The High-Society Wife. Helen Bianchin

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      The spacious foyer adjacent to the grand ballroom held a large number of invited guests, mingling as they sipped champagne. Designer gowns from home and abroad, together with a king’s ransom in jewellery, graced the female contingent, while the men appeared almost clones of each other in black dinner suits, white pin-pleated dress-shirts and black bowties.

      Wealthy scions of the corporate and professional world—although none, Gianna conceded, emanated quite the degree of power as the man at her side.

      Beneath the sophisticated exterior lurked a latent primitive sensuality that held the promise of un leashed passion…and delivered, Gianna accorded silently, all too aware of the intimacy they shared, when it was possible for her to lose herself so completely in him that nothing, nothing else mattered.

      Not the longed-for gift of his love, nor the unplanned delay in conceiving his child.

      ‘Darlings! How are you both?’

      The breathy feminine voice was familiar, and Gianna turned with a smile, exchanged the customary air-kiss, then gave a soft laugh as the stunning blonde touched light fingers to Franco’s cheek.

      ‘Shannay.’

      ‘Ah.’ Shannay’s sigh held a wistful quality as Franco carried her fingers to his lips, and she offered Gianna a conspiratorial smile. ‘He does that so well.’

      ‘Doesn’t he?’

      The girls’ friendship went back to boarding-school days and had continued through university. They shared a similar brand of humour, had been brides-maid honours at each other’s wedding, and remained in close touch.

      ‘Tom?’

      ‘About to join us,’ Franco drawled as Shannay’s husband came into view.

      ‘My apologies. A phone call.’ Tall, lean and bespectacled, Tom Fitzgibbon was a lauded heart surgeon, and one of those rare men who understood women. A widower with two young children, he’d allowed Shannay to do all the running in their relationship, only to take the wind out of her sails at the eleventh hour.

      Gianna saw Shannay’s eyes soften. ‘A problem?’

      Tom offered his wife a musing smile. ‘Hopefully not.’

      Together they began to circulate, greeting mutual friends, separating as they became caught up in conversation.

      The society doyennes were in their element as they worked the guests, issuing verbal reminders for upcoming events and exchanging the latest gossip.

      Gianna took another sip of champagne and allowed her gaze to skim the foyer. Soon staff would open the ballroom doors and begin ushering the assembled guests to their designated seats.

      Franco stood at her side as he conversed with an associate, and this close she was supremely conscious of the faint muskiness of his exclusive cologne. It teased her senses and sent warmth coursing through her veins.

      Acute sensitivity heightened by sensual anticipation as to how the night would end. And just how much she wanted to savour his touch, match it and become so caught up in electrifying passion that nothing else existed.

      He had the skill to take her places her wildest imagination could never cover. An emotional nirvana that was wholly primitive and disruptively sensual when she begged for the release only he could give.

      Had other women reacted with him as she did? Oh God no, don’t answer that!

      Franco had made her his by virtue of marriage. Albeit an arranged union cemented by mutual business issues. But what they shared in bed was special…wasn’t it?

      ‘Hungry?’

      A trick question if ever there was one! A light musing smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she met his gaze.

      ‘For food?’

      His eyes assumed a humorous gleam. ‘Naturally. Shall we go in?’

      It was then she became aware numerous guests were moving towards the now open doors leading into ballroom.

      Their designated table was well positioned, and the guests sharing it with them needed no introduction, which made for relaxed familiarity and ease of conversation.

      Muted background music provided a pleasing ambience as wine stewards moved with swift precision among the tables, taking orders for wine and champagne, while waitresses followed in their wake bearing napkin-lined baskets of bread rolls.

      It was the usual modus operandi for large charity events, where service, fine wines and good food formed part of the ticket price.

      ‘You’re very quiet. How is the headache?’

      They were in the public eye, and as Franco’s wife and a representative of Giancarlo-Castelli she was expected to shine.

      For they numbered as one of the golden couples who were seen to have everything.

      She could play the part. It was one of her talents.

      Gianna let the edges of her mouth curve into a warm smile. ‘Almost gone.’

      He lifted a hand and brushed gentle fingers down her cheek. ‘Good.’

      She held his gaze, and attempted to control the way her nerve-ends began to shred at his touch. It wasn’t fair to feel so emotionally naked.

      With a steady hand she reached for the evening’s programme and skimmed its contents.

      ‘It looks an interesting mix,’ she relayed lightly. ‘A singer follows the customary speeches. There’s an orchestrated fashion show. A surprise mystery guest.’

      At that moment the music faded and the Master of Ceremonies took the podium, welcomed the guests, gave a brief divertissement, then introduced the charity’s chairperson. A tireless matron who de voted her life to raising money to benefit numerous terminally ill children.

      There was film coverage on the large drop-down screen of the charity’s achievements, with the camera panning to children undergoing treatments in hospital, at supervised play. What really caught at the heartstrings was their expressive features. The solemn stoicism, the smiles, the childish laughter.

      Life went on…other people’s lives.

      The chairperson made an impassioned plea for guests to provide generous donations.

      Waitresses delivered the starters, and Gianna sipped her champagne, then offered a requested opinion as to the ‘in’ vacation spot of the moment.

      ‘I thought the Caribbean, but Paul favours trekking through Vietnam. Can you imagine?’

      ‘Alaska?’ Gianna ventured. ‘For its scenic beauty and the northern lights?’

      ‘Darling,’ the woman wailed. ‘I want shopping.’

      Why? she wanted to ask, when one upstairs wing of the woman’s home was devoted entirely to storing clothes, with a room designated for each of the year’s four seasons. Yet another СКАЧАТЬ