The High-Society Wife. Helen Bianchin

to take the wind out of her sails at the eleventh hour.

      Gianna saw Shannay’s eyes soften. ‘A problem?’

      Tom offered his wife a musing smile. ‘Hopefully not.’

      Together they began to circulate, greeting mutual friends, separating as they became caught up in conversation.

      The society doyennes were in their element as they worked the guests, issuing verbal reminders for upcoming events and exchanging the latest gossip.

      Gianna took another sip of champagne and allowed her gaze to skim the foyer. Soon staff would open the ballroom doors and begin ushering the assembled guests to their designated seats.

      Franco stood at her side as he conversed with an associate, and this close she was supremely conscious of the faint muskiness of his exclusive cologne. It teased her senses and sent warmth coursing through her veins.

      Acute sensitivity heightened by sensual anticipation as to how the night would end. And just how much she wanted to savour his touch, match it and become so caught up in electrifying passion that nothing else existed.

      He had the skill to take her places her wildest imagination could never cover. An emotional nirvana that was wholly primitive and disruptively sensual when she begged for the release only he could give.

      Had other women reacted with him as she did? Oh God no, don’t answer that!

      Franco had made her his by virtue of marriage. Albeit an arranged union cemented by mutual business issues. But what they shared in bed was special…wasn’t it?

      ‘Hungry?’

      A trick question if ever there was one! A light musing smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she met his gaze.

      ‘For food?’

      His eyes assumed a humorous gleam. ‘Naturally. Shall we go in?’

      It was then she became aware numerous guests were moving towards the now open doors leading into ballroom.

      Their designated table was well positioned, and the guests sharing it with them needed no introduction, which made for relaxed familiarity and ease of conversation.

      Muted background music provided a pleasing ambience as wine stewards moved with swift precision among the tables, taking orders for wine and champagne, while waitresses followed in their wake bearing napkin-lined baskets of bread rolls.

      It was the usual modus operandi for large charity events, where service, fine wines and good food formed part of the ticket price.

      ‘You’re very quiet. How is the headache?’

      They were in the public eye, and as Franco’s wife and a representative of Giancarlo-Castelli she was expected to shine.

      For they numbered as one of the golden couples who were seen to have everything.

      She could play the part. It was one of her talents.

      Gianna let the edges of her mouth curve into a warm smile. ‘Almost gone.’

      He lifted a hand and brushed gentle fingers down her cheek. ‘Good.’

      She held his gaze, and attempted to control the way her nerve-ends began to shred at his touch. It wasn’t fair to feel so emotionally naked.

      With a steady hand she reached for the evening’s programme and skimmed its contents.

      ‘It looks an interesting mix,’ she relayed lightly. ‘A singer follows the customary speeches. There’s an orchestrated fashion show. A surprise mystery guest.’

      At that moment the music faded and the Master of Ceremonies took the podium, welcomed the guests, gave a brief divertissement, then introduced the charity’s chairperson. A tireless matron who de voted her life to raising money to benefit numerous terminally ill children.

      There was film coverage on the large drop-down screen of the charity’s achievements, with the camera panning to children undergoing treatments in hospital, at supervised play. What really caught at the heartstrings was their expressive features. The solemn stoicism, the smiles, the childish laughter.

      Life went on…other people’s lives.

      The chairperson made an impassioned plea for guests to provide generous donations.

      Waitresses delivered the starters, and Gianna sipped her champagne, then offered a requested opinion as to the ‘in’ vacation spot of the moment.

      ‘I thought the Caribbean, but Paul favours trekking through Vietnam. Can you imagine?’

      ‘Alaska?’ Gianna ventured. ‘For its scenic beauty and the northern lights?’

      ‘Darling,’ the woman wailed. ‘I want shopping.’

      Why? she wanted to ask, when one upstairs wing of the woman’s home was devoted entirely to storing clothes, with a room designated for each of the year’s four seasons. Yet another room held a collection of shoes and matching bags. A veritable treasure trove of designer gear.

      The singer gave a credible performance before the main course was served, and when the plates were cleared the MC announced the fashion parade.

      Beautiful models, gorgeous clothes, all shown with professional panache.

      One gown in particular took Gianna’s interest, and she made a mental note to visit the designer’s boutique.

      ‘You’d look fabulous in the black. Franco must buy it for you. I know just the shoes to go with it. Manolo’s, of course.’

      Of course. Gianna gave herself a mental slap on the wrist for her facetiousness.

      As waitresses delivered dessert, the MC took the podium to introduce the mystery guest.

      ‘A young woman who has achieved international success as an actress.’

      No…it couldn’t be. Yet Gianna found it impossible to dispel a growing premonition.

      ‘She has made the very generous offer to fund an all-expenses-paid holiday for three children and their families to Disneyland.’

      The announcement brought a collective murmur of appreciation from the guests.

      ‘We have had the medical team select the names of those children fit enough to travel.’ He turned to wards the charity’s chairperson, who had stepped onto the stage with a top hat. ‘I’d like one of our esteemed guests to select three names from this hat.’ He paused for effect. ‘Franco Giancarlo. Would you please come forward?’

      A sickening feeling settled in Gianna’s stomach as Franco rose to his feet, and she watched as he crossed the floor and gained the stage.

      ‘I’d like you all to welcome our mystery guest.’ The MC paused for effect. ‘Famke.’

      Gianna didn’t know if she could continue breathing. Tension constricted her throat and momentarily left her speechless.

      Famke.

      There she was, making an appearance from backstage, tall, blonde, in her late twenties, and far more beautiful than any woman had a right to be.

      An actress who had initially achieved success in foreign-produced films before finding fame and fortune in America.

      No one recalled her surname, for it had long been discarded in the rise to stardom.

      A stunningly beautiful young woman who took pleasure in seducing wealthy men, and was known to be skilfully adept at gaining extravagant gifts of jewellery from former lovers.

      Five years ago Franco had been one of them, during his sojourn in New York, before his parents’ accidental death had brought him back to Melbourne.

      Rumour at the time had whispered Famke wanted marriage, and the relationship soured when Franco wasn’t prepared to commit. Whereupon in a fit of pique Famke had seduced an LA billionaire, married him in a blaze of media coverage