The Marriage Campaign

As if reading her mind, Dominic enlightened musingly, ‘I keep my work in the studio.’

One eyebrow lifted, and her voice held a hint of mockery. ‘Is that a subtle invitation to admire your etchings?’

His fingers brushed her wrist as he leaned forward to replenish her glass with water, and a chill shiver feathered its way over the surface of her skin in silent recognition of something deeply primitive.

The knowledge disturbed her, and her eyes were faintly wary as they met his.

‘The expected cliché?’ The drawled query held wry humour, and his eyes held a warmth she didn’t care to define. ‘At the risk of disappointing you, I paint in the studio and confine lovemaking to the bedroom.’

Something curled inside her stomach, and she lifted her glass and took a generous swallow before setting it down onto the table. ‘How—prosaic.’

His husky chuckle held quizzical amusement, and an indolent smile broadened the sensual curve of his mouth. ‘Indeed? You don’t think comfort is a prime consideration?’

The image of a large bed, satin sheets, and leisurely languorous foreplay sprang to mind...a damning and totally unwarranted vision she wanted no part of.

Francesca had a desire to give a stinging response, and probably would have if they’d been alone. Instead, she aimed for innocuous neutrality, and tempered it with a totally false smile that didn’t fool anyone, least of all Dominic, in the slightest. ‘Not always.’

‘The chicken is delicious.’ Dear sweet Gabbi, who sought to defuse the verbal direction of their exchange.

Francesca cast her a sweeping glance that issued a silent statement—I’m having fun. And saw her friend’s eyes widen fractionally in answering warning.

‘How was your trip to Italy, Francesca?’ Benedict issued the bland query. ‘Were you able to spend any time outside Rome?’

She decided to play the social conversational game. ‘No,’ she enlightened evenly. ‘However, I’m due in Milan next month for the European spring collections.’ Closely followed by Paris.

Her life was like riding a merry-go-round...big cities, bright lights, the adrenalin rush. Then, every so often, she stepped off and took time out in normality. A vacation abroad, or, more often than not, she flew home to spend time with family and friends. They were her rock, the one thing constant in her life she could rely on.

‘You enjoy the international scene?’

Francesca turned slightly to the man seated at her side, glimpsed the remarkable steadiness in his gaze—and something else she was unable to interpret. ‘Yes.’

‘Would you care for more salad?’

A subtle reminder that she was scarcely doing the sumptuous selection of food much justice? It hardly made sense that she was deliberately projecting the image of a diet fanatic, but there was a tiny gremlin urging her to travel a mildly outrageous path.

‘Thank you.’ She reached for the utensils and placed a modest serving onto her plate, then proceeded to fork small portions with delicate precision.

There was a dessert to die for reposing on the chiffonnier, and she spared the exquisitely decorated torte a regretful glance. A slice of mouth-watering ambrosia she’d have to forego the pleasure of savouring in order to continue the expected accepted image.

‘Did Leon manage to sell your abstract?’ She sounded facetious, and felt a momentary pang for the discourtesy.

‘It wasn’t for sale,’ Dominic relayed with seemingly careless disregard, and smiled as her eyebrows arched in silent query.

‘Really?’ Francesca let her gaze encompass his rugged features and lingered on the strong bone structure before meeting the musing gleam in those dark eyes. ‘You don’t look like an artist.’

His mouth quirked slightly at the edges. ‘How, precisely, is your impression of an artist supposed to look?’

Harmless words, but she was suddenly conscious of an elevated nervous tension that had no known basis except a strong, instinctive feeling that she was playing a dangerous game with a man well-versed in every aspect of the hunt.

Akin to a predator prepared to watch and wait as his prey gambolled foolishly within sight, aware that the time was of his choosing, the kill a foregone conclusion.

Now you’re being fanciful, she chided, suddenly angry with herself for lapsing into an idiotic mind game.

‘Shall we move to the lounge for coffee?’ Dominic suggested with deceptive mildness.

In a way it was a relief to shift location, and she breathed a silent sigh as the evening moved towards a close.

The impish gremlin was still in residence as she declined coffee and requested tea. ‘Herbal, if you have it.’ Long lashes gave an imperceptible flutter, then swept down to form a protective veil.

‘Of course.’ The request didn’t faze him in the least. It was almost as if he’d been prepared for it, and within minutes she nursed a delicate cup filled with clear brown liquid she had no inclination to taste.

Terrible, she conceded as she studiously sipped the innocent brew. And smiled as Gabbi, Benedict and Dominic savoured dark, aromatic coffee she would have much preferred to drink.

Hoist by her own petard, Francesca acknowledged with rueful acceptance. It served her right.

‘Another cup?’

Not if she could help it! ‘Thank you, no. That was delicious.’

Benedict rose to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes enigmatic as they met those of his wife. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Dominic?’

‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ Gabbi said gently as she collected her purse.

Their imminent departure provided an excellent excuse for Francesca to leave. It was what Dominic expected. But she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.

Fool, she mentally chastised herself as he escorted Gabbi and Benedict to the front door. Pick up your evening bag and follow them.

Too late, she decided a few minutes later when he returned to the lounge.

Francesca watched as he folded his lengthy frame into a cushioned chair directly opposite.

‘Your friendship with Gabbi is a long-standing one?’

‘Are you going to express a need to explore my background?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘No request for an in-depth profile?’ she queried drily.

Dominic was silent for several seemingly long seconds, wanting to tear down the barrier she’d erected but aware of the need for caution and a degree of patience. ‘I’m aware of the professional one,’ he drawled with assumed indolence. ‘Tell me about your marriage.’

She stopped breathing, felt the pressure build, and sought to expel it slowly. She wanted to serve him a volley of angry words, throw something, anything that would release some of her pain. Instead, she resorted to stinging mockery.

‘Gabbi failed to fill you in?’

His eyes were steady. ‘Minimum details.’

‘It can be encapsulated in one sentence: champion racing car driver Mario Angeletti killed on the Monaco Grand Prix circuit within months of his marriage to international model Francesca Cardelli.’