The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN
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floor, and there were soft leather sofas in the large lounge area. A formal dining room, modern kitchen, two bedrooms with en suite facilities, and floor-to-ceiling glass. Ivory drapes flowed on from ivory silk-covered walls, and the marble tiles were ivory too. Framed prints in muted blue, pink, aqua and lilac graced the walls, the colours accented by several plump cushions placed with strategic precision on sofas and single chairs.
Understated elegance combined with the rich tapestry of individual taste. Lived in, and not just a showcase, she assured herself silently as she took her bags through to the main bedroom.
Unpacking could wait until later, she decided as she stripped off her clothes and entered the en suite bathroom.
A leisurely shower did much to ease the strain of too many hours’ flight time, and she riffled through her wardrobe, selecting casual cotton trousers and a matching sleeveless blouse, then thrust bare feet into low-heeled sandals.
Collecting shoulder bag and keys, she rode the lift down to the underground car park.
Sydney traffic was swift, but civilised, and far different from the hazardous volume of cacophonous vehicles that hurtled the city streets of Rome.
Italy. The birthplace of her paternal ancestors and the place where she’d met and married world-renowned racing-driver Mario Angeletti three years ago during a photo shoot in Milan, only to weep at his funeral a few months after their wedding when a spectacular crash claimed his life. Last week she’d stood beside an adjacent grave site as her widowed mother-in-law had been laid to rest.
Nothing could be achieved by focusing on the sadness, she rationalised as she drove to the nearest shopping complex.
Her immediate priorities were to access Australian currency and do some food shopping.
Minutes later she parked the car, then crossed to the bank.
There were several people queuing at the automatic teller machine, and she opted for the bank’s air-conditioned interior rather than wait in the blazing heat, only to give a resigned sigh at the lengthy column of customers waiting for vacant teller locations.
For a moment she considered saving time by utilising her bank card at the foodhall, then dismissed the idea.
The man in front of her moved two paces forward, and her attention was captured by his cologne. A light, musky exclusive brand that aroused a degree of idle speculation over the man who wore it.
Impressive height, dark, well-groomed hair. Broad shoulders, the muscle structure outlined beneath a fitted polo shirt. Tapered waist, well-cut trousers. Tight butt.
Accountant? Lawyer? Probably neither, she mused. Either would have worn the requisite two-piece suit during office hours.
The queue was dissipating more quickly than she’d anticipated, and she watched as he moved to a vacant teller.
Mid-to-late thirties, Francesca judged as she caught his features in profile. The strong jaw, wide-spaced cheekbones and chiselled mouth indicated a European heritage. Italian, maybe? Or Greek?
The adjoining teller became vacant, and she moved to the window, handed over her access card and keyed in her PIN code, requested an amount in cash, then folded the notes into her wallet.
Francesca turned to leave, and collided with a hard male frame. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The startled apology tumbled automatically from her lips, and her eyes widened at the steadying clasp of his hand on her elbow.
Dominic’s scrutiny was unhurried as it slid negligently down her slim form, then travelled back to linger on the soft curve of her mouth before his eyes lifted to capture hers.
There was something about her that teased his memory. Classical fine-boned features, clear creamy skin that was too pale, gold-flecked brown eyes. But it was the hair that fascinated him. Twisted into a knot at her nape, he wondered at its length. And imagined how it would look flowing loose down her back, its vibrant colour spread out against the bedsheets.
It was an evocative image, and one he banked down.
The breath caught in Francesca’s throat at the primitive, almost electric awareness evident, and for endless seconds the room and its occupants faded into obscurity.
Crazy to feel so absorbed Francesca decided shakily as she forced herself to breathe normally.
She came into contact with attractive men almost every day of her life. There was nothing special about this particular man. Merely sexual chemistry, she rationalised, at its most magnetic.
Recognition was one thing. It was quite another to feel the tug of unbidden response.
She didn’t like it, didn’t want it.
And he knew. She could see it in the faint curve of that sensually moulded mouth, the slight darkening of those deep, almost black eyes. His smile deepened fractionally, and he inclined his head in silent acknowledgement as he released her arm.
Francesca kept her expression coolly aloof, and with a deliberately careless movement she slipped her wallet into the capacious shoulder bag, then turned with the intention of exiting the bank.
He was a few paces ahead of her, and it was difficult to ignore the animalistic grace of well-honed muscle and sinew. Leashed power and steel. Of body, and mind.
A man most women would find a challenge to explore, mentally as well as physically. To discover if the hinted knowledge in those dark eyes delivered the promise of sensual excitement beyond measure.
Ridiculous, she dismissed, more shaken than she was prepared to admit by the passage of wayward thought. It was merely a figment of an over-active imagination, stimulated by the effects of a long flight and the need to adjust to a different time-zone.
There was a slight tilt to her chin as she emerged onto the pavement. The sun was bright, and she lowered her sunglasses from their position atop her head, glad of the darkened lenses.
Head high, eyes front, faint smile, practised walk. Automatic reflex, she mused as she crossed the mall.
The foodhall was busy, and she took care selecting fresh fruit before adding a few groceries to the trolley. With various family members and friends to see, breakfast was likely to be the only consistent meal she’d eat in her apartment.
Family. A timely reminder that she should make the first of several calls, she determined wryly as she selected milk from the refrigerated section, added yoghurt and followed it with brie, her favourite cheese.
‘No vices?’ Low-pitched, male, the faintly accented drawl held a degree of mocking amusement.
Francesca was familiar with every ploy. And adept at dealing with them all. She turned slowly, and the light, dismissive words froze momentarily in her throat as she recognised the compelling dark-haired man she’d bumped into at the bank.
He possessed a fascinating mouth, white, even teeth, and a smile that would drive most women wild. Yet there was something about the eyes that condemned artifice. An assessing, almost analytical directness that was disturbing.
Had he followed her? She cast his trolley a cursory glance and noted a collection of the usual food staples. Perhaps not.
Humour was a useful weapon. The edges of her mouth tilted slightly. ‘Ice cream,’ she acknowledged with a trace of flippancy. ‘Vanilla, with caramel and double chocolate chip.’
Dark eyes gleamed, and his deep husky laughter did strange things to her equilibrium.
‘Ah, the lady has a sweet tooth.’
There was a ring on her left hand, and he wondered at his stab of disappointment. His cutting edge style of wheeling and dealing in the business arena hadn’t stemmed from hesitation. He didn’t hesitate now.
He reached forward and placed a light finger against the wide filigree gold band. ‘Does this have any significance?’
Francesca snatched her hand from the trolley. ‘Whether it does or not is none of your business.’