The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin

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      ‘Dominic Andrea,’ Francesca ventured speculatively. ‘Greek?’

      ‘Second generation. His mother is Australian.’

      ‘Irritating man.’

      Dominic was many things, but irritating wasn’t one of them. ‘Do you think so?’

      ‘And arrogant.’

      Perhaps. Although Gabbi would have substituted self-assured. ‘You want to opt out of dinner tonight?’

      Francesca forked the last mouthful of salad, took her time with it, then replaced the utensil onto her plate. ‘No,’ she said thoughtfully, her gaze startlingly direct. ‘Why deny myself an interesting evening?’

      Gabbi’s mouth curved with humour. ‘A clash between two Titans?’

      Francesca’s eyes assumed a speculative gleam. ‘It will be an intriguing challenge to beat the man at his own game.’

      Indeed, Gabbi accorded silently. Although she wasn’t sure that Francesca would win.

      The waiter brought a fruit platter and they ordered coffee.

      ‘Shall I give you Dominic’s address?’ Gabbi queried as she picked up the bill, quelling Francesca’s protest. ‘Or will we collect you?’

      ‘I’ll meet you there.’ She extracted a pen and paper from her handbag and took down the address. ‘Six-thirty?’

      ‘Yes,’ Gabbi confirmed as they emerged out onto the pavement. She accepted Francesca’s light kiss on each cheek, and touched her hand as they parted. ‘It’s been great to catch up. Take care.’

      ‘Always,’ Francesca promised. ‘See you tonight.’

      There were several messages on Gabbi’s desk when she returned, and she dealt with each, dictated several letters and worked on streamlining overheads in a subsidiary company. Systematic checking was required to discover alternative suppliers who, she was convinced, could provide an equal service for a more competitive price. She made a list of relevant numbers to call.

      The intercom buzzed, and Gabbi depressed the button. ‘Yes, Halle?’

      ‘There’s a parcel in Reception for you. Shall I bring it down?’

      She eased her shoulders and pushed a stray tendril of hair behind one ear. ‘Please.’

      A minute later her secretary appeared carrying a flat rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. ‘There’s an envelope. Want me to open it?’

      It couldn’t be...could it? Gabbi rose to her feet and crossed round to the front of her desk. ‘No, I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Halle.’

      She placed the attached envelope on her desk, then undid the wrapping, pleasure lighting up her features as she revealed the painting she’d admired at Leon’s gallery.

      It was perfect for the southern wall of her office.

      The card held a simple message: ‘For you.’ It was signed ‘Benedict.’

      Gabbi reached for the private phone and punched in Benedict’s coded number.

      He answered on the second ring. ‘Nicols.’

      ‘You noticed my interest in the painting,’ she said with evident warmth. ‘I love it. Thanks.’

      ‘Why don’t you take a walk to my office and thank me in person?’ The lazy drawl held mild amusement, and a soft laugh emerged from her throat.

      ‘A momentary diversion?’

      ‘Very momentary,’ Benedict agreed with light humour. ‘An associate is waiting in my private lounge.’

      ‘In that case, you shouldn’t delay seeing him,’ she chastised him sweetly, and heard his husky chuckle in response.

      ‘Tonight, Gabbi.’

      She heard the faint click as he replaced the receiver.

      The rest of the afternoon went quickly, and at five she shut down the computer, signed the completed letters then collected her briefcase and took the lift down to the car park.

      Benedict’s four-wheel drive was in the garage when she arrived home, and as they were to dine out she bypassed the kitchen and made for the stairs.

      It would be nice to strip off and relax in the Jacuzzi, she thought longingly as she entered the master suite, but there wasn’t time. Twenty-five minutes in which to shower, dress, apply make-up and style her hair didn’t allow for a leisurely approach.

      The sound of an electric razor in action could be heard from the bathroom and she quickly shed her clothes, pulled on a silk robe and pushed open the door.

      Benedict was standing in front of the wide mirror dispensing with a day’s growth of beard, a towel hitched at his waist. It was evident from his damp hair that he hadn’t long emerged from the shower.

      ‘Hi.’ It irked her that her voice sounded vaguely breathless. Maybe in another twenty years she would be able to view his partly naked form and not feel so completely consumed by the sight of him.

      If, that far down the track, she was still part of his life. The thought that she might not be brought a stab of unbearable pain.

      He looked up from his task and met her eyes in the mirror. ‘Hi, yourself.’

      His appraisal was warm and lingered a little too long on the soft curve of her mouth. With determined effort she reached into the shower-stall, turned on the water, slipped off her robe and stepped beneath the warm jet-spray. When she emerged it was to find she had sole occupancy of the bathroom.

      Ten minutes later her hair was swept into a sleek pleat, her make-up complete. In the bedroom she crossed to the walk-in closet and selected silk evening trousers in delicate ivory, added a beaded camisole and slid her arms into a matching silk jacket. Gold jewellery and elegant evening sandals completed the outfit, and she took time to dab her favourite perfume to a few exposed pulse-points before catching up an evening purse.

      ‘Ready?’

      With a few minutes to spare. She directed a cool glance at him. ‘Yes. Shall we leave?’

      Dominic’s home was a brilliant example of architectural design in suburban Beauty Point overlooking the middle harbour.

      Dominic greeted them at the door and drew them into the lounge.

      High ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass lent the room spaciousness and light, with folding white-painted wooden shutters and deep-cushioned furniture providing a hint of the Caribbean.

      There was no sign of Francesca, and Gabbi wondered if she was deliberately planning her arrival to be a fashionable, but excusable, five minutes late.

      Ten, Gabbi noted, as the bell-chimes pealed when she was partway through СКАЧАТЬ