The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin
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Benedict generously continued in Diandra and Conrad Nicols’ tradition—astutely aware that as much business was done out of the office as in it, Gabbi concluded wryly.
The thought of facing Annaliese at one function or another over the next few weeks didn’t evoke much joy. Nor did the prospect of parrying Monique’s subtle hints.
Damn. The relaxation cycle was well and truly broken. With a deft movement, Gabbi rolled onto her stomach and swam to the pool’s edge, hauled her slim frame onto the tiled ledge, then reached for the towel and began blotting her body.
Faced with a choice of eating indoors or by the pool, she chose the latter and carried the salad and a glass of chilled water to a nearby table.
The view out over the harbour was spectacular, and she idly watched the seascape as numerous small craft cruised the waters in a bid to make the most of the daylight-saving time.
On finishing her meal, scorning television, Gabbi made herself some coffee, selected a few glossy magazines and returned to watch the sunset, the glorious streak of orange that changed and melded into a deep pink as the sun’s orb sank slowly beneath the horizon providing a soft pale reflected glow before dusk turned into darkness.
A touch on the electronic modem activated the underwater light, turning the pool a brilliant aqua-blue. Another touch lit several electric flares, and she stretched out comfortably and flipped open a magazine, scanning the glossy pages for something that might capture her interest.
An article based on the behind-the-scenes life of a prominent fashion guru provided a riveting insight, and endorsed her own view on the artificiality of a society where one was never sure whether an acquaintance was friend or foe beneath the token facade.
The publishers had seen fit to include an in-depth account by a high-class madam, who, the article revealed, had procured escorts for some of the country’s rich and famous, notably politicians and visiting rock stars, for a fee that was astronomical.
Somehow the article focusing on cellulite that followed it seemed extremely prosaic, and Gabbi flipped to the travel section.
Paris. What a city for ambience and joie de vivre. The language, the scents, the fashion. French women possessed a certain élan that was unmatched anywhere else in the world. And the food! Très magnifique, she accorded wistfully, recalling fond memories of the time she’d spent there. For a while she’d imagined herself in love with a dashing young student whose sensual expertise had almost persuaded her intó his bed. Gabbi’s mouth curved into a soft smile, and her eyes danced with hidden laughter in remembrance.
‘An interesting article?’
Gabbi looked up at the sound of that deep, drawling voice and saw Benedict’s tall frame outlined against the screened aperture leading into the large entertainment room.
His jacket was hooked over one shoulder, and he’d already removed his tie and loosened a few buttons on his blue cotton shirt.
Her eyes still held a hint of mischief as they met his. ‘I didn’t realise it was that late,’ she managed lightly, watching as he closed the distance between them.
‘It’s just after ten.’ He paused at her side, and scanned the open magazine. ‘Pleasant memories?’
Gabbi met his gaze, and sensed the studied watchfulness beneath the surface. ‘Yes,’ she said with innate honesty, and saw his eyes narrow fractionally. ‘It was a long time ago, and I was very young.’
‘But old enough to be enchanted by a young man’s attentions,’ Benedict deduced with a degree of cynical amusement. ‘What was his name?’
‘Jacques,’ she revealed without hesitation. ‘He was a romantic, and he kissed divinely. We explored the art galleries together and drank coffee at numerous sidewalk cafés. On weekends I visited the family vineyard. It was fun,’ she informed him simply, reflecting on the voluble and often gregarious meals she’d shared, the vivacity and sheer camaraderie of a large extended family.
‘Define “fun”.’
The temptation to tease and prevaricate was very strong, but there seemed little point. ‘He had a very strict maman,’ she revealed solemnly. ‘Who was intent on matching him with the daughter of a neighbouring vintner. An Anglaise miss, albeit a very rich one, might persuade him to live on the other side of the world.’
Amusement lurked in the depths of his eyes. ‘He married the vintner’s daughter?’
‘Yes. His devoted maman despatches a letter twice a year with family news.’
‘Did you love him?’ The query was soft, his voice silk-smooth.
Not the way I love you. ‘We were very good friends,’ she said with the utmost care.
His intense gaze sent a tiny flame flaring through her veins, warming her skin and heating the central core of her femininity.
‘Who parted without regret or remorse when it was time for you to leave?’ Benedict prompted gently.
A winsome smile curved the edges of her mouth. ‘We promised never to forget each other. For a while we exchanged poetic prose.’
‘Predictably the letters became shorter and few and far between?’
‘You’re a terrible cynic.’
‘A realist,’ he corrected her with subtle remonstrance.
Gabbi closed the magazine and placed it down on a nearby table. With an elegant economy of movement she rose to her feet, caught up the sarong and secured it at her waist ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Please.’
He turned to follow her, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in awareness. She subconsciously straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace.
In the kitchen she crossed to the servery, methodically filled the coffee-maker with water, spooned ground beans into the filter basket, then switched on the machine.
The large kitchen was a chefs delight, with every conceivable modem appliance. A central cooking island held several hobs, and there were twin ovens, two microwaves, and a capacious refrigerator and freezer.
With considerable ease Gabbi extracted two cups and saucers, then set out milk and sugar.
‘How was dinner?’
‘Genuine interest, or idle conversation, Gabbi?’
Was he aware of the effect he had on her? In bed, without doubt. But out of it? Probably not, she thought sadly. Men of Benedict’s calibre were more concerned with creating a financial empire than examining a relationship.
It took considerable effort to meet his lightly mocking gaze. ‘Genuine interest.’
‘We ate Asian food in one of the city’s finest restaurants,’ Benedict informed her indolently. “The business associate was suitably impressed, and the agent will probably earn a large commission.’
‘Naturally you have offered them use of the private jet, which will earn you kudos with the Taiwanese associate, who in turn will recommend you to his contemporaries,’ she concluded dryly, and his lips formed a twisted smile.
‘It’s called taking care of business.’
‘And business is all-important.’
‘Is that a statement or a complaint?’
Her eyes were remarkably steady as she held his gaze. ‘It’s a well-known fact that profits have soared beyond projected estimates in the past few years. Much of Stanton-Nicols’ continuing success is directly attributed to your dedicated efforts.’
‘You didn’t answer the question.’ The words held a dangerous softness that sent a tiny shiver down her spine, and her eyes clashed with his for a few immeasurable seconds before she summoned a credible smile.
‘Why would I complain?’