The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin

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      His voice was deep and retained a slight American drawl that seemed more noticeable over the phone. The sound of it caused her pulse to accelerate to a faster beat.

      ‘You rang while I was out.’

      She had a mental image of him easing his lengthy frame in the high-backed leather chair. ‘How was lunch?’

      Her fingers gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’

      ‘Annaliese requested your extension number.’ He relayed the information with imperturbable calm.

      Any excuse to have contact with Benedict; Gabbi silently derided her stepsister.

      ‘You didn’t answer my question.’ His voice held a tinge of cynicism and prompted a terse response.

      ‘Lunch was fine.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Is that why you rang?’

      ‘No. To let you know I won’t be home for dinner. A Taiwanese associate wants to invest in property, and has requested I recommend a reputable agent. It would be impolite not to effect the introduction over dinner.’

      ‘Very impolite,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘I won’t wait up.’

      ‘I’ll take pleasure in waking you,’ he mocked gently, ending the call.

      A tiny shiver slithered the length of her spine as she recalled numerous occasions when the touch of his lips had woken her from the depths of sleep, and how she’d instinctively welcomed him, luxuriating in the agility of his hands as they traversed a tactile path over the slender curves of her body.

      With concentrated effort she replaced the receiver down onto the handset, then focused her attention on work for what remained of the afternoon.

      It was almost five-thirty when she left the building, and although traffic was heavy through the inner city it had begun to ease when she reached Rushcutter’s Bay, resulting in a relatively clear run to Vaucluse.

      The sun’s rays were hot, the humidity level high. Too high, Gabbi reflected as she garaged the car and entered the house.

      A long, cool drink, followed by a few lengths in the pool, would ease the strain of the day, she decided as she slipped off her jacket and made her way towards the kitchen.

      Marie was putting the finishing touches to a cold platter, and her smile was warm as she watched Gabbi extract a glass and cross to the large refrigerator.

      ‘Are you sure all you want is salad?’

      Gabbi pushed the ice-maker lever, filled the glass with apple juice, then crossed to perch on one of four buffet stools lining the wide servery.

      ‘Sure,’ Gabbi confirmed as she leaned forward and filched a slice of fresh mango from the tastefully decorated bed of cos lettuce, avocado, nuts, and capsicum. ‘Lovely,’ she sighed blissfully.

      Marie cast her an affectionate glance. ‘There’s fresh fruit and gelato to follow.’

      Gabbi took a long swallow of iced juice, and felt the strain of the day begin to ebb. ‘I think I’ll change and have a swim.’ The thought of a few laps in the pool followed by half an hour basking in the warm sunshine held definite appeal. ‘Why don’t you finish up here? There’s no need for you to stay on just to rinse a few plates and stack them in the dishwasher.’

      ‘Thanks.’ The housekeeper’s pleasure was evident, and Gabbi reciprocated with an impish grin.

      It wasn’t the first evening she’d spent alone, and was unlikely to be the last. ‘Go,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.’

      Marie removed her apron and folded it neatly. ‘Serg and I’ll be in the flat, if you need us.’

      ‘I know,’ Gabbi said gently, grateful for the older woman’s solicitous care.

      Minutes later she drained the contents of her glass, then went upstairs to change, discarding her clothes in favour of a black bikini. Out of habit she removed her make-up, applied sunscreen cream, then she caught up a multi-patterned silk sarong and a towel and made her way down to the terraced pool.

      Its free-form design was totally enclosed by nonreflective smoke-tinted glass, ensuring total privacy, and there were several loungers and cushioned chairs positioned on the tiled perimeters.

      Gabbi dropped the sarong and towel onto a nearby chair, then performed a racing dive into the sparkling water. Seconds later she emerged to the surface, cleared excess moisture from her face, then began the first of several leisurely laps before slipping deftly onto her back to idle aimlessly for a while, enjoying the solitude and the quietness.

      It was a wonderful way to relax, she mused, both mentally and physically. The cares of the day seemed to diminish to their correct perspective. Even lunch with Annaliese.

      No, she amended with a faint grimace. That was taking things a bit too far. Calculating her stepsister’s next move didn’t require much effort, given the social scene of the city’s sophisticated élite.

      Stanton-Nicols supported a number of worthy charities, and Benedict generously continued in Diandra and Conrad Nicols’ tradition—astutely aware that as much business was done out of the office as in it, Gabbi concluded wryly.

      The thought of facing Annaliese at one function or another over the next few weeks didn’t evoke much joy. Nor did the prospect of parrying Monique’s subtle hints.

      Damn. The relaxation cycle was well and truly broken. With a deft movement, Gabbi rolled onto her stomach and swam to the pool’s edge, hauled her slim frame onto the tiled ledge, then reached for the towel and began blotting her body.

      Faced with a choice of eating indoors or by the pool, she chose the latter and carried the salad and a glass of chilled water to a nearby table.

      The view out over the harbour was spectacular, and she idly watched the seascape as numerous small craft cruised the waters in a bid to make the most of the daylight-saving time.

      On finishing her meal, scorning television, Gabbi made herself some coffee, selected a few glossy magazines and returned to watch the sunset, the glorious streak of orange that changed and melded into a deep pink as the sun’s orb sank slowly beneath the horizon providing a soft pale reflected glow before dusk turned into darkness.

      A touch on the electronic modem activated the underwater light, turning the pool a brilliant aqua-blue. Another touch lit several electric flares, and she stretched out comfortably and flipped open a magazine, scanning the glossy pages for something that might capture her interest.

      An article based on the behind-the-scenes life of a prominent fashion guru provided a riveting insight, and endorsed her own view on the artificiality of a society where one was never sure whether an acquaintance was friend or foe beneath the token facade.

      The publishers had seen fit to include an in-depth account by a high-class madam, who, the article revealed, had procured escorts for some of the country’s rich and famous, notably politicians and visiting rock stars, for a fee that was astronomical.

      Somehow the article focusing on cellulite that СКАЧАТЬ