With Valentine’s Day, February is always a romantic month. And we’ve got some great books in store for you….

The High-Society Wife by Helen Bianchin is the story of a marriage of convenience between two rich and powerful families…. But what this couple didn’t expect is for their marriage to become real! It’s also the first in our new miniseries RUTHLESS, where you’ll find commanding men, who stop at nothing to get what they want. Look out for more books coming soon! And if you love Italian men, don’t miss The Marchese’s Love-Child by Sara Craven, where our heroine is swept off her feet by a passionate tycoon.

If you just want to get away from it all, let us whisk you off to the beautiful Greek Islands in Julia James’s hard-hitting story Baby of Shame. What will happen when a businessman discovers that his night of passion with a young Englishwoman five years ago resulted in a son? The Caribbean is the destination for our couple in Anne Mather’s intriguing tale The Virgin’s Seduction.

Jane Porter has a dangerously sexy Sicilian for you in The Sicilian’s Defiant Mistress. This explosive reunion story promises to be dark and passionate! In Trish Morey’s Stolen by the Sheikh, the first in her new duet, THE ARRANGED BRIDES, a young woman is summoned to the palace of a demanding sheikh, who has plans for her future…. Don’t miss part two, coming in March.

See the inside front cover for a list of titles and book numbers.

Men who can’t be tamed…or so they think!

If you love strong, commanding men, you’ll love this brand-new miniseries. Meet the guy who breaks the rules to get exactly what he wants, because he is…

HARD-EDGED & HANDSOME

He’s the man who’s impossible to resist…

RICH & RAKISH

He’s got everything—and needs nobody, until he meets one woman…

He’s RUTHLESS!

In his pursuit of passion; in his world the winner takes all!

Brought to you by your favorite Harlequin Presents® authors!

The Billionaire Boss’s Forbidden Mistress

by Miranda Lee

#2524

The High-Society Wife
Helen Bianchin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

All about the author…
Helen Bianchin

HELEN BIANCHIN grew up in New Zealand, an only child possessed by a vivid imagination and a love for reading. After four years of legal secretarial work, Helen embarked on a working holiday in Australia where she met her Italian-born husband, a tobacco sharefarmer in far north Queensland. His command of English was pitiful, and her command of Italian was nil. Fun? Oh yes! So too was being flung into cooking for workers immediately after marriage, stringing tobacco and living in primitive conditions.

It was a few years later when Helen, her husband and their daughter returned to New Zealand, settled in Auckland and added two sons to their family. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975.

Creating interesting characters and telling their stories remains as passionate a challenge for Helen as it did in the beginning of her writing career.

Spending time with family, reading and watching movies are high on Helen’s list of pleasures. An animal lover, Helen says her Maltese terrier and two Birman cats regard her study as much theirs as hers.

To Danilo, Lucia, Angelo and Peter

for their love and support through the years

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

‘SOMETHING bothers you?’

The male voice held a faintly inflected drawl, and Gianna met her husband’s dark gaze across the master bedroom with equanimity.

It was a spacious room with two walk-in wardrobes with adjoining dressing-rooms, and two en suite bathrooms. Beautifully carved antique furniture complemented plush furnishings in muted colours of cream and pale green.

‘What makes you think that?’ There was no point in relaying she’d had the day from hell, and right now she’d sell her soul for a soothing session in the Jacuzzi followed by an early night.

Instead, she’d battled peak-hour traffic, arrived home late and raced upstairs to shed her tailored business suit and take a quick shower.

The thought of attending a fundraiser held in a city hotel ballroom, where she’d graciously participate in conversation, attempt to make her way through a three-course dinner, limit herself to one glass of champagne and play the pretend game held little appeal.

His eyes sharpened, and for a moment she thought he’d read her mind.

‘Take something for that headache before we leave.’

Oh, my. ‘You know this…because?’ Her voice sounded vaguely truculent even to her own ears.

He stood tall, with the build of a warrior, well-honed muscle and sinew flexing beneath smooth olive skin, his lithe body unadorned except for black silk hipster briefs covering his tight butt.

His dark hair was damp from a recent shower, his strong facial features all angles and planes, the dark shadow beard clean-shaven.

Dark eyes held her own. ‘You want to argue?’

She waited a beat. ‘Not particularly.’

One eyebrow lifted in silent cynicism before he returned to the task at hand.

Franco Giancarlo was something else, Gianna reflected as she entered her en suite bathroom and began applying make-up.

A ruggedly attractive man in his late thirties, who commanded respect among his peers and wreaked havoc with many a feminine heart.

Something she knew only too well. He’d captured hers at an impossibly young age—an adoration for a teenager ten years her senior that had shifted to hero-worship with the growing years before taking the leap to love.

An entity that had made it easy for her to accept his proposal.

For the sake of the Giancarlo-Castelli conglomerate, founded by their respective grandparents during the last century. An extremely successful business temporarily put under pressure little more than three years ago by a fatal plane crash which had claimed both Franco’s parents and Gianna’s widowed father.

Losses on the share market had been regained when Franco assumed directorial control. Restoring shareholders’ faith had taken three consecutive successful financial quarters. Yet future stability had remained in question, given Franco Giancarlo’s bachelor status and Gianna Castelli’s seeming lack of interest in choosing a husband.

The two widowed grandparents, matriarchal-Anamaria Castelli and patriarchal Santo Giancarlo, had presented what they had considered to be the perfect solution.

What better way to take Giancarlo-Castelli into the fourth generation than with children issued from a marriage between Franco Giancarlo and Gianna Castelli?

The fact Franco and Gianna had complied, for reasons of their own, had been cause for matriarchal and patriarchal delight.

The marriage had been accorded the wedding of the year, with a list of guests who figured high on Australia’s social register. Distant relatives and far-flung friends had flown in from Italy, France and America. The event had garnered television coverage and had featured in several prominent magazines.

A year down the track they remained the golden couple, their presence at various functions duly recorded and reported by the media.

In public she could play the part of adoring wife. Yet she was conscious of an invisible barrier.

Crazy, she silently chastised. She wore his ring, shared his bed, and played the role of social hostess with the ease of long practice. His in every way. Except she didn’t have his heart. Or his soul.

She told herself it was enough. And knew she lied.

Dammit, what was the matter with her? Introspection wouldn’t achieve a thing, and right now she needed to fix her hair, then dress.

Twenty minutes later she re-entered the bedroom to find Franco waiting with indolent ease, looking every inch the wealthy sophisticate in a black dinner suit, his black bow tie perfectly aligned.

Her heart leapt to a quickened beat as sensation surged through her veins. Breathe, she commanded silently, inwardly cursing the way her body reacted to his presence.

Did he know? In bed, without doubt. But out of it?

She didn’t want to fall prey to such acute vulnerability. It wasn’t fair.

‘Beautiful,’ Franco complimented her lightly, skimming her slight curves sheathed in red silk chiffon. Undoubtedly the gown was the work of a master seamstress, with its fitted bodice and spaghetti straps. The bill for which Gianna would have insisted on paying herself.

A slight intransigence which irked him. Independence was fine, up to a point. It appeased his sensibility she’d chosen to wear the diamond drop ear rings he’d gifted her on their wedding anniversary.

A matching wrap completed the outfit, and she’d swept the length of her hair high into a smooth twist held fastened with a jewelled clip. A diamond pendant rested against the curved valley of her breasts. Stiletto heels added four inches to her height, and he crossed the room, caught the subtle Hermes perfume, and offered a warm smile.

‘Grazie.’

‘For looking the part?’

The edges of his mouth lifted a little. ‘That, too.’

He offered her a glass half filled with water, and two pills.

‘Playing nurse?’

‘Tell me you’ve already taken care of it and I’ll discard the role.’

Gianna merely shook her head, popped the pills and swallowed them down. ‘Are we ready to leave?’

Southern hemisphere summer daylight saving meant they joined the flow of city-bound traffic while the sun sank slowly towards the horizon.

‘Want to talk about it?’ He hadn’t missed the slight edge of tension apparent, or the faint darkness clouding her expressive features.

Gianna cast him a wry glance. ‘Where would you have me begin?’

‘That bad?’

Her PA had called in sick, the replacement had proved hopeless, paperwork despatched via courier had been unavoidably detained, and lunch had been a half-eaten sandwich she’d discarded following a constant stream of phone calls.

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’ Wasn’t that what she’d been educated, trained and groomed for?

One goal…to take her rightful place in the Giancarlo-Castelli conglomerate. Yet, like Franco, she’d begun on the lower rung of the corporate ladder, learning firsthand how the business worked from the ground up, winning each subsequent promotion by her own merit.

Nepotism wasn’t an option in either family, and no one with any nous could accuse her of riding on her father or grandmother’s coat-tails.

Giancarlo-Castelli were generous supporters of several worthy charities, and tonight’s event held prominence among Melbourne’s social echelon. Children were very dear to Gianna’s heart, and the terminally ill deserved maximum effort in raising funds. She would make her own sizable donation privately.

‘Show-time,’ she murmured as Franco brought the powerful top-of-the-range Mercedes to a halt outside the hotel’s main entrance.

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 room held a collection of shoes and matching bags. A veritable treasure trove of designer gear.

The singer gave a credible performance before the main course was served, and when the plates were cleared the MC announced the fashion parade.

Beautiful models, gorgeous clothes, all shown with professional panache.

One gown in particular took Gianna’s interest, and she made a mental note to visit the designer’s boutique.

‘You’d look fabulous in the black. Franco must buy it for you. I know just the shoes to go with it. Manolo’s, of course.’

Of course. Gianna gave herself a mental slap on the wrist for her facetiousness.

As waitresses delivered dessert, the MC took the podium to introduce the mystery guest.

‘A young woman who has achieved international success as an actress.’

No…it couldn’t be. Yet Gianna found it impossible to dispel a growing premonition.

‘She has made the very generous offer to fund an all-expenses-paid holiday for three children and their families to Disneyland.’

The announcement brought a collective murmur of appreciation from the guests.

‘We have had the medical team select the names of those children fit enough to travel.’ He turned to wards the charity’s chairperson, who had stepped onto the stage with a top hat. ‘I’d like one of our esteemed guests to select three names from this hat.’ He paused for effect. ‘Franco Giancarlo. Would you please come forward?’

A sickening feeling settled in Gianna’s stomach as Franco rose to his feet, and she watched as he crossed the floor and gained the stage.

‘I’d like you all to welcome our mystery guest.’ The MC paused for effect. ‘Famke.’

Gianna didn’t know if she could continue breathing. Tension constricted her throat and momentarily left her speechless.

Famke.

There she was, making an appearance from backstage, tall, blonde, in her late twenties, and far more beautiful than any woman had a right to be.

An actress who had initially achieved success in foreign-produced films before finding fame and fortune in America.

No one recalled her surname, for it had long been discarded in the rise to stardom.

A stunningly beautiful young woman who took pleasure in seducing wealthy men, and was known to be skilfully adept at gaining extravagant gifts of jewellery from former lovers.

Five years ago Franco had been one of them, during his sojourn in New York, before his parents’ accidental death had brought him back to Melbourne.

Rumour at the time had whispered Famke wanted marriage, and the relationship soured when Franco wasn’t prepared to commit. Whereupon in a fit of pique Famke had seduced an LA billionaire, married him in a blaze of media coverage and produced a child.

Gianna kept her eyes riveted on Franco, desperate to gauge his reaction while a hundred questions hammered at her brain.

What was Famke doing here? Not only Melbourne, but here, tonight? And why go to such elaborate lengths to ensure a public face-to-face encounter with Franco?

‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?’ Gianna’s dinner companion observed. ‘I heard she’s recently divorced.’

And hunting.

Not any wealthy man, Gianna concluded with sickening certainty.

Franco Giancarlo.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS difficult to produce a smile as Franco rose to his feet. Yet Gianna managed it with seemingly effortless ease, and joined the guests in applauding his progress to the podium.

No one could possibly guess at the pain knifing her mid-section, or the effort it took to regulate her breathing as she caught the sexual voltage Famke exuded as Franco joined her on stage.

The actress’s effusive greeting was no doubt seen by most as an orchestrated act…the brush of Famke’s lips to Franco’s left cheek, then the other, as a familiar European gesture.

Famke’s sultry laugh, the lingering trail of scarlet-lacquered nails, were like sharp daggers piercing Gianna’s vulnerable heart.

Get over it, she bade herself silently. Famke is a witch, and Franco isn’t playing into her game.

Not in the public arena, a devilish voice pursued. But privately?

The possibility tore at her composure and reduced it to shreds.

It said much for her social élan that she managed to smile, applaud, even laugh at the on-stage production…for the benefit of the guests, the excitement generated in favour of the three children whose names were chosen, and the television cameras.

How long did it take? With on-screen cameos of each child, the family, with commentary? Fifteen minutes…twenty?

To Gianna it felt like a lifetime as she endured witnessing Famke’s touchy-feely antics on stage, the actress’s sultry smile and provocative laugh as she endeavored to display a picture of remembered intimacy with the man who numbered among her previous lovers.

Was it physically possible to burn with resentment whilst presenting a calm and cool persona?

Body language was an art form, and one she’d studied to her advantage in the business and social sector. Consequently there was no visible evidence, no betraying signals that could be noted by those who might choose to observe the effect Famke’s play might have on Franco Giancarlo’s wife.

Gianna smiled with fellow guests as Franco left the podium and returned to his table. A smile she forced to reach her eyes as he resumed his seat.

‘Well done, darling,’ she complimented lightly, and was totally unprepared for the brush of his lips against her own, the slow sweep of his tongue.

Reassurance? A public declaration of espousal unity?

The latter, she decided as he lifted his head away from her own.

His eyes, so dark and faintly brooding…did he glimpse what she didn’t want him to see? Sense it?

Doubtful. They didn’t share that degree of empathy…did they?

Almost as if he guessed at her train of thought, he threaded his fingers through her own and brought them to his lips.

He was verging on overkill, and she took it to the brink by touching gentle fingers to his cheek…resisting the urge to press the tips of her pale-pink-lacquered nails hard against the smooth olive skin.

To any onlookers it presented a loving gesture, but the brief flaring of those dark eyes revealed he recognised her intent, caught her restraint…and the silent promise she was far from done.

She kept the smile in place and refrained from saying a word as coffee and tea were served.

There wasn’t a question if Famke might circulate among the guests, but when…and if the actress would make a beeline for their table and Franco, or be a little more circumspect.

A tiny humourless laugh bubbled up in her throat. Circumspection didn’t form part of Famke’s modus operandi.

Something which became glaringly apparent within minutes as Gianna, together with the attending guests, saw the glamorous actress appear from backstage in the glare of a spotlight.

A brilliant smile, a light laugh, followed by a seemingly touching air-kiss to the crowd at the sound of more applause…and Famke stepped down onto the ballroom floor.

Admittedly her passage was interrupted. Not so her direction. However long it took…two minutes or ten…the actress’s destination was never in doubt.

Act, Gianna bade herself silently. You’re good at it.

All her life she’d conformed, aware how much it meant to her father to be an exemplary daughter. To excel in school, gain honours, show the Giancarlo-Castelli corporation she possessed the skill to climb the corporate ladder…in a manner that proved nepotism didn’t enter the equation.

A gap year spent in France had provided an opportunity to tilt at windmills…something she’d refrained from—unless riding a motorcycle behind a male student at speed or visiting a few questionable nightclubs in his company counted. Besides, there had always been a shadow bodyguard in the background, ensuring she came to no harm.

‘Franco.’

The feline purr made much of his name, while the sultry heat evident in the actress’s gaze set Gianna’s teeth on edge.

‘I just wanted to thank you, darling, for joining me on stage.’

Darling. Oh, my.

Franco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘A public request made it difficult for me to refuse.’

Was there the suggestion of a pout forming on Famke’s beautifully shaped mouth?

‘Fitting, don’t you think?’ The actress queried with a hint of teasing censure. ‘Considering your known generosity to the charity?’

With a deliberate gesture Franco caught hold of Gianna’s hand and threaded his fingers through her own. ‘Allow me to introduce Gianna…my wife.’

Impossible Famke was unaware of his marriage. It had received international media coverage at the time.

Blue eyes chilled to resemble an arctic ice floe for a fleeting second before the actress masked their expression.

‘Such an…interesting alliance.’

‘Famke.’ She kept her tone light, and only those who knew her well would have detected the slight hint of steel beneath the surface.

‘We must get together.’

‘For old times’ sake?’ Gianna queried with pseudo-politeness, aware the invitation was aimed at Franco…solo.

A faint laugh emerged from the actress’s lips. ‘We do have a history.’

‘The emphasis being history.’

Famke arched one eyebrow. ‘I so dislike territorial women.’

‘Really? Surely it adds to the challenge?’

‘Afraid, sweetie?’

Gianna didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Lines were being drawn, and the game was about to begin. She felt Franco’s fingers tighten on her own, and ignored the silent warning. ‘Perhaps Franco can answer that.’

‘Why? When you’re doing so well on your own.’ His drawled comment caused Famke’s gaze to narrow.

Unity was everything. She could do polite. She’d had years of practice. ‘The evening is winding down, and we’re about to leave.’

‘Can’t stand the pace?’

Gianna was sorely tempted to reveal she was taking her husband home for some hot sex. Instead, she merely smiled and rose to her feet as Franco stood and bade their immediate guests ‘goodnight’.

‘I’m sure we’ll run into each other again before long,’ Famke offered silkily.

Not if she could help it, Gianna vowed silently, barely controlling the itch to slap the actress’s face.

Talk about eating a man alive!

There were friends and business associates who caught their attention as they began threading their way through the ballroom, reminders of invitations exchanged and news of upcoming social events.

She was conscious of Franco’s arm along the back of her waist, the light stroke of his fingers…an attempt to soothe her ruffled composure?

Was he aware how his touch affected her? In bed, without doubt. The thought of their shared intimacy caused her pulse to leap into an accelerated beat. His mouth, hands…dear heaven. Heat flowed through her veins as sensation unfurled deep inside.

She needed the physicality of their loving, to lose herself in him and believe, for a while, that he cared. More than mere affection, and their marriage, although forging an alliance between two families, surpassed duty.

He’d never said anything. Not once, even in the throes of their lovemaking, had he mentioned the L word. And he never lost control. Something which irked her unbearably.

‘We’ll look forward to seeing you Wednesday evening.’

Get with it, a tiny voice prompted, providing a memory jog…dinner party at the home of Brad and Nikki Wilson-Smythe. ‘Of course,’ she managed with a smile.

It was a relief to eventually gain the hotel lobby, even more so to slip into the car and lean back against the cushioned headrest as Franco eased into the flow of traffic departing the city.

Any attempt at small-talk was out, and she didn’t offer so much as a word during the relatively short drive home.

Instead, she idly noted the passing scene through the windscreen. The bright neon lights, various vehicles, the dark indigo night sky, the sturdy leafed trees lining the main thoroughfare, an electric tram…the light sprinkling shower of rain that wet the bitumen and set the windscreen wipers in action. The changing cityscape as they reached the established suburb of Toorak, with its stately homes partially hidden behind high walls and security gates.

An almost inaudible sigh whispered from her lips as Franco eased the Mercedes into their driveway.

Strategically placed lights outlined the gentle curve lined with topiary that led to the elegant two-storeyed home Franco had purchased on his return from the States.

He’d employed contractors to preserve the main Georgian-style structure, whilst completely renewing the interior to resemble the original. Refurbishment, beautiful antique furniture, original art gracing the walls, had made it one of the most admired homes in the district, receiving media attention when he’d acquired the adjoining property, razed the existing home and added a swimming pool and tennis court.

Franco brought the Mercedes to a halt inside the multi-vehicle garage, above which resided a two-bedroom apartment occupied their trusted staff, by Rosa and Enrico, connected to the house by an enclosed walkway shrouded from the front by shrubbery. A functional gym and studio had been cleverly constructed to fit behind the walkway between the house and garages.

Together they entered the large tiled lobby, whose focal point was an exquisite crystal chandelier and a curved double staircase leading to the upper floor.

She adored the large spacious rooms, with a splendid mix of formal and informal areas occupying the ground level, the exquisite marble tiling and huge luxurious oriental rugs, and the main and guest suites situated upstairs, superbly carpeted in aubusson and furnished with genuine antiques.

‘Nothing to say?’

Gianna paused and turned towards him, aware of his ability to read her so well. Too well for her peace of mind.

‘An argument in the car might have proved too much of a distraction,’ she managed evenly, meeting his gaze and holding it.

One eyebrow rose in silent query, and she went for the direct approach.

‘Do you intend seeing her?’

His expression didn’t change, although she had the distinct impression his body stilled, and for an instant there was something unreadable in those dark eyes.

‘Why would I do that?’

His soft drawl sent shivers feathering down her spine, and her chin tilted a little in defence. ‘Because it’s what Famke wants.’

‘Your trust in me is so tenuous?’

Gianna took a moment to compose the right words. ‘I won’t become a figure of public ridicule.’

‘You want a promise of my fidelity?’

‘Only if you mean it.’ She turned towards the staircase. ‘Promises can be broken.’ It was as good an exit line as she could come up with.

Respect, affection, friendship and sexual compatibility formed the base of their marriage. Love wasn’t supposed to enter the equation.

Yet it had, and she was willing to go on oath that a one-sided love was hell on earth.

Gianna sensed rather than heard Franco join her as she reached the upper level, and she directed him a steady glance.

‘You evaded the question.’

Together they crossed the spacious central area separating each wing and made their way towards the main suite.

Gianna entered the room ahead of him and slipped off her evening sandals…a mistake, given it merely accentuated her diminutive height.

‘It shouldn’t require an answer.’

Her chin lifted a fraction, and her eyes were remarkably clear. She held up one hand and began ticking off each finger. ‘We’re joined together in marriage, legally bound in business.’ Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I deserve your honesty in our private life.’

Something moved in the dark depths of his eyes. ‘Have I ever been dishonest with you?’

She didn’t have to weigh her answer. ‘No.’

‘Accept that isn’t going to change.’

Reassurance? Possibly. He was no fool, and she indicated as much.

He moved close and saw the way the pulse at the base of her throat jumped to a faster beat. ‘A compliment, cara?’

That was the thing…she wasn’t his darling. Merely a convenient partner when she longed for more…so much more.

There were those among the social clique who imagined she had it all. The trappings of extreme wealth, a perfect job, the ultimate man… Yet she’d willingly give it up in exchange for his love.

So…dream on, a tiny voice taunted. It isn’t going to happen.

Franco took hold of her wrists, then shaped her arms to settle on each shoulder. He lowered his head and sought her lips with his own, nibbling a little, teasing until he sensed her breath catch.

She nipped at his lower lip with her teeth, held on for a few seconds, then eased back. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Stupid question. She knew exactly what he was doing!

His mouth captured hers, seeking, exploring, and wreaking havoc with her emotions as heat coursed through her veins, bringing her alive as only he could.

Gianna felt the familiar swirling sensation begin deep inside, and she was scarcely aware of his fingers easing the spaghetti straps of her gown aside, or the zip fastening easing open…until the red chiffon slithered to a silken heap at her feet.

Lacy red bikini briefs were all that separated her from total nudity, and her body shook a little as he traced the lace, following its pattern with a deliberate finger before easing in to stroke the soft hair curling at the apex of her thighs.

Acute sensuality arrowed through her body, and she sought the buttons on his shirt, wanting, needing the sensation of skin to skin, to feel and savour his warmth and essence.

‘You’re wearing too many clothes.’ Was that husky voice her own?

He trailed a path down to her breasts and savoured one dusky peak until she groaned out loud.

‘Remove them.’

How had she not noticed he’d already shrugged out of his jacket, torn off his bow tie and toed off his shoes?

Because she lost all her senses when he kissed her…except one. Sensuality to a heightened degree… invasive and all-encompassing.

Franco had the power to make her forget who she was, her surroundings. Everything.

There was only him, his warm musky male scent, the magic of his touch…the heat, the passion, and the wild erotic sorcery he was able to weave with her emotions.

She barely registered her fingers slipping free the buttons on his shirt, nor did she make a teasing play to draw out the moment, or seek to provoke.

Need guided the speed with which she dispensed with his shirt, freed him of the fine tailored trousers…and sought the source of her pleasure.

His indrawn breath as she enclosed him brought a soft sensual smile to her lips, and her fingers slid slowly down to cup him, only to return to create a slow, tantalising pattern that had him grasping her bottom and lifting her high against him.

Gianna cried out as his mouth closed over her breast and suckled, teasing the tender peak with the edge of his teeth before exploring its soft curve.

It was almost more than she could bear as his fingers sought and found the aroused clitoris, caressing it until she went wild, swept high by mesmeric primitive sensation.

Just as she began to ease down, he sent her up again, closing his mouth over her own in an invasive kiss that mirrored the sexual act itself.

It wasn’t enough, and she wrenched her mouth free and told him so, demanding more…so much more.

Franco shifted, reached for the bedcovers and tossed them aside before drawing her down onto the bed.

What followed was a feast of the senses, a long leisurely tasting that drove them both to fever pitch, and it was she who lost control as her body sang to a tune only their shared sexual chemistry could evoke.

Passion…mesmeric, electric, tempestuous. A hungry slaking of the senses driven by shameless need and primeval desire.

The feel of him entering her, the long slow thrust as he slid in deep, sent every nerve and muscle into convulsing life, and she arched up to meet him when he began to move, exulting in the wonder of two people in perfect sexual accord.

Gianna became lost, so caught up in him she was unaware of the guttural cries emerging from her throat, or the soft feline purr of satisfaction so much later as Franco gathered her in against him on the verge of sleep.

Sated, she tucked a hand against his chest and burrowed in, a soft smile curving her generous mouth as he gently traced a soothing trail down her back.

Within minutes her breathing slowed into a regular pattern and she didn’t feel the light touch of his lips against her temple. Nor was she aware he lay awake for some time.

CHAPTER THREE

GIANNA drifted awake to the realisation she was alone in the large bed.

Which was probably just as well, she decided as she arched her body in a preliminary stretch…and felt the faint pull of muscles, the awareness of sensitivity deep inside.

Even thinking about what she’d shared with Franco through the night brought renewed heat flooding her body, and she uttered a self-deprecatory groan, checked the time, saw it was early and aimed a frustrated punch at her pillow.

It was Saturday, for heaven’s sake, with no rush to rise and begin the day.

Yet any further sleep wasn’t going to happen, and she threw back the bedcovers and made for the shower.

Breakfast comprised yoghurt and fresh fruit, which she took out on the terrace.

Early-morning sun fingered the air with warmth, tempered by a wispy breeze, and lent promise to an early summer’s day.

Rosa joined her with fresh coffee, and together they conferred over the coming week’s schedule. Dinner at home, with the exception of Wednesday, and Gianna gave Rosa carte blanche with the evening meals.

A superb cook, whose culinary talents were unfailingly lauded by Gianna and Franco’s guests, Rosa ran the house like clockwork, engaging outside help whenever the need arose.

It was almost nine when Gianna ran lightly upstairs to change, choosing dress jeans and a knit singlet-top. Make-up was minimal, and she swept her hair into a loose knot, secured it with a tortoiseshell clasp, then she slid her feet into stiletto-heeled boots, collected her shoulder-bag and descended the staircase.

Franco glanced up from his laptop as she entered his study, and she watched as he hit a key, then sank back in his chair.

Black jeans and black tee-shirt lent a casual air, making it impossible to ignore the way the cotton highlighted impressive muscle and sinew.

‘On your way out?’

The deep drawl curled round her nerve-ends and tugged a little.

‘Retail therapy,’ she responded lightly.

Leading a social existence commanded serious attention to one’s wardrobe. Men could wear a dinner suit several times over. If a woman wore the same gown twice to a gala event, it was assumed she couldn’t afford the price of a new one. Appearance was everything, providing a benchmark for her husband’s status in the business arena.

Dress designers of high repute were very much in demand, earning veritable fortunes providing original couture, with consultations and fittings afforded only by appointment.

‘Have fun.’ Franco’s eyes gleamed with latent humour, and she offered a wry smile.

‘Pray Estella is in a good mood.’ The Spanish-born seamstress possessed magic fingers when it came to fabric and thread. She was also vocal, volatile, lethal on occasion when adjusting pins…and known to dismiss clientele on the slightest whim.

‘Want to eat in tonight, or dine out?’

It was no contest. ‘Home. Will you tell Rosa?’

‘I’ll cook.’

The fact he could, and well, had long since ceased to surprise her. ‘OK.’

He joined her as she reached the door, and silently she tilted her head askance.

‘You forgot something.’ His hands cupped her face as he laid his lips against her own, then went in deep, and she held on as he bestowed an evocative tasting that blew her mind.

How long did it last? Mere seconds?

She was incapable of saying a word when he released her, and it took effort to control the slight tremble threatening her mouth as he pressed a light thumb against her lower lip.

Damn. She didn’t want to appear vulnerable. Yet he had only to touch her and she became limbless.

‘Go enjoy your day.’ He waited a beat. ‘There’s just one thing. You might want to repair your lipstick.’

Repair didn’t quite cover it. She’d have to start over.

‘Bite me.’

His soft chuckle stayed with her as she reversed her BMW from the garage and slid in a CD, turning up the volume as she eased through the gates and gained the street.

Estella worked out of an old-style home whose rooms had been converted into a fashionista’s salon. Parking rarely presented a problem, and Gianna greeted the receptionist as she entered the front lounge.

Within minutes a middle-aged flamboyantly dressed matron appeared at the door, hair covered in a deep crimson headpiece that defied description, with make-up pronounced to the point of absurdity.

‘You are late.’

‘I’m on time,’ Gianna declared politely, and incurred a haughty look.

‘You would dare argue with me?’

‘Perhaps we can compromise by agreeing our watches are not in sync?’

A raven eyebrow arched in disdain. ‘My timepiece is correct. Follow me.’ Estella swept down the hallway into the fitting room.

‘Remove your outer clothes,’ the seamstress demanded. ‘No talking. I do not have the inclination for chit-chat.’

Beige, taupe, cream and ivory. Who would have thought?

Gianna watched as Estella folded the glorious silk chiffon, pinned, tucked…all the while muttering beneath her breath.

‘No one has this. The fabric, the style.’ The woman swept an expressive hand high. ‘Your hair. Wear it up. It will give balance.’ She stood back a pace. ‘Jewellery minimal. Focus the gown. Shoes taupe. Fine heels. I give you fabric sample for matching. Next fitting you bring shoes. Now change and go. Next week, same time.’

Coffee, Gianna decided as she slid her sunglasses in place and slipped in behind the wheel of her car. Hot, strong, black and sweet in one of the boutique cafés, then she’d look for shoes before heading to the hairdresser.

It was after one when she consigned several brightly emblazoned packages into the boot of her car. There were still a few things she needed to do, and it made sense to take a break for lunch.

Toorak Road hosted several upmarket café’s, and she chose one, ordered a long cool drink and an open salad sandwich, leafed through one of a few complimentary newspapers while she ate…and managed not to choke as Famke’s image leapt off a page.

Correction. Famke and Franco, on-stage, captured on film in a momentary embrace.

Gianna forced herself to read the small print beneath the caption…then she pushed aside her plate.

It was bad enough more than a thousand guests had witnessed Famke’s deliberate act. Now the incident was accessible to the entire state. Australia-wide, if other newspapers had decided to run it.

She muttered an unladylike oath beneath her breath. The doubts, ever present beneath the surface, began to emerge, insidiously invading her emotions.

Dammit. Love wasn’t supposed to be such a pain.

Spending money, serious money, was a woman’s prerogative in times of stress. And there were those stiletto heels she’d looked at, liked, and passed over.

She could afford them. Several pairs. The whole darn shop if she felt so inclined!

With that thought in mind she picked up her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, paid her bill, emerged out onto the pavement…and came face-to-face with Famke.

The day, which had already taken a downward turn, suddenly nosedived.

‘Gianna!’ The actress gave a credible act of being surprised. ‘This is unexpected.’

Really? Upmarket Toorak, Saturday, shopping and personal maintenance high on any career woman’s list… It wouldn’t be hard to do the maths.

Which meant Famke had a purpose.

Gianna gave herself a metaphorical slap on the wrist for being cynical.

‘Famke.’ She could do polite civility…for now.

‘Let’s share coffee.’

Do you honestly think I’ll fall for that? ‘Thanks, but we have nothing to discuss.’

‘Not even the fabricated excuse of a pressing appointment?’ A perfectly shaped eyebrow formed a deliberate arch. ‘Afraid to hear what I might say, darling?’

Confrontation, or a silent exit? Verbal, definitely!

‘Enjoy the hunt, Famke.’

‘Straight to the point?’ There was a marked pause. ‘Don’t bother drawing battle lines.’

‘Waste of time.’

The smile didn’t reach Famke’s eyes. ‘I’m glad you agree, darling.’

Leave, now. She took a step forward, only to come to an abrupt halt as the actress placed a hand on her arm.

‘Don’t discount the lure of sexual chemistry.’

Gianna tried for the last word. ‘Yours…or mine?’

Grrr. She badly wanted to hit something, except it wasn’t the thing to do in public.

Instead, she made for the shoe boutique, followed the purchase with a manicure, pedicure and a facial.

Consequently it was after five when she garaged her car and gathered all her purchases together.

She made the foyer and was about to ascend the stairs when Franco appeared.

‘Want some help with those?’

His musing drawl put her on the defensive. So did his close proximity. He’d shaved, showered and donned black trousers and a light chambray shirt, the sleeves folded back almost to each elbow.

‘I’m fine.’

Gianna missed the faint narrowing of his eyes as he examined her expressive features. ‘Come toss the salad when you’re done.’

‘OK.’

He watched her progress up the stairs, the slight sway of her denim-clad rear, the tightly held shoulders that owed nothing to the weight of the emblazoned carry-bags in each hand.

She was a piece of work. There was strength of character, integrity, pride…and vulnerability. A combination he found intriguing.

A glass of chilled white wine rested on the kitchen servery when Gianna entered the kitchen. She’d taken time to unpack and stow her purchases, shower, and don tailored trousers and a fashionable top before slipping her feet into heeled sandals. Her hair was caught in a loose knot atop her head, and her one concession to make-up was pink lipgloss.

Franco picked up the glass and handed it to her. ‘For you.’

‘Because you think I need it?’

He collected his own glass and touched its rim to her own. ‘Salute.’

She wanted to slip into the light camaraderie they shared, to enjoy the anticipation of how the night would end. To know she could lose herself in him and emerge whole.

Except she had to deal with the spectre of Famke intruding between them. If what he’d shared with the actress came close to what he shared with her.

The thought of his tightly muscled body locked with Famke in the throes of lovemaking almost destroyed her.

A vivid imagination was fast becoming her own worst enemy. Something she must fight to control, or she’d be lost.

Pretend, a silent voice bade. You’re good at it.

A redolent aroma wafted from a small pot simmering on the cook-top, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation. ‘Marinara sauce?’

‘Uh-huh. Want to choose the pasta?’

Gianna didn’t hesitate. ‘Fettuccine.’

With easy co-ordinated movements he extracted a packet from the pantry and forked the contents into a large pot of boiling water, adjusted the heat, then turned towards her.

‘How was your day?’

You really don’t want to know. Yet he saw too much and read her too well. ‘Fun, until Famke appeared on the scene.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

She took a sip of wine, savoured the light golden liquid, then let it slide down her throat. ‘Facts, or my summation?’

‘Both.’

She looked at him carefully, and gained nothing from his expression. ‘I bumped into her outside a café.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Let’s go with coincidence.’ Gianna lifted a hand and tucked back a lock of hair. ‘I really don’t want to contemplate design.’

She crossed to the sink, caught up the washed salad greens and began breaking the leaves into a bowl. Only to have a hand cup her chin and lift it.

‘We did this last night.’ His voice was pure silk.

So they had. Except it hadn’t resolved a thing.

‘She’s on a mission.’ Wasn’t that the truth? ‘And determined to succeed.’

‘Don’t let her bother you.’

‘I can handle her.’ Sure she could…verbally. Emotionally, she didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell.

His eyes were inscrutable as he traced her mouth with his thumb, and for a few seconds she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

Then he released her and crossed to the cook-top, leaving her to finish fixing the salad.

When it was done, she set the kitchen table, checked the garlic bread heating in the oven, grated parmesan cheese and saw Franco drain the pasta.

‘This is seriously good.’ Gianna lifted her wine glass in appreciation as she sampled the food. Simple fare eaten in a homely atmosphere provided a pleasant change from their hectic social life.

‘Grazie.’

His lazy drawl made her lips twitch. ‘Prego.’

‘Italian conversation to match the meal?’

‘Practice,’ she responded lightly. ‘Or have you forgotten we’re entertaining Anamaria and Santo tomorrow night?’

‘The grandparents,’ Franco mused. ‘What do you have you in mind for Rosa to serve?’

She took a sip of wine, then twirled pasta onto her fork. ‘I intend to cook.’

He caught her speculative look, and bit back his amusement. ‘You’re planning something ambitious?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘With or without Rosa’s help?’

Gianna offered a brilliant smile. ‘Solo. I’ll devote the day to it.’

‘Which will make for an interesting evening.’

Her eyes assumed a mischievous sparkle. ‘Ah, you get the drift.’

She’d taken a course during a sojourn in Rome and had learnt from the best. In another life she could have been a chef. Except the sole surviving Castelli had no future in a restaurant kitchen.

Annamaria Castelli prided herself on her culinary expertise, and had personally trained her housekeeper to serve her favourite dishes. She had an acute knowledge of taste and smell, and could, she liked to boast, sample a dish and divulge not only every ingredient, but the precise measure in any recipe.

Santo Giancarlo, on the other hand, loved to eat. If it tasted fine and didn’t upset his digestion, he had no inclination to examine and dissect the ingredients.

Two grandparents who were as chalk to cheese in personalities, yet with more in common than they were prepared to admit.

Gianna forked the last of her fettuccine, followed it with a morsel of garlic bread, then finished off her wine.

‘You cooked; I’ll take care of the dishes,’ she declared, and gathered up their plates. Leaving them for Rosa didn’t enter her head.

‘Coffee?’

Franco rose to his feet. ‘I’ll make, and take mine in the study.’

‘Likewise.’ She needed to check e-mails, send out a few, peruse the week’s business and social diary, and decide what to prepare for Sunday evening’s dinner.

With deft movements she soon restored the kitchen surfaces to their former state of gleaming cleanliness, settled for tea instead of coffee, and took it into the room she used as a study.

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