She could almost see his features relaxing with a degree of humour, and that sensuously moulded mouth curve into a smile.
‘Want to join me on a picnic?’
The question startled her, and she hesitated, torn by an image of finger food eaten alfresco.
‘If I refuse, will you seclude yourself in the studio and paint?’
He gave a husky laugh. ‘Something like that.’
There was a pull of the senses she found difficult to ignore, and she aimed for a light response. ‘How about a compromise?’
‘Shoot.’
‘I’ll come watch you paint, then we go on a picnic.’
‘You just want to see my etchings.’
She couldn’t help the smile that curved the edges of her mouth. ‘You’ve seen me at work.’
‘Much more glamorous than a pile of blank canvas, numerous quantities of oil paint and mineral turps, I can assure you.’
‘We have a deal?’
‘Deal,’ he responded easily.
‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be on my way.’
She retrieved a spare pair of sunglasses from the bedroom and slipped them into her bag. Should she contribute some food? Her refrigerator wasn’t exactly a receptacle of gourmet treats. Fruit and frozen bread did not a feast make. OK, so she’d stop off somewhere en route and collect a few things.
Which was precisely what she did, arriving at Dominic’s front door with no less than two carrybags held in each hand.
‘I invited you to join me on a picnic, not provide one,’ he remonstrated as he divested her of her purchases.
‘I got carried away. Besides, I owe you a meal.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
She followed him through to the kitchen. ‘Humour me. I have an independent streak.’
A friendly room with modern appliances, she decided as he unpacked the bags and stored a cold-pack in the refrigerator.
She cast him an all-encompassing look, appraising the sleeveless shirt, the cut-off jeans, the trainers on his feet.
One eyebrow slanted. ‘What did you expect? An enveloping artist’s cape?’ His eyes gleamed as he reached out a hand and touched one cheek, glimpsed the faint uncertainty evident and sought to alleviate it. ‘Shall we go?’
She didn’t resist as he led her to the glassed walkway, connecting the large studio above a multicar garage to the house.
It was, she conceded, an artist’s dream, with sections of floor-to-ceiling glass and sliding floor-to-ceiling cupboard doors closing storage areas. Even the roof held panels of glass to capture every angle of sunlight.
There were the tools of trade in evidence—pots and tubes of oil paint, three easels, canvas, frames—all tidily stored on racks.
Yet she saw splotches of paint on the bare wooden floor, denoting it as a functional room where work was achieved.
‘Do you need to paint in silence? Or doesn’t noise bother you?’
‘Depends on the mood, and the creative muse,’ Dominic answered, watching her closely. This was his sanctum, a room which revealed more of himself than he liked. Consequently he allowed very few people access.
‘Tell me where you’d prefer me to sit or stand while you paint.’
‘You don’t want to explore?’
‘I imagine if there’s something you want to show me, you will,’ Francesca said evenly.
‘Take a seat, while I create a colourful abstract to be auctioned off for charity next week.’
She watched him turn a blank canvas into a visual work of art. First the block of colour, covered by bold strokes and strong slashes. It looked so easy, his movements sure as one hour passed, then another, and she sat there enthralled by his artistic ability to transfer image to canvas. It didn’t seem to matter that she possessed little comprehension of the portrayed abstract or its symmetry. The creative process itself was inspiring.
His involvement was total, and interest, rather than curiosity, impelled a strong desire to see some of his completed works. She would have given much to examine the tiered rack where several canvases were stored. Maybe next time.
At last he stood back satisfied. ‘That’s enough for today.’ He deftly deposited brushes, cleaned paint from his hands, then crossed to a nearby sink and washed.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
He left her in the kitchen. ‘I’ll go shower and change while you pack food into the cooler.’
He reappeared ten minutes later, dressed in casual trousers and a short-sleeved polo shirt.
They drove north to a delightful inlet that was relatively isolated.
‘Hungry?’ Dominic queried as he spread a rug on a grassy bank overlooking a curved half moon of sand and sea.
It was almost mid-afternoon. ‘Famished.’
Francesca began unpacking the cooler while he unfurled a large beach umbrella and staked it firmly into the ground to provide essential shade.
She set out plates, fresh bread rolls, sliced ham, chicken and salads, brie, fruit.
‘A soda?’
‘Please,’ she accepted gratefully, uncapping the bottle and taking a long swallow of iced liquid.
Dominic split the bread rolls in half and began filling them, then handed her one. ‘OK?’
She took a bite, then grinned. ‘Excellent.’ She felt relaxed, despite the intimacy of their solitude. Carefree, she realized. Something she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Deep down she knew she should be wary, on guard against the mood between them taking a subtle shift. As it inevitably would. But not today. Today she needed some light-hearted fun, and the opportunity to get to know Dominic Andrea, the man beneath the projected persona.
‘Tell me about yourself.’
He finished one bread roll and filled another. The look he directed her was piercing, steady. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where you were born, family.’
‘The personal profile?’ he mocked gently. ‘Athens. My parents emigrated to Australia when I was seven. I have two younger sisters, one lives in America, the other in Santorini. My mother returned there five years ago when my father died from a heart attack.’
‘Do you see them often?’
His smile held amusement. ‘Every year.’
Somehow she’d pictured him as self-sufficient and a loner. ‘I guess you have nieces, nephews?’
‘Two of each, aged from three months to six years.’
It wasn’t difficult to imagine him hoisting a squealing child astride his shoulders, or playing ball. Why hadn’t he married and begun a family of his own?
‘How about you?’
It was a fair question, and one she sought to answer with equal brevity. ‘Sydney-born and educated. Two step-siblings on my father’s side. Several from my mother’s numerous marriages.’
She wasn’t willing to provide him with any more facts than he already knew. ‘Let’s walk along the beach.’
She rose to her feet in one graceful movement and glanced at her watch, saw that it was four. ‘What time do you want to leave?’
‘There’s no particular hurry to get back.’ He stacked the remains of their picnic in the cooler, then stored it in the boot together with the umbrella and rug.
Together they traversed the grassy slope down onto the sand and walked to the water’s edge. There was a slight breeze that teased the length of her hair and gently billowed the soft material of her blouse.
The inlet was small, with a rocky outcrop bordering each point as it curved into the sea. Dominic reached for her hand, and she didn’t tug it away, nor did she protest when he indicated they walk the width of the inlet.
They exchanged anecdotes, enjoyed shared laughter, and Francesca was aware of a growing friendship that was quite separate from the sexual attraction simmering between them.
The awareness was always there, sometimes just hovering beneath the surface. And on other occasions, when she became conscious of every breath she took, every beat of her heart. Pa
rt of her wanted to relax and let her emotions go any which way, and be damned to the consequences. Then logic kicked in and persuaded her to take the cautious path.
It was almost five when they returned to the car, and Dominic deactivated the alarm then unlocked the passenger door.
Francesca reached for the latch, then caught her breath as he placed an arm either side of her, caging her in an inescapable trap.
She glimpsed the darkness in his eyes in the one brief second it took for his head to descend, then his mouth was on hers, seeking what she was too afraid to give.
His lips were warm, evocative, and his tongue slid between her teeth before she had the chance to think.
He was patient, when all he wanted to do was possess. Gentle, not willing to frighten. And coaxing, persuasive, waiting for her response.
Francesca felt the betrayal of her body, the rapid pulse-beat, the slight quiver that began deep inside and invaded her limbs. The ache of awareness throbbed, radiating until she felt alive with sensation, and she kissed him back, luxuriating in the brush of his tongue against her own in a light mating dance that soon began to imitate the sexual act itself.
She wanted him closer, much closer, and her arms lifted to encircle his neck as she leant against him.
His arousal was a potent force, and a silent gasp died in her throat as his hand slid down to cup her bottom, pressing her even closer.
Then he began to move, slowly, creating a barely perceptible friction that was so evocative it became almost unbearable to have the barrier of clothes between them.
A hand moved to her breast, outlined its shape, then slipped inside her blouse, beneath the lacy bra to tease the sensitised peak.
Her faint moan was all he needed, and his lips hardened as he took total possession of her mouth.
No one had kissed her with quite this degree of passion. Desire was there, raging almost out of control. His, hers. There was no sense of time or place, just total and complete absorption in each other.
It was a child’s voice, pitched high and piercing, that succeeded in bringing a rapid return to sanity.
Dominic’s breathing was no less heavy than her own as he buried his forehead in her hair. Her skin was warm and moist, as was his as she withdrew her arms and tried to gain leverage against the powerful body pressing far too close to her own.
‘Dominic—’ The protest left her lips and he lifted his head.
‘I know.’ With effort he straightened and unlatched the front passenger door, waited until she slid into the seat, then closed it before crossing to the driver’s side.
Seconds later the engine fired and the car reversed in a semi-circle, then purred towards the gravelled apron bordering the bitumen road.
Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid them into place, grateful for the tinted lenses. Dear heaven, they’d behaved like unrestrained teenagers! Hard after that came the thought of what might have happened had they not been interrupted.
Dominic could feel her withdrawal, and sought to prevent it. With a skilled movement he pulled onto the side of the road and brought the car to a halt.
Her face was pale, her eyes far too large as she turned towards him. ‘Why are you stopping?’
He leaned an arm on the steering wheel and shifted in the seat. ‘Don’t close up and go silent on me.’
‘What do you want me to say? Shame about the timing?’ Her eyes were clear, and there was a faint tilt to her chin. ‘Or perhaps I should attempt to comment about the weather, the scenery, in a banal attempt at conversation.’
‘I wanted you. You wanted me. If there’s any blame, it falls on both of us. Equally. That’s as basic as it gets,’ he said hardily.
‘We were like two animals in heat. In a public area, in full sight of anyone who happened by.’
‘Fully clothed,’ he reminded her. ‘And in control.’
Her mouth opened, then closed again. That had been control? What the hell was he like without it? ‘Let’s forget it, shall we?’
‘Nice try, Francesca.’ His voice was satin-smooth with a hint of dry humour as he fired the engine and eased the car back onto the road.
She wanted to hit him, and would have if the car had been stationary. He should consider himself fortunate that it took thirty minutes to reach his home at Beauty Point. By then her temper had cooled down somewhat.
As soon as the car drew to a halt she slid from the seat, closed the door, and prepared to cross to where her own car was parked.
He took his fill of her set features, the straight back, and her defensive stance. ‘Running away won’t achieve a thing.’
Her eyes sparked with a mixture of residual temper and pride. ‘Maybe not. But right now I’m going home.’
‘I intend to see you again.’
He was right, she discovered shakily. Running away wouldn’t achieve anything. But she needed space, and time to think.
She took the few steps necessary to her car, paused, then turned back to face him. ‘I have a modelling assignment scheduled for Tuesday, and a reasonable night’s sleep is a prerequisite to looking good.’
He followed her to the car, and stood within touching distance. The breath caught in her throat as he took hold of her shoulders and lowered his head down to hers.
She wanted to cry out a verbal negation, but it was too late as his mouth closed over hers in a kiss that tore at the very foundation of her being.
As he meant it to do.
The knowledge frightened her on a sensual level, and made her aware of a primitive alchemy that was shattering in its intensity.
‘Tuesday night. Be here, Francesca,’ Dominic commanded silkily.
She was incapable of uttering so much as a word, and her fingers shook as she unlocked her car. The engine fired seconds later and she cleared the gates, aware her breathing vied in raggedness with her fast-pulsing heartbeat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE Leukaemia Foundation luncheon was well patronised, the venue excellent, and the fashion parade succeeded without a visible hitch.
Behind the scenes it was a different story. Annaliese arrived late and in a dangerous mood, taking pleasure in denigrating a designer, which reduced him in a very short space of time to a quivering wreck. Nothing assigned from Wardrobe pleased her, and she insisted on making changes, which caused frayed tempers, hand-wringing, and mutterings among the ranks of fellow models, not to mention everyone else involved backstage. It wasn’t the worst session Francesca had participated in, but it came close.
Choosing what to wear for the evening took considerable thought, and Francesca cursed as she riffled through the contents of her wardrobe. Relaxed and casual? Or should she aim for sophistication?
The tension knotted inside her stomach as she considered crossing to the phone and cancelling out.
Her fingers momentarily stilled as Dominic’s image came vividly to mind. A curse fell from her lips and her eyes clouded with pensive introspection. What was she doing?
Why did she have the feeling that he would appear at her door within an hour of her failing to appear at his?
After much deliberation, she selected an elegant three-piece silk trouser suit in deep emerald-green. Jewellery was minimal, and she stepped into matching stiletto-heeled pumps.
It was a glorious evening. Clear sky, blue ocean, creating a perfect background for various harbour craft taking the benefit of a slight breeze drifting over the sea.
The worst of the traffic making a daily exodus from the city was over, and Francesca experienced no delays at computer-controlled intersections.
Consequently, it was six thirty when she turned into Dominic’s drive, and within minutes she cleared the gates and drew to a halt close to the main door.
She hadn’t suffered such a wealth of nervous tension since her early modelling days.
Dammit, get a grip, she counselled herself silently as she pressed the doorchimes. Seconds later the door opened, and she summoned a warm smile.
‘He
llo.’
Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly at the huskiness evident, the faint shadows clouding her expression.
Attired in dark tailored trousers and a cream cotton shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he looked relaxed and at ease.
It would be wonderful to move into those arms and lift her face for his kiss. For a wild moment she almost considered doing just that.
‘Bad day?’
Francesca offered a faintly wry smile. ‘I guess you could say that.’
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘What part do you want to hear?’
‘Let me guess. One of the models went ballistic, a designer threw a tantrum, and whoever was in charge of Wardrobe threatened to quit.’ One eye-brow slanted in humour. ‘Close?’
‘Close enough.’
He took hold of her arm and led her into the lounge. ‘Mineral water or wine?’
‘It’s sacrilege, but can I have half of each?’
She felt too restless to sit, and she crossed the room to examine a small painting that had caught her attention on a previous occasion.
It was beautiful in every detail, soft blues, pinks and lilacs, a garden scene. She glimpsed the signature in the lower right corner, and almost forgot to breathe. There was little doubt as to its originality.
‘You admire Monet?’
Dominic had moved silently to stand behind her, and she felt his nearness, sensed the warmth of his body.
She turned slowly to face him. ‘Who doesn’t?’
He handed her a tall frosted glass, and Francesca gestured a silent toast. ‘Salute.’
Dinner was a casual meal of barbecued prawns with a variety of salads, eaten informally on the terrace.
‘Heavenly,’ Francesca accorded as she selected slices of cantaloupe and plump red strawberries from a fruit platter. There was also ice cream. Vanilla, with caramel and double chocolate chip.
She caught his teasing look, and laughed. ‘You remembered.’
His eyes gleamed with latent humour. ‘Will you eat it? That’s the thing.’
She wrinkled her nose at him and selected a spoon. ‘Just watch me!’
The Marriage Campaign (Harlequin Presents) Page 8
