The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN
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she added.
‘Not curious to see my artist’s attic?’
‘Where you live doesn’t interest me.’ Nor do you, she wanted to add. And knew she lied. For there was an invisible pull of the senses, a powerful dynamism impossible to ignore.
A man who sought to forge his own destiny, she perceived, not at all fooled by the smile curving that generous mouth. The eyes were too dark and discerning, dangerous.
She had the strangest feeling she should be afraid of the knowledge evident in those depths. An instinctive sureness that he was intent on being a major force in her life.
‘Six-thirty. Gabbi will give you the address.’ His lips tilted slightly as he slanted her a mocking glance. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’
‘Extraordinary man,’ Francesca commented, silently adding lethal and persistent as she watched him thread his way to the opposite side of the gallery.
‘A very successful one,’ Benedict informed her mildly. ‘Who dabbles in art and donates a lot of his work to charity.’
‘Accept Dominic’s invitation,’ Gabbi added persuasively. ‘If you don’t, I’ll be outnumbered, and the conversation will be confined to business.’
Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘Not really a hardship. You excel in business.’
Gabbi’s eyes sparkled with impish humour. ‘Take a walk on the wild side and say yes. You might enjoy yourself.’
All Francesca’s instincts shrieked a silent denial. She liked her life as it was, and didn’t need nor want any complications that might upset its even tenure.
Although it might prove a challenge to play Dominic Andrea at his own game and win.
‘What do you think of that sculpture in steel?’ Benedict queried, successfully diverting their attention.
Ten minutes later Francesca chose to leave, indicating to Gabbi quietly, ‘I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.’
Leon was effusive as she crossed to his side and thanked him for the invitation, and as she turned towards the door she saw Dominic Andrea deep in conversation with a stunning diminutive blonde.
Almost as if he sensed her gaze, his head lifted and dark eyes pierced hers with mesmerising awareness.
There was nothing overt in his expression, just an unwavering knowledge that had an electric effect on her equilibrium. It was almost as if he was staking a claim. Issuing a silent message that he would enjoy the fight, and the victory.
Fanciful imagination, Francesca dismissed as she gained the foyer, then she descended the short flight of steps and took the well-lit path to her car.
With the ignition engaged, she eased the vehicle forward and entered the busy thoroughfare.
Dominic Andrea had no part in her life, she assured herself silently as she headed towards her Double Bay apartment.
Francesca put the finishing touches to her make-up, examined the careless knot of hair she’d swept on top of her head, then stood back, pleased with the overall image.
Halter-necked black dress, sheer black tights, perilously high stiletto-heeled black pumps. Cosmetic artistry provided a natural look, and a brilliant red gloss coloured her lips. Jewellery comprised a diamond bracelet and matching ear-studs.
Without pausing to think, she collected a slim evening purse and car keys, walked out of the apartment and took the lift down to the basement car park.
Traffic was heavy as she drove through the city, and once clear of the Harbour Bridge she by-passed the expressway and headed towards Beauty Point.
Exclusive suburbs graced the city’s northern shores, offering magnificent views over the inner harbour.
Dammit. What was she going? Dressed to kill, on her way to attend a dinner she had no inclination to share with a man she hadn’t wanted to see again.
She could turn back and go home, ring and apologise, using any one of several plausible excuses.
So why didn’t she? Instead of turning between wrought-iron gates guarding an imposing concrete-textured Caribbean-style home situated at the crest of a semi-circular driveway?
All because of Gabbi’s subtle challenge issued the previous evening, and endorsed and encouraged over lunch. Now it was a little late to have second thoughts.
Francesca parked behind Benedict’s sporty Jaguar and cast a quick glance at the digital clock before she switched off the engine.
Perfect. By the time she emerged from the car and walked the few steps to the front door, she would be ten minutes late.
A silent statement that she was here on her own terms.
Subdued melodic chimes echoed as she depressed the doorbell, and seconds later the thick, panelled door swung open to reveal a middle-aged housekeeper.
‘Miss Angeletti? Please come in.’
High ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass created a sense of spaciousness and light, with folding white-painted wooden shutters. Expensive art adorned the walls, and there were several Oriental rugs adorning pale cream marble floors.
She was escorted into a large lounge where Dominic’s tall frame drew her attention like a magnet.
Dark trousers and a casual blue shirt lent an elegance she knew to be deceiving, for beneath the sophisticated veneer there was strength, not only of body but of mind.
‘Please accept my apologies.’
Dominic’s dark eyes held hers, quiet, still. He wasn’t fooled in the slightest, but his voice was smooth as silk as he moved forward to greet her. ‘Accepted.’ He swept an arm towards a soft-cushioned leather sofa. ‘Come and sit down.’
She crossed to a single chair and sank into it with elegant economy of movement.
A further insistence on independence? ‘What can I offer you to drink?’
Something with a kick in it would be nice. Instead, she offered him a singularly sweet smile. ‘Chilled water, with ice.’
‘Sparkling or still?’
She resisted the temptation to request a specific brand-name. ‘Still. Thank you.’
There was that glance again, laser-sharp beneath dark lashes, the slight lift of one eyebrow before he crossed to the cabinet.
Benedict looked mildly amused, and Gabbi shook her head in silent remonstrance. Francesca merely smiled.
Dominic returned and placed a tall glass within her reach on the side table.
‘Thank you.’ So achingly polite. Too polite?
Within minutes the housekeeper appeared to announce the meal was served, and they made their way into a large dining room adjacent to the lounge.
The table was beautifully set with white damask, on which reposed fine china, silver cutlery and stemmed crystal glasswear.
Francesca’s gaze idly skimmed the mahogany chiffonnier, the long buffet cabinet, the elegantly designed chairs, and silently applauded his taste in furniture. And in soft furnishings, for the drapes and carpet were uniform in colour, the contrast supplied by artwork and mirrors adorning the walls.
Dominic seated Francesca beside him, opposite Gabbi and Benedict.
The courses were varied, and many, and, while exquisitely presented, they were the antithesis of designer food. There was, however, an artistically displayed platter of salads decorated with avocado, mango, and a sprinkling of pine nuts.
A subtle concession to what Dominic suspected was a model’s necessity to diet?
Francesca always ate wisely and well, with little need to watch her intake of food. Tonight, however, she