The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ vices?’ Low-pitched, male, the faintly accented drawl held a degree of mocking amusement.

      Francesca was familiar with every ploy. And adept at dealing with them all. She turned slowly, and the light, dismissive words froze momentarily in her throat as she recognised the compelling dark-haired man she’d bumped into at the bank.

      He possessed a fascinating mouth, white, even teeth, and a smile that would drive most women wild. Yet there was something about the eyes that condemned artifice. An assessing, almost analytical directness that was disturbing.

      Had he followed her? She cast his trolley a cursory glance and noted a collection of the usual food staples. Perhaps not.

      Humour was a useful weapon. The edges of her mouth tilted slightly. ‘Ice cream,’ she acknowledged with a trace of flippancy. ‘Vanilla, with caramel and double chocolate chip.’

      Dark eyes gleamed, and his deep husky laughter did strange things to her equilibrium.

      ‘Ah, the lady has a sweet tooth.’

      There was a ring on her left hand, and he wondered at his stab of disappointment. His cutting edge style of wheeling and dealing in the business arena hadn’t stemmed from hesitation. He didn’t hesitate now.

      He reached forward and placed a light finger against the wide filigree gold band. ‘Does this have any significance?’

      Francesca snatched her hand from the trolley. ‘Whether it does or not is none of your business.’

      So she had a temper to go with that glorious dark auburn hair, Dominic mused, and wondered if her passion matched it. His interest intensified. ‘Indulge me.’

      She wanted to turn and walk away, but something made her stay. ‘Give me one reason why I should?’

      ‘Because I don’t poach another man’s possession.’ The words held a lethal softness that bore no hint of apology, and his expression held a dispassionate watchfulness as she struggled to restrain her anger.

      Dignity was the key, and she drew in a calming breath, then slowly raked her eyes over his tall frame from head to foot, and back again.

      ‘Attractive packaging,’ she accorded with silky detachment. She met his gaze squarely and held it. ‘However, I have no interest in the contents.’

      ‘Pity,’ he drawled. ‘The discovery could prove fascinating.’ There was droll humour apparent, and something else she couldn’t define. ‘For both of us.’

      ‘In your dreams,’ she dismissed sweetly. The check-out lane was located at the far end of the aisle, and she had everything she needed.

      He made no effort to stop her as she moved away, yet for one infinitesimal moment she’d had the feeling he’d seen into the depths of her soul, acknowledged her secrets, staked a claim and retreated, sure of his ability to conquer.

      Insane, Francesca mentally chastised herself as she loaded carrybags into the boot and returned the trolley. Then she slid in behind the wheel of her car and switched on the ignition.

      She was tired, wired. The first was the direct result of a long flight; she owed the second to a man she never wanted to meet again.

      Re-entering the apartment, she stowed her purchases into the refrigerator and pantry. Rejecting coffee or tea, she filled a glass with iced water and drank half the contents before crossing to the telephone.

      Fifteen minutes later she’d connected with each parent and made arrangements to see them. Next, she punched in the digits necessary to connect with Laraine, her agent.

      Business. For the past three years it had been her salvation. Travelling the world, an elegant clotheshorse for the top fashion designers. She had the face, the figure, and the essential élan. But for how long would she remain one of the coveted few? More importantly, did she want to?

      There were young waifs clamouring in the wings, eager for fame and fortune. Designers always had an eye for the look, and the excitement of a fresh new face.

      Fashion was fickle. Haute couture a viperish nest of designer ego fed by prestigious clientele, the press, and the copy merchants.

      Yet amongst the outrageousness, the hype and the glitter, there was pleasure in displaying the visual artistry of imaginative design. Satisfaction when it all came together to form something breathtakingly spectacular.

      It made the long flights, living out of a suitcase in one hotel room or another, cramped backstage changing rooms, the panic that invariably abounded behind the scenes worthwhile. A cynic wouldn’t fail to add that an astronomical modelling fee helped lessen the pain.

      Financial security was something Francesca had enjoyed for as long as she could remember. As a child, there had been a beautiful home, live-in help, and expensive private schooling. Yet, while her mother had perpetuated the fairytale existence, her father had ensured his daughter’s feet remained firmly on the ground.

      There were investments, property, and an enviable blue chip share portfolio, the income from which precluded a need to supplement it in any way.

      Yet the thought of becoming a social butterfly with no clear purpose to the day had never appealed.

      Perhaps it was her father’s inherited Italian genes that kept the adrenalin flowing and provided the incentive to put every effort into a chosen project. ‘Failure’ didn’t form part of her father’s vocabulary.

      Which brought Francesca back to the present. ‘A week’s grace,’ she insisted, and listened to her agent’s smooth plea to reconsider. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll confer over coffee. Your office. Shall we say ten?’

      She replaced the receiver, stretched her arms high, and felt the weariness descend. She’d make something light for dinner, then she’d undress and slip beneath the sheets of her comfortable bed.

      CHAPTER TWO

      FRANCESCA leaned across the desk in her agent’s elegantly appointed office and traced a list of proposed modelling assignments with a milk-opal-lacquered nail.

      ‘Confirm the cancer charity luncheon, the Leukaemia Foundation dinner. I’ll do Tony’s photo shoot, and I’ll judge the junior modelling award, attend the gala lunch on the Gold Coast.’ She paused, considered three invitations and dismissed two. ‘The invitation-only showing at Margo’s Double Bay boutique.’ She picked up her glass of iced water and took an appreciative sip. ‘That’s it.’

      ‘Anique Sorensen is being persuasive and persistent,’ Laraine relayed matter-of-factly.

      The fact that Francesca was known to donate half her appearance fee whenever she flew home between seasons invariably resulted in numerous invitations requesting her presence at various functions, all in aid of one charity or another.

      ‘When?’

      ‘Monday, Marriott Hotel.’

      Tell me it’s for a worthwhile cause, and I’ll kill you.’

      ‘Then I’m dead. It’s for the Make-A-Wish Foundation^® of Australia.’

      ‘Damn,’ СКАЧАТЬ