The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHIN

nepotism at its very worst.

      Gabbi thrust the gear-shift forward with unaccustomed force, attaining momentary satisfaction from the sound of the Mercedes’ refined engine as she eased the car forward and followed the traffic’s crawling pace, only to halt scant minutes later.

      The cellphone rang, and she automatically reached for it.

      ‘Gabrielle.’

      Only one person steadfastly refused to abbreviate her Christian name. ‘Monique.’

      ‘You’re driving?’

      ‘Stationary,’ she informed her, pondering the purpose of her stepmother’s call. Monique never rang to simply say ‘hello.’

      ‘Annaliese flew in this afternoon. Would it be an imposition if she came to dinner?’

      Years spent attending an élite boarding-school had instilled requisite good manners. ‘Not at all. We’d be delighted.’

      ‘Thank you, darling.’

      Monique’s voice sounded like liquid satin as she ended the call.

      Wonderful, Gabbi accorded silently as she punched in the appropriate code and alerted Marie to set another place at the table.

      ‘Sorry to land this on you,’ she added apologetically before replacing the handset down onto the console. An extra guest posed no problem, and Gabbi wasn’t sufficiently superstitious to consider thirteen at the table a premise for an unsuccessful evening.

      The traffic began to move, and the faint tension behind her eyes threatened to develop into a headache.

      James Stanton’s remarriage ten years ago to a twenty-nine-year-old divorcee with one young daughter had gifted him with a contentment Gabbi could never begrudge him. Monique was his social equal, and an exemplary hostess. It was unfortunate that Monique’s affection didn’t extend to James’s daughter. As a vulnerable fifteen-year-old Gabbi had sensed her stepmother’s superficiality, and spent six months agonising over why, until a friend had spelled out the basic psychology of a dysfunctional relationship.

      In retaliation, Gabbi had chosen to excel at everything she did—she’d striven to gain straight As in each subject, had won sporting championships, and graduated from university with an honours degree in business management. She’d studied languages and spent a year in Paris, followed by another in Tokyo, before returning to Sydney to work for a rival firm. Then she’d applied for and won, on the strength of her experience and credentials, a position with Stanton-Nicols.

      There was a certain danger in allowing one’s thoughts to dwell on the past, Gabbi mused a trifle wryly as she swung the Mercedes into the exclusive Vaucluse street, where heavy, wide-branched trees added a certain ambience to the luxurious homes nestled out of sight behind high concrete walls.

      A few hundred metres along she drew the car to a halt, depressed a remote modem and waited the necessary seconds as the double set of ornate black wrought-iron gates slid smoothly aside.

      A wide curved driveway led to an elegant two-storeyed Mediterranean-style home set well back from the road in beautiful landscaped grounds. Encompassing four allotments originally acquired in the late 1970s by Conrad Nicols, the existing four houses had been removed to make way for a multi-million-dollar residence whose magnificent harbour views placed it high in Sydney’s real-estate stratosphere.

      Ten years later extensive million-dollar refurbishment had added extensions providing additional bedroom accommodation, garages for seven cars, remodelled kitchen, undercover terraces, and balconies. The revamped gardens boasted fountains, courtyards, ornamental ponds and English-inspired lawns bordered by clipped hedges.

      It was incredibly sad, Gabbi reflected as she released one set of automatic garage doors and drove beneath them, that Conrad and Diandra Nicols had been victims of a freak highway accident mere weeks after the final landscaping touches had been completed.

      Yet Conrad had achieved in death what he hadn’t achieved in the last ten years of his life: His son and heir had returned from America and taken over Conrad’s partnership in Stanton-Nicols.

      Gabbi slid the Mercedes to a halt between the sleek lines of Benedict’s XJ220 Jaguar and the more staid frame of a black Bentley. Missing was the top-of-the range four-wheel drive Benedict used to commute each day to the city.

      The garage doors slid down with a refined click and Gabbi caught up her briefcase from the passenger seat, slipped out from behind the wheel, then crossed to a side door to punch in a series of digits, deactivating the security system guarding entry to the house.

      Mansion, she corrected herself with a twisted smile as she lifted the in-house phone and rang through to the kitchen. ‘Hi, Marie. Everything under control?’

      Twenty years’ service with the Nicols family enabled the housekeeper to respond with a warm chuckle. ‘No problems.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Gabbi acknowledged gratefully before hurrying through the wide hallway to a curved staircase leading to the upper floor.

      Marie would be putting the final touches to the four-course meal she’d prepared; her husband, Serg, would be checking the temperature of the wines Benedict had chosen to be served, and Sophie, the casual help, would be running a final check of the dining-room..

      All she had to do was appear downstairs, perfectly groomed, when Serg answered the ring of the doorbell and ushered the first of their guests into the lounge in around forty minutes.

      Or less, Gabbi accorded as she ascended the stairs at a rapid pace.

      Benedict’s mother had chosen lush-piled eau-de-nil carpet and pale textured walls to offset the classic lines of the mahogany furniture, employing a skilful blend of toning colour with matching drapes and bed-covers, ensuring each room was subtly different.

      The master suite was situated in the eastern wing with glass doors opening onto two balconies and commanding impressive views of the harbour. Panoramic by day, those views became a magical vista at night, with a fairy-like tracery of distant electric and flashing neon light.

      Gabbi kicked off her shoes, removed jewellery, then quickly shed her clothes en route to a marble-tiled en suite which almost rivalled the bedroom in size.

      Elegantly decadent in pale gold-streaked ivory marble, there was a huge spa-bath and a double shower to complement the usual facilities.

      Ten minutes later she entered the bedroom, a towel fastened sarong-style over her slim curves, with another wound into a turban on top of her head.

      ‘Cutting it fine, Gabbi?’ Benedict’s faintly accented drawl held a mocking edge as he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

      In his late thirties, tall, with a broad, hard-muscled frame, his sculpted facial features gave a hint of his maternal Andalusian ancestry. Dark, almost black eyes held a powerful intensity that never softened for his fellow man, and rarely for a woman.

      ‘Whatever happened to “Hi, honey, I’m home”?’ she retaliated as she crossed the room and selected fresh underwear from a recessed drawer, hurriedly donned briefs and bra, then stepped into a silk slip.

      ‘Followed by a salutatory kiss?’ he mocked with a tinge of musing cynicism as he shed his shirt and attended to the zip of his trousers.

      She felt the tempo of her heartbeat increase, and she was conscious of an elevated tension that began in the pit of her stomach and flared along every nerve-end, firing her body with an acute awareness that was entirely physical.

      Dynamic masculinity at its most potent, she acknowledged silently as she snatched up a silk robe, thrust her arms through its sleeves, and retraced her steps to the en suite.

      Removing the towelled turban, she caught up the hair-drier and began blow-drying her hair.

      Her attention rapidly became unfocused as Benedict entered the en suite and crossed to the shower. Mirrored walls reflected his naked image, and she determinedly ignored the olive-toned skin sheathing