The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  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 impl
ication.

  ‘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.

  Francesca drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in an increasingly agitated tattoo as it took two and sometimes three light changes to clear each computer-controlled intersection.

  Traffic into the city was heavier than usual, and a silent curse formed on her lips as green changed to amber, then red.

  In less than five minutes she was due to check in backstage in readiness to appear on the catwalk for a charity fashion parade.

  The first of many she’d agreed to do during her stay on Australian shores.

  Damn. Another red light. Was everything conspiring against her?

  Ten minutes later she swept into the main entrance of the hotel, handed her keys to the valet, took the parking stub, then hurriedly made her way into the foyer.

  The Grand Ballroom was situated on the first level, and she tossed up whether to take the stairs or the lift.

  The stairs won, and minutes later she threaded her way through milling guests to the main doors. Inside uniformed waiters were conducting a last-minute check of the tables, and harried committee members conferred, consulted and made small changes to existing seating arrangements.

  ‘Francesca. Darling!’ Six feet tall, Anique Sorensen, society doyenne and leading fundraiser, embraced her stature by clothing it as expensively and outrageously as possible. This year the focus appeared to be jewellery. Masses of gold chains round her neck and adorning each wrist. On anyone else it would have looked garish, even tacky. But Anique managed to make it appear a fashion statement. ‘I’m so grateful you can be here today. You look fabulous. Just fabulous.’ She paused to draw breath and clasped Francesca close in a bear-hug, then did the air-kiss thing before releasing her hold. ‘How are you?’

  Francesca said what she knew Anique expected to hear...in one syllable. ‘Fine. And you?’

  ‘Ask me after the show.’ The smile was in place, but there was an edge to it. ‘I’m waiting on two models.’

  A fashion showing might look smooth and display professional co-ordination out front, but organised chaos ruled behind the scenes.

  ‘Traffic’s heavy,’ Francesca offered, shifting her garment bag from one shoulder to the other. ‘Who?’

  ‘Annaliese and Cassandra.’

  Cassandra was a doll, laid-back, easy to get along with and professional. Annaliese, on the other hand, was a sultry cat who played diva to the hilt both on and off the catwalk.

  ‘They’ll be here,’ Francesca assured her, and caught Anique’s wry smile.

  ‘I know, darling. But when?’ Her sharp gaze circled the room. ‘The guests are due to be seated any minute, in ten the compère will announce the charity’s chairwoman’s introductory speech, and five after that we need to roll.’

  ‘It’ll all come together.’

  ‘It always does,’ Anique agreed. ‘I’d kill for a cigarette and a double gin.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I swear, next year I’m not going to be on any committee.’

  ‘You will. They need you.’ It was true. ‘No one can pull in the people the way you do.’

  The eyes softened, their expression sincere. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Francesca.’

  The usual bedlam reigned backstage, with racks of clothes and accessories and fellow models in various stages of undress fixing their make-up. Designers’ assistants, co-ordinators, were each running numerous preliminary checks in the countdown to showtime.

  Always there were last-minute changes, alterations that had to be noted on everyone’s list. Mostly, they got it right.

  Francesca checked the clothes and accessories she was to wear, and their sequence, then she shed her outer clothes and got to work on her make-up.

  ‘Fran, sweetie.’ Cassandra, tall, willowy and a natural blonde squeezed in to grab some mirror space. ‘I need someone to tell me I’m sane.’

  ‘You’re sane,’ Francesca said obligingly. ‘That bad, huh?’

  Cassandra delved into her make-up bag and seconds later her fingers flew with lightning speed, a touch of blusher here, eyeshadow there, and an experienced twist with the mascara wand. ‘My daughter has tonsillitis, I broke a nail on the car door latch, snagged a run in my tights, and got caught in traffic.’ She outlined her mouth and applied brilliant red gloss. ‘Annaliese has yet to put in an appearance out front, and Anique...’ She paused, and rolled her eyes in a wonderfully expressive gesture.

  ‘Is about to go into orbit?’ Francesca completed drily.

  ‘You got it in one.’

  The compère’s introduction could be heard in the background. ‘Five minutes,’ one of the co-ordinators warned, whirling as a figure dressed entirely in scarlet flew into the room. ‘Annaliese. You’re impossibly late.’

  The leggy, dark-haired model gave a careless shrug, tried to look apologetic and failed. ‘Blame the cab-driver.’

  ‘We’ll run you last in the first segment,’ the co-ordinator improvised. ‘Just hurry, will you?’ She altered her list, and moved quickly to ensure the alteration was duplicated.

  Francesca stepped into casual shorts, secured them, added a top, and slid her feet into heeled slingback white sandals. Then she picked up the wraparound skirt and hitched it over one shoulder.

  The chairwoman’s speech finished, the compère completed his spiel, and the music began.

  ‘OK. girls,
’ the co-ordinator announced. ‘This is it. Cassandra, you first. Then Francesca.’

  Upbeat music, flashing lights, showtime.

  It was a familiar scene, different catwalk, another city. Francesca waited for her cue, smile in place, then she emerged on stage. Each movement was perfectly co-ordinated as she walked to the centre, paused, and turned before taking the catwalk. Choreographed action that displayed the clothes to their best advantage.

  Resortwear, swimwear, city and career wear, collections, formal evening wear, bridal.

  Designers fussed, assistants frowned, and the co-ordinators soothed and cajoled and kept everything moving smoothly.

  Francesca effected one quick change after another, exchanging shoes, accessories. The bridal-wear segment was the designers’ coup de grâce, and each gown was modelled solo to give specific impact. Slow music and a slow pace down the length of the catwalk and back.

  Then all the models appeared on stage together, the guests gave a noisy ovation, the compère wound down and the designers slipped out to stand beside the model wearing their creation. Then it was all over.

  Waiters began appearing, bearing trays laden with plates of food, and drink waiters hovered unobtrusively as they took and delivered orders.

  Francesca emerged backstage and began discarding the heavy satin beaded gown. Her own clothes felt comfortable by comparison, and she crossed to the mirror to tone down her make-up.

  On the agenda was something light to eat, then she’d drive back to the apartment, change and swim a few leisurely lengths of the pool.

  ‘Will you be at Margo’s tomorrow?’

  She glanced up at the sound of Cassandra’s voice. ‘Yes. You too?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I don’t do it for free,’ Annaliese declared in bored tones as she joined them.

  ‘Really?’ Cassandra queried sweetly, unable to let the unintentional double entendre escape unmentioned. ‘As a matter of interest, how much do you charge?’

  Francesca saw Annaliese’s eyes narrow, glimpsed the anger tighten that full mouth. ‘Jealous, sweetie?’