The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ suburbs graced the city’s northern shores, offering magnificent views over the inner harbour.

      Dammit. What was she going? Dressed to kill, on her way to attend a dinner she had no inclination to share with a man she hadn’t wanted to see again.

      She could turn back and go home, ring and apologise, using any one of several plausible excuses.

      So why didn’t she? Instead of turning between wrought-iron gates guarding an imposing concrete-textured Caribbean-style home situated at the crest of a semi-circular driveway?

      All because of Gabbi’s subtle challenge issued the previous evening, and endorsed and encouraged over lunch. Now it was a little late to have second thoughts.

      Francesca parked behind Benedict’s sporty Jaguar and cast a quick glance at the digital clock before she switched off the engine.

      Perfect. By the time she emerged from the car and walked the few steps to the front door, she would be ten minutes late.

      A silent statement that she was here on her own terms.

      Subdued melodic chimes echoed as she depressed the doorbell, and seconds later the thick, panelled door swung open to reveal a middle-aged housekeeper.

      ‘Miss Angeletti? Please come in.’

      High ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass created a sense of spaciousness and light, with folding white-painted wooden shutters. Expensive art adorned the walls, and there were several Oriental rugs adorning pale cream marble floors.

      She was escorted into a large lounge where Dominic’s tall frame drew her attention like a magnet.

      Dark trousers and a casual blue shirt lent an elegance she knew to be deceiving, for beneath the sophisticated veneer there was strength, not only of body but of mind.

      ‘Please accept my apologies.’

      Dominic’s dark eyes held hers, quiet, still. He wasn’t fooled in the slightest, but his voice was smooth as silk as he moved forward to greet her. ‘Accepted.’ He swept an arm towards a soft-cushioned leather sofa. ‘Come and sit down.’

      She crossed to a single chair and sank into it with elegant economy of movement.

      A further insistence on independence? ‘What can I offer you to drink?’

      Something with a kick in it would be nice. Instead, she offered him a singularly sweet smile. ‘Chilled water, with ice.’

      ‘Sparkling or still?’

      She resisted the temptation to request a specific brand-name. ‘Still. Thank you.’

      There was that glance again, laser-sharp beneath dark lashes, the slight lift of one eyebrow before he crossed to the cabinet.

      Benedict looked mildly amused, and Gabbi shook her head in silent remonstrance. Francesca merely smiled.

      Dominic returned and placed a tall glass within her reach on the side table.

      ‘Thank you.’ So achingly polite. Too polite?

      Within minutes the housekeeper appeared to announce the meal was served, and they made their way into a large dining room adjacent to the lounge.

      The table was beautifully set with white damask, on which reposed fine china, silver cutlery and stemmed crystal glasswear.

      Francesca’s gaze idly skimmed the mahogany chiffonnier, the long buffet cabinet, the elegantly designed chairs, and silently applauded his taste in furniture. And in soft furnishings, for the drapes and carpet were uniform in colour, the contrast supplied by artwork and mirrors adorning the walls.

      Dominic seated Francesca beside him, opposite Gabbi and Benedict.

      The courses were varied, and many, and, while exquisitely presented, they were the antithesis of designer food. There was, however, an artistically displayed platter of salads decorated with avocado, mango, and a sprinkling of pine nuts.

      A subtle concession to what Dominic suspected was a model’s necessity to diet?

      Francesca always ate wisely and well, with little need to watch her intake of food. Tonight, however, she forked dainty portions from each course.

      ‘You have a beautiful home.’ The compliment was deserved, and she cast a glance towards the original artwork gracing the walls. Not any of them bore the distinctive style of the abstract she’d sighted at Leon’s gallery.

      As if reading her mind, Dominic enlightened musingly, ‘I keep my work in the studio.’

      One eyebrow lifted, and her voice held a hint of mockery. ‘Is that a subtle invitation to admire your etchings?’

      His fingers brushed her wrist as he leaned forward to replenish her glass with water, and a chill shiver feathered its way over the surface of her skin in silent recognition of something deeply primitive.

      The knowledge disturbed her, and her eyes were faintly wary as they met his.

      ‘The expected cliché?’ The drawled query held wry humour, and his eyes held a warmth she didn’t care to define. ‘At the risk of disappointing you, I paint in the studio and confine lovemaking to the bedroom.’

      Something curled inside her stomach, and she lifted her glass and took a generous swallow before setting it down onto the table. ‘How—prosaic.’

      His husky chuckle held quizzical amusement, and an indolent smile broadened the sensual curve of his mouth. ‘Indeed? You don’t think comfort is a prime consideration?’

      The image of a large bed, satin sheets, and leisurely languorous foreplay sprang to mind...a damning and totally unwarranted vision she wanted no part of.

      Francesca had a desire to give a stinging response, and probably would have if they’d been alone. Instead, she aimed for innocuous neutrality, and tempered it with a totally false smile that didn’t fool anyone, least of all Dominic, in the slightest. ‘Not always.’

      ‘The chicken is delicious.’ Dear sweet Gabbi, who sought to defuse the verbal direction of their exchange.

      Francesca cast her a sweeping glance that issued a silent statement—I’m having fun. And saw her friend’s eyes widen fractionally in answering warning.

      ‘How was your trip to Italy, Francesca?’ Benedict issued the bland query. ‘Were you able to spend any time outside Rome?’

      She decided to play the social conversational game. ‘No,’ she enlightened evenly. ‘However, I’m due in Milan next month for the European spring collections.’ Closely followed by Paris.

      Her life was like riding a merry-go-round...big cities, bright lights, the adrenalin rush. Then, every so often, she stepped off and took time out in normality. A vacation abroad, or, more often than not, she flew home to spend time with family and friends. They were her rock, the one thing constant in her life she could rely on.

      ‘You enjoy the international scene?’

      Francesca turned slightly СКАЧАТЬ