wasn’t interested, she’d agree. Besides, lunch sounded safe. Broad daylight, with the excuse of work as a legitimate escape route.

  Francesca gave him a long, level look. ‘Friday,’ she capitulated. ‘Name the restaurant, and I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Claude’s, Oxford Street, Woollahra. One,’ he said without missing a beat.

  A fashionably chic French eating place where advance bookings were a must. ‘Fine.’ She slid the key into the ignition and fired the engine, watching as he stood back and closed the door.

  Seconds later she cleared the gates and entered the wide, tree-lined suburban street, following it down until it joined with New South Head Road.

  Electric streetlights shared a pattern uniformity, vying with colourful flashing neon signs illuminating the city’s centre. Ferries traversed the dark waters of Port Jackson, and a large cruise ship was ablaze with light and life as a tugboat led it slowly towards the inner harbour.

  Magical, Francesca reflected silently, and felt a strange pull towards another harbour in another city on the opposite side of the world. Another car, a Ferrari Testarossa, driven by Mario through the steep winding hills above Rome. And how she’d delighted at the sight spread out before her, laughed with the joy of life, then gasped at the speed with which Mario had driven home in order to make love with her.

  Mad, halcyon days that couldn’t last. Even then she’d been afraid the candle that burned so brightly within him was destined for a short life.

  It was almo
st eleven when she garaged her car and took the lift up to her apartment. With care she shed her clothes, removed her make-up, then she donned a slither of silk and slid in between cool percale sheets.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AN ELEGANT woman, Sophy adored being seen. Consequently her choice of venue was one of the city’s currently trendiest meeting places in town.

  ‘Drinks, darling,’ Sophy had specified the get-together, and Francesca slid into a reserved chair and ordered coffee.

  Her mother would be late. After all these years it was accepted Sophy had no sense of time. Excuses, many and varied, were floated out with an airy wave of the hand, and her family and friends inevitably forgave her the lapse.

  Thirty minutes wasn’t too bad, Francesca conceeded wryly as she glimpsed her mother making an entrance. There had been occasions when she’d waited for up to an hour.

  Titian hair styled in a shoulder-length bob, exquisite features, and slim curves a woman half her age would die for. Add an exclusive designer outfit, and Sophy presented a visual image that drew appreciative admiration.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ Sophy effected a careless shrug as she slid into the seat opposite. ‘Armand...’ Her mouth tilted wickedly. ‘You know how it is. The French—everything is l’amour.’

  ‘I thought you were through with Frenchmen,’ Francesca said equably.

  ‘Ah, but they are so gallant.’ Sophy cast her daughter an impish smile. ‘Besides, darling, he is fantastic in bed.’

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘Yes,’ her mother agreed, and her eyes gleamed with humour. ‘It’s a lovely bonus.’

  Francesca wondered with philosophical resignation if Armand was even more unsuitable than his illustrious predecessor, who had squired her mother for a record ten months before Sophy discarded him.

  ‘Now, sweetheart. Tell me what you think of your father. The last time I saw him I thought he was looking quite...’ Sophy paused, then added delicately, ‘Mature. A few more lines. I recommended my cosmetic surgeon, but you can imagine your father’s response.’

  Indeed. Voluble, to say the least.

  ‘Madeline makes so many demands, and of course there’s the children.’