The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN

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СКАЧАТЬ looked at her carefully, weighing his words and assessing the damage they might do. And how he would deal with it. ‘I want you,’ he stated gently, lifting a hand to trace a gentle forefinger down the edge of her cheek.

      His touch was like fire, and her pulse jumped, then raced to a quickened beat, almost as if in silent recognition of something she refused to acknowledge.

      ‘Tangled sheets and an exchange of body fluids?’ Inside, her emotions were shredding into pieces. Her eyes seared his, and her chin tilted fractionally as she took a step away from him. ‘I don’t do one-night stands.’

      Courage. And passion. Banked, reserved. But there. He wanted it all. And knew she’d fight him every inch of the way.

      ‘Neither do I.’

      His words sent a shiver feathering down the length of her spine. What was it with this man? She found it annoying that just as she was about to categorise him, he shifted stance.

      Dominic watched the play of emotions in her expressive eyes. No matter how much he wanted it to be different, he could wait. The temptation to pull her up against him and let her feel the effect she had on him was strong. To cover her mouth with his own, explore and vanquish.

      He did neither. It would keep. Until the next time. And he’d ensure there was a next time.

      Francesca felt the need to escape, and good manners instilled since childhood ensured she uttered a few polite words in thanks.

      ‘Why, when you merely sampled a bird-like portion from each course, then picked at the salad?’

      She experienced a momentary tinge of remorse for the manner in which she’d eaten the delectable food. Did he suspect it had been deliberate? Somehow she had the instinctive feeling he saw too much, knew too much of the human psyche.

      ‘My loss of appetite bore no reflection on your housekeeper’s culinary ability.’

      ‘In that case, I’ll refer the compliment.’

      Francesca turned and walked from the room to the front door, acutely aware of his presence at her side. She paused as he reached forward to pull back one of the large, panelled doors.

      ‘What were you doing shopping for food in a supermarket when you employ a housekeeper?’

      He could have used any one of several glib excuses, or employed a deliberately flattering remark. Instead he chose honesty. ‘I wanted to see you again.’

      Her stomach lurched, and an icy chill feathered her skin at the directness of his gaze.

      ‘Goodnight.’ She moved past him and stepped quickly down to her car, unlocked it and slid in behind the wheel.

      The engine fired with a refined purr, and she resisted the temptation to speed down the driveway, choosing instead to ease the vehicle through the gates onto the road before quickly accelerating towards the main arterial road leading towards the Harbour Bridge.

      Damn him. Francesca’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles shone white. He was fast proving to be an intrusive force—one she didn’t need in her life.

      The sky was a deep indigo-blue sprinkled with stars, and beneath them lay the city, dark velvet laced by a tracery of electric lights that had no discernible pattern. Bright neon flashed, providing vivid colour as one advertisement vied with another. A commuter train slipped by in electronic silence, its carriages illuminated and partly empty.

      It was still early, yet there was already action in the city streets. Professionals worked the pavements, hustling and touting and evading the law as they mingled with the tourists and the curious.

      Francesca took the expressway through the Domain, bypassed Kings Cross and headed towards the main arterial road leading to Double Bay.

      Her head felt heavy, and she would have given much to be able to stop the car and walk in the clear night air. Instead she drove to her apartment building, garaged the car, then rode the lift to her designated floor.

      A leisurely cool shower followed by an iced drink while she viewed television would have to suffice.

      Yet nothing provided a distraction from the man who disturbed her thoughts.

      Sleep didn’t come easily, and even when it did, there were jagged dreams that made little sense. Except one, from which she awoke damp-skinned and damp-eyed. A vivid recall of Mario’s laughing features as he stepped into his racing-car and donned his helmet prior to lining up for the last race of his life.

      

      On the other side of the city Dominic stood looking out at the glittering lights across a darkened harbour as he reflected on the woman who had not long driven away from his home.

      Sleep was elusive. At worst he could make do with six hours, five if he had to. Tonight he had the feeling he’d have to manage with less.

      The fax machine shrilled in another room, and he ignored it.

      What he needed was a carefully constructed strategy. A campaign that would leave nothing to chance.

      Tomorrow he would make a call to Benedict Nicols in the hope that Gabbi might be persuaded to reveal details of Francesca’s social calendar.

      Subterfuge was permissible in the pursuit of an objective.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE next few days were relaxing as Francesca caught up with friends, did some shopping, and enjoyed a rescheduled lunch with her father in an exclusive restaurant close to his office building.

      The food was excellent, the ambience superb.

      ‘How is Madeline?’ Her stepmother was hardly the wicked kind, but Madeline viewed Francesca as a contestant for Rick’s affections, and waged a subtle war to test her husband’s priorities whenever Francesca was in town.

      ‘Fine.’ The warmth in his voice was unmistakable, and as long as Francesca continued to hear it she was prepared to forgive Madeline almost anything.

      ‘And Katherine and John?’ They were close, and Francesca regarded them as sister and brother rather than step-siblings. ‘We must get together.’

      ‘Is tonight too soon?’ her father queried with a degree of wry humour. ‘Katherine has, she assures me, an outfit to die for, and John seems convinced a new suit will elevate him in years to the enviable position of escorting his famed stepsister to an élite restaurant, where, God willing, some super-vigilant photographer will take a photo which will appear in tomorrow’s newspaper, whereupon he’ll be the most sought-after beau of the student ball.’

      Francesca laughed. A glorious, warm, husky sound. ‘I take it I should wear something incredibly glamorous?’

      Rick Cardelli’s smile held philosophical humour. ‘Obscenely so, I imagine,’ he said drily.

      Concern clouded her features. ‘I don’t want to overshadow Katherine.’ Or Madeline.

      His dark eyes gleamed, and the edges of his mouth curved upward. ‘My dear Francesca, СКАЧАТЬ