The High-Society Wife

Coffee, Gianna decided as she slid her sunglasses in place and slipped in behind the wheel of her car. Hot, strong, black and sweet in one of the boutique cafés, then she’d look for shoes before heading to the hairdresser.

It was after one when she consigned several brightly emblazoned packages into the boot of her car. There were still a few things she needed to do, and it made sense to take a break for lunch.

Toorak Road hosted several upmarket café’s, and she chose one, ordered a long cool drink and an open salad sandwich, leafed through one of a few complimentary newspapers while she ate…and managed not to choke as Famke’s image leapt off a page.

Correction. Famke and Franco, on-stage, captured on film in a momentary embrace.

Gianna forced herself to read the small print beneath the caption…then she pushed aside her plate.

It was bad enough more than a thousand guests had witnessed Famke’s deliberate act. Now the incident was accessible to the entire state. Australia-wide, if other newspapers had decided to run it.

She muttered an unladylike oath beneath her breath. The doubts, ever present beneath the surface, began to emerge, insidiously invading her emotions.

Dammit. Love wasn’t supposed to be such a pain.

Spending money, serious money, was a woman’s prerogative in times of stress. And there were those stiletto heels she’d looked at, liked, and passed over.

She could afford them. Several pairs. The whole darn shop if she felt so inclined!

With that thought in mind she picked up her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, paid her bill, emerged out onto the pavement…and came face-to-face with Famke.

The day, which had already taken a downward turn, suddenly nosedived.

‘Gianna!’ The actress gave a credible act of being surprised. ‘This is unexpected.’

Really? Upmarket Toorak, Saturday, shopping and personal maintenance high on any career woman’s list… It wouldn’t be hard to do the maths.

Which meant Famke had a purpose.

Gianna gave herself a metaphorical slap on the wrist for being cynical.

‘Famke.’ She could do polite civility…for now.

‘Let’s share coffee.’

Do you honestly think I’ll fall for that? ‘Thanks, but we have nothing to discuss.’

‘Not even the fabricated excuse of a pressing appointment?’ A perfectly shaped eyebrow formed a deliberate arch. ‘Afraid to hear what I might say, darling?’

Confrontation, or a silent exit? Verbal, definitely!

‘Enjoy the hunt, Famke.’

‘Straight to the point?’ There was a marked pause. ‘Don’t bother drawing battle lines.’

‘Waste of time.’

The smile didn’t reach Famke’s eyes. ‘I’m glad you agree, darling.’

Leave, now. She took a step forward, only to come to an abrupt halt as the actress placed a hand on her arm.

‘Don’t discount the lure of sexual chemistry.’

Gianna tried for the last word. ‘Yours…or mine?’

Grrr. She badly wanted to hit something, except it wasn’t the thing to do in public.

Instead, she made for the shoe boutique, followed the purchase with a manicure, pedicure and a facial.

Consequently it was after five when she garaged her car and gathered all her purchases together.

She made the foyer and was about to ascend the stairs when Franco appeared.

‘Want some help with those?’

His musing drawl put her on the defensive. So did his close proximity. He’d shaved, showered and donned black trousers and a light chambray shirt, the sleeves folded back almost to each elbow.

‘I’m fine.’

Gianna missed the faint narrowing of his eyes as he examined her expressive features. ‘Come toss the salad when you’re done.’

‘OK.’

He watched her progress up the stairs, the slight sway of her denim-clad rear, the tightly held shoulders that owed nothing to the weight of the emblazoned carry-bags in each hand.

She was a piece of work. There was strength of character, integrity, pride…and vulnerability. A combination he found intriguing.

A glass of chilled white wine rested on the kitchen servery when Gianna entered the kitchen. She’d taken time to unpack and stow her purchases, shower, and don tailored trousers and a fashionable top before slipping her feet into heeled sandals. Her hair was caught in a loose knot atop her head, and her one concession to make-up was pink lipgloss.

Franco picked up the glass and handed it to her. ‘For you.’

‘Because you think I need it?’

He collected his own glass and touched its rim to her own. ‘Salute.’

She wanted to slip into the light camaraderie they shared, to enjoy the anticipation of how the night would end. To know she could lose herself in him and emerge whole.

Except she had to deal with the spectre of Famke intruding between them. If what he’d shared with the actress came close to what he shared with her.

The thought of his tightly muscled body locked with Famke in the throes of lovemaking almost destroyed her.

A vivid imagination was fast becoming her own worst enemy. Something she must fight to control, or she’d be lost.

Pretend, a silent voice bade. You’re good at it.

A redolent aroma wafted from a small pot simmering on the cook-top, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation. ‘Marinara sauce?’

‘Uh-huh. Want to choose the pasta?’