The Marriage Bed. Helen Bianchin

of passion which demanded her capitulation.

      She didn’t care when she felt his hands slide the length of her skirt up over her thighs, and she cared even less when he shaped her buttocks and lifted her up against him.

      There was a sense of exultant pleasure as she curved her legs around his hips and tangled her arms together behind his neck, the movement of his body an exciting enticement as he ascended the stairs to their bedroom.

      She was on fire, aching for the feel of his skin against her own, and her fingers feverishly freed his tie and attacked the buttons on his shirt, not satisfied until they found the silken whorls of hair covering his taut, muscled chest.

      Her mouth slid down the firm column of his throat, savoured the hollow at its base, then sought a tantalising path along one collarbone.

      At some stage she became dimly aware she was standing, her clothes, and his, no longer a barrier, and she gave a soft cry as he pulled her down onto the bed.

      Now, hard and fast. No preliminaries. And afterwards he could take all the time he wanted.

      His deep, husky laugh brought faint colour to her cheeks. A colour that deepened at the comprehension that she’d inadvertently said the words out loud.

      He sank into her, watching her expressive features as she accepted him, the fleeting changes as she stretched and the slight gasp as he buried his shaft deep inside her.

      He stayed still for endlessly long seconds, and she felt him swell, then he began to withdraw, slowly, before plunging even more deeply, repeating the action and the tempo of his rhythm until she went up in flames.

      The long, slow after-play, his expertise, the wicked treachery of skilful fingers, the erotic mouth, combined to bring her to the brink and hold her there until she begged for release—and she was unsure at the peak of ecstasy whether she loved or hated him for what he could do to her.

      Good sex. Very good sex. That’s all it was, she reflected sadly as she slid through the veils of sleep.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘VOGEL on line two.’

      Gabbi’s office was located high in an inner city architectural masterpiece and offered a panoramic view beyond the smoke-tinted glass exterior.

      It was a beautiful summer morning, the sky a clear azure, with the sun’s rays providing a dappled effect on the harbour. A Manly-bound ferry cleaved a smooth path several kilometres out from the city terminal and vied with small pleasure craft of varying sizes, all of which were eclipsed by a huge tanker heading slowly into port.

      With a small degree of reluctance Gabbi turned back to her desk and picked up the receiver to deal with the call.

      Five minutes later she replaced it, convinced no woman should have to cross verbal swords with an arrogant, sexist male whose sole purpose in life was to undermine a female contemporary.

      Coffee, hot, sweet and strong, seemed like a good idea, and she rose to her feet, intent on fetching it herself rather than have her secretary do it for her. There were several files she needed to check, and she extracted the pertinent folders and laid them on her desk.

      The private line beeped, and she reached for the receiver, expecting to hear James’s or Benedict’s voice. A lesser possibility was Marie and—even more remote—Monique.

      ‘Gabbi.’ The soft, feminine, breathy sound was unmistakable.

      ‘Annaliese,’ she acknowledged with a sinking feeling.

      ‘Care to do lunch?’

      Delaying the invitation would do no good at all, and she spared her appointment diary a quick glance. ‘I can meet you at one.’ She named an exclusive restaurant close by. ‘Will you make the reservation, or shall I?’

      ‘You do it, Gabbi,’ Annaliese replied in a bored drawl. ‘I have a meeting with my agent. I could be late.’

      ‘I have to be back in my office at two-thirty,’ Gabbi warned.

      ‘In that case, give me ten minutes’ grace, then go ahead and order.’

      Gabbi replaced the receiver, had her secretary make the necessary reservation, fetched her coffee, then gave work her undivided attention until it was time to freshen up before leaving the building.

      The powder-room mirror reflected an elegant image. Soft cream designer-label suit in a lightweight, uncrushable linen mix, and a silk camisole in matching tones. Her French pleat didn’t need attention, and she added a touch of powder, a re-application of lipstick, then she was ready.

      Ten minutes later Gabbi entered the restaurant foyer where she was greeted warmly by the maître d’ and personally escorted to a table. She ordered mineral water and went through the motions of perusing the menu, opting for a Caesar salad with fresh fruit to follow.

      Three-quarters of an hour after the appointed time Annaliese joined her in a waft of exclusive perfume. A slinky slither of red silk accentuated her model-slender curves. She was tall, with long slim legs, and her skilfully applied make-up enhanced her exotic features, emphasised by dark hair styled into a sleek bob.

      No apology was offered, and Gabbi watched in silence as Annaliese ordered iced water, a garden salad and fresh fruit.

      ‘When is your next assignment?’

      A feline smile tilted the edges of her red mouth, and the dark eyes turned to liquid chocolate. ‘So keen to see me gone?’

      ‘A polite enquiry,’ she responded with gentle mockery.

      ‘Followed by an equally polite query regarding my career?’

      Gabbi knew precisely how her stepsister’s modelling career was progressing. Monique never failed to relay, in intricate detail, the events monitoring Annaliese’s rise and rise on the world’s catwalks.

      ‘It was you who initiated lunch.’ She picked up her glass and took a deliberate sip, then replaced it down on the table, her eyes remarkably level as she met those of her stepsister.

      Annaliese’s gaze narrowed with speculative contemplation. ‘We’ve never been friends.’

      In private, the younger girl had proven herself to be a vindictive vixen. ‘You worked hard to demolish any bond.’

      One shoulder lifted with careless elegance. ‘I wanted centre stage in our shared family, darling. Numero uno.’ One long, red-lacquered nail tapped a careless tattoo against the stem of her glass.

      Gabbi speared the last portion of cantaloupe on her plate. ‘Suppose you cut to the chase and explain your purpose?’

      Annaliese’s eyes held a calculated gleam. ‘Monique informed me James is becoming increasingly anxious for you to complete the deal.’

      The fresh melon was succulent, but it had suddenly lost its taste. ‘Which deal are we discussing?’

      ‘The necessary Stanton-Nicols heir.’

      Gabbi’s gaze was carefully level as she rested the fork down onto her plate. ‘You’re way out of line, Annaliese.’

      ‘Experiencing problems, darling?’ The barb was intentional.

      ‘Only with your intense interest in something that is none of your business.’

      ‘It’s family business,’ Annaliese responded with deliberate emphasis.

      Respect for the restaurant’s fellow patrons prevented Gabbi from tipping a glass of iced water into her stepsister’s lap.

      ‘Really?’ Confrontation was the favoured option. ‘I have difficulty accepting my father would enrol you as messenger in such a personal matter.’

      ‘You disbelieve me?’

      ‘Yes.’