The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin

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 hard muscle and sinew, the springy dark hair that covered his chest and arrowed down past his waist to reach his manhood, the firmly shaped buttocks, and the powerful length of his back.

      Her eyes followed the powerful strength of his shoulders as he reached forward to activate the flow of water, then the glass doors slid closed behind him.

      Gabbi tugged the brush through her hair with unnecessary force, and felt her eyes prick at the sudden pain.

      It was one year, two months and three weeks since their marriage, and she still couldn’t handle the effect he had on her in bed or out of it.

      Her scalp tingled in protest, and she relaxed the brushstrokes then switched off the drier. Her hair was still slightly damp, its natural ash-blonde colour appearing faintly darker, highlighting the creamy smoothness of her skin and accentuating the deep blue of her eyes.

      With practised movements she caught the length of her hair and deftly swept it into a chignon at her nape, secured it with pins, then began applying make-up.

      Minutes later she heard the water stop, and with conscious effort she focused on blending her eyeshadow, studiously ignoring him as he crossed to the long marbled pedestal and began dealing with a day’s growth of beard.

      ‘Bad day?’

      Her fingers momentarily stilled, then she replaced the eyeshadow palette and selected mascara. ‘Why do you ask?’

      ‘You have expressive eyes,’ Benedict observed as he smoothed his fingers over his jaw.

      Gabbi met his gaze in the mirror, and held it. ‘Annaliese is to be a last-minute guest at dinner.’

      He switched off. the electric shaver and reached for the cut-glass bottle containing an exclusive brand of cologne. ‘That bothers you?’

      She tried for levity. ‘I’m capable of slaying my own dragons.’

      One eyebrow lifted with sardonic humour. ‘Verbal swords over dessert?’

      Annaliese was known not to miss an opportunity, and Gabbi couldn’t imagine tonight would prove an exception. ‘I’ll do my best to parry any barbs with practised civility.’

      His eyes swept over her slim curves then returned to study the faint, brooding quality evident on her finely etched features, and a slight smile tugged the edges of his mouth. ‘The objective being to win another battle in an ongoing war?’

      ‘Has anyone beaten you in battle, Benedict?’ she queried lightly as she capped the mascara wand, returned it to the drawer housing her cosmetics and concentrated on applying a soft pink colour to her lips.

      He didn’t answer. He had no need to assert that he was a man equally feared and respected by his contemporaries and rarely, if ever, fooled by anyone.

      Just watch my back. The words remained unuttered as she turned towards the door, and minutes later she selected a long black pencil-slim silk skirt and teamed it with a simple scoop-necked sleeveless black top. Stiletto-heeled evening shoes completed the outfit, and she added a pear-shaped diamond pendant and matching ear-studs, then slipped on a slim, diamond-encrusted bracelet before turning towards the mirror to cast her reflection a cursory glance. A few dabs of her favourite Le Must de Cartier perfume added the final touch.

      ‘Ready?’

      Gabbi turned at the sound of his voice, and felt her breath catch at the image he presented.

      There was something about his stance, a sense of animalistic strength, that fine tailoring did little to tame. The dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and primitive power added a magnetism few women of any age could successfully ignore.

      For a few. timeless seconds her eyes locked with his in an attempt to determine what lay behind the studied inscrutability he always managed to portray.

      She envied him his superb control...and wondered what it would take to break it.

      ‘Yes.’ Her voice was steady, and she summoned a bright smile as she turned to precede him from the room.

      The main staircase curved down to the ground floor in an elegant sweep of wide, partially carpeted marble stairs, with highly polished mahogany bannisters supported by ornately scrolled black wrought-iron balusters.

      Set against floor-to-ceiling lead-panelled glass, the staircase created an elegant focus highlighted by a magnificent crystal chandelier.

      Marble floors lent spaciousness and light to the large entry foyer, sustained by textured ivory-coloured walls whose uniformity was broken by a series of wide, heavily panelled doors, works of art, and a collection of elegant Mediterranean-style cabinets.

      Gabbi had just placed a foot on the last stair when the doorbell pealed.

      ‘Show-time,’ she murmured as Serg emerged from the eastern hallway and moved quickly towards the impressively panelled double front doors.

      Benedict’s eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’

      Innate pride lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and her chin tilted slightly in a gesture of mild defiance. ‘I can be guaranteed to behave,’ she assured him quietly, and felt her pulse quicken as he caught hold of her hand.

      ‘Indeed.’ The acknowledgement held a dry softness which was lethal, and an icy chill feathered across the surface of her skin.

      ‘Charles,’ Benedict greeted smoothly seconds later as Serg announced the first of their guests. ‘Andrea’ His smile was warm, and he appeared relaxed and totally at ease. ‘Come through to the lounge and let me get you a drink.’

      Most of the remaining guests arrived within minutes, and Gabbi played her role as hostess to the hilt, circulating, smiling, all the time waiting for the moment Monique and Annaliese would precede her father into the lounge.

      Monique believed in making an entrance, and her arrival was always carefully timed to provide maximum impact. While she was never unpardonably late, her timing nevertheless bordered on the edge of social acceptability.

      Serg’s announcement coincided with Gabbi’s expectation and, excusing herself from conversation, she moved forward to greet her father.

      ‘James.’ She brushed his cheek with her lips and accepted the firm clasp on her shoulder in return before turning towards her stepmother to accept the salutatory air-kiss. ‘Monique.’ Her smile was without fault as she acknowledged the stunning young woman at Monique’s side. ‘Annaliese. How nice to see you.’

      Benedict joined her, the light touch of his hand at the back of her waist a disturbing sensation that provided subtle reassurance and a hidden warning. That it also succeeded in sharpening her senses and made her incredibly aware of him was entirely a secondary consideration.

      His greeting echoed her own, his voice assuming a subtle inflection that held genuine