Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Teaser chapter Copyright

Dear Reader,

An avid reader of romance novels since early teenage years, I had my first novel accepted and published in 1975.

I enjoy the challenge of creating a powerful hero and independent heroine, and breathing life into their characters...showing how attraction, physical and emotional, between this special man and woman becomes love....

Harlequin Presents® holds universal appeal, and I am honored to be a small part of that.

Please join me in congratulating Presents on achieving twenty-five successful years. I extend warmest best wishes for continued publishing prosperity.

With love

Helen Bianchin

P.S. As you read this story, I’m sure you’ll recognize my hero and heroine—Dominic Andrea and Francesca Angeletti.... And you’d be right to feel that you’ve met them before—in my last book, An Ideal Marriage?

I became fascinated with Francesca and Dominic when they appeared as minor characters in that book. The chemistry between them was so strong, I felt they deserved their own story....

The Marriage Campaign

Helen Bianchin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

IT DIDN’T matter how far or how frequent the journey, returning home had a significant effect on her emotions, Francesca mused as the jet banked over the harbour and prepared its descent.

Sydney’s cityscape provided a panoramic vista of sparkling blue ocean, numerous coves and inlets, tall city buildings, the distinctive bridge, the Opera House.

Brilliant sunshine held the promise of warm summer temperatures, a direct contrast to those she’d left behind in Rome the day before.

The Boeing lined up the runway and within seconds wheels thudded against the Tarmac, accompanied by the scream of engines thrown into reverse, followed by the slow cruise into an allotted bay.

Collecting baggage and clearing Customs was achieved in minimum time, and Francesca was aware of a few circumspect glances as she made her way through the arrivals lounge.

The deep aqua-coloured trouser suit adorning her tall, slender frame was elegantly cut, her make-up minimal, and she’d caught her dark auburn hair into a loose knot atop her head. The result was an attractive image, but downplayed her status as an international model.

There were no photographers or television cameras in sight as she emerged onto the pavement, nor was there the customary chauffeured limousine waiting at the kerb.

Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid the dark-lensed frames into place.

She wanted, needed, a few days’ grace with family and friends before stepping onto the carousel of scheduled modelling assignments, contracted photographic shoots and public appearances.

Cabs formed a swiftly moving queue at the kerb and she quickly hired one, providing the driver with a Double Bay address as he slid out into traffic exiting the international terminal.

Cars, buses, trucks—all bent on individual destinations. Warehouses, tree-lined parks, graffiti decorating—or desecrating, depending on one’s opinion—numerous concrete walls. It could be any city in the world, Francesca mused.

Yet it was her city, the place where she’d been born and raised of an Italian immigrant father and an Australian mother who had never quite come to terms with the constraints of marriage.

Francesca retained a vivid recollection of voices raised in bitter recrimination, followed soon after by boarding school, with vacation time spent equally between each parent.

Happy families; she mused with a rueful grimace as she reflected on the years that had followed. Three stepfathers: two who’d bestowed genuine affection and one whose predilection for pubescent girls had become apparent during a school vacation soon after the honeymoon. Acquired step-siblings who had passed briefly in and out of her life. And then, there was Madeline, her father’s beautiful blonde wife.

The modelling career which had begun on a whim had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Paris, Rome, New York. She had an apartment in each city and was sought after by every major fashion house in Europe.

“Twenty-five dollars.’

The cab-driver’s voice intruded, and Francesca delved into her shoulder bag, extracted two notes, and handed them to the driver. ‘Keep the change.’

The tip earned her a toothy grin, a business card and the invitation to call him any time she needed a cab.

Francesca slid a coded card into a slot adjacent to double glass doors, and stepped into the lobby as they slid open.

The girl on Reception offered a bright smile. ‘Nice to have you back.’ She reached beneath the desk for a set of keys and a slim packet of mail. ‘The hire car is parked in your usual space. Paperwork’s in the glovebox.’

‘Thanks.’

Francesca rode the lift to the top floor, deactivated her security system, then entered her apartment.

Beeswax mingled with the scent of fresh flowers. Delicate peach-coloured roses stood in a vase on the sofa table, with a card from her mother. ‘Welcome home, darling.’

A bold display with strelitzia and Australian natives reposed in the middle of the dining room table, with a card from her father, who had inscribed an identical greeting.

The answering machine recorded no less than five messages, and she played them through. A call from her agent; the rest were social. Seven faxes, none of which were urgent, she determined as she flicked through the pages. All, she decided, could wait until she’d had time to shower and unpack. Then she’d go through her mail.

It was good to be home. Satisfying to see familiar things and to know that she would enjoy them for several weeks.

Oriental rugs graced the marble-tiled floor, and there were soft leather sofas in the large lounge area. A formal dining room, modern kitchen, two bedrooms with en suite facilities, and floor-to-ceiling glass. Ivory drapes flowed on from ivory silk-covered walls, and the marble tiles were ivory too. Framed prints in muted blue, pink, aqua and lilac graced the walls, the colours accented by several plump cushions placed with strategic precision on sofas and single chairs.

Understated elegance combined with the rich tapestry of individual taste. Lived in, and not just a showcase, she assured herself silently as she took her bags through to the main bedroom.

Unpacking could wait until later, she decided as she stripped off her clothes and entered the en suite bathroom.

A leisurely shower did much to ease the strain of too many hours’ flight time, and she riffled through her wardrobe, selecting casual cotton trousers and a matching sleeveless blouse, then thrust bare feet into low-heeled sandals.

Collecting shoulder bag and keys, she rode the lift down to the underground car park.

Sydney traffic was swift, but civilised, and far different from the hazardous volume of cacophonous vehicles that hurtled the city streets of Rome.

Italy. The birthplace of her paternal ancestors and the place where she’d met and married world-renowned racing-driver Mario Angeletti three years ago during a photo shoot in Milan, only to weep at his funeral a few months after their wedding when a spectacular crash claimed his life. Last week she’d stood beside an adjacent grave site as her widowed mother-in-law had been laid to rest.

Nothing could be achieved by focusing on the sadness, she rationalised as she drove to the nearest shopping complex.

Her immediate priorities were to access Australian currency and do some food shopping.

Minutes later she parked the car, then crossed to the bank.

There were several people queuing at the automatic teller machine, and she opted for the bank’s air-conditioned interior rather than wait in the blazing heat, only to give a resigned sigh at the lengthy column of customers waiting for vacant teller locations.

For a moment she considered saving time by utilising her bank card at the foodhall, then dismissed the idea.

The man in front of her moved two paces forward, and her attention was captured by his cologne. A light, musky exclusive brand that aroused a degree of idle speculation over the man who wore it.

Impressive height, dark, well-groomed hair. Broad shoulders, the muscle structure outlined beneath a fitted polo shirt. Tapered waist, well-cut trousers. Tight butt.

Accountant? Lawyer? Probably neither, she mused. Either would have worn the requisite two-piece suit during office hours.

The queue was dissipating more quickly than she’d anticipated, and she watched as he moved to a vacant teller.

Mid-to-late thirties, Francesca judged as she caught his features in profile. The strong jaw, wide-spaced cheekbones and chiselled mouth indicated a European heritage. Italian, maybe? Or Greek?

The adjoining teller became vacant, and she moved to the window, handed over her access card and keyed in her PIN code, requested an amount in cash, then folded the notes into her wallet.

Francesca turned to leave, and collided with a hard male frame. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The startled apology tumbled automatically from her lips, and her eyes widened at the steadying clasp of his hand on her elbow.

Dominic’s scrutiny was unhurried as it slid negligently down her slim form, then travelled back to linger on the soft curve of her mouth before his eyes lifted to capture hers.

There was something about her that teased his memory. Classical fine-boned features, clear creamy skin that was too pale, gold-flecked brown eyes. But it was the hair that fascinated him. Twisted into a knot at her nape, he wondered at its length. And imagined how it would look flowing loose down her back, its vibrant colour spread out against the bedsheets.

It was an evocative image, and one he banked down.

The breath caught in Francesca’s throat at the primitive, almost electric awareness evident, and for endless seconds the room and its occupants faded into obscurity.

Crazy to feel so absorbed Francesca decided shakily as she forced herself to breathe normally.

She came into contact with attractive men almost every day of her life. There was nothing special about this particular man. Merely sexual chemistry, she rationalised, at its most magnetic.

Recognition was one thing. It was quite another to feel the tug of unbidden response.

She didn’t like it, didn’t want it.

And he knew. She could see it in the faint curve of that sensually moulded mouth, the slight darkening of those deep, almost black eyes. His smile deepened fractionally, and he inclined his head in silent acknowledgement as he released her arm.

Francesca kept her expression coolly aloof, and with a deliberately careless movement she slipped her wallet into the capacious shoulder bag, then turned with the intention of exiting the bank.

He was a few paces ahead of her, and it was difficult to ignore the animalistic grace of well-honed muscle and sinew. Leashed power and steel. Of body, and mind.

A man most women would find a challenge to explore, mentally as well as physically. To discover if the hinted knowledge in those dark eyes delivered the promise of sensual excitement beyond measure.

Ridiculous, she dismissed, more shaken than she was prepared to admit by the passage of wayward thought. It was merely a figment of an over-active imagination, stimulated by the effects of a long flight and the need to adjust to a different time-zone.

There was a slight tilt to her chin as she emerged onto the pavement. The sun was bright, and she lowered her sunglasses from their position atop her head, glad of the darkened lenses.

Head high, eyes front, faint smile, practised walk. Automatic reflex, she mused as she crossed the mall.

The foodhall was busy, and she took care selecting fresh fruit before adding a few groceries to the trolley. With various family members and friends to see, breakfast was likely to be the only consistent meal she’d eat in her apartment.

Family. A timely reminder that she should make the first of several calls, she determined wryly as she selected milk from the refrigerated section, added yoghurt and followed it with brie, her favourite cheese.

‘No 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,’ Francesca accorded inelegantly, wrinkling her nose in silent admonition of Laraine’s widening smile.

‘But you’ll do it,’ the agent said with outward satisfaction.

‘Yes.’ Francesca stood to her feet, collected her bag and slid the strap over one shoulder. She had a particular sympathy for terminally ill children. ‘Fax me the details.’

‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’

‘A secluded beach,’ she enlightened. ‘A good book, and the mobile phone.’

‘Don’t forget the block-out sunscreen.’

Francesca’s smile held a teasing quality. ‘Got it.’

An hour later she sat munching an apple beneath a sun umbrella on a northern beach gazing over the shoreline to the distant horizon.

There was a faint breeze wafting in from the ocean, cooling the sun’s heat. She could smell the salt-spray, and there was the occasional cry from a lonely seagull as it explored the damp sand at the edge of an outgoing tide.

The solitude soothed and relaxed her, smoothing the edges of mind and soul.

Reflections were often painful, and with a determined effort Francesca extracted her book and read for an hour, then she retrieved a banana and a peach from her bag and washed both down with a generous amount of bottled water.

Phone calls. The first of which was to a dear friend with whom she’d shared boarding school during emotionally turbulent years when each had battled a stepmother and the effects of a dysfunctional family relationship.

She punched in the number, got past Reception, then a secretary, and chuckled at Gabbi’s enthusiastic greeting and a demand as to when they would get together.

‘Tonight, if you and Benedict are attending Leon’s exhibition.’

The flamboyant gallery owner was known for his soirées, invitations to which featured high on the social calendar among the city’s fashionable élite.

‘You are? That’s great,’ Francesca responded with enthusiasm. ‘I’m meeting Mother for dinner first, so I could be late.’

‘Have fun.’ Gabbi issued lightly, and Francesca laughed outright at the unspoken nuance in those two words.

It was fun listening to Sophy’s breathy gossip over chicken consommé, salad and fruit. Sophy’s permanent diet involved minuscule portions of fat-free calorie-depleted food.

A gifted raconteur, she had a wicked way with words that was endearingly humorous, and it was little wonder her mother gathered men as some women collected jewellery. All of whom remained friends long after the relationship had ended. With the exception of Rick, her first husband and Francesca’s father. He was the one who had remained impervious to Sophy’s machinations.

It was after nine when the waiter brought the bill, which Francesca paid, and she saw Sophy into a cab before crossing to her car.

Twenty minutes later she searched for an elusive parking space within walking distance of Leon’s fashionable Double Bay gallery, located one, and made her way towards the brightly lit main entrance.

There were people everywhere, milling, drinking, and it was difficult to distinguish the muted baroque music beneath audible snatches of conversation.

‘Francesca, darling!’

Leon—who else? She acknowledged his effusive greeting and allowed him to clasp her shoulders as he regarded her features with thoughtful contemplation.

‘You must have a drink before you circulate.’

Her eyes assumed a humorous gleam. ‘That bad, huh?’

‘Non. But a glass in the hand—’ He paused to effect a Gallic shrug. ‘You can pretend, oui, that it is something other than mineral water.’ He lifted a hand in imperious summons, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand.

Dutifully, she extracted a tall glass. ‘Anything in particular you can recommend to add to my collection?’

‘A sculpture,’ Leon announced at once. ‘It is a little raw, you understand, but the talent—’ He touched fingers to his lips and blew a kiss into the air. ‘Très magnifique. In a few years it will be worth ten, twenty times what is being asked for it now.’ He smiled, and brushed gentle knuckles to her cheek. ‘Go, cherie, and examine. Exhibit Fourteen. It may not capture you immediately, but it grows, fascinates.’

An accurate description, Francesca accorded several minutes later, unsure of the sculpture’s appeal. Yet there was something that drew her attention again and again.

Leon was an expert in the art world, she trusted his judgement, and owned, thanks to his advice, several items which had increased dramatically in value since their date of purchase. Therefore, she would browse among the other exhibits, then return and perhaps view it from a fresh angle. It was certainly different from anything she owned.

There were a few fellow guests whose features were familiar, and she smiled, greeted several by name, paused to exchange polite conversation, then moved on, only to divert from her intended path as she glimpsed the endearingly familiar features of an attractive blonde threading a path towards her.

‘Francesca!’

‘Gabbi.’

They embraced, and tumbled into speech. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘And you. Where’s Benedict?’ It was unlike Gabbi’s husband to be far from his wife’s side.

‘Eyes right, about ten feet distant.’

Francesca caught the dry tone and conducted a casual sweeping glance in the indicated direction. Benedict’s tall, dark-haired frame came into view, together with that of a familiar female form. Annaliese Schubert, a model with whom she’d shared a few catwalks both home and abroad.

‘Your dear stepsister is in town, and bent on creating her usual mayhem?’ An attempt to seduce Benedict Nicols appeared Annaliese’s prime motivation. That she had been unsuccessful both before and after Benedict’s marriage didn’t appear to bother her in the slightest.

‘Perceptive of you,’ Gabbi replied wryly. ‘How was Rome?’

Francesca hesitated fractionally, unaware of the fleeting darkness that momentarily clouded her eyes. ‘The catwalks were exhausting.’ Her shoulders lifted slightly, then fell. ‘And Mario’s mother lost a long battle with cancer.’

Empathetic understanding didn’t require words, and Francesca was grateful Gabbi refrained from uttering more than the customary few.

‘Let’s do lunch,’ Gabbi suggested gently. ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

‘Done.’

‘Good,’ Gabbi said with satisfaction. She tucked a hand through Francesca’s arm. ‘Shall we examine the art exhibits for any hidden talent?’

They wandered companionably, slowly circling the room, and when Gabbi paused to speak to a friend Francesca moved forward to give closer scrutiny to a canvas that displayed a visual cacophony of bold colour.

She tilted her head in an attempt to fathom some form or symmetry that might make sense.

‘It’s an abstract,’ a slightly accented male voice revealed with a degree of musing mockery.

Francesca’s stomach muscles tightened, premonition providing an advance warning even as she turned slowly towards him.

The bank, the foodhall, and now the art gallery?

Dominic had witnessed her entrance, and noted her progress around the room with interest. And a degree of satisfaction when she was greeted with such enthusiasm by the wife of one of his business associates. It made it so much easier to initiate an introduction.

She regarded him silently. The deeply etched male features, the hard-muscled frame tamed somewhat beneath superb tailoring. Also apparent were the hand-stitched shoes, Hermes tie, and gold Rolex.

The smile reached his eyes, tingeing them with humour, yet there was a predatory alertness beneath the surface that was at variance with his portrayed persona.

A man who knew who he was, and didn’t require any status symbols to emphasise his wealth or masculinity.

Power emanated from every pore, leashed and under control. Yet there was a hint of the primitive, a dramatic mesh of animalistic magnetism that stirred something within her, tripping the pulse and increasing her heartbeat.

‘Francesca.’

The soft American drawl caught her attention, and she turned at once, her expression alive with delight.

‘Benedict!’ Her smile held genuine warmth as she leaned forward to accept his salutary kiss. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Indeed.’ Gabbi’s husband offered an affectionate smile in acknowledgement before shifting his attention to the man at her side. ‘You’ve met Dominic?’

‘It appears I’m about to.’

Something flickered in Benedict’s eyes, then it was masked. ‘Dominic Andrea. Francesca Angeletti.’

The mention of her surname provided the key to her identity, Dominic acknowledged, as details fell into place.

He was Greek, Francesca mused, not Italian. And the two men were sufficiently comfortable with each other to indicate an easy friendship.

‘Francesca.’

Her name on his lips sounded—different. Sexy, evocative, alluring. And she didn’t want to be any one of those things with any man. Especially not this man.

Dominic wondered if she was aware the fine gold flecks in her eyes intensified when she was defensive... and trying hard to hide it? He felt something stir deep inside, aside from the desire to touch his mouth to her own, to explore and possess it.

‘Are you sufficiently brave to offer an opinion on my exhibit?’

He couldn’t be serious? ‘I’d prefer to opt out on the grounds that anything I say might damage your ego.’

His husky laughter sent a shivery sensation down the length of her spine. ‘Benedict and Gabbi must bring you to dinner tomorrow night.’

If Dominic Andrea thought she’d calmly tag along he was mistaken! ‘Why?’

‘You intrigue me.’ He saw her pupils dilate, sensed the uncertainty beneath her cool façade. And was curious to discover the reason.

‘No. Thank you,’ she added.

‘Not curious to see my artist’s attic?’

‘Where you live doesn’t interest me.’ Nor do you, she wanted to add. And knew she lied. For there was an invisible pull of the senses, a powerful dynamism impossible to ignore.

A man who sought to forge his own destiny, she perceived, not at all fooled by the smile curving that generous mouth. The eyes were too dark and discerning, dangerous.

She had the strangest feeling she should be afraid of the knowledge evident in those depths. An instinctive sureness that he was intent on being a major force in her life.

‘Six-thirty. Gabbi will give you the address.’ His lips tilted slightly as he slanted her a mocking glance. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’

‘Extraordinary man,’ Francesca commented, silently adding lethal and persistent as she watched him thread his way to the opposite side of the gallery.

‘A very successful one,’ Benedict informed her mildly. ‘Who dabbles in art and donates a lot of his work to charity.’

‘Accept Dominic’s invitation,’ Gabbi added persuasively. ‘If you don’t, I’ll be outnumbered, and the conversation will be confined to business.’

Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘Not really a hardship. You excel in business.’

Gabbi’s eyes sparkled with impish humour. ‘Take a walk on the wild side and say yes. You might enjoy yourself.’

All Francesca’s instincts shrieked a silent denial. She liked her life as it was, and didn’t need nor want any complications that might upset its even tenure.

Although it might prove a challenge to play Dominic Andrea at his own game and win.

‘What do you think of that sculpture in steel?’ Benedict queried, successfully diverting their attention.

Ten minutes later Francesca chose to leave, indicating to Gabbi quietly, ‘I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.’

Leon was effusive as she crossed to his side and thanked him for the invitation, and as she turned towards the door she saw Dominic Andrea deep in conversation with a stunning diminutive blonde.

Almost as if he sensed her gaze, his head lifted and dark eyes pierced hers with mesmerising awareness.

There was nothing overt in his expression, just an unwavering knowledge that had an electric effect on her equilibrium. It was almost as if he was staking a claim. Issuing a silent message that he would enjoy the fight, and the victory.

Fanciful imagination, Francesca dismissed as she gained the foyer, then she descended the short flight of steps and took the well-lit path to her car.

With the ignition engaged, she eased the vehicle forward and entered the busy thoroughfare.

Dominic Andrea had no part in her life, she assured herself silently as she headed towards her Double Bay apartment.

Francesca put the finishing touches to her make-up, examined the careless knot of hair she’d swept on top of her head, then stood back, pleased with the overall image.

Halter-necked black dress, sheer black tights, perilously high stiletto-heeled black pumps. Cosmetic artistry provided a natural look, and a brilliant red gloss coloured her lips. Jewellery comprised a diamond bracelet and matching ear-studs.

Without pausing to think, she collected a slim evening purse and car keys, walked out of the apartment and took the lift down to the basement car park.

Traffic was heavy as she drove through the city, and once clear of the Harbour Bridge she by-passed the expressway and headed towards Beauty Point.

Exclusive 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 to the man seated at her side, glimpsed the remarkable steadiness in his gaze—and something else she was unable to interpret. ‘Yes.’

‘Would you care for more salad?’

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?’ The demand seemed perfectly logical.

He 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, Katherine wants you to shine—vividly.’

‘Done.’ Francesca lifted her glass and touched it to the rim of her father’s wine glass. ‘Salute, Papà,’ she said solemnly.

‘Ecco. Health and happiness,’ he added gently.

She picked up her cutlery and speared a succulent prawn from its bed of cos lettuce decorated with slices of avocado and mango. The dressing was divine, and she savoured every mouthful.

They were halfway through the main course when Francesca became aware of a strange prickling sensation at the back of her neck.

Almost as if she was being watched.

Recognition was an aspect of her profession that she had come to terms with several years ago, and she dealt with it with practised charm.

But this was different. Mild interest in her presence didn’t usually elicit this heightened sense of awareness, an acute alertness, as if something deep inside was forcing her attention.

She turned slowly, allowing her gaze to idly skim the room. And came to a sudden halt as she caught sight of Dominic Andrea sharing a table with two men a few metres from her own.

At that moment he glanced up, and her eyes collided with his dark, piercing gaze. He offered a slow, musing smile, which merely earned him a brief nod before she returned her attention to the contents on her plate.

Her appetite diminished so as to be almost nonexistent, and she declined dessert, choosing to settle for coffee.

‘Francesca?’

She looked up at the sound of her name and realised she hadn’t taken in a word her father had said. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘Is there a reason for your distraction?’ Rick queried, and she wrinkled her nose in wry humour.

‘An unwanted one.’

Her father chuckled. ‘Now that I have your attention... Madeline would like you to join us at home for dinner. Does Wednesday suit?’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

The waiter cleared their table and brought coffee.

Francesca was conscious of every movement she made, aware as she had never been before of one man’s veiled scrutiny.

No one would have guessed to what degree Dominic’s presence bothered her, or how much she longed to escape.

‘A refill?’

‘No, thanks.’ She cast her father a warm smile. ‘This has been lovely.’ She watched as he summoned the waiter to bring the bill.

‘Rick. How are you?’

Even if the faint aroma of exclusive male cologne hadn’t warned her, the slow curl in the pit of her stomach did.

Dominic Andrea. Dark eyes, inscrutable expression behind the warm smile.

‘Francesca.’ The intimate inflexion he gave her name made the hairs at her nape rise in protest. Something that irritated the hell out of her and lent a very polite edge to her voice as she acknowledged his presence.

Dominic leaned down and brushed his lips against her temple. The contact was brief, his touch light. But something ignited and flared through her veins, potent, alive—electric.

She wanted to kill him. In fact, she definitely would kill him the next time she saw him. If she saw him again. How dare he imply an intimacy that didn’t exist? Would never exist.

‘You know each other?’ Rick queried, interested in the expressive play of emotions that chased fleetingly across his daughter’s features.

‘We dined together earlier in the week,’ Dominic enlightened smoothly.

Damning. Francesca cursed, all too aware of his intended implication.

‘Really?’ Rick absorbed the information and wondered whether anything was to be made of it. ‘You’ll join us for coffee?’

‘I’m with two colleagues. Another time, perhaps?’ His eyes shifted to Francesca, who met his steady gaze with equanimity. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’

He reminded her of a sleeping tiger. All leashed power beneath the guise of relaxed ease.

Francesca watched as he turned and threaded his way back to his table.

‘I didn’t realise you were on such close terms with Dominic Andrea. I have one of his paintings.’

She couldn’t imagine her father coveting anything resembling the colourful abstract resting in Leon’s gallery. A mental run-through of the artwork gracing Rick and Madeline’s walls brought a mental blank.

‘The vase of roses in the dining room,’ Rick enlightened. ‘Madeline assures me it is perfect for the room.’

Francesca had to agree. She’d silently admired it numerous times. Such painstaking brushwork, a delicate blending of colours. Velvet curling petals, the perfection of leaf foliage, the drops of fresh dew. Displayed in a glazed ceramic bowl against a shadowy background. The work of a man, she conceded, who possessed infinite patience and skill. Did those same qualities extend to pleasuring a woman? Somehow she imagined that they did.

Sensation feathered the surface of her skin, and she consciously banked down the acute ache deep within. She experienced guilt, and mentally attempted to justify it.

‘Shall we leave?’ Rick suggested as he settled the bill. Together they threaded their way towards the exit and parted with an affectionate kiss as they reached the pavement.

Shopping, a visit to the hairdresser and the beautician took care of the afternoon, then she drove home and dressed for the evening ahead.

Obscenely glamorous. Well, the gown was certainly that! Indigo lace over raw silk, form-fitting. A lace bolero, high-heeled pumps and evening purse. Her favourite perfume added a finishing touch.

Familial affection was in evidence during dinner, and Francesca relaxed in the warmth of it. There were gifts to distribute that she’d collected in Rome, and the photographer appeared at their table right on cue.

If Madeline knew it was a set-up, she didn’t let on. It was enough that she and her children would appear on the social pages, their names in print.

Sunday brought abnormally high summer temperatures, and Francesca was glad she’d made arrangements to join her mother for a day cruising the harbour on a friend’s boat. The breeze made for pleasant conditions, and for the first time in ages she slept the night through, rising later than usual the next morning at the start of what promised to be a hectic week.