The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN

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      A subtle reminder that she was scarcely doing the sumptuous selection of food much justice? It hardly made sense that she was deliberately projecting the image of a diet fanatic, but there was a tiny gremlin urging her to travel a mildly outrageous path.

      ‘Thank you.’ She reached for the utensils and placed a modest serving onto her plate, then proceeded to fork small portions with delicate precision.

      There was a dessert to die for reposing on the chiffonnier, and she spared the exquisitely decorated torte a regretful glance. A slice of mouth-watering ambrosia she’d have to forego the pleasure of savouring in order to continue the expected accepted image.

      ‘Did Leon manage to sell your abstract?’ She sounded facetious, and felt a momentary pang for the discourtesy.

      ‘It wasn’t for sale,’ Dominic relayed with seemingly careless disregard, and smiled as her eyebrows arched in silent query.

      ‘Really?’ Francesca let her gaze encompass his rugged features and lingered on the strong bone structure before meeting the musing gleam in those dark eyes. ‘You don’t look like an artist.’

      His mouth quirked slightly at the edges. ‘How, precisely, is your impression of an artist supposed to look?’

      Harmless words, but she was suddenly conscious of an elevated nervous tension that had no known basis except a strong, instinctive feeling that she was playing a dangerous game with a man well-versed in every aspect of the hunt.

      Akin to a predator prepared to watch and wait as his prey gambolled foolishly within sight, aware that the time was of his choosing, the kill a foregone conclusion.

      Now you’re being fanciful, she chided, suddenly angry with herself for lapsing into an idiotic mind game.

      ‘Shall we move to the lounge for coffee?’ Dominic suggested with deceptive mildness.

      In a way it was a relief to shift location, and she breathed a silent sigh as the evening moved towards a close.

      The impish gremlin was still in residence as she declined coffee and requested tea. ‘Herbal, if you have it.’ Long lashes gave an imperceptible flutter, then swept down to form a protective veil.

      ‘Of course.’ The request didn’t faze him in the least. It was almost as if he’d been prepared for it, and within minutes she nursed a delicate cup filled with clear brown liquid she had no inclination to taste.

      Terrible, she conceded as she studiously sipped the innocent brew. And smiled as Gabbi, Benedict and Dominic savoured dark, aromatic coffee she would have much preferred to drink.

      Hoist by her own petard, Francesca acknowledged with rueful acceptance. It served her right.

      ‘Another cup?’

      Not if she could help it! ‘Thank you, no. That was delicious.’

      Benedict rose to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes enigmatic as they met those of his wife. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Dominic?’

      ‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ Gabbi said gently as she collected her purse.

      Their imminent departure provided an excellent excuse for Francesca to leave. It was what Dominic expected. But she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.

      Fool, she mentally chastised herself as he escorted Gabbi and Benedict to the front door. Pick up your evening bag and follow them.

      Too late, she decided a few minutes later when he returned to the lounge.

      Francesca watched as he folded his lengthy frame into a cushioned chair directly opposite.

      ‘Your friendship with Gabbi is a long-standing one?’

      ‘Are you going to express a need to explore my background?’

      ‘Not particularly.’

      ‘No request for an in-depth profile?’ she queried drily.

      Dominic was silent for several seemingly long seconds, wanting to tear down the barrier she’d erected but aware of the need for caution and a degree of patience. ‘I’m aware of the professional one,’ he drawled with assumed indolence. ‘Tell me about your marriage.’

      She stopped breathing, felt the pressure build, and sought to expel it slowly. She wanted to serve him a volley of angry words, throw something, anything that would release some of her pain. Instead, she resorted to stinging mockery.

      ‘Gabbi failed to fill you in?’

      His eyes were steady. ‘Minimum details.’

      ‘It can be encapsulated in one sentence: champion racing car driver Mario Angeletti killed on the Monaco Grand Prix circuit within months of his marriage to international model Francesca Cardelli.’

      Three years had passed since that fateful day. Yet the vivid horror remained. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t personally witnessed the tearing of metal, the disintegration of car and man as fuel ignited in catastrophic explosion. Television news cameras, newspaper photographs and graphic journalistic reports ensured no detail remained unrecorded.

      Family and close friends had shielded her, protecting and nurturing during the emotional fall-out. And afterwards she had stepped back onto the catwalk, aware every move, every nuance of her expression was being carefully watched for visible signs of distress.

      Some had even attempted to provoke it. Yet not once had she let down her guard. Only those who knew her well saw the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and recognised the smooth social patter as a practised facade.

      ‘It must have been a very painful time for you.’

      Francesca was unable to verbally denounce his sympathy, for there was none. Merely an empathetic statement that ignored conventional platitudes.

      ‘Would you like a drink? Some more tea, coffee?’ The smile held musing warmth. ‘Something stronger, perhaps?’

      Francesca stood to her feet, her expression wary as he mirrored her action. ‘I really must leave.’

      ‘Do I frighten you?’ The query was voiced in a soft drawl, and succeeded in halting her steps.

      No doubt about it, his target aim was deadly.

      ‘Fear’ was a multi-faceted word that encompassed many emotions. Slowly she turned towards him and met his gaze. Her chin tilted fractionally. A mental stiffening of her own resources? ‘No.’

      His eyes never left hers, but she felt as if he’d stripped every protective layer she’d swathed around her frozen heart and laid it bare and bleeding.

      Oh, God, what was happening here? She’d known he was trouble the first time she saw him. Walk away, a tiny voice bade silently. Now.

      A faint smile curved the edges of that sensual mouth, and there was a transitory gleam of humour apparent in the depth of those dark eyes. ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

      ‘Why?’ СКАЧАТЬ