‘Just a few more, Francesca. I want to do some black and white shots.’
Dusk began to dim the peripheral fringes, providing shadows that grew and lengthened, shading colour and merging lines.
‘OK, that’s it,’ called Tony.
The equipment was dismantled, the clothes restored into individual garment bags and packed into the van. Lights along the boardwalk provided illumination, in direct contrast to the expanse of indigo sea.
Tony stowed his camera in the car, then turned towards her. ‘Care to join me in a drink? There’s a trendy little bar two blocks away.’
‘Will you be offended if I say no?’ Francesca countered.
‘A date, darling?’
She smiled as they left the sand and stepped onto the bricked walk. ‘With my bed. Solo,’ she added as she anticipated his response. ‘I imagine you’d prefer me bright-eyed and vivacious tomorrow?’
‘As a photographer, yes,’ he grinned. ‘As a man, I’d derive pleasure from seeing you languorous and sated after a long night of loving.’
An arrow of pain lanced her body’s core, and it cost a lot to inject a degree of humour into her voice and keep it light. ‘You don’t give up.’
‘Maybe one of these days you’ll say yes.’
He was a nice man. Personable, intelligent, and easy to talk to. She’d worked with him frequently in the past, and wanted to continue to work with him in the future.
‘To a drink?’
His laughter brought a smile to her lips. ‘Know all the angles, darling?’
‘Almost every one,’ she assured.
‘So,’ he concluded slowly, ‘no shared nightcap, not even coffee?’
‘I’m taking a raincheck, remember?’ She leaned forward and placed a fleeting kiss to his cheek. ‘Ciao, Tony. I’ll see you in the morning.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ELECTRONIC chimes brought Francesca into a state of wakefulness, and she uttered a faint groan as she rolled over to hit the ‘stop’ button.
Damn Tony and his photographic inspiration. Yet, even as she silently cursed him, she was sufficiently professional to recognise his vision. And doubtless she would applaud it when she sighted the finished prints.
A shower swept away any vestiges of the night’s cobwebs, and a glass of fresh orange juice did much to revitalise her energy. It was too early for breakfast, so she merely extracted a banana from the bowl of fruit in the kitchen.
Attired in stylish loose-fitting cotton trousers and matching top, basic make-up complete, she slid her feet into low-heeled sandals, collected her bag, then took the lift down to the underground car park.
Within minutes she reached the main arterial road. Traffic at this early hour was minimal, and there was almost an eerie solitude in traversing darkened streets whose only illumination came from regulated electric lamps.
There was a tendency to be introspective and allow one’s thoughts free passage.
Dominic Andrea. An intriguing man, with diverse interests and recognised as a skilled entrepreneur. There could be little doubt that that skill extended to the bedroom... or wherever else he chose to indulge in sex.
She drew the line at defining it as lovemaking. ‘Love’ was a definitive word that had little to do with a mutual slaking of the senses as two people took pleasure in each other’s body without trust or commitment.
The thought of Dominic Andrea in the role of lover aroused feelings she found difficult to dispel. To tread such a path would be madness.
Dear heaven, what was the matter with her?
Francesca reached forward and switched on the car radio, grateful for the busy sound of rock music and the artificial brightness of an early morning DJ. It helped redirect her focus.
Which, she rationalised, was a dawn fashion shoot that needed to be set up in early-morning darkness with everything in readiness for the first sign of light on the horizon.
Three cars and a van hugged the kerb when she slid to a halt behind Tony’s distinctive BMW. Lights were already set up on the beach, the tent was in position, and as she drew close she could hear the sound of muted voices.
‘Morning, everyone.’
Tony gave her a weary smile as she entered the tent. ‘Good girl, you’re on time.’ He cast his watch a quick glance. ‘Ten minutes, OK? Same gown, hairstyle. Less make-up.’
The sky was just beginning to lighten as Francesca assumed position within a metre of the receding tide. Wet sand gleamed like well-oiled gunmetal, melding with a smooth liquid sea.
Before their eyes grey shadows melted beneath the emergence of soft colour, like the transforming brush from an artist’s palette. And the air bore a freshness untouched by the sun’s warmth.
‘Let’s get this show on the road. We won’t have long,’ Tony warned as he lifted his camera. ‘Francesca?’
‘Ready when you are.’
The camera clicked, shutter moving forward as he called for her to move this way, then that.
‘Head up a little higher. That’s it. Hold it. Now turn towards me and smile. Mona Lisa, darling.’ Shot after shot was taken. ‘OK, now we want happy. Not quite laughing. Got it.’
The shutter whirred at a fast pace. ‘Movement, sweetie,’ he directed. ‘Let’s see that skirt swirl, shall we? More. Again. And again.’ He was moving rapidly, his hands and body co-ordinating perfectly as he talked. ‘Damn. The light’s coming up fast.’
Five minutes later he capped the lens. ‘That should do it. Thanks, everyone.’
It was shaping up to be a hectic day, Francesca perceived a trifle ruefully as she shed the gown, then pulled on her trousers and top. At lunch she was booked to tread another catwalk, and this evening she was due to dine at her father’s home. With deft movements she twisted her hair into a knot atop her head, then slid her feet into sandals.
‘Care to share coffee before we each get on with the day?’ Tony queried as she emerged from the tent.
‘Love to,’ Francesca accepted, grateful for their easy friendship as they trod a path across the sand to the parked cars.
They each stowed their bags, locked the boot, then crossed the road to the beachside café.
‘I’ll order,’ Tony indicated as they slid into an empty booth. ‘Short black?’
‘Please,’ she responded gratefully, and sipped the dark aromatic brew from the cup placed in front of her shortly afterwards.
‘You’re covering today’s charity luncheon at the Hilton?’
“fraid so, darling.’ He drained his cup and signalled for the waitress to refill it.
‘All those dowagers dressed to kill, fawning over you in a bid to have their photo appear in the society pages, huh?’ Francesca teased, and caught his faint grimace.
‘They send me gifts. Champagne, expensive trinkets. One matron even went so far as to offer an unforgettable all-expenses-paid weekend on Hayman Island.’
‘Tell me you declined.’
He offered a wry smile. ‘I don’t accept bribes, as tempting as some appear.’
It was almost eight when Francesca slid behind the wheel of her car and drove to the gym. An exercise routine was so much a part of her daily regime that she scarcely gave it a thought.
There was little time to spare when she returned to her apartment in order to shower, dress, and drive into the city.
The fundraising luncheon in aid of the Australian Cancer Society was a major event. The venue was prestigious, and the guest list read like an excerpt from the city’s register of the city’s rich and famous.
‘Sell-out’ was whispered from one to the other as the speeches progressed and lunch was served. Then the compère announced the start of the fashion parade and the music began.
The main lights dimmed and strategically aimed arc lights lit the catwalk. Showtime.
Afterwards, Francesca tidied her hair, retouched her make-up, then collected her bag. With luck she’d be able to slip out and make an exit without too much delay.
She was halfway across the r
oom when she heard a familiar voice call her name.
‘Francesca.’
Her stepmother, with Katherine at her side, seated at a nearby table. ‘You’ll join us for a coffee, won’t you?’
Madeline was adept at making a query sound like a command, and there was little Francesca could do other than slip into the indicated seat.
Katherine offered a conspiratorial wink, well aware that her mother’s main purpose in issuing the invitation was to bolster her own social prestige. Smart girl, Katherine.
It was thirty minutes before Francesca could orchestrate her escape, and a further half an hour before she joined the flow of traffic leaving the city. Consequently it was almost five when she re-entered her apartment.
After a day exchanging one elegant outfit for another, she would have preferred to slip on a robe, eat a light chicken salad, watch television, then settle for an early night.
Instead, she selected a stunning black silk trouser suit, added a touch of gold jewellery, applied minimum make-up, highlighted her eyes, and left her hair loose to cascade onto her shoulders.
Lights blazed in welcome as Francesca traversed the long, curved driveway leading to Rick and Madeline’s elegant double-storeyed Tudor-style home situated high in suburban Vaucluse.
The interior reflected Madeline’s exquisite taste, and Francesca greeted Katherine and John with affection, brushed cheeks with her stepmother and accepted Rick’s warm bear-hug.
‘Have a seat, Francesca,’ Madeline bade. ‘Rick will get you a drink.’
Diplomacy and an adeptness born of many years’ experience in recognising Madeline’s modus operandi ensured that Francesca kept within the unwritten boundaries. Once you knew the game, it was relatively easy to play.
‘Orange juice? A wine spritzer?’
‘A spritzer would be great,’ she accepted warmly.
The sound of the door chimes provided an interruption, and Madeline turned towards Rick. ‘That will be Dominic. Let him in, darling.’ She turned to Francesca. ‘You don’t mind the inclusion of another guest?’
There was nothing she could do except smile. ‘Of course not.’
Rick knew better than to matchmake. Madeline, however, had no such qualms, and was adept at assembling people together in order to create an interesting evening.
Dominic Andrea’s motives for accepting the invitation were open to conjecture.
‘He’s really a hunk, isn’t he?’ Katherine enthused with teenage fervour, and Francesca was saved from making comment as her father ushered Dominic into the lounge.
In her line of business she came into contact with many visually attractive men, but few possessed this man’s aura of power. It went beyond the physical, and meshed with a dangerous sexuality that threatened a woman’s equilibrium. A potent combination, she conceded as she took in his expensive suit, silk tie, hand-stitched shoes, before allowing her gaze to settle on those broad, chiselled features.
Generous mouth, cleaved from a sensual mould. Eyes so dark, yet as expressive as he chose them to be. At this precise moment there was a tinge of humour beneath the projected warmth.
‘Madeline.’ He moved forward with fluid grace, took hold of his hostess’s hand, then turned towards her stepdaughter.
‘Francesca.’
‘Dominic,’ she acknowledged coolly. She felt on edge already, and he’d only just entered the room. What on earth would she be like at the end of the evening?
Unsettled, if he had anything to do with it.
‘A drink, Dominic?’ Rick was a considerate host who kept a well-stocked liquor cabinet designed to cater to the whim of any guest.
‘Thanks. A soda.’
Madeline smiled. ‘The need for a clear head?’
‘Perhaps Dominic has an ulcer,’ Francesca offered sweetly. ‘I imagine an artistic temperament and the pressure of business play havoc with the stress levels.’
‘Not an inclination to minimise alcohol to one glass of wine with the evening meal?’
She tilted her head and viewed him in silence for several long seconds. ‘How.’ She paused deliberately. ‘Boring.’
His mouth curved slightly. ‘You prefer a man whose mind and actions are clouded with alcohol?’
Oh, my. Was she the only one present who picked up on that double entendre?
Francesca silently willed the evening to pass quickly so that she could make her escape at the soonest possible moment without causing Madeline or her father offence.
She caught Dominic’s faintly raised eyebrow, and realised that he’d accurately assessed her thoughts.
‘I had no idea you were joining us tonight.’ As a conversational gambit, it lacked inspiration.
His eyes held hidden warmth and a degree of cynical humour. ‘Madeline issued an invitation to look at the positioning of two of my paintings in her home.’
Her head tilted fractionally. ‘Do you make it a practice to approve where your paintings hang in all your buyers’ homes?’
‘Rarely,’ he conceded.
‘Rick and Madeline should feel duly honoured.’
His soft laughter was unexpected, the humour tilting the curve of his mouth and fanning tiny lines from each corner of his eyes. Eyes that were remarkably steady, even watchful as he caught each fleeting expression on her finely boned features.
‘Perhaps.’ Dominic lifted a hand and tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear in a gesture deliberately designed to startle. ‘Although let there be no doubt that the main reason I’m here tonight is you.’
He glimpsed the faint widening of her eyes, the momentary shock, before she successfully masked her expression.
‘Dinner is served, ma’am.’ The cook’s intrusion was a timely one, and Francesca expelled a relieved sigh as Madeline led the way.
Seating was arranged with Madeline and Rick facing each other at the head of the table, Katherine and John on one side, with Dominic and Francesca seated together.
Vichyssoise was followed by barbecued prawns on a bed of rice, with steamed fish, hollandaise sauce and salad as a main course. Crème caramel and fresh fruit sufficed as dessert.
A pleasant meal in what would have been relaxing company—if it hadn’t been for Dominic’s presence. Francesca was acutely aware of his every action, the smell of clean tailoring mingling with the subtle tones of his exclusive cologne.
He used his cutlery with precise, decisive movements, his enjoyment of the food evident, and he skilfully drew Katherine and John into the conversation, transforming John into an amusing raconteur while Katherine bloomed beneath his attention.
Madeline was at her best. Fame or fortune in a guest was a bonus. To have two dine at her table who could lay claim to both was a considerable coup. Rick, sensing his wife’s satisfaction, became more expansive as the evening progressed.
‘Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?’ Madeline queried, signalling just that intention by standing to her feet.
Everyone followed her directive, but Francesca was unprepared when Dominic moved behind her and drew out her chair.
She hadn’t expected the courtesy, didn’t want it, and had to consciously refrain from pulling her arm away as his fingers lightly clasped her elbow.
‘Katherine, John,’ Madeline invited graciously. ‘If you choose, you can retire upstairs and view television.’
An exemplary mother, and a very shrewd one. Political correctness and good manners were something Madeline insisted upon. It said much that neither of her children grasped the excuse to leave.
Fifteen minutes max, Francesca decided, then she would express her thanks and depart. She sank gracefully into a lounge chair and accepted coffee.
It had been a long day, and tomorrow, after seeing her mother, she’d agreed to join a panel of judges assembled to select three junior models from twenty young hopefuls parading their stuff on the catwalk.
Friday, Saturday and Sunday were free, and she’d designated them as hers. For pampering, a professional haircut,
a massage. Sheer indulgence.
Unbidden, her eyes met those of Dominic, and she glimpsed the degree of sensual warmth evident in those dark depths. He presented a disturbing factor, and she was in no doubt of the steel-willed determination beneath the surface.
Francesca finished her coffee, declined a refill, and rose to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I really must leave.’ Her warm smile encompassed Rick, Madeline, Katherine and John. ‘It’s been a lovely evening.’
‘Likewise,’ Dominic accorded with ease as he unwound his length from the chair. ‘It’s been very enjoyable.’
Why was he timing his departure to coincide with her own? Why shouldn’t he? a silent voice demanded as she crossed the lounge at Rick’s side, brushed a quick kiss to his cheek at the front door, then stepped quickly down the steps.
‘Running away?’ Dominic’s voice held slight amusement as he matched his pace to her own.
She withdrew a keyring from her evening purse in readiness, and walked past a black Lexus to where her own car was parked. She selected a key and inserted it into the door.
His arm brushed hers as he reached forward and undid the latch, then drew open the door.
‘How was your day?’
She slipped past him and slid into the driver’s seat. ‘You can’t really want to know.’
He placed an arm on the roof and leaned in towards her. ‘Yes. Humour me, Francesca.’
She slid the safety belt across and clipped it into position. She should have felt in control, yet somehow the advantage appeared to be his.
‘A three-thirty a.m. start for a dawn photographic shoot, a fashion parade at the Hilton, dinner with family.’
‘And guest.’
‘Unexpected guest,’ she amended.
‘Whom you would have preferred not to be present.’
She tilted her head in order to meet his gaze. ‘Perhaps you’ll enlighten me as to how you came by the invitation.’
‘I occasionally do business with your father.’ His shoulders shifted in a slight shrugging gesture. ‘Madeline appears to appreciate my paintings. It wasn’t difficult to make a phone call.’
The Helen Bianchin Collection Page 183
