The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin

      ‘Some of the city’s rich and famous are known to buy on a whim, then years later make a killing when the artist becomes well-known.’

      ‘And if the artist doesn’t?’

      Gabbi smiled. ‘They place it in the foyer of their office and pretend its obscure origin makes it a curiosity piece. The added advantage being the item then becomes a legitimate tax deduction.’

      ‘Oh, my,’ Francesca breathed. ‘When did you become so cynical?’

      ‘I grew up.’ It shouldn’t hurt so much. But it did.

      ‘And Benedict?’

      She hesitated a moment too long. ‘We understand each other.’

      ‘That’s a loaded statement, darling. I rather imagined he was your knight in shining armour.’

      ‘That myth belongs in a story book.’

      ‘Not always,’ Francesca disagreed gently. ‘I experienced a brief taste of it.’

      Too brief. Francesca’s marriage to a world-famous Italian racing-car driver had lasted six months. A freak accident three years ago on a tight turn had claimed his life and that of another driver, the horrific scene captured for ever on news-film.

      Gabbi had flown to Monaco to attend the funeral, and hadn’t been able to express adequate words then, any more than she could now.

      ‘It’s OK,’ Francesca said quietly, almost as if she knew. ‘I’m learning to deal with it.’

      Gabbi had witnessed the magic, seen for herself the rare depth of their shared love, and wondered if it was possible to cope with such a loss.

      ‘Mario was—’

      ‘One of a kind,’ Francesca interrupted gently. ‘For a while he was mine. At least I have that.’ She pointed out a glaring canvas whose colours shrieked with vivid, bold strokes. ‘Was that a kindergarten tot let loose with brush and palette, do you suppose? Or is there some mysterious but meaningful symmetry that momentarily escapes the scope of my imagination?’

      ‘It’s an abstract,’ an amused male voice revealed. ‘And you’re looking at the kindergarten tot who took an afternoon to slash the canvas with paint in the hope someone might pay for the privilege of putting bread on my table.’

      ‘Expensive bread,’ Francesca remarked without missing a beat. ‘The artist favours hand-stitched shoes, a Hermes tie and wears a Rolex.’

      ‘They could be fake,’ he declared.

      ‘No,’ Francesca asserted with the certainty of one who knew designer apparel.

      Gabbi watched the interplay between her friend and the tall, broad-framed man whose dark eyes held a piercing brilliance.

      ‘Next you’ll tell me where I live and what car I drive.’

      ‘Not what people would expect of an artist,’ Francesca considered with scarcely a thought. ‘Northern suburbs, overlooking water, trees in the garden, a detached studio and a BMW in the garage.’

      Gabbi sensed Benedict’s presence an instant before she felt the touch of firm fingers at the edge of her waist, and she summoned a dazzling smile as she turned slightly towards him.

      The eyes that lanced hers were dark and impossible to fathom so she didn’t even try.

      ‘Benedict,’ Francesca greeted him warmly. ‘It’s been a while.’

      ‘Indeed,’ he agreed urbanely. ‘You’ve met Dominic?’

      ‘We haven’t been formally introduced.’ Francesca’s smile was deliberately warm as she turned her head towards the man at her side.

      ‘Dominic Andrea. Entrepreneur and part-time artist,’ Benedict informed her. ‘Francesca Angeletti.’

      ‘How opportune. The designer luggage won’t require a change of initials.’

      Gabbi registered Dominic’s words and heard Francesca’s almost inaudible gasp one second ahead of Benedict’s husky chuckle.

      ‘You must come to dinner,’ Dominic insisted. ‘Bring Francesca.’

      ‘Gabbi?’ Benedict deferred, and she caught her breath that the decision should be hers.

      ‘Thank you, we’d love to.’

      ‘No,’ the glamorous widow declined.

      ‘I have yet to nominate a night,’ Dominic said in mild remonstrance. ‘And with Benedict and Gabbi present you’ll be quite safe.’ His smile was dangerously soft and filled with latent charm. ‘Aren’t you in the least curious to see if you’re right?’

      Gabbi watched Francesca’s eyes narrow and heard her voice chill to ice. ‘Where you live doesn’t interest me.’

      ‘Tomorrow,’ he insisted gently. ‘Six-thirty.’ He turned and threaded his way to the opposite side of the gallery.

      ‘What a preposterous man,’ Francesca hissed disdainfully the moment he was out of earshot.

      ‘A very rich and successful one,’ Benedict added mildly. ‘Who dabbles in art and donates his work to worthwhile charities.’

      ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

      ‘We occasionally do business together. He spends a lot of time overseas. New York, Athens, Rome,’ Benedict enlightened her.

      ‘Champagne, caviare and camaraderie aren’t my style,’ Francesca dismissed.

      ‘You share something in common,’ Benedict informed her with a degree of cynical amusement.

      ‘Then why the dinner invitation?’

      ‘He admires your charming wit,’ Benedict responded wryly, and his mouth curved to form an amused smile.

      ‘An attempt to charm wasn’t my intention,’ Francesca declared with an expressive lift of one eyebrow.

      ‘Perhaps he is sufficiently intrigued to want to discover why not?’ Benedict ventured in a dry undertone.

      ‘I presume women rarely refuse him.’

      A low chuckle escaped Benedict’s throat. ‘Rarely.’

      Gabbi witnessed the faint sparkle evident in her friend’s eyes, and was unable to repress a winsome smile. ‘So you’ll accept?’

      ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been offered such an interesting evening,’ Francesca conceded. ‘I’ll let you know at lunch tomorrow.’

      Benedict drew their attention to an intricate steel sculpture that was garnering a great deal of notice, and after a few minutes Francesca indicated her intention to leave.

      ‘Do you want to stay for Leon’s party?’ Benedict queried minutes later, and Gabbi cast him a studied glance.

      ‘I imagine you’ve already presented him with a sizeable cheque, sufficient to appease any regret he might express at our absence?’ The words were lightly voiced and brought a faint smile to his lips.

      ‘Exhibits five and thirty-seven, plus the sculpture Annaliese admired.’

      A knife twisted inside her stomach.

      ‘A gift for James,’ he added with gentle mockery.

      She held his gaze with difficulty, unsure what interpretation to place on his words, or if there was any hidden innuendo in them. ‘I’m sure he’ll be most appreciative,’ she said after a measurable silence.

      ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Benedict reminded her gently.

      ‘James, Monique and Annaliese have yet to leave.’ It was amazing that her voice sounded so calm, equally surprising