The table was beautifully set with white damask, on which reposed fine china, silver cutlery and stemmed crystal glasswear.
Francesca’s gaze idly skimmed the mahogany chiffonnier, the long buffet cabinet, the elegantly designed chairs, and silently applauded his taste in furniture. And in soft furnishings, for the drapes and carpet were uniform in colour, the contrast supplied by artwork and mirrors adorning the walls.
Dominic seated Francesca beside him, opposite Gabbi and Benedict.
The courses were varied, and many, and, while exquisitely presented, they were the antithesis of designer food. There was, however, an artistically displayed platter of salads decorated with avocado, mango, and a sprinkling of pine nuts.
A subtle concession to what Dominic suspected was a model’s necessity to diet?
Francesca always ate wisely and well, with little need to watch her intake of food. Tonight, however, she forked dainty portions from each course.
‘You have a beautiful home.’ The compliment was deserved, and she cast a glance towards the original artwork gracing the walls. Not any of them bore the distinctive style of the abstract she’d sighted at Leon’s gallery.
As if reading her mind, Dominic enlightened musingly, ‘I keep my work in the studio.’
One eyebrow lifted, and her voice held a hint of mockery. ‘Is that a subtle invitation to admire your etchings?’
His fingers brushed her wrist as he leaned forward to replenish her glass with water, and a chill shiver feathered its way over the surface of her skin in silent recognition of something deeply primitive.
The knowledge disturbed her, and her eyes were faintly wary as they met his.
‘The expected cliché?’ The drawled query held wry humour, and his eyes held a warmth she didn’t care to define. ‘At the risk of disappointing you, I paint in the studio and confine lovemaking to the bedroom.’
Something curled inside her stomach, and she lifted her glass and took a generous swallow before setting it down onto the table. ‘How—prosaic.’
His husky chuckle held quizzical amusement, and an indolent smile broadened the sensual curve of his mouth. ‘Indeed? You don’t think comfort is a prime consideration?’
The image of a large bed, satin sheets, and leisurely languorous foreplay sprang to mind...a damning and totally unwarranted vision she wanted no part of.
Francesca had a desire to give a stinging response, and probably would have if they’d been alone. Instead, she aimed for innocuous neutrality, and tempered it with a totally false smile that didn’t fool anyone, least of all Dominic, in the slightest. ‘Not always.’
‘The chicken is delicious.’ Dear sweet Gabbi, who sought to defuse the verbal direction of their exchange.
Francesca cast her a sweeping glance that issued a silent statement—I’m having fun. And saw her friend’s eyes widen fractionally in answering warning.
‘How was your trip to Italy, Francesca?’ Benedict issued the bland query. ‘Were you able to spend any time outside Rome?’
She decided to play the social conversational game. ‘No,’ she enlightened evenly. ‘However, I’m due in Milan next month for the European spring collections.’ Closely followed by Paris.
Her life was like riding a merry-go-round...big cities, bright lights, the adrenalin rush. Then, every so often, she stepped off and took time out in normality. A vacation abroad, or, more often than not, she flew home to spend time with family and friends. They were her rock, the one thing constant in her life she could rely on.
‘You enjoy the international scene?’
Francesca turned slightly to the man seated at her side, glimpsed the remarkable steadiness in his gaze—and something else she was unable to interpret. ‘Yes.’
‘Would you care for more salad?’
A subtle reminder that she was scarcely doing the sumptuous selection of food much justice? It hardly made sense that she was deliberately projecting the image of a diet fanatic, but there was a tiny gremlin urging her to travel a mildly outrageous path.
‘Thank you.’ She reached for the utensils and placed a modest serving onto her plate, then proceeded to fork small portions with delicate precision.
There was a dessert to die for reposing on the chiffonnier, and she spared the exquisitely decorated torte a regretful glance. A slice of mouth-watering ambrosia she’d have to forego the pleasure of savouring in order to continue the expected accepted image.
‘Did Leon manage to sell your abstract?’ She sounded facetious, and felt a momentary pang for the discourtesy.
‘It wasn’t for sale,’ Dominic relayed with seemingly careless disregard, and smiled as her eyebrows arched in silent query.
‘Really?’ Francesca let her gaze encompass his rugged features and lingered on the strong bone structure before meeting the musing gleam in those dark eyes. ‘You don’t look like an artist.’
His mouth quirked slightly at the edges. ‘How, precisely, is your impression of an artist supposed to look?’
Harmless words, but she was suddenly conscious of an elevated nervous tension that had no known basis except a strong, instinctive feeling that she was playing a dangerous game with a man well-versed in every aspect of the hunt.
Akin to a predator prepared to watch and wait as his prey gambolled foolishly within sight, aware that the time was of his choosing, the kill a foregone conclusion.
Now you’re being fanciful, she chided, suddenly angry with herself for lapsing into an idiotic mind game.
‘Shall we move to the lounge for coffee?’ Dominic suggested with deceptive mildness.
In a way it was a relief to shift location, and she breathed a silent sigh as the evening moved towards a close.
The impish gremlin was still in residence as she declined coffee and requested tea. ‘Herbal, if you have it.’ Long lashes gave an imperceptible flutter, then swept down to form a protective veil.
‘Of course.’ The request didn’t faze him in the least. It was almost as if he’d been prepared for it, and within minutes she nursed a delicate cup filled with clear brown liquid she had no inclination to taste.
Terrible, she conceded as she studiously sipped the innocent brew. And smiled as Gabbi, Benedict and Dominic savoured dark, aromatic coffee she would have much preferred to drink.
Hoist by her own petard, Francesca acknowledged with rueful acceptance. It served her right.
‘Another cup?’
Not if she could help it! ‘Thank you, no. That was delicious.’
Benedict rose to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes enigmatic as they met those of his wife. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Dominic?’
‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ Gabbi said gently as she collected her purse.
Their imminent departure provided an excellent excuse for Francesca to leave. It was what Dominic expected. But she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.
Fool, she mentally chastised herself as he escorted Gabbi and Benedict to the front door. Pick up your evening bag and follow them.
Too late, she decided a few minutes later when he returned to the lounge.
Francesca watched as he folded his lengthy frame into a cushioned chair directly opposite.
‘Your friendship with Gabbi is a long-standing one?’
‘Are you going to express a need to explore my background?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘No request for an in-depth profile?’ she queried drily.
Dominic was silent for several seemingly long seconds, wanting to tear down the barrier she’d erected but aware of the need for caution and a degree of patience. ‘I’m aware of the professional one,’ he drawled with assumed indolence. ‘Tell me about your marriage.’
She stopped breathing, felt the pressure build, and sought to expel it slowly. She wanted to serve him a volley of angry words, throw something, anything that would release some of her pain. Instead, she resorted to stinging mockery.
‘Gabbi failed to fill you in?�
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His eyes were steady. ‘Minimum details.’
‘It can be encapsulated in one sentence: champion racing car driver Mario Angeletti killed on the Monaco Grand Prix circuit within months of his marriage to international model Francesca Cardelli.’
Three years had passed since that fateful day. Yet the vivid horror remained. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t personally witnessed the tearing of metal, the disintegration of car and man as fuel ignited in catastrophic explosion. Television news cameras, newspaper photographs and graphic journalistic reports ensured no detail remained unrecorded.
Family and close friends had shielded her, protecting and nurturing during the emotional fall-out. And afterwards she had stepped back onto the catwalk, aware every move, every nuance of her expression was being carefully watched for visible signs of distress.
Some had even attempted to provoke it. Yet not once had she let down her guard. Only those who knew her well saw the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and recognised the smooth social patter as a practised facade.
‘It must have been a very painful time for you.’
Francesca was unable to verbally denounce his sympathy, for there was none. Merely an empathetic statement that ignored conventional platitudes.
‘Would you like a drink? Some more tea, coffee?’ The smile held musing warmth. ‘Something stronger, perhaps?’
Francesca stood to her feet, her expression wary as he mirrored her action. ‘I really must leave.’
‘Do I frighten you?’ The query was voiced in a soft drawl, and succeeded in halting her steps.
No doubt about it, his target aim was deadly.
‘Fear’ was a multi-faceted word that encompassed many emotions. Slowly she turned towards him and met his gaze. Her chin tilted fractionally. A mental stiffening of her own resources? ‘No.’
His eyes never left hers, but she felt as if he’d stripped every protective layer she’d swathed around her frozen heart and laid it bare and bleeding.
Oh, God, what was happening here? She’d known he was trouble the first time she saw him. Walk away, a tiny voice bade silently. Now.
A faint smile curved the edges of that sensual mouth, and there was a transitory gleam of humour apparent in the depth of those dark eyes. ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’
‘Why?’ The demand seemed perfectly logical.
He looked at her carefully, weighing his words and assessing the damage they might do. And how he would deal with it. ‘I want you,’ he stated gently, lifting a hand to trace a gentle forefinger down the edge of her cheek.
His touch was like fire, and her pulse jumped, then raced to a quickened beat, almost as if in silent recognition of something she refused to acknowledge.
‘Tangled sheets and an exchange of body fluids?’ Inside, her emotions were shredding into pieces. Her eyes seared his, and her chin tilted fractionally as she took a step away from him. ‘I don’t do one-night stands.’
Courage. And passion. Banked, reserved. But there. He wanted it all. And knew she’d fight him every inch of the way.
‘Neither do I.’
His words sent a shiver feathering down the length of her spine. What was it with this man? She found it annoying that just as she was about to categorise him, he shifted stance.
Dominic watched the play of emotions in her expressive eyes. No matter how much he wanted it to be different, he could wait. The temptation to pull her up against him and let her feel the effect she had on him was strong. To cover her mouth with his own, explore and vanquish.
He did neither. It would keep. Until the next time. And he’d ensure there was a next time.
Francesca felt the need to escape, and good manners instilled since childhood ensured she uttered a few polite words in thanks.
‘Why, when you merely sampled a bird-like portion from each course, then picked at the salad?’
She experienced a momentary tinge of remorse for the manner in which she’d eaten the delectable food. Did he suspect it had been deliberate? Somehow she had the instinctive feeling he saw too much, knew too much of the human psyche.
‘My loss of appetite bore no reflection on your housekeeper’s culinary ability.’
‘In that case, I’ll refer the compliment.’
Francesca turned and walked from the room to the front door, acutely aware of his presence at her side. She paused as he reached forward to pull back one of the large, panelled doors.
‘What were you doing shopping for food in a supermarket when you employ a housekeeper?’
He could have used any one of several glib excuses, or employed a deliberately flattering remark. Instead he chose honesty. ‘I wanted to see you again.’
Her stomach lurched, and an icy chill feathered her skin at the directness of his gaze.
‘Goodnight.’ She moved past him and stepped quickly down to her car, unlocked it and slid in behind the wheel.
The engine fired with a refined purr, and she resisted the temptation to speed down the driveway, choosing instead to ease the vehicle through the gates onto the road before quickly accelerating towards the main arterial road leading towards the Harbour Bridge.
Damn him. Francesca’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles shone white. He was fast proving to be an intrusive force—one she didn’t need in her life.
The sky was a deep indigo-blue sprinkled with stars, and beneath them lay the city, dark velvet laced by a tracery of electric lights that had no discernible pattern. Bright neon flashed, providing vivid colour as one advertisement vied with another. A commuter train slipped by in electronic silence, its carriages illuminated and partly empty.
It was still early, yet there was already action in the city streets. Professionals worked the pavements, hustling and touting and evading the law as they mingled with the tourists and the curious.
Francesca took the expressway through the Domain, bypassed Kings Cross and headed towards the main arterial road leading to Double Bay.
Her head felt heavy, and she would have given much to be able to stop the car and walk in the clear night air. Instead she drove to her apartment building, garaged the car, then rode the lift to her designated floor.
A leisurely cool shower followed by an iced drink while she viewed television would have to suffice.
Yet nothing provided a distraction from the man who disturbed her thoughts.
Sleep didn’t come easily, and even when it did, there were jagged dreams that made little sense. Except one, from which she awoke damp-skinned and damp-eyed. A vivid recall of Mario’s laughing features as he stepped into his racing-car and donned his helmet prior to lining up for the last race of his life.
On the other side of the city Dominic stood looking out at the glittering lights across a darkened harbour as he reflected on the woman who had not long driven away from his home.
Sleep was elusive. At worst he could make do with six hours, five if he had to. Tonight he had the feeling he’d have to manage with less.
The fax machine shrilled in another room, and he ignored it.
What he needed was a carefully constructed strategy. A campaign that would leave nothing to chance.
Tomorrow he would make a call to Benedict Nicols in the hope that Gabbi might be persuaded to reveal details of Francesca’s social calendar.
Subterfuge was permissible in the pursuit of an objective.
CHAPTER THREE
THE next few days were relaxing as Francesca caught up with friends, did some shopping, and enjoyed a rescheduled lunch with her father in an exclusive restaurant close to his office building.
The food was excellent, the ambience superb.
‘How is Madeline?’ Her stepmother was hardly the wicked kind, but Madeline viewed Francesca as a contestant for Rick’s affections, and waged a subtle war to test her husband’s priorities whenever Francesca was in town.
‘Fine.’ The warmth in his voice was unmistakable, and as long as Francesca continued to hear it sh
e 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.
The Marriage Campaign (Harlequin Presents) Page 3
