The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN
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She wanted to turn and walk away, but something made her stay. ‘Give me one reason why I should?’
‘Because I don’t poach another man’s possession.’ The words held a lethal softness that bore no hint of apology, and his expression held a dispassionate watchfulness as she struggled to restrain her anger.
Dignity was the key, and she drew in a calming breath, then slowly raked her eyes over his tall frame from head to foot, and back again.
‘Attractive packaging,’ she accorded with silky detachment. She met his gaze squarely and held it. ‘However, I have no interest in the contents.’
‘Pity,’ he drawled. ‘The discovery could prove fascinating.’ There was droll humour apparent, and something else she couldn’t define. ‘For both of us.’
‘In your dreams,’ she dismissed sweetly. The check-out lane was located at the far end of the aisle, and she had everything she needed.
He made no effort to stop her as she moved away, yet for one infinitesimal moment she’d had the feeling he’d seen into the depths of her soul, acknowledged her secrets, staked a claim and retreated, sure of his ability to conquer.
Insane, Francesca mentally chastised herself as she loaded carrybags into the boot and returned the trolley. Then she slid in behind the wheel of her car and switched on the ignition.
She was tired, wired. The first was the direct result of a long flight; she owed the second to a man she never wanted to meet again.
Re-entering the apartment, she stowed her purchases into the refrigerator and pantry. Rejecting coffee or tea, she filled a glass with iced water and drank half the contents before crossing to the telephone.
Fifteen minutes later she’d connected with each parent and made arrangements to see them. Next, she punched in the digits necessary to connect with Laraine, her agent.
Business. For the past three years it had been her salvation. Travelling the world, an elegant clotheshorse for the top fashion designers. She had the face, the figure, and the essential élan. But for how long would she remain one of the coveted few? More importantly, did she want to?
There were young waifs clamouring in the wings, eager for fame and fortune. Designers always had an eye for the look, and the excitement of a fresh new face.
Fashion was fickle. Haute couture a viperish nest of designer ego fed by prestigious clientele, the press, and the copy merchants.
Yet amongst the outrageousness, the hype and the glitter, there was pleasure in displaying the visual artistry of imaginative design. Satisfaction when it all came together to form something breathtakingly spectacular.
It made the long flights, living out of a suitcase in one hotel room or another, cramped backstage changing rooms, the panic that invariably abounded behind the scenes worthwhile. A cynic wouldn’t fail to add that an astronomical modelling fee helped lessen the pain.
Financial security was something Francesca had enjoyed for as long as she could remember. As a child, there had been a beautiful home, live-in help, and expensive private schooling. Yet, while her mother had perpetuated the fairytale existence, her father had ensured his daughter’s feet remained firmly on the ground.
There were investments, property, and an enviable blue chip share portfolio, the income from which precluded a need to supplement it in any way.
Yet the thought of becoming a social butterfly with no clear purpose to the day had never appealed.
Perhaps it was her father’s inherited Italian genes that kept the adrenalin flowing and provided the incentive to put every effort into a chosen project. ‘Failure’ didn’t form part of her father’s vocabulary.
Which brought Francesca back to the present. ‘A week’s grace,’ she insisted, and listened to her agent’s smooth plea to reconsider. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll confer over coffee. Your office. Shall we say ten?’
She replaced the receiver, stretched her arms high, and felt the weariness descend. She’d make something light for dinner, then she’d undress and slip beneath the sheets of her comfortable bed.
CHAPTER TWO
FRANCESCA leaned across the desk in her agent’s elegantly appointed office and traced a list of proposed modelling assignments with a milk-opal-lacquered nail.
‘Confirm the cancer charity luncheon, the Leukaemia Foundation dinner. I’ll do Tony’s photo shoot, and I’ll judge the junior modelling award, attend the gala lunch on the Gold Coast.’ She paused, considered three invitations and dismissed two. ‘The invitation-only showing at Margo’s Double Bay boutique.’ She picked up her glass of iced water and took an appreciative sip. ‘That’s it.’
‘Anique Sorensen is being persuasive and persistent,’ Laraine relayed matter-of-factly.
The fact that Francesca was known to donate half her appearance fee whenever she flew home between seasons invariably resulted in numerous invitations requesting her presence at various functions, all in aid of one charity or another.
‘When?’
‘Monday, Marriott Hotel.’
Tell me it’s for a worthwhile cause, and I’ll kill you.’
‘Then I’m dead. It’s for the Make-A-Wish Foundation® of Australia.’
‘Damn,’ Francesca accorded inelegantly, wrinkling her nose in silent admonition of Laraine’s widening smile.
‘But you’ll do it,’ the agent said with outward satisfaction.
‘Yes.’ Francesca stood to her feet, collected her bag and slid the strap over one shoulder. She had a particular sympathy for terminally ill children. ‘Fax me the details.’
‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’
‘A secluded beach,’ she enlightened. ‘A good book, and the mobile phone.’
‘Don’t forget the block-out sunscreen.’
Francesca’s smile held a teasing quality. ‘Got it.’
An hour later she sat munching an apple beneath a sun umbrella on a northern beach gazing over the shoreline to the distant horizon.
There was a faint breeze wafting in from the ocean, cooling the sun’s heat. She could smell the salt-spray, and there was the occasional cry from a lonely seagull as it explored the damp sand at the edge of an outgoing tide.
The solitude soothed and relaxed her, smoothing the edges of mind and soul.
Reflections were often painful, and with a determined effort Francesca extracted her book and read for an hour, then she retrieved a banana and a peach from her bag and washed both down with a generous amount of bottled water.
Phone calls. The first of which was to a dear friend with whom she’d shared boarding school during emotionally turbulent years when each had battled a stepmother and the effects of a dysfunctional family relationship.
She punched in the number, got past Reception, then a secretary, and chuckled at Gabbi’s enthusiastic greeting and a demand as to when they would get together.
‘Tonight, if you and Benedict are attending Leon’s exhibition.’
The flamboyant gallery owner was known for his soirées, invitations to which featured high on the social calendar among the city’s fashionable élite.
‘You are? That’s great,’ Francesca responded with enthusiasm. ‘I’m meeting Mother for dinner first, so I could be late.’
‘Have fun.’ Gabbi issued lightly, and Francesca laughed outright at the unspoken nuance in those two words.
It was fun listening to Sophy’s breathy gossip over chicken consommé, salad and fruit. Sophy’s permanent