The Marriage Campaign. HELEN BIANCHIN

and close friends had shielded her, protecting and nurturing during the emotional fall-out. And afterwards she had stepped back onto the catwalk, aware every move, every nuance of her expression was being carefully watched for visible signs of distress.

      Some had even attempted to provoke it. Yet not once had she let down her guard. Only those who knew her well saw the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and recognised the smooth social patter as a practised facade.

      ‘It must have been a very painful time for you.’

      Francesca was unable to verbally denounce his sympathy, for there was none. Merely an empathetic statement that ignored conventional platitudes.

      ‘Would you like a drink? Some more tea, coffee?’ The smile held musing warmth. ‘Something stronger, perhaps?’

      Francesca stood to her feet, her expression wary as he mirrored her action. ‘I really must leave.’

      ‘Do I frighten you?’ The query was voiced in a soft drawl, and succeeded in halting her steps.

      No doubt about it, his target aim was deadly.

      ‘Fear’ was a multi-faceted word that encompassed many emotions. Slowly she turned towards him and met his gaze. Her chin tilted fractionally. A mental stiffening of her own resources? ‘No.’

      His eyes never left hers, but she felt as if he’d stripped every protective layer she’d swathed around her frozen heart and laid it bare and bleeding.

      Oh, God, what was happening here? She’d known he was trouble the first time she saw him. Walk away, a tiny voice bade silently. Now.

      A faint smile curved the edges of that sensual mouth, and there was a transitory gleam of humour apparent in the depth of those dark eyes. ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

      ‘Why?’ The demand seemed perfectly logical.

      He looked at her carefully, weighing his words and assessing the damage they might do. And how he would deal with it. ‘I want you,’ he stated gently, lifting a hand to trace a gentle forefinger down the edge of her cheek.

      His touch was like fire, and her pulse jumped, then raced to a quickened beat, almost as if in silent recognition of something she refused to acknowledge.

      ‘Tangled sheets and an exchange of body fluids?’ Inside, her emotions were shredding into pieces. Her eyes seared his, and her chin tilted fractionally as she took a step away from him. ‘I don’t do one-night stands.’

      Courage. And passion. Banked, reserved. But there. He wanted it all. And knew she’d fight him every inch of the way.

      ‘Neither do I.’

      His words sent a shiver feathering down the length of her spine. What was it with this man? She found it annoying that just as she was about to categorise him, he shifted stance.

      Dominic watched the play of emotions in her expressive eyes. No matter how much he wanted it to be different, he could wait. The temptation to pull her up against him and let her feel the effect she had on him was strong. To cover her mouth with his own, explore and vanquish.

      He did neither. It would keep. Until the next time. And he’d ensure there was a next time.

      Francesca felt the need to escape, and good manners instilled since childhood ensured she uttered a few polite words in thanks.

      ‘Why, when you merely sampled a bird-like portion from each course, then picked at the salad?’

      She experienced a momentary tinge of remorse for the manner in which she’d eaten the delectable food. Did he suspect it had been deliberate? Somehow she had the instinctive feeling he saw too much, knew too much of the human psyche.

      ‘My loss of appetite bore no reflection on your housekeeper’s culinary ability.’

      ‘In that case, I’ll refer the compliment.’

      Francesca turned and walked from the room to the front door, acutely aware of his presence at her side. She paused as he reached forward to pull back one of the large, panelled doors.

      ‘What were you doing shopping for food in a supermarket when you employ a housekeeper?’

      He could have used any one of several glib excuses, or employed a deliberately flattering remark. Instead he chose honesty. ‘I wanted to see you again.’

      Her stomach lurched, and an icy chill feathered her skin at the directness of his gaze.

      ‘Goodnight.’ She moved past him and stepped quickly down to her car, unlocked it and slid in behind the wheel.

      The engine fired with a refined purr, and she resisted the temptation to speed down the driveway, choosing instead to ease the vehicle through the gates onto the road before quickly accelerating towards the main arterial road leading towards the Harbour Bridge.

      Damn him. Francesca’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel until her knuckles shone white. He was fast proving to be an intrusive force—one she didn’t need in her life.

      The sky was a deep indigo-blue sprinkled with stars, and beneath them lay the city, dark velvet laced by a tracery of electric lights that had no discernible pattern. Bright neon flashed, providing vivid colour as one advertisement vied with another. A commuter train slipped by in electronic silence, its carriages illuminated and partly empty.

      It was still early, yet there was already action in the city streets. Professionals worked the pavements, hustling and touting and evading the law as they mingled with the tourists and the curious.

      Francesca took the expressway through the Domain, bypassed Kings Cross and headed towards the main arterial road leading to Double Bay.

      Her head felt heavy, and she would have given much to be able to stop the car and walk in the clear night air. Instead she drove to her apartment building, garaged the car, then rode the lift to her designated floor.

      A leisurely cool shower followed by an iced drink while she viewed television would have to suffice.

      Yet nothing provided a distraction from the man who disturbed her thoughts.

      Sleep didn’t come easily, and even when it did, there were jagged dreams that made little sense. Except one, from which she awoke damp-skinned and damp-eyed. A vivid recall of Mario’s laughing features as he stepped into his racing-car and donned his helmet prior to lining up for the last race of his life.

      

      On the other side of the city Dominic stood looking out at the glittering lights across a darkened harbour as he reflected on the woman who had not long driven away from his home.

      Sleep was elusive. At worst he could make do with six hours, five if he had to. Tonight he had the feeling he’d have to manage with less.

      The fax machine shrilled in another room, and he ignored it.

      What he needed was a carefully constructed strategy. A campaign that would leave nothing to chance.

      Tomorrow he would make a call to Benedict Nicols in the hope that Gabbi might be persuaded to reveal details of Francesca’s social calendar.

      Subterfuge was permissible in the pursuit of an objective.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE next few days were relaxing as Francesca caught up with friends, did some shopping, and enjoyed a rescheduled lunch with her father in an exclusive restaurant close to his office building.

      The food was excellent, the ambience superb.

      ‘How is Madeline?’ Her stepmother was hardly the wicked kind, but Madeline viewed Francesca as a contestant for Rick’s affections, and waged a subtle war to test her husband’s priorities whenever Francesca was in town.

      ‘Fine.’ The warmth in his voice was unmistakable, and as long as Francesca continued to hear it she was prepared to forgive Madeline almost