The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections) (189 page)

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Authors: Helen Bianchin

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Erotica, #Collections & Anthologies, #Contemporary Women, #General

BOOK: The Helen Bianchin Collection (Mills & Boon E-Book Collections)
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He used his cutlery with precise, decisive movements, his enjoyment of the food evident, and he skilfully drew Katherine and John into the conversation, transforming John into an amusing raconteur while Katherine bloomed beneath his attention.
Madeline was at her best. Fame or fortune in a guest was a bonus. To have two dine at her table who could lay claim to both was a considerable
coup
. Rick, sensing his wife's satisfaction, became more expansive as the evening progressed.
‘Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?' Madeline queried, signalling just that intention by standing to her feet.
Everyone followed her directive, but Francesca was unprepared when Dominic moved behind her and drew out her chair.
She hadn't expected the courtesy, didn't want it, and had to consciously refrain from pulling her arm away as his fingers lightly clasped her elbow.
‘Katherine, John,' Madeline invited graciously. ‘If you choose, you can retire upstairs and view television.'
An exemplary mother, and a very shrewd one. Political correctness and good manners were something Madeline insisted upon. It said much that neither of her children grasped the excuse to leave.
Fifteen minutes max, Francesca decided, then she would express her thanks and depart. She sank gracefully into a lounge chair and accepted coffee.
It had been a long day, and tomorrow, after seeing her mother, she'd agreed to join a panel of judges assembled to select three junior models from twenty young hopefuls parading their stuff on the catwalk.
Friday, Saturday and Sunday were free, and she'd designated them as
hers
. For pampering, a professional haircut, a massage. Sheer indulgence.
Unbidden, her eyes met those of Dominic, and she glimpsed the degree of sensual warmth evident in those dark depths. He presented a disturbing factor, and she was in no doubt of the steel-willed determination beneath the surface.
Francesca finished her coffee, declined a refill, and rose to her feet. ‘If you'll excuse me, I really must leave.' Her warm smile encompassed Rick, Madeline, Katherine and John. ‘It's been a lovely evening.'
‘Likewise,' Dominic accorded with ease as he unwound his length from the chair. ‘It's been very enjoyable.'
Why was he timing his departure to coincide with her own? Why shouldn't he? a silent voice demanded as she crossed the lounge at Rick's side, brushed a quick kiss to his cheek at the front door, then stepped quickly down the steps.
‘Running away?' Dominic's voice held slight amusement as he matched his pace to her own.
She withdrew a keyring from her evening purse in readiness, and walked past a black Lexus to where her own car was parked. She selected a key and inserted it into the door.
His arm brushed hers as he reached forward and undid the latch, then drew open the door.
‘How was your day?'
She slipped past him and slid into the driver's seat. ‘You can't really want to know.'
He placed an arm on the roof and leaned in towards her. ‘Yes. Humour me, Francesca.'
She slid the safety belt across and clipped it into position. She should have felt in control, yet somehow the advantage appeared to be his.
‘A three-thirty a.m. start for a dawn photographic shoot, a fashion parade at the Hilton, dinner with family.'
‘And guest.'
‘Unexpected guest,' she amended.
‘Whom you would have preferred not to be present.'
She tilted her head in order to meet his gaze. ‘Perhaps you'll enlighten me as to how you came by the invitation.'
‘I occasionally do business with your father.' His shoulders shifted in a slight shrugging gesture. ‘Madeline appears to appreciate my paintings. It wasn't difficult to make a phone call.'
No, she supposed. Not difficult at all for a skilful manipulator to pose a few pertinent questions within a conversation in order to gain his objective.
She looked at him carefully, and his sloping smile had the strangest effect, causing sensation to unfurl deep inside and creep insidiously through her body.
‘What should I expect next?' She kept her voice deliberately cool. ‘The “Your place or mine?” spiel?'
Dominic regarded her steadily. ‘Interpreted as, “Let's get between the sheets and I'll show you what you're missing”? I don't play that particular game.'
‘With any woman?'
‘With you,' he declared with soft emphasis. He reached forward and caught hold of her chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘Now, shall we begin again? Tomorrow—'
‘There isn't going to be a tomorrow.' Her voice sounded thick and vaguely husky.
‘Yes,' he said quietly. ‘There is. The day after, or the one after that. Next week. Whenever.'
Francesca looked at him long and hard, saw the calm awareness in his eyes, and felt
exposed
in a way she'd never experienced before. Fear, apprehension—both were prevalent And a strange sense of recognition. Almost as if something deep inside her had sought and found the matching half of a whole.
She didn't want to deal with it, with
him,
and what he represented. She wanted time to think, to evaluate. Saying yes to this man, on any level, would lead her towards a path she was hesitant to tread.
‘This is one situation where your persistence won't pay off,' she assured him.
‘You don't think so?'
‘I know so.'
‘Then prove me wrong and share lunch with me. Nominate a day.' A challenge. Would she accept or refuse?
Fine, she accorded a trifle grimly. If that was what it took to convince him she wasn't interested, she'd agree. Besides, lunch sounded
safe
. Broad daylight, with the excuse of work as a legitimate escape route.
Francesca gave him a long, level look. ‘Friday,' she capitulated. ‘Name the restaurant, and I'll meet you there.'
‘Claude's, Oxford Street, Woollahra. One,' he said without missing a beat.
A fashionably chic French eating place where advance bookings were a must. ‘Fine.' She slid the key into the ignition and fired the engine, watching as he stood back and closed the door.
Seconds later she cleared the gates and entered the wide, tree-lined suburban street, following it down until it joined with New South Head Road.
Electric streetlights shared a pattern uniformity, vying with colourful flashing neon signs illuminating the city's centre. Ferries traversed the dark waters of Port Jackson, and a large cruise ship was ablaze with light and life as a tugboat led it slowly towards the inner harbour.
Magical, Francesca reflected silently, and felt a strange pull towards another harbour in another city on the opposite side of the world. Another car, a Ferrari Testarossa, driven by Mario through the steep winding hills above Rome. And how she'd delighted at the sight spread out before her, laughed with the joy of life, then gasped at the speed with which Mario had driven home in order to make love with her.
Mad, halcyon days that couldn't last. Even then she'd been afraid the candle that burned so brightly within him was destined for a short life.
It was almost eleven when she garaged her car and took the lift up to her apartment. With care she shed her clothes, removed her make-up, then she donned a slither of silk and slid in between cool percale sheets.
A
N ELEGANT woman, Sophy adored being
seen
. Consequently her choice of venue was one of the city's currently trendiest meeting places in town.
‘
Drinks
, darling,' Sophy had specified the get-together, and Francesca slid into a reserved chair and ordered coffee.
Her mother would be late. After all these years it was accepted Sophy had no sense of time. Excuses, many and varied, were floated out with an airy wave of the hand, and her family and friends inevitably forgave her the lapse.
Thirty minutes wasn't too bad, Francesca conceeded wryly as she glimpsed her mother making an entrance. There had been occasions when she'd waited for up to an hour.
Titian hair styled in a shoulder-length bob, exquisite features, and slim curves a woman half her age would die for. Add an exclusive designer outfit, and Sophy presented a visual image that drew appreciative admiration.
‘Sorry, sweetheart.' Sophy effected a careless shrug as she slid into the seat opposite. ‘Armand...' Her mouth tilted wickedly. ‘You know how it is. The French—everything is
l'amour.'
‘I thought you were through with Frenchmen,' Francesca said equably.
‘Ah, but they are so
gallant
.' Sophy cast her daughter an impish smile. ‘Besides, darling, he is fantastic in bed.'
‘How nice.'
‘Yes,' her mother agreed, and her eyes gleamed with humour. ‘It's a lovely bonus.'
Francesca wondered with philosophical resignation if Armand was even more unsuitable than his illustrious predecessor, who had squired her mother for a record ten months before Sophy discarded him.
‘Now, sweetheart. Tell me what you think of your father. The last time I saw him I thought he was looking quite...' Sophy paused, then added delicately, ‘Mature. A few more lines. I recommended my cosmetic surgeon, but you can imagine your father's response.'
Indeed. Voluble, to say the least.
‘Madeline makes so many demands, and of course there's the children.'
An emotional minefield Francesca had no intention of entering. ‘Would you like coffee?'
‘Please.' Her eyes sharpened fractionally. ‘You look—different.' Speculative interest was evident. ‘Yes. Definitely.' Her mouth curved. ‘It's a man, isn't it?'
A man. It seemed such a tame description for someone of Dominic Andrea's calibre.
‘Now why would you think that?' Francesca countered evenly, and her mother smiled.
‘Am I right?'
‘Not really.'
‘Ah,' Sophy declared with ambiguous satisfaction, and changed the subject. ‘You have yet to mention Mario's mother. So sad. There was a nurse, of course?'
‘Yes, round the clock.' Francesca didn't add that she'd shared each shift and snatched sleep as and when she could.
Frequenting the trendiest café ensured there were interruptions, as first one, then another of Sophy's friends stopped by. Introductions rarely identified Francesca as Sophy's
daughter
. Age was something her mother guarded jealously and refused to acknowledge to anyone—for how did a woman who
looked
thirty admit to a twenty-five-year-old progeny.
Armand duly arrived to collect his
amour
, and Francesca wondered how her mother could not see that the man was too attentive, too smooth, and too intent on feeding not only Sophy's ego but his own.
However, Francesca had long given up worrying about her mother's succession of paramours. Sophy was aware of all the angles.
 
The day after...next week... whenever
. Dominic's words echoed inside Francesca's head as she considered calling him to say she'd changed her mind about meeting him.
Except she had the feeling all that would do was postpone the inevitable.
Perhaps it would be better to get it over and done with. They'd talk, eat, and discover whatever he thought they had in common didn't exist. And pigs might fly, she denounced disparagingly.
What existed between them was primeval chemistry, pure and simple. The question was, what was she going to do about it? More pertinently, what was she going to allow Dominic to do about it?
Oh, for heaven's sake. What are you afraid of? she silently berated herself.
Good question, Francesca noted wryly as she entered Claude's and was greeted by the
maître d'.
‘Ah, yes. Mr Andrea is already here.' His smile charmed, as it was meant to do. ‘Please. Follow me.'
It was crazy to feel nervous. Act, a tiny voice prompted. You're good at it.
Dominic watched as she threaded her way through the room. He observed the number of heads turn in her direction, witnessed the speculation and admiration, and felt a certain empathy for their appreciation of Francesca's beauty.
Experience had taught him that the packaging didn't always reflect what existed in the heart, the mind, the soul, and that physical lust was an unsatisfactory entity without love. Consequently, he refused to settle for anything less.
As she drew close he sensed the imperceptible degree of nervousness beneath the sophisticated veneer, and discovered it pleased him.
He rose to his feet as she reached his table. ‘Francesca.'
Her response was polite, and he smiled, aware of the defence mechanism firmly in place... and wondered how long it would take to demolish it.
The
maître d'
held out a chair and she sank into it. ‘Madame would prefer a few minutes before she orders a drink?'
‘I'll have an orange juice.'
‘I shall inform the drink steward,' he said gravely, and with a snap of his fingers a formally clad waiter appeared out of nowhere, took her order, then disappeared.
The lighting was low, the tables small. And Dominic seemed much too close.
Francesca looked at him carefully, and his features seemed more finely chiselled, the bone structure more pronounced in the dim illumination. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark suit. It accentuated his breadth of shoulder and emphasised a physical fitness most men would aspire to.
A complex man, she decided instinctively, who was capable of savagery and great tenderness. It was evident in his painting, for he possessed hands that could slash bold colour on a canvas yet brush strokes on another with such sensitivity the contrast was vast—too vast to imagine the artists were one and the same.
And as a man, a lover? Was he wild and untamed? Sensitive and loving? Were his emotions always under control?
Did she want them to be?
Oh, God, where had that come from?
With a sense of desperation she picked up the menu and began to peruse it.
‘If I say you look beautiful, will you hold it against me?'
His voice held mild amusement, and she lowered the menu, cast him a level look, then offered him a singularly sweet smile.
‘Probably.'
A soft chuckle escaped from his throat. ‘Should we aim for polite conversation, or opt for companionable silence?'
‘You could tell me what you did yesterday, then I'll tell you what I did,' she said with marked solemnity. ‘That should take care of ten minutes or so.'
‘Yesterday? I caught an early-morning flight to Melbourne, attended a meeting, lunched with a business associate, flew back mid-afternoon, and played squash.'
‘You were meant to stretch that out a bit, not condense it into thirty seconds.'
He reached for his wine glass, lifted it, sipped from the contents, then replaced it onto the table. ‘And you?'
‘Sat on a panel judging junior models, caught up with my mother.'
‘And thought of any number of reasons why you should cancel lunch today?'
It was a stab in the dark, but an accurate one. She opted to go with honesty. ‘Yes.'
One eyebrow slanted. ‘Do I pose such a threat?'
‘You unnerve me.' The words slipped out without thought.
‘That's a plus,' Dominic drawled.
She decided to set a few boundaries. ‘We're sharing lunch. Nothing more.'
‘For now,' he qualified. ‘Shall we order? I can recommend the escargots.'
It was an acquired taste, but one she favoured.
The waiter appeared, noted their selection, and disappeared.
Francesca lifted her glass and took a long sip of iced water, then set the glass carefully on the table. Her eyes met his, their expression wary, faintly wry.
‘Do you have anything planned for the weekend?' Dominic queried, and she rested the fork onto her plate then took time to dab her mouth with the napkin before answering.
‘A quiet few days—no family, no social engagements.'
‘Time out?'
Her fingers strayed to toy with the stern of her drinking glass. ‘Yes.'
‘There's a function in one of the major city hotels tomorrow evening for which I have tickets. Gabbi and Benedict suggest we join their table.'
Gabbi was a dear friend, whose company she enjoyed. Dominic was something else entirely. The thought that he had no willing partner he could call upon was ludicrous.
‘I lend my support to a few charities, but rarely attend their social functions.'
Was her expression so easily readable? She wouldn't have thought so, yet this man possessed an uncanny ability to read her mind.
‘Then why are you attending this particular one?'
He leaned back in his chair and regarded her with studied ease. ‘Because it provides me with an opportunity to ask you out.'
‘And no doubt you meant to sweeten the invitation by joining up with two of my best friends?'
The waiter cleared their plates, and inclined his head as they declined dessert and settled for coffee.
‘A simple yes or no will do,' Dominic mocked, and she gave him a brilliant smile.
He always seemed to be one step ahead of her, and for once she felt inclined to reverse the process by doing the unexpected. ‘Yes.'
He didn't display so much as a flicker of surprise, nor did he indicate satisfaction at her answer. ‘Let me have your address and I'll collect you.'
She wanted to protest, acknowledged the foolishness of taking independence too far, then gave it, watching idly as he penned the apartment number and street on the back of a card.
It was after two when they emerged from the restaurant.
‘Where are you parked?'
Francesca felt the touch of his hand on her arm and wanted to pull away, yet stay. A true contradiction in terms, she acknowledged wryly as she fought the deep, curling sensation that slowly unfurled and began spreading through her body.
‘About fifty metres to the left.'
It was mid-afternoon and there were several people within close proximity. So why did she feel
threatened?
Fanciful thinking, she dismissed, and resisted the inclination to dismiss
him
, here, now, and walk quickly to her car.
Minutes later she paused at the kerb and withdrew her car keys.
He seemed to loom large, his height and breadth intimidating, and the breath caught in her throat as his head lowered down to hers.
A kiss, brief, in farewell. She would accept the firm brush of his lips, then step back and smile, slip into her car and drive away.
Francesca wasn't prepared for the warm softness of a mouth that seemed far too attuned to her own, its wants and needs.
Unbidden, her hands crept up to tangle together at his nape as he pulled her close, and a soft protest rose and died in her throat as he deepened the kiss to something so intimate, her whole body flamed with an answering fire.
An invasion of the senses, exploring, savouring. He conquered in a manner that made her forget who she was, and where.
When he lifted his head she felt lost, almost adrift, for the few seconds it took for her to regain a sense of reality.
Her eyes were wide and luminous, and she felt a sense of shock. And shame.
‘Tomorrow,' Dominic reminded her gently. ‘Six-thirty.' His smile was warm. ‘Drive carefully.'
He wasn't even breathing quickly, whereas she felt as if she'd just been tossed high by an errant wave and carried breathless and choking into shore.
She didn't say a word. Couldn't, she rationalised as she stepped from the kerb and crossed round the car to unlock her door.

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