The Marriage Campaign (Harlequin Presents)

by Helen Bianchin

  The fact there were also many disadvantages couldn’t be discounted, but this morning she was grateful for Laraine’s organisational skills as the limousine headed towards Surfers Paradise.

  Long, sandy beaches, gently rolling surf, deep blue ocean, and at this early morning hour a soft azure sky. The many highrise apartment buildings appeared like concrete sentinels in the distance, and as they drew close she could sense the pulse of a thriving industry dedicated to the tourist dollar.

  The Sheraton Mirage was a luxury low-rise hotel, with wonderful views and access to a uniquely designed shopping complex and marina.

  Unpacking was achieved in minutes, and Francesca looked longingly at the large bed, then checked her watch. She had a few hours before she needed to present herself behind the scenes in the grand ballroom downstairs. Time she could kill by browsing the shopping complex, or, what was more sensible, catching up on some lost sleep.

  No contest. The bed won. And she quickly slid out of her shoes, discarded her clothes, slipped on a wrap, set the alarm, then lay down.

  Not such a good idea, she decided a short while later as she dwelt on the hours she’d spent in another bed.

  The only precautions taken had been Dominic’s use of prophylactic protection.

  Dear heaven, it had been good. Better than good. She tried to come up with a superlative, and failed. Her body still ached from his invasion, and her skin burned as she vividly recalled every detail.

  He had taken his time, seducing, making everything a feast of the senses.

  To become involved with a man like Dominic Andrea was dangerous, for it would be all too easy to become addicted to his brand of lovemaking, to him.

  She’d given her heart once, and had it broken. She never wanted to feel that bereft again.

  Francesca must have dozed, for she woke to the sound of the alarm and was surprised that she’d managed to sleep at all. A shower would refresh her, then she’d tend to her make-up, her hair, dress, and present herself downstairs.

  There was a bowl of fresh fruit in her room, and she selected a banana, peeled and bit into it en route to the bathroom.

  The Gold Coast Mirage was built right on the beach, with an expanse of marble floor, a stunning indoor waterfall, and a massive pool with an island bar.

  The ballroom was situated on the ground floor, and one glance was all it took to determine the social glitterati had turned out in force.

  The luncheon was a tremendous success, with capacity seating. Backstage chaos was minimal. There were few mishaps, and none that gained public notice.

  At last she was able to escape, albeit briefly, to nibble on some finger food before the scheduled photographic shoot was due to proceed.

  The photographer was over-friendly—and, worse, a toucher. Whatever image the assistant instructed Francesca to present he wanted to change—personally.

  After two hours of posing in various parts of the hotel and around the pool, Francesca was almost at screaming point. He was too much in her face, and she wanted to tell him so. Almost did, on one occasion, and only barely held her tongue.

  At last the final shot was taken, and she could escape to her suite for a brief respite before it was time to change and show up for the cocktail party.

  Classic black, long straight skirt split to mid-thigh, a black sequinned singlet top, black tights, high-heeled stiletto pumps, hair piled up on top of her head with a few loose tendrils falling beside each ear, a wide gold necklace and matching bracelet. Retouched make-up.

  Francesca snatched up a slim black evening purse, slipped the long gold chain over one shoulder, collected her key, and made her way to the lounge bar.

  One hour, tops, then she’d retire gracefully and return to her suite, where she’d order a room service meal, then shower and fall into bed.

  Several more guests began to wander into the lounge, and there were introductions, polite small talk, as well as a few informal speeches while canapés were served.

  The photographer gravitated to her side and made such a nuisance of himself that when he tried to get too close she aimed her stiletto heel and brought it down on his instep.

  His face whitened, then flared blood red. ‘Bitch.’

  Without a word she turned away from him, located the hostess, then the organiser, and exited the lounge bar.

  She reached her suite, and once inside put the safety chain in position. Then she leaned wearily against the door.

  Damn. She hadn’t needed aggravation at the end of a long and difficult day. Following a sexually active, sleepless night.

  An audible groan escaped from her lips, and she levered herself away from the door and crossed the room to the bar fridge, where she selected cold bottled water, removed the cap, and poured the contents into a glass.

  Francesca kicked off her shoes, removed her ear-studs, then carrying the glass into the bathroom, she began cleansing her face of make-up.

  A sharp double knock on the outer door came as a surprise. She had yet to order room service, and it was way too early for the maid to turn down the bed.

  She wiped her hands on the towel and crossed the room. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Dominic.’

  Dominic?

  Francesca opened the door a few inches. ‘What are you doing here?’ The words slipped out before she could prevent them, and she saw one eyebrow lift

  ‘This is not the most ideal way to have a conversation,’ he drawled, and she immediately freed the chain.

  Attired in tailored dark trousers and an indigo cotton shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he exuded raw masculinity.

  ‘I guess you just happened to be in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in.’ As an attempt at flippancy, it failed miserably.

  She didn’t look as if she had weathered the day any better than he had. Fragile, definitely—and, if he wasn’t mistaken, feeling acutely vulnerable.

  He lowered his head and kissed her with gentle thoroughness, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her again.

  When his mouth lifted fractionally from her own, she ventured, ‘I should ask what you’re doing here.’

  He traced light kisses along her lower lip, then caught it between his teeth and bit gently. ‘Should you?’ His lips moved to one ear and trailed a path down her neck to one sensitive hollow, savoured it, and began exploring her throat. ‘I didn’t want to spend the night without you.’

  Well, that certainly spelled it out And momentarily rendered her speechless.

  His soft laughter was almost her undoing. ‘Did you manage to get any sleep at all?’

  Francesca rolled her eyes expressively. ‘I look that bad, huh?’

  He lifted a hand and trailed fingers along the edge of her jaw. ‘Slightly fragile.’ He lowered his head and brushed his lips against her own.

  ‘I think you can safely say that’s an understatement.’

  She felt rather than saw his faint smile. ‘Then I think I should feed you.’

  The sensual heat of his body was matched by the increasing desire in her own. If they remained in the suite they probably wouldn’t get to eat at all.

  ‘Let’s walk across the road and choose one of the several restaurants overlooking the Broadwater,’ she determined, and saw his lips curve with amusement.

  ‘Safety among a crowd?’

  She offered a witching grin. ‘Yes.’ She moved a few paces, slid her feet into heeled pumps, collected an evening bag, and tucked her hand in his.

  They chose Saks, and within minutes they were seated at a window table. Soon the sky would darken and night would fall, but until it did they had a clear view of boats lining the marina and people strolling along the wooden boardwalk.

  Francesca ordered a starter, a main course, and a delicious dessert.

  It was an excellent meal, eaten leisurely, and afterwards they took their time over coffee. Then Dominic settled the bill and they took the overhead footbridge to the hotel.

  No sooner had they entered the main lobby than a ma
le voice announced, ‘Well, well, look who’s here.’

  The photographer. Slightly inebriated, and, if Francesca wasn’t mistaken, out for vengeance.

  He positioned his camera and reeled off some film. ‘Our famed ice maiden, and escort.’ His smile was vaguely feral as he subjected Dominic to a raking appraisal before focusing his gaze on her. ‘No wonder you skipped the party, darling.’

  With camera in hand, he held a powerful weapon. Francesca pinned a smile in place and kept walking.

  ‘Both staying here together?’

  He followed them towards the guest wing, and ventured past the ‘Private—Guests Only’ glass sign.

  Dominic paused, then turned so that Francesca was shielded behind him. ‘One step further and I’ll alert the management and have charges filed against you for harassment.’

  ‘I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go do it some place else.’

  When they reached her suite Dominic held out his hand for her key. ‘Is there any need to initiate damage control?’

  Francesca preceded him into the room. ‘A phone call to my agent.’ She tossed her evening purse down onto the nightstand and lifted the handset. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’

  Five minutes later she replaced the receiver and turned to find Dominic watching her.

  ‘You’ve encountered this sort of problem before?’

  The stalker, the pervert, the fanatic. The nightmare no one wanted.

  Only her father knew about the letters she’d received for months after Mario’s death. Words cut from newspapers, magazines, pasted onto blank paper and sent through the post. Compiled by a sick but shrewd mind. It had taken six months for the police to pin him down, and in that time she’d learnt to defend herself. The down and dirty kind of fighting that wasn’t taught in any dojo.

  Dominic caught the fleeting shadows, calculated the reason, and decided not to pursue it. There would come a time when she trusted him enough to share, and he could wait.

  Francesca met his dark, discerning gaze with equanimity. ‘The photographer wasn’t a problem, merely a nuisance.’ She crossed to a single chair and sank into it.

  Last night she’d shared every intimacy imaginable with this man. Now she didn’t know how to proceed. Or even if she should. A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat.

  She wasn’t aware of him moving. Yet his hands rested on her shoulders, soothing, gently massaging the cricks, the stiffness out of tense muscles.

  It felt like heaven. ‘Don’t stop,’ she begged, and, closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the magic of his touch.

  Minutes later she groaned in protest when he lifted her into his arms and deposited her on the bed. With deft movements he dispensed with her shoes, then her skirt. Next came her top.

  ‘Dominic—’

  He drew the bedcovers back, then pressed her forward to lie on her stomach. ‘Just relax and enjoy.’

  Francesca thought every muscle in her body would melt, and after the initial few seconds she simply pillowed her head on her arms.

  It was impossible to fight against the tiredness as she reached a state of total relaxation and drifted to sleep.

  She didn’t feel the mattress depress slightly as Dominic carefully eased himself to his feet. Nor was she aware that he pulled the covers over her, or that he divested himself of his clothes, crossed round to the other side of the bed and slid between the sheets.

  Francesca stirred, sensed the comfort of warm flesh and muscle, and in the depth of her subconscious mind she didn’t question it. Merely shifted slightly to seek closer contact. And sighed with satisfaction as fingers lightly drifted the length of her spine.

  It was a dream. A hazy, lazy vision she didn’t want to lose. The faint musky male scent mingling with a subtle remnant of cologne merely added another dimension.

  Lips grazed her cheek, then slipped to nuzzle the hollow at the edge of her neck. Mmm, that felt good. So good, she almost purred as the lips trailed to her breast, savoured, then suckled gently before sliding slowly to the curve of her waist where they traced a path to her navel, settled, succoured, and continued down over the soft concave of her belly.

  Francesca moved restlessly with anticipatory pleasure, then groaned her disappointment when they began a caressing pattern close to her hip.

  Fingers teased the short curls guarding her feminine core, then slid inward to stroke the sensitive clitoris.

  This was one hell of an erotic dream, she mused as sensation built to a slow ache and began spiralling through her body. So acute that it seemed much too real to belong in anyone’s subconscious mind.

  The sweep of a hair-roughened leg against her own provided the catalyst that broke the dream and plunged her into reality.

  There was a faint click, then the room flooded with light.

  Francesca’s lips parted, then closed, and her eyes felt incredibly large as she stared into masculine features mere inches from her own.

  A dark shadow covered his jaw, a night’s growth of beard that lent a raw sexuality to broad bone structure. His eyes were warm, dark, and incredibly sensual.

  ‘Good morning,’ Dominic said gently as he trailed a forefinger down the slope of her nose, then slipped down to trace the soft fullness of her mouth.

  What followed was a sensual tasting—a prelude to slow and languorous loving when heightened senses flared to fever pitch, only to subside in a long sensuous aftermath.

  ‘What time is it?’

  Dominic angled his wrist in order to read the luminous dial on his watch. ‘Ten past seven. Want me to order room service?’

  She was hungry, and said so. At the sudden gleam in those dark eyes she quickly qualified, ‘For food.’

  His smile melted her bones, and he leaned forward to brush her lips with his own, then slid from the bed and stood to his feet. Unashamedly naked, his superbly muscled frame was sleek and potently male.

  Far too potent, Francesca reflected as she watched him walk through to the en suite bathroom. Wide shoulders, a well-defined waist, tight buttocks, and long, muscular legs.

  He moved with the natural ease of a physically fit man who was comfortable with his body. Assured, confident, and animalistically graceful, combining strength and power that was beautiful on an intensely male level.

  As soon as the door closed behind him she pushed aside the bedclothes and reached for her robe.

  Ten minutes later they walked through to the beach. White sandy foreshore and startlingly blue sea stretched as far as the eye could see to the south as the shoreline hugged the land mass.

  At this hour of the morning the air held a clean freshness, warmed by the sun but without the intensity of heat that would follow as the day progressed.

  ‘Is this going to be a brisk aerobic walk or do we stroll?’ Dominic enquired as they cleared the perimeter of crunchy dry sand and gained the level, tightly packed variety fringing an outgoing tide.

  Francesca cast him a considering look, taking in the casual shorts, the shirt slung carelessly across his shoulders and knotted at his chest, the peaked cap and the joggers. ‘Aerobic,’ she determined, and set the pace.

  He shortened his stride to hers, and she shot him a winning smile.

  ‘An attempt to expend any excess energy?’

  ‘Mine or yours?’

  His laughter was low and husky. ‘Both, I imagine.’ The dark, gleaming glance he threw her held more than humour, and she fought against the surge of heat flooding her veins.

  He was getting too close. Much too close for her peace of mind. Invading her space, her time, and infiltrating her emotions. With a controlled determination set to destroy each and every one of her carefully erected defences.

  She had a strong, instinctive feeling that with Dominic Andrea it would be all or nothing. And she wasn’t anywhere near ready to examine all.

  The beach was far from isolated. People walked, jogged, some casually, others with an intensity that spelled adherence to a fitn
ess regime.

  They reached Narrowneck, so named for the narrow strip of land separating river and ocean at that particular point, and followed the Esplanade into the heart of Surfers Paradise.

  Tall, high-rise apartment buildings were positioned one after the other, and there were numerous outdoor cafés and ice cream parlours geared to attract the tourists.

  ‘Want to stop for coffee?’

  Francesca spared him a sweeping glance. ‘And croissants?’ she added, feeling ravenously hungry.

  He smiled as he caught her hand in his and led her onto the boardwalk.

  ‘A pre-breakfast snack?’

  She wrinkled her nose at him and laughed. The day seemed suddenly brighter, and it had nothing to do with the sunshine.

  They headed for the nearest caf6, took an outdoor table, and Dominic ordered from the waitress.

  A large table umbrella protected them from the sun’s encroaching heat, and Francesca sipped the ruinously strong brew as she idly viewed the ocean and the few people enjoying an early-morning swim.

  He watched as she split open a croissant and spread each half with jam. She looked refreshed, alert. Yet he sensed the slight defensive edge beneath her smile. If he wasn’t careful, she’d attempt to put him at arm’s length.

  ‘Want to do the return trip by sand or pavement?’ Dominic queried when they had finished.

  ‘Sand,’ she said, without hesitation, and he directed her a lazy grin.

  ‘Not afraid I might toss you into the ocean?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

  They walked at a measured pace, and reached the hotel complex in good time. Francesca skirted the large outdoor pool, sank down on her haunches to remove her joggers, stripped down to a bikini, then slid into the cool water.

  Heaven. For a few minutes she simply let her body cool, then she followed Dominic with a few leisurely laps before levering herself onto the ledge.

  A towel was placed in her hand by a diligent hotel employee, and she blotted the excess moisture from her skin, aware Dominic was mirroring her actions. She stopped to collect her outer clothes, wrapped a towel round her slender curves sarongwise, then walked ahead of Dominic to her suite.