An Ideal Marriage?. HELEN BIANCHIN

a knot of tension twisting a painful.path from her right temple down to the edge of her nape.

      Sophie had cleared the remaining coffee cups and liqueur glasses, and in the morning Marie would ensure the lounge was restored to its usual immaculate state.

      ‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

      Benedict’s lazy drawl stirred the embers of resentment she’d kept carefully banked over the past few hours.

      ‘How could it not be?’ she countered as she turned to face him.

      ‘You want to orchestrate a post-mortem?’ he queried with deceptive mildness, and she glimpsed the tightly coiled strength beneath the indolent facade.

      ‘Not particularly.’

      He conducted a brief, encompassing appraisal of her features. ‘Then I suggest you go upstairs to bed.’

      Her chin tilted fractionally, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity. ‘And prepare myself to accommodate you?’

      There was a flicker of something dangerous in the depths of his eyes, then it was gone, and his movements as he closed the distance between them held a smooth, panther-like grace.

      ‘Accommodate?‘ he stressed silkily.

      He was too close, his height and broad frame an intimidating entity that invaded her space. The clean, male smell of him combined with his exclusive brand of cologne weakened her defences and lodged an attack against the very core of her femininity.

      He had no need to touch her, and it irked her unbearably that he knew it.

      ‘Your sexual appetite is...’ Gabbi paused, then added delicately, ‘Consistent.’ Her eyes flared slightly, the blue depths pure crystalline sapphire.

      He lifted a hand and caught hold of her chin, lifting it so she had little option but to retain his gaze. ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to decline.’

      She looked at him carefully, noting the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the deep vertical crease slashing each cheek, and the firm, sensual lines of his mouth.

      The tug of sexual awareness intensified at the thought of the havoc that mouth could wreak when it possessed her own, the pleasure as it explored the soft curves of her body.

      ‘And a man’s inclination to employ unfair persuasion,’ Gabbi offered, damning the slight catch of her breath as the pad of his thumb traced an evocative pattern along the edge of her jaw, then slid down the pulsing cord to the hollow at the curve of her neck, cupping it while he loosened the pins holding her hair in place.

      They fell to the carpet as his fingers combed the blonde length free, then his head lowered and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed her temple, then feathered a path to the edge of her mouth, teasing its outline as he tested the soft fullness and sensed the faint trembling as she tried for control.

      She should stop him now, plead tiredness, the existence of a headache...say she didn’t want to have to try to cope with the aftermath of his lovemaking. The futility of experiencing utter joy and knowing physical lust was an unsatisfactory substitute for love.

      His body moved in close against her own, its hard length a potent force she fought hard to ignore. Without success, for she had little defence against the firm pressure of his lips as he angled her mouth and possessed it, gently at first, then with an increasing depth of passion which demanded her capitulation.

      She didn’t care when she felt his hands slide the length of her skirt up over her thighs, and she cared even less when he shaped her buttocks and lifted her up against him.

      There was a sense of exultant pleasure as she curved her legs around his hips and tangled her arms together behind his neck, the movement of his body an exciting enticement as he ascended the stairs to their bedroom.

      She was on fire, aching for the feel of his skin against her own, and her fingers feverishly freed his tie and attacked the buttons on his shirt, not satisfied until they found the silken whorls of hair covering his taut, muscled chest.

      Her mouth slid down the firm column of his throat, savoured the hollow at its base, then sought a tantalising path along one collarbone.

      At some stage she became dimly aware she was standing, her clothes, and his, no longer a barrier, and she gave a soft cry as he pulled her down onto the bed.

      Now, hard and fast. No preliminaries. And afterwards he could take all the time he wanted.

      His deep, husky laugh brought faint colour to her cheeks. A colour that deepened at the comprehension that she’d inadvertently said the words out loud.

      He sank into her, watching her expressive features as she accepted him, the fleeting changes as she stretched and the slight gasp as he buried his shaft deep inside her.

      He stayed still for endlessly long seconds, and she felt him swell, then he began to withdraw, slowly, before plunging even more deeply, repeating the action and the tempo of his rhythm until she went up in flames.

      The long, slow after-play, his expertise, the wicked treachery of skilful fingers, the erotic mouth, combined to bring her to the brink and hold her there until she begged for release—and she was unsure at the peak of ecstasy whether she loved or hated him for what he could do to her.

      Good sex. Very good sex. That’s all it was, she reflected sadly as she slid through the veils of sleep.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘VOGEL on line two.’

      Gabbi’s office was located high in an inner city architectural masterpiece and offered a panoramic view beyond the smoke-tinted glass exterior.

      It was a beautiful summer morning, the sky a clear azure, with the sun’s rays providing a dappled effect on the harbour. A Manly-bound ferry cleaved a smooth path several kilometres out from the city terminal and vied with small pleasure craft of varying sizes, all of which were eclipsed by a huge tanker heading slowly into port.

      With a small degree of reluctance Gabbi turned back to her desk and picked up the receiver to deal with the call.

      Five minutes later she replaced it, convinced no woman should have to cross verbal swords with an arrogant, sexist male whose sole purpose in life was to undermine a female contemporary.

      Coffee, hot, sweet and strong, seemed like a good idea, and she rose to her feet, intent on fetching it herself rather than have her secretary do it for her. There were several files she needed to check, and she extracted the pertinent folders and laid them on her desk.

      The private line beeped, and she reached for the receiver, expecting to hear James’s or Benedict’s voice. A lesser possibility was Marie and—even more remote—Monique.

      ‘Gabbi.’ The soft, feminine, breathy sound was unmistakable.

      ‘Annaliese,’ she acknowledged with a sinking feeling.

      ‘Care to do lunch?’

      Delaying the invitation would do no good at all, and she spared her appointment diary a quick glance. ‘I can meet you at one.’ She named an exclusive restaurant close by. ‘Will you make the reservation, or shall I?’

      ‘You do it, Gabbi,’ Annaliese replied in a bored drawl. ‘I have a meeting with my agent. I could be late.’

      ‘I have to be back in my office at two-thirty,’ Gabbi warned.

      ‘In that case, give me ten minutes’ grace, then go ahead and order.’

      Gabbi replaced the receiver, had her secretary make the necessary reservation, fetched her coffee, then gave work her undivided attention until it was time to freshen up before leaving the building.

      The powder-room mirror reflected an elegant image. Soft cream designer-label suit in a lightweight, uncrushable linen mix, and a silk camisole in matching tones. Her French pleat didn’t need attention, and she