HELEN BIANCHIN - The Marriage Campaign

Her appetite diminished so as to be almost nonexistent, and she declined dessert, choosing to settle for coffee.

‘Francesca?’

She looked up at the sound of her name and realised she hadn’t taken in a word her father had said. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘Is there a reason for your distraction?’ Rick queried, and she wrinkled her nose in wry humour.

‘An unwanted one.’

Her father chuckled. ‘Now that I have your attention... Madeline would like you to join us at home for dinner. Does Wednesday suit?’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

The waiter cleared their table and brought coffee.

Francesca was conscious of every movement she made, aware as she had never been before of one man’s veiled scrutiny.

No one would have guessed to what degree Dominic’s presence bothered her, or how much she longed to escape.

‘A refill?’

‘No, thanks.’ She cast her father a warm smile. ‘This has been lovely.’ She watched as he summoned the waiter to bring the bill.

‘Rick. How are you?’

Even if the faint aroma of exclusive male cologne hadn’t warned her, the slow curl in the pit of her stomach did.

Dominic Andrea. Dark eyes, inscrutable expression behind the warm smile.

‘Francesca.’ The intimate inflexion he gave her name made the hairs at her nape rise in protest. Something that irritated the hell out of her and lent a very polite edge to her voice as she acknowledged his presence.

Dominic leaned down and brushed his lips against her temple. The contact was brief, his touch light. But something ignited and flared through her veins, potent, alive—electric.

She wanted to kill him. In fact, she definitely would kill him the next time she saw him. If she saw him again. How dare he imply an intimacy that didn’t exist? Would never exist.

‘You know each other?’ Rick queried, interested in the expressive play of emotions that chased fleetingly across his daughter’s features.

‘We dined together earlier in the week,’ Dominic enlightened smoothly.

Damning. Francesca cursed, all too aware of his intended implication.

‘Really?’ Rick absorbed the information and wondered whether anything was to be made of it. ‘You’ll join us for coffee?’

‘I’m with two colleagues. Another time, perhaps?’ His eyes shifted to Francesca, who met his steady gaze with equanimity. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’

He reminded her of a sleeping tiger. All leashed power beneath the guise of relaxed ease.

Francesca watched as he turned and threaded his way back to his table.

‘I didn’t realise you were on such close terms with Dominic Andrea. I have one of his paintings.’

She couldn’t imagine her father coveting anything resembling the colourful abstract resting in Leon’s gallery. A mental run-through of the artwork gracing Rick and Madeline’s walls brought a mental blank.

‘The vase of roses in the dining room,’ Rick enlightened. ‘Madeline assures me it is perfect for the room.’

Francesca had to agree. She’d silently admired it numerous times. Such painstaking brushwork, a delicate blending of colours. Velvet curling petals, the perfection of leaf foliage, the drops of fresh dew. Displayed in a glazed ceramic bowl against a shadowy background. The work of a man, she conceded, who possessed infinite patience and skill. Did those same qualities extend to pleasuring a woman? Somehow she imagined that they did.

Sensation feathered the surface of her skin, and she consciously banked down the acute ache deep within. She experienced guilt, and mentally attempted to justify it.

‘Shall we leave?’ Rick suggested as he settled the bill. Together they threaded their way towards the exit and parted with an affectionate kiss as they reached the pavement.

Shopping, a visit to the hairdresser and the beautician took care of the afternoon, then she drove home and dressed for the evening ahead.

Obscenely glamorous. Well, the gown was certainly that! Indigo lace over raw silk, form-fitting. A lace bolero, high-heeled pumps and evening purse. Her favourite perfume added a finishing touch.

Familial affection was in evidence during dinner, and Francesca relaxed in the warmth of it. There were gifts to distribute that she’d collected in Rome, and the photographer appeared at their table right on cue.

If Madeline knew it was a set-up, she didn’t let on. It was enough that she and her children would appear on the social pages, their names in print.

Sunday brought abnormally high summer temperatures, and Francesca was glad she’d made arrangements to join her mother for a day cruising the harbour on a friend’s boat. The breeze made for pleasant conditions, and for the first time in ages she slept the night through, rising later than usual the next morning at the start of what promised to be a hectic week.

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