The Marriage Campaign (Harlequin Presents)

by Helen Bianchin

  ‘You take the shower first. I’ll pack.’

  ‘We’ll share.’

  A droll reply rose to her lips, then died. It was OK to be sassy in a public place, but here in the confines of a private suite it was a different matter. ‘There’s breakfast, and a plane to catch,’ she managed lightly. ‘With not much time to spare.’

  ‘Five minutes of sex in the shower isn’t my idea of satisfaction.’ He caught her close, sliding his hands up to cup her face as he lowered his head. ‘And taking a later plane isn’t an option.’ His mouth hovered over hers. ‘So this will have to do.’

  Warm, and devastatingly sensual, his mouth plundered at will, taking, giving, until she sank in against him, wanting more, much more.

  When he finally broke the kiss, she was incapable of moving, and he looked down at her slightly swollen lips, the glazed, almost dazed expression in those incredibly brown eyes, and smiled.

  ‘The shower,’ he insisted gently, urging her towards the bathroom.

  I’ve slept with him, had sex with him. What’s the big deal about sharing a shower? It isn’t as if this is the first time you’ve shared a shower with a man.

  With Mario, it had been fun and laughter.

  But this was different. Way, way different.

  There would be nothing humorous about sharing a shower with this man. Evocative heat pulsed through her body at the mere thought of standing a breath apart from his naked, virile frame.

  She watched as he pushed down the knit boxer shorts, together with the thin black silk briefs beneath them.

  Without a word she undid her bikini bra strap and discarded the scrap of Lycra, then stepped out of the matching briefs.

  Water cascaded onto the tiled floor and she reached for the soap, studiously avoiding eye contact—hell, body contact—with Dominic.

  Impossible, of course. His movements were vigorous, his use of the soap generous, and he made no attempt at modesty. Nor did his state of arousal appear to faze him.

  Francesca liked to think she was adept at dealing with any situation, but this one left her fraught with nerves.

  As soon as Dominic exited the shower cubicle Francesca reached for the shampoo, lathered and rinsed, then closed the water dial.

  With a towel fastened round her slim form, she used the portable blowdrier on her hair, then quickly applied basic make-up and moved into the bedroom to scoop up fresh underwear and a change of clothes.

  Ten minutes later she was ready, dressed in cream tailored trousers and matching top. A long silk scarf in brilliant shades of peacock-green and blue added a dash of colour.

  ‘We’ll leave our bags with the concierge while we have breakfast.’ Dominic slid the zip fastener closed on his, waiting while she added a few last minute items to hers, then caught one in each hand.

  The lagoon restaurant was almost empty, consequently service was swift. Fresh orange juice, coffee, followed by cereal, fruit, toast, scrambled eggs and mushrooms.

  A limousine was waiting for them, their bags stowed in the boot, as they emerged from the foyer.

  Flashbulbs, one after the other in quick sequence, took them unawares.

  Francesca caught sight of yesterday’s fashion shoot photographer, and swore softly beneath cover of an artificial smile.

  “‘Francesca Angeletti and prominent Sydney entrepreneur Dominic Andrea check out of Gold Coast Sheraton Mirage Resort together. Society’s hottest new couple?” Good caption, don’t you think?’

  So he’d done his homework. She’d suspected he might make it a mission, simply to get back at her. She didn’t bother commenting, merely stepped into the rear of the limousine ahead of Dominic, glad of tinted windows and the driver’s skill as he cleared the resort’s entrance in record time.

  With no luggage to check in, they moved directly through to the departure lounge and boarded the Boeing jet immediately prior to take-off.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven,’ Dominic indicated as he dropped her off outside her apartment building. At her blank look, he prompted, ‘We’re joining Gabbi and Benedict at the theatre, remember?’

  The car slid away from the kerb before Francesca had time to say a word. Minutes later she rode the lift up to her apartment, checked her answering machine for messages, collected three faxes and sorted through her mail.

  Then she walked through to her bedroom and unpacked her bag, her expression pensive as she reflected on just how she was going to deal with Dominic.

  She had the strangest feeling that the ball wasn’t in her court at all, and that when it came to keeping score he was way ahead of her.

  The thought stayed with her throughout the afternoon, bothered her as she showered and dressed for the evening ahead, and endorsed her decision to take control of the situation.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FRANCESCA. swept her hair into a smooth knot above her head and secured it with pins, then she completed her make-up and crossed to the walk-in wardrobe where she removed a gown in deep ruby red velvet. Its style and cut gave credit to a little known designer who, in Francesca’s opinion, would soon earn kudos in the international arena. There were matching heeled pumps and an evening purse, and she added a diamond pendant and attached diamond studs to each ear.

  The intercom buzzed right on time, and she reached for the receiver. ‘Dominic? I’m on my way down.’

  He was waiting for her in the foyer, and the sight of him took her breath away. Attired in a black evening suit, with pin-pleated white cotton shirt, he looked every inch the sophisticated social dilettante.

  Yet only a fool would fail to discern the leashed power beneath the surface. Or miss the faint ruthless edge that set him apart from most men.

  A valuable ally, she acknowledged silently as she slid into the front passenger seat of the gleaming Lexus. And a feared enemy.

  Gabbi’s husband Benedict possessed similar qualities, she reflected as Dominic eased the car off the bricked apron and onto the road. Both were hardened by the vicariousness of a cut-throat business world and the men and women who inhabited it.

  Traffic into the city flowed relatively smoothly, and Gabbi and Benedict joined them at a prearranged meeting place within minutes of their arrival.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ Francesca accorded softly as she brushed her cheek to Gabbi’s.

  ‘Same goes,’ Gabbi responded with a quiet chuckle.

  ‘Shall we mix and mingle, drink in hand?’ Benedict queried. ‘Or would you prefer to go directly into the auditorium?’

  ‘Dominic—darling. How are you?’

  Francesca heard the breathy feminine voice and turned, interested to see who would project such an intimate greeting.

  Petite and blonde, it was the same woman Dominic had been deep in conversation with at Leon’s gallery a few weeks ago.

  Francesca, unprepared for the arrow of jealousy, watched as the blonde clung a few seconds too long as Dominic brushed his lips to her cheek. The beautifully lacquered pink nails lingered as they trailed down his jacket, and the smile, although brilliant, didn’t quite mask the edge of sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Simone,’ Dominic said gently. ‘You know Gabbi and Benedict. Have you met Francesca?’

  ‘No. Although I’ve often admired you on the catwalk and in the glossies.’

  The lights flickered, signalling patrons to enter the auditorium and take their seats.

  ‘Perhaps we could have a drink together some time?’ Simone ventured wistfully as they parted.

  Francesca noted that although Dominic’s smile held warmth, he didn’t commit himself to an answer, and she wondered at the sudden spurt of anger that rose to the surface and made her want to demand what Simone meant to him.

  Their seats were excellent, and, although Francesca had seen a stunning cast production in London some time ago, the Australian version was excellent, and as always the music, the theme, tugged at her emotions.

  When the curtain came down on the first act it was Gabbi who suggested they move into the
lobby for a drink.

  There was an underlying hum of excitement evident among the mingling patrons, several of whom were society matrons determined to be seen by the few photographers commissioned to cover the night.

  Francesca, well-used to the careless and frequent use of the ‘darling’ greetings, thought if she heard just one more in the next five minutes, she’d scream.

  ‘Damn.’

  Francesca heard the softly voiced curse and looked at Gabbi, raised one eyebrow, then lowered it in full comprehension as she saw Annaliese making her way towards them through the crowded lobby.

  ‘Want to escape to the powder room?’

  ‘And spoil her fun?’

  ‘You mean we get to stay and watch?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Gabbi said firmly, slipping her hand into Benedict’s large one.

  Francesca watched as Gabbi’s husband cast his wife a gleaming glance and lifted her hand to his lips.

  ‘Benedict. Wonderful to see you,’ Annaliese purred as she reached them. She turned towards Dominic and cast him a smile that would have melted most men into an ignominious puddle. ‘Dominic. So kind of you to take pity on Francesca.’

  Grrr. Kittens played. Cats fought. ‘All alone, Annaliese?’ Francesca queried smoothly.

  ‘Of course not, darling.’ The smile was saccharine sweet. ‘How was the Gold Coast? I believe you became embroiled with a certain photographer at the Mirage? Word has it your reaction was...’ She paused for maximum effect. ‘Physical.’

  Francesca sharpened metaphorical claws and aimed for the kill. ‘Not nearly as physical as you were in Rome, or Paris. And then there was that much publicised debacle in Milan, if I recall?’ She arched one eyebrow and offered a slight smile that was totally lacking in humour. ‘Touché. Annaliese?’

  ‘I think we’ve each run the media’s gauntlet at one time or another,’ Benedict indicated smoothly.

  It was perhaps as well the next act was due to commence. Patrons were beginning to drift back into the auditorium, and anything she might have said was lost as the music started and the lights began to dim.

  The finale gained enthusiastic and well-deserved audience applause, and at its close they rose to their feet and joined patrons exiting the auditorium.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere for supper,’ Benedict suggested as they gained the car park. ‘Dominic, Francesca? You’ll join us, won’t you?’

  ‘Where?’ Gabbi queried, and Francesca caught Benedict’s faint smile as he responded.

  ‘Double Bay.’ The smile broadened. ‘I doubt Annaliese will consider following us there.’

  Or Simone, Francesca added silently, and admonished herself for being uncharitable.

  It was almost midnight when Dominic brought the car to a halt in an allocated bay outside her apartment building.

  Francesca reached for the door latch. ‘Thanks for a pleasant evening.’

  ‘We slept together last night, and made love the night before—not to mention this morning.’ He caught hold of her chin and tilted it towards him. ‘Tonight you want to dismiss me?’

  A tiny shiver feathered through her body. ‘I’m not sure I like where this is leading.’

  ‘Define “this”.’

  She was afraid—of him, herself. ‘You. Me.’ Her eyes met his bravely. ‘Soon I fly to Europe.’ She felt his thumb trace her lower lip, and sensed its slight tremble at his touch. ‘I won’t be back in Australia for several months.’

  ‘So...no strings?’ Dominic queried in a dangerously silky voice. ‘Just enjoy each other, responsibly. Alternate nights in your apartment or mine, as and when the mood takes us? Then we kiss each other goodbye and say, Hey, that was great, let’s do it again some time?’ He was icily angry, so much so that he wanted to shake her, hard. ‘Is that all it meant to you?’

  She could end it now, she decided dully. Say the careless words that would ensure she walked away and never saw him again.

  It was what she should do—if she wanted to retain her emotional sanity.

  Acute pain pierced her body and punctured her soul at the thought of never experiencing the touch of his hands, his lips grazing over her skin, or the feel of his powerful body possessing her own.

  ‘No.’

  For a few mindless seconds he didn’t say anything. He was content to brush gentle fingers across one satin-smooth cheek then thread them in her hair.

  ‘Simone threw you off balance?’

  Was she that transparent? ‘It’s obvious she cares deeply for you.’

  ‘We were engaged briefly in our early twenties when I was a struggling artist hell-bent on resisting my father’s efforts to join him in business. Simone disliked the idea of travelling around Europe for two years on a pittance.’ He shrugged. ‘We argued, I walked, and Simone married someone else.’

  Francesca looked at him carefully in the dim light. ‘So now you’re simply good friends.’

  Maybe there was something in her voice, the intonation she gave, for he smiled. ‘Simone is aware it can never be anything else.’

  Was that supposed to be reassurance? The thought of him arousing another woman to a state of mindless abandon, his strong body urging her towards ecstasy, caused pain of a kind that made her feel ill.

  ‘It’s late.’ She released the latch and opened the door. He slid out from behind the wheel and crossed round to clasp her arm. ‘Dominic—’

  A finger touched her lips. ‘Tell me you want to be alone, and I’ll go.’

  She almost said yes. Then she thought how darned good it felt to be held in his arms, to go to sleep knowing he would be there whenever she woke through the night.

  It was a tantalising vision. Part of her wanted to accept what they had together without questioning where it might lead or how it would end. Simply live for the now, without pondering what the future might bring.

  She wanted the sweet sorcery of his touch, the sensual magic no other man had been able to evoke.

  ‘You get to make breakfast,’ Francesca capitulated lightly.

  He extended a hand for her keys, and once through security they rode the lift together in silence.

  Why did she feel so nervous, for heaven’s sake? And alive, so gloriously wonderfully alive.

  Such a complex mix of emotions, she acknowledged on entering the apartment.

  Out of habit she slipped off her shoes, then crossed the lounge to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

  He shrugged off his jacket, folded it over a chair and followed her. ‘Please. Black, one sugar.’

  She took down two cups and set them on saucers. She shouldn’t feel awkward, but she did. Maybe because it was her apartment, her territory, and not the neutrality of a hotel suite.

  Theatre seemed a safe topic, and they discussed other shows they’d each enjoyed, and a few dramatic productions.

  Dominic replaced his empty cup, removed her own, and held out his hand. ‘Turn off the lights and come admire the view with me.’

  He looped his arm over her shoulders as they reached the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling glass. A touch on the remote control module and the drapes slid back to reveal a panoramic vista. Pinpricks of electric light formed a magical pattern that extended as far as the eye could see.

  Francesca made no protest when he turned her towards him, and her arms lifted, encircling his neck as his head lowered down to hers.

  Mesmeric, gentle, he made kissing a sensual feast, building up a slow heat until she burned with need. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her through to the bedroom.

  Her fingers were feverish as she sought to free the buttons on his shirt, and she dragged the material free from his trousers, then reached for his belt. She didn’t want any barrier restricting access to his naked flesh. Or her own. And seconds later the velvet gown slid to the floor, followed by a gossamer-fine lace teddy.

  They tumbled down onto the bed, and she voiced a faint protest as Dominic reached out and snapped on the bedside lamp.

  ‘I want to see you,’ he grow
led. ‘I want you to see me.’

  Francesca was past caring whether there was light or the comfort of darkness. His fingers brushed a path up her inner thigh and traced a fiery pattern before sinking into the moist tunnel in a simulation of the act itself.

  Her body arched beneath him, seeking the solace he offered, then she cried out when blind need drove her over the edge.

  Dominic slid into her with one powerful movement, matching each thrust to a timeless rhythm as she urged him harder and faster until they reached the pinnacle, poised there for seemingly long seconds before soaring towards a shattering climax that left them both labouring for breath.

  Francesca lay limp and totally enervated, her skin moist with sweat. In her mind she’d cried out, soft, guttural sounds that had built in frequency and pitch until she was no longer conscious of where or who she was.

  Dear heaven, she hadn’t realised, hadn’t known it was possible to lose oneself so totally in the sexual act.

  To know your emotional sanity, your very existence was dependent on another caused fear of a kind she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ Dominic commanded softly.

  Francesca felt the drift of his fingers as they brushed her cheek, and wasn’t sure she wanted to obey. For then she would have to face him, visually, physically, and acknowledge what they’d shared together.

  ‘Tell me how you feel.’

  She couldn’t find the words even to begin to describe the magic euphoric state of her body and mind. Where did she start? What did she say? That her skin was a mass of acutely sensitised nerveendings so highly attuned to him that it reacted to his touch as if it had received an electrical charge? Radiating heat through veins and nerve fibres to the centre of her sensual being until her entire body sang like a piano tuning fork?

  Or perhaps she could attempt to explain the incredible meshing of mind with body? How on some deep mental level there was recognition of a kind that was like some incredible discovery, almost as if they’d known each other in another era, a former age.