The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ any minute now Benedict would drive into the garage, see a smashed tail-light and demand an explanation.

      She crossed to the refrigerator, filled a glass with fresh orange juice and took a long, appreciative swallow.

      ‘Care to tell me what happened?’

      Right on cue. She looked at him and rolled her eyes. ‘Heavy traffic, a driver more intent on his mobile phone conversation than the road, the lights changed, I stopped, he didn’t.’ That about encapsulated it. ‘We exchanged names and insurance details,’ she concluded.

      He crossed to where she stood and his fingers probed the back of her neck. ‘Headache? Any symptoms of whiplash?’

      ‘No.’ His concern was gratifying, but his standing this close didn’t do much to stabilise her equilibrium. ‘Traffic was crawling at the time.’

      ‘Want to cancel out on tonight?’

      She looked at him carefully. ‘What if I said yes?’

      ‘I’d make a phone call and we’d stay at home.’

      ‘Just like that?’ One eyebrow rose. ‘I didn’t realise I held such power. Aren’t you worried I might misuse it?’

      His hand slid forward and captured her chin, tilting it slightly so that he could examine her expression. ‘Not your style, Gabbi.’

      At this precise moment she felt disinclined to pursue an in-depth evaluation. ‘What time do you want to leave?’

      He released her and crossed to the refrigerator. ‘Seven.’

      She had an hour, part of which she intended to spend indulging in a leisurely shower.

      In the bedroom she stripped down to her underwear then crossed to the bathroom and activated the water.

      Bliss, she acknowledged several minutes later as she rinsed off shampoo and allowed the water to stream down her back. Scented soap freshened her skin with a delicate fragrance, and she lifted her hands to slick back her hair.

      The glass door slid open and Benedict stepped into the stall. His naked body ignited a familiar fire deep inside her, and she attempted to dampen it down. ‘I’ve almost finished.’ How could her voice sound so calm, so matter-of-fact, when inside she was slowly going up in flames? she wondered.

      Would he...? No, there wasn’t time. Unless they were to arrive late...

      Gabbi subconsciously held her breath as he moved behind her, then released it as his hands settled on her shoulders. Firm fingers began a soothing massage that felt good. So good that she murmured her appreciation.

      She let her head fall forward as he worked the tense muscles and she relaxed, unwilling to move.

      ‘Fremont gave you a hard time at the board meeting this morning.’

      ‘Anticipating his queries kept me on my toes.’

      ‘You came well prepared.’

      ‘Being family isn’t regarded by some as an advantage,’ she responded dryly.

      ‘Should it be?’

      ‘You obviously didn’t think so.’

      Benedict’s fingers didn’t still. ‘My father was a very powerful man. I chose not to compete on his turf.’

      ‘Yet you’re where he wanted you to be.’

      ‘There was never any question I wouldn’t eventually take his place.’

      No, just a matter of when, Gabbi added silently, and wondered whether destiny had played a part. For if Conrad hadn’t died Benedict would still be living in America. And the marriage between Benedict Nicols and Gabbi Stanton would not have taken place. It was a sobering thought.

      She lifted her head and moved away from him. ‘I must get ready.’ He made no attempt to stop her as she stepped out of the stall.

      It took fifteen minutes to dry and style her hair, a further fifteen to complete her make-up. The gown she’d chosen to wear was dramatic black in a figurehugging design with shoestring shoulder-straps. Long black gloves added glamour, as did jewellery, black hosiery and stiletto-heeled evening shoes. A few dabs of her favourite perfume completed the image.

      Benedict’s frame, height and looks were guaranteed to weaken a woman’s knees no matter what he wore... or didn’t wear. In a tailored black evening suit and white cotton shirt he was positively awesome.

      Gabbi cast him a studied glance, and felt the familiar trip of her pulse as it leapt to a quickened beat. The heat flared inside her stomach and slowly spread, licking each nerve-ending into vibrant life.

      Less than an hour ago she’d stood naked with him in the shower, yet she felt more acutely vulnerable now, fully clothed, than she had then.

      To dispel the feeling she spread her arms, completed a full turn and summoned a mischievous smile. ‘What do you think?’

      His eyes were dark, and his mouth tugged wide over gleaming teeth as he deliberated.

      Perhaps she should have worn her hair down, instead of caught into a carelessly contrived knot? Was black too dramatic, too stark?

      ‘Stunning,’ Benedict complimented, and saw relief beneath her carefully guarded expression.

      ‘Flattery is an excellent way to begin the evening,’ Gabbi said lightly as she turned away to collect her evening bag.

      Thirty minutes later a parking valet swept the Bentley down into the vast concrete cavern beneath the hotel as she walked at Benedict’s side through the main entrance.

      Smile-time, show-time. She knew she shouldn’t be such a cynic at twenty-five. Yet years spent taking an active part in the social scene had taught her she was expected to play a part. And she’d learned to do it well—the radiant smile, the light-hearted greeting, the spontaneous small talk.

      The Grand Ballroom looked resplendent with its decorative theme, the DJ had unobtrusive mood-music playing, and impeccably uniformed waiters and waitresses hovered dutifully, taking and delivering drink orders.

      A sell-out, one of the committee members delighted in informing Benedict as she directed him to their appointed table.

      Gabbi entertained the slight hope that Annaliese might bring a partner, and she brightened visibly for all of two seconds before recognising the man on her stepsister’s arm as none other than Dominic Andrea. More of a mismatch was difficult to imagine, and hot on the heels of that thought was...what about Francesca?

      ‘A migraine,’ Dominic said for her ears only as he seated Annaliese on his right and then slid into the seat beside Gabbi. ‘Annaliese’s date will be late.’

      A smile curved her mouth. ‘You read minds?’

      ‘I anticipated your reaction.’

      ‘Am I that transparent?’

      His smile was СКАЧАТЬ