The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘Then I shall have to take a look.’

  ‘Talk to James, darling, while I drag Benedict away.’

  It was a beautiful manoeuvre, Gabbi applauded silently as Annaliese drew Benedict across the room.

  ‘She’s grown into a very attractive girl,’ James said quietly, and Gabbi inclined her head.

  ‘Very attractive,’ she agreed solemnly.

  ‘Incredibly successful, too.’

  ‘Yes.’ She took a careful sip of champagne and steeled herself not to glance towards where Annaliese held Benedict’s attention.

  ‘I looked at those figures you submitted. They’re excellent.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she accepted, pleased at his praise.

  ‘You possess your mother’s integrity, her sense of style,’ he said gently. ‘I’m very proud of you, Gabbi. And of what you’ve achieved.’

  She brushed a quick kiss over his cheek. ‘I love you too.’

  ‘James.’

  Gabbi turned at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, smiled, and stood quietly as her father completed an introduction. A business associate who seemed intent on discussing the effects of an upcoming state election. With a murmured excuse, she left the two men to converse and began threading her way towards the opposite side of the room.

  There were quite a few people present whom she knew, and she paused to exchange greetings.

  A painting had caught her eye shortly after they’d arrived, and she wanted to take another look at it.

  ‘Gabbi.’

  ‘Francesca!’ Her smile was genuinely warm as she embraced the tall, svelte auburn-haired model. ‘It seems ages since I last saw you.’

  ‘Too long,’ Francesca agreed. ‘The catwalks were exhausting, and—’ she paused fractionally ‘—the family daunting.’

  ‘Do we get to talk about this over lunch?’

  Francesca’s smile was infectious. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Love to,’ Gabbi agreed, and named a fashionable restaurant a short distance from the office. ‘Twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Done.’ Francesca took hold of her arm. ‘Do you particularly want to watch Annaliese’s attempt to snare Benedict?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s do the unexpected and examine the art exhibits for any hidden talent!’ An eyebrow arched in a sardonic gesture as she cast a glance at a nearby sculpture. ‘There has to be some, surely?’

  ‘It’s a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder,’ Gabbi vouchsafed solemnly as they moved from one painting to another.

  ‘The prices are scandalous,’ Francesca opined in a quiet aside. ‘Does anyone actually make a purchase?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Utterly.’

  ‘Some of the city’s rich and famous are known to buy on a whim, then years later make a killing when the artist becomes well-known.’

  ‘And if the artist doesn’t?’

  Gabbi smiled. ‘They place it in the foyer of their office and pretend its obscure origin makes it a curiosity piece. The added advantage being the item then becomes a legitimate tax deduction.’

  ‘Oh, my,’ Francesca breathed. ‘When did you become so cynical?’

  ‘I grew up.’ It shouldn’t hurt so much. But it did.

  ‘And Benedict?’

  She hesitated a moment too long. ‘We understand each other.’

  ‘That’s a loaded statement, darling. I rather imagined he was your knight in shining armour.’

  ‘That myth belongs in a story book.’

  ‘Not always,’ Francesca disagreed gently. ‘I experienced a brief taste of it.’

  Too brief. Francesca’s marriage to a world-famous Italian racing-car driver had lasted six months. A freak accident three years ago on a tight turn had claimed his life and that of another driver, the horrific scene captured for ever on news-film.

  Gabbi had flown to Monaco to attend the funeral, and hadn’t been able to express adequate words then, any more than she could now.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Francesca said quietly, almost as if she knew. ‘I’m learning to deal with it.’

  Gabbi had witnessed the magic, seen for herself the rare depth of their shared love, and wondered if it was possible to cope with such a loss.

  ‘Mario was—’

  ‘One of a kind,’ Francesca interrupted gently. ‘For a while he was mine. At least I have that.’ She pointed out a glaring canvas whose colours shrieked with vivid, bold strokes. ‘Was that a kindergarten tot let loose with brush and palette, do you suppose? Or is there some mysterious but meaningful symmetry that momentarily escapes the scope of my imagination?’

  ‘It’s an abstract,’ an amused male voice revealed. ‘And you’re looking at the kindergarten tot who took an afternoon to slash the canvas with paint in the hope someone might pay for the privilege of putting bread on my table.’

  ‘Expensive bread,’ Francesca remarked without missing a beat. ‘The artist favours hand-stitched shoes, a Hermes tie and wears a Rolex.’

  ‘They could be fake,’ he declared.

  ‘No,’ Francesca asserted with the certainty of one who knew designer apparel.

  Gabbi watched the interplay between her friend and the tall, broad-framed man whose dark eyes held a piercing brilliance.

  ‘Next you’ll tell me where I live and what car I drive.’

  ‘Not what people would expect of an artist,’ Francesca considered with scarcely a thought. ‘Northern suburbs, overlooking water, trees in the garden, a detached studio and a BMW in the garage.’

  Gabbi sensed Benedict’s presence an instant before she felt the touch of firm fingers at the edge of her waist, and she summoned a dazzling smile as she turned slightly towards him.

  The eyes that lanced hers were dark and impossible to fathom so she didn’t even try.

  ‘Benedict,’ Francesca greeted him warmly. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he agreed urbanely. ‘You’ve met Dominic?’

  ‘We haven’t been formally introduced.’ Francesca’s smile was deliberately warm as she turned her head towards the man at her side.

  ‘Dominic Andrea. Entrepreneur and part-time artist,’ Benedict informed her. ‘Francesca Angeletti.’

  ‘How opportune. The designer luggage won’t require a change of initials.’

  Gabbi registered Dominic’s words and heard Francesca’s almost inaudible gasp one second ahead of Benedict’s husky chuckle.

  ‘You must come to dinner,’ Dominic insisted. ‘Bring Francesca.’

  ‘Gabbi?’ Benedict deferred, and she caught her breath that the decision should be hers.

  ‘Thank you, we’d love to.’

  ‘No,’ the glamorous widow declined.

  ‘I have yet to nominate a night,’ Dominic said in mild remonstrance. ‘And with Benedict and Gabbi present you’ll be quite safe.’ His smile was dangerously soft and filled with latent charm. ‘Aren’t you in the least curious to see if you’re right?’

  Gabbi watched Francesca’s eyes narrow and heard her voice chill to ice. ‘Where you live doesn’t interest me.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he insisted gently. ‘Six-thirty.’ He turned and threaded his way to the opposite side of the gallery.

  ‘What a preposterous man,’ Francesca hissed disdainfully the moment he was out of earshot.

  ‘A very rich and successful one,’ Benedict added mildly. ‘Who dabbles in art and donates his work to worthwhile charities.’

  ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘We occasionally do business together. He spends a lot of time overseas. New York, Athens, Rome,’ Benedict enlightened her.

  ‘Champagne, caviare and camaraderie aren’t my style,’ Francesca dismissed.

  ‘You share something in common,’ Benedict informed her with a degree of cynical amusement.

  ‘Then why the dinner invitation?’

  ‘He admires your charming wit,’ Benedict responded wryly, and his mouth curved to form an amused smile.

  ‘An a
ttempt to charm wasn’t my intention,’ Francesca declared with an expressive lift of one eyebrow.

  ‘Perhaps he is sufficiently intrigued to want to discover why not?’ Benedict ventured in a dry undertone.

  ‘I presume women rarely refuse him.’

  A low chuckle escaped Benedict’s throat. ‘Rarely.’

  Gabbi witnessed the faint sparkle evident in her friend’s eyes, and was unable to repress a winsome smile. ‘So you’ll accept?’

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been offered such an interesting evening,’ Francesca conceded. ‘I’ll let you know at lunch tomorrow.’

  Benedict drew their attention to an intricate steel sculpture that was garnering a great deal of notice, and after a few minutes Francesca indicated her intention to leave.

  ‘Do you want to stay for Leon’s party?’ Benedict queried minutes later, and Gabbi cast him a studied glance.

  ‘I imagine you’ve already presented him with a sizeable cheque, sufficient to appease any regret he might express at our absence?’ The words were lightly voiced and brought a faint smile to his lips.

  ‘Exhibits five and thirty-seven, plus the sculpture Annaliese admired.’

  A knife twisted inside her stomach.

  ‘A gift for James,’ he added with gentle mockery.

  She held his gaze with difficulty, unsure what interpretation to place on his words, or if there was any hidden innuendo in them. ‘I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative,’ she said after a measurable silence.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Benedict reminded her gently.

  ‘James, Monique and Annaliese have yet to leave.’ It was amazing that her voice sounded so calm, equally surprising that she was able to project an outward serenity. But then she’d had plenty of practice at conveying both.

  Humour tugged at the edges of his mouth. ‘I was unaware that their presence, or absence, dictated our own,’ he countered with deceptive mildness.

  It didn’t, but she hadn’t quite forgiven him for being so easily led away by Annaliese or for being caught so long in conversation.

  She effected a slight shrug he could interpret any way he chose. ‘If you want to leave—’

  ‘You’re not going?’ Monique intervened, her voice tinged with mild reproach, and Gabbi wondered if lipreading was one of her stepmother’s acquired skills. ‘Leon will be most upset if you miss his party.’

  ‘A headache,’ Benedict invented smoothly.

  Monique spared Gabbi a penetrating look. ‘Oh darling, really?’ Her eyes sharpened suspiciously.

  Annaliese’s mouth formed a pretty pout. ‘What a shame to end the evening so early.’ She turned sultry eyes towards Benedict ‘Perhaps Gabbi won’t mind if you drop her home and come back for the party?’

  Benedict’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I’m the one who is suffering,’ he informed her, subjecting Gabbi to a deliberate appraisal that left no one in any doubt that his suffering was of a sexual nature.

  Monique’s expression didn’t change and James’s features remained deliberately bland, although Gabbi thought she glimpsed a fleeting humorous twinkle in his eyes. Annaliese, however, shot her a brief, malevolent glare before masking it with a faint smile.

  ‘Have fun,’ Annaliese murmured, pressing her scarlet-tipped fingers to Benedict’s arm in a light caress.

  Gabbi prayed that the soft flood of warmth to her cheeks wasn’t accompanied by a telling tide of pink as Benedict smoothly uttered the few necessary words in farewell, and her fingers clenched against his in silent retaliation as he caught hold of her hand and began threading his way across the room to where Leon was holding court with a captive audience.

  ‘Oh, darlings, you’re leaving?’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘I’m so pleased you were able to attend.’ Leon’s smile was beatific, courtesy of Benedict’s cheque in his wallet.

  Gabbi waited until Benedict had steered the Jaguar clear of the car park before launching into a verbal attack.

  ‘That was unforgivable!’

  ‘What, precisely, did you find unforgivable?’ Benedict drawled in amusement as he joined the traffic travelling eastward along the New South Head road.

  She wanted to rage at him, physically hit him. Instead she chose to remain silent for the time it took him to reach Vaucluse, garage the car and enter the house.

  ‘Coffee?’ Benedict enquired as he turned from resetting the alarm system.

  ‘No,’ she refused tightly, raising stormy eyes to meet his as he closed the distance between them.

  He made no attempt to touch her, and she stood firmly resolute, hating him for a variety of reasons that were too numerous to mention.

  ‘So much anger,’ he observed indolently.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘A little gratitude, perhaps, for initiating a premature escape?’

  Words warred with each other in her mind as she fought for control. More than anything she wanted to lash out and hit him, and only the silent warning apparent in those dark features stopped her.

  ‘You take exception to the fact I want to make love with you?’ he queried silkily. Lifting a hand, he slid it beneath the curtain of her hair.

  ‘I didn’t expect a clichéd announcement of your intention,’ she threw at him angrily, gasping as he cupped her nape and angled his head down to hers. ‘Don’t.’

  The plea went unheeded as his mouth closed over hers, and she strained against the strength of his arm as it curved down her back and held her to him.

  Slowly, insidiously, warmth coursed through her veins until her whole body was one aching mass, craving his touch, and she opened her mouth to accept the possession of his own.

  Passion replaced anger, and a tiny part of her brain registered the transition and wondered at the traitorous dictates of her own heart.

  It wasn’t fair that he should have quite this effect on her, or that she should have so little control. Sex motivated by lust wasn’t undesired, but love was the ultimate prize.

  She wanted to protest when he swept an arm beneath her knees and lifted her against his chest. She knew she should as he climbed the stairs to the upper floor. And when he entered their bedroom and let her slip down to her feet she stood, quiescent, as he gently removed her beaded jacket and tossed it over a nearby chair.

  The soft light from twin lamps reflected against the mirror and she caught a momentary glimpse of two figures—one tall and dark, the other slender in red, then she became lost in the heat of Benedict’s impassioned gaze, her fingers as dexterous as his in their quest to remove each layer of clothing.

  Yet there was care apparent, almost a teasing quality as they each dealt with buttons and zip-fastenings, the slide of his hands on her exposed flesh increasing the steady spiral of excitement.

  He wasn’t unmoved by her ministrations either, and she exulted in the feel of tightening sinews as she caressed his muscled chest, the taut waist and the thrust of his powerful thighs.

  His heartbeat quickened in tempo with her own as he pulled her down onto the bed and she rose up above him, every nerve, every cell alive with anticipation. She sought to give as much pleasure as she knew she’d receive, taking the path to climactic nirvana with deliberate slowness, enjoying and enhancing each step of the emotional journey until there was no sense of the individual, only the merging of two souls so in tune with each other that they became one.

  And afterwards they lay, arms and legs entwined, exchanging the soft caress of fingers against warm flesh, the light, lingering brush of lips, in an after-play that held great tenderness and care, until sleep claimed them both.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE sun’s rays were hot after the controlled coolness of the building’s air-conditioning, and Gabbi felt the heat come up from the pavement combined with the jostle of midday city staff anxious to make the most of their lunch hour, elderly matrons en route from one shopping mall to another and mothers with young children in tow.
r />   Sydney was a vibrant city alive with people from different cultures, and Gabbi witnessed a vivid kaleidoscope of couture and grunge as she walked the block and a half to meet Francesca.

  The restaurant was filled with patrons, but she’d rung ahead for a reservation, and the maître d’ offered an effusive greeting and ushered her to a table.

  There was barely time to order iced water before Francesca slid into the opposite seat in a soft cloud of Hermes Calèche perfume.

  ‘The traffic was every bit as bad as I expected,’ Francesca commented as she ordered the same drink as Gabbi. ‘And securing a parking space was worse.’

  Gabbi smiled in commiseration. ‘City commuting is the pits.’ She picked up the menu. ‘Shall we order?’

  ‘Good idea. I’m starving,’ Francesca admitted with relish, selecting the soupe du jour followed by a Greek salad and fresh fruit.

  Gabbi also selected her friend’s choice, but opted for linguini instead of soup as a starter.

  ‘How long will you be Sydney-based?’ Her smile was warm, her interest genuine.

  Ice-cubes chinked as Francesca picked up her glass. ‘Not long. A few weeks, then I’ll head back to Europe.’

  True friendship was rare, and with it came the benefit of dispensing with the niceties of idle conversation. ‘So, tell me about Rome.’

  Francesca’s expression became pensive. ‘Mario’s mother was diagnosed with inoperable cancer.’

  Gabbi’s heart constricted with pain, and she reached out and covered her friend’s hand with her own. ‘Francesca, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We had a few short weeks together before she was hospitalised, and after that it was only a matter of days.’ Francesca’s eyes darkened with repressed emotion. ‘She bequeathed me everything.’

  ‘Mario was her only child,’ Gabbi reminded her gently.

  ‘Nevertheless, it was—’ she paused fractionally ‘—unexpected.’

  The waiter’s appearance with their starters provided an interruption.

  ‘What’s new with the family?’ Francesca asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Benedict is to die for, Monique superficially gracious, Annaliese a bitch and James remains oblivious?’