Читать книгу The High-Society Wife - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 10

GIANNA drifted awake to the realisation she was alone in the large bed.

Which was probably just as well, she decided as she arched her body in a preliminary stretch…and felt the faint pull of muscles, the awareness of sensitivity deep inside.

Even thinking about what she’d shared with Franco through the night brought renewed heat flooding her body, and she uttered a self-deprecatory groan, checked the time, saw it was early and aimed a frustrated punch at her pillow.

It was Saturday, for heaven’s sake, with no rush to rise and begin the day.

Yet any further sleep wasn’t going to happen, and she threw back the bedcovers and made for the shower.

Breakfast comprised yoghurt and fresh fruit, which she took out on the terrace.

Early-morning sun fingered the air with warmth, tempered by a wispy breeze, and lent promise to an early summer’s day.

Rosa joined her with fresh coffee, and together they conferred over the coming week’s schedule. Dinner at home, with the exception of Wednesday, and Gianna gave Rosa carte blanche with the evening meals.

A superb cook, whose culinary talents were unfailingly lauded by Gianna and Franco’s guests, Rosa ran the house like clockwork, engaging outside help whenever the need arose.

It was almost nine when Gianna ran lightly upstairs to change, choosing dress jeans and a knit singlet-top. Make-up was minimal, and she swept her hair into a loose knot, secured it with a tortoiseshell clasp, then she slid her feet into stiletto-heeled boots, collected her shoulder-bag and descended the staircase.

Franco glanced up from his laptop as she entered his study, and she watched as he hit a key, then sank back in his chair.

Black jeans and black tee-shirt lent a casual air, making it impossible to ignore the way the cotton highlighted impressive muscle and sinew.

‘On your way out?’

The deep drawl curled round her nerve-ends and tugged a little.

‘Retail therapy,’ she responded lightly.

Leading a social existence commanded serious attention to one’s wardrobe. Men could wear a dinner suit several times over. If a woman wore the same gown twice to a gala event, it was assumed she couldn’t afford the price of a new one. Appearance was everything, providing a benchmark for her husband’s status in the business arena.

Dress designers of high repute were very much in demand, earning veritable fortunes providing original couture, with consultations and fittings afforded only by appointment.

‘Have fun.’ Franco’s eyes gleamed with latent humour, and she offered a wry smile.

‘Pray Estella is in a good mood.’ The Spanish-born seamstress possessed magic fingers when it came to fabric and thread. She was also vocal, volatile, lethal on occasion when adjusting pins…and known to dismiss clientele on the slightest whim.

‘Want to eat in tonight, or dine out?’

It was no contest. ‘Home. Will you tell Rosa?’

‘I’ll cook.’

The fact he could, and well, had long since ceased to surprise her. ‘OK.’

He joined her as she reached the door, and silently she tilted her head askance.

‘You forgot something.’ His hands cupped her face as he laid his lips against her own, then went in deep, and she held on as he bestowed an evocative tasting that blew her mind.

How long did it last? Mere seconds?

She was incapable of saying a word when he released her, and it took effort to control the slight tremble threatening her mouth as he pressed a light thumb against her lower lip.

Damn. She didn’t want to appear vulnerable. Yet he had only to touch her and she became limbless.

‘Go enjoy your day.’ He waited a beat. ‘There’s just one thing. You might want to repair your lipstick.’

Repair didn’t quite cover it. She’d have to start over.

‘Bite me.’

His soft chuckle stayed with her as she reversed her BMW from the garage and slid in a CD, turning up the volume as she eased through the gates and gained the street.

Estella worked out of an old-style home whose rooms had been converted into a fashionista’s salon. Parking rarely presented a problem, and Gianna greeted the receptionist as she entered the front lounge.

Within minutes a middle-aged flamboyantly dressed matron appeared at the door, hair covered in a deep crimson headpiece that defied description, with make-up pronounced to the point of absurdity.

‘You are late.’

‘I’m on time,’ Gianna declared politely, and incurred a haughty look.

‘You would dare argue with me?’

‘Perhaps we can compromise by agreeing our watches are not in sync?’

A raven eyebrow arched in disdain. ‘My timepiece is correct. Follow me.’ Estella swept down the hallway into the fitting room.

‘Remove your outer clothes,’ the seamstress demanded. ‘No talking. I do not have the inclination for chit-chat.’

Beige, taupe, cream and ivory. Who would have thought?

Gianna watched as Estella folded the glorious silk chiffon, pinned, tucked…all the while muttering beneath her breath.

‘No one has this. The fabric, the style.’ The woman swept an expressive hand high. ‘Your hair. Wear it up. It will give balance.’ She stood back a pace. ‘Jewellery minimal. Focus the gown. Shoes taupe. Fine heels. I give you fabric sample for matching. Next fitting you bring shoes. Now change and go. Next week, same time.’

Coffee, Gianna decided as she slid her sunglasses in place and slipped in behind the wheel of her car. Hot, strong, black and sweet in one of the boutique cafés, then she’d look for shoes before heading to the hairdresser.

It was after one when she consigned several brightly emblazoned packages into the boot of her car. There were still a few things she needed to do, and it made sense to take a break for lunch.

Toorak Road hosted several upmarket café’s, and she chose one, ordered a long cool drink and an open salad sandwich, leafed through one of a few complimentary newspapers while she ate…and managed not to choke as Famke’s image leapt off a page.

Correction. Famke and Franco, on-stage, captured on film in a momentary embrace.

Gianna forced herself to read the small print beneath the caption…then she pushed aside her plate.

It was bad enough more than a thousand guests had witnessed Famke’s deliberate act. Now the incident was accessible to the entire state. Australia-wide, if other newspapers had decided to run it.

She muttered an unladylike oath beneath her breath. The doubts, ever present beneath the surface, began to emerge, insidiously invading her emotions.

Dammit. Love wasn’t supposed to be such a pain.

Spending money, serious money, was a woman’s prerogative in times of stress. And there were those stiletto heels she’d looked at, liked, and passed over.

She could afford them. Several pairs. The whole darn shop if she felt so inclined!

With that thought in mind she picked up her bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, paid her bill, emerged out onto the pavement…and came face-to-face with Famke.

The day, which had already taken a downward turn, suddenly nosedived.

‘Gianna!’ The actress gave a credible act of being surprised. ‘This is unexpected.’

Really? Upmarket Toorak, Saturday, shopping and personal maintenance high on any career woman’s list… It wouldn’t be hard to do the maths.

Which meant Famke had a purpose.

Gianna gave herself a metaphorical slap on the wrist for being cynical.

‘Famke.’ She could do polite civility…for now.

‘Let’s share coffee.’

Do you honestly think I’ll fall for that? ‘Thanks, but we have nothing to discuss.’

‘Not even the fabricated excuse of a pressing appointment?’ A perfectly shaped eyebrow formed a deliberate arch. ‘Afraid to hear what I might say, darling?’

Confrontation, or a silent exit? Verbal, definitely!

‘Enjoy the hunt, Famke.’

‘Straight to the point?’ There was a marked pause. ‘Don’t bother drawing battle lines.’

‘Waste of time.’

The smile didn’t reach Famke’s eyes. ‘I’m glad you agree, darling.’

Leave, now. She took a step forward, only to come to an abrupt halt as the actress placed a hand on her arm.

‘Don’t discount the lure of sexual chemistry.’

Gianna tried for the last word. ‘Yours…or mine?’

Grrr. She badly wanted to hit something, except it wasn’t the thing to do in public.

Instead, she made for the shoe boutique, followed the purchase with a manicure, pedicure and a facial.

Consequently it was after five when she garaged her car and gathered all her purchases together.

She made the foyer and was about to ascend the stairs when Franco appeared.

‘Want some help with those?’

His musing drawl put her on the defensive. So did his close proximity. He’d shaved, showered and donned black trousers and a light chambray shirt, the sleeves folded back almost to each elbow.

‘I’m fine.’

Gianna missed the faint narrowing of his eyes as he examined her expressive features. ‘Come toss the salad when you’re done.’

‘OK.’

He watched her progress up the stairs, the slight sway of her denim-clad rear, the tightly held shoulders that owed nothing to the weight of the emblazoned carry-bags in each hand.

She was a piece of work. There was strength of character, integrity, pride…and vulnerability. A combination he found intriguing.

A glass of chilled white wine rested on the kitchen servery when Gianna entered the kitchen. She’d taken time to unpack and stow her purchases, shower, and don tailored trousers and a fashionable top before slipping her feet into heeled sandals. Her hair was caught in a loose knot atop her head, and her one concession to make-up was pink lipgloss.

Franco picked up the glass and handed it to her. ‘For you.’

‘Because you think I need it?’

He collected his own glass and touched its rim to her own. ‘Salute.’

She wanted to slip into the light camaraderie they shared, to enjoy the anticipation of how the night would end. To know she could lose herself in him and emerge whole.

Except she had to deal with the spectre of Famke intruding between them. If what he’d shared with the actress came close to what he shared with her.

The thought of his tightly muscled body locked with Famke in the throes of lovemaking almost destroyed her.

A vivid imagination was fast becoming her own worst enemy. Something she must fight to control, or she’d be lost.

Pretend, a silent voice bade. You’re good at it.

A redolent aroma wafted from a small pot simmering on the cook-top, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation. ‘Marinara sauce?’

‘Uh-huh. Want to choose the pasta?’

Gianna didn’t hesitate. ‘Fettuccine.’

With easy co-ordinated movements he extracted a packet from the pantry and forked the contents into a large pot of boiling water, adjusted the heat, then turned towards her.

‘How was your day?’

You really don’t want to know. Yet he saw too much and read her too well. ‘Fun, until Famke appeared on the scene.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

She took a sip of wine, savoured the light golden liquid, then let it slide down her throat. ‘Facts, or my summation?’

‘Both.’

She looked at him carefully, and gained nothing from his expression. ‘I bumped into her outside a café.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Let’s go with coincidence.’ Gianna lifted a hand and tucked back a lock of hair. ‘I really don’t want to contemplate design.’

She crossed to the sink, caught up the washed salad greens and began breaking the leaves into a bowl. Only to have a hand cup her chin and lift it.

‘We did this last night.’ His voice was pure silk.

So they had. Except it hadn’t resolved a thing.

‘She’s on a mission.’ Wasn’t that the truth? ‘And determined to succeed.’

‘Don’t let her bother you.’

‘I can handle her.’ Sure she could…verbally. Emotionally, she didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell.

His eyes were inscrutable as he traced her mouth with his thumb, and for a few seconds she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

Then he released her and crossed to the cook-top, leaving her to finish fixing the salad.

When it was done, she set the kitchen table, checked the garlic bread heating in the oven, grated parmesan cheese and saw Franco drain the pasta.

‘This is seriously good.’ Gianna lifted her wine glass in appreciation as she sampled the food. Simple fare eaten in a homely atmosphere provided a pleasant change from their hectic social life.

‘Grazie.’

His lazy drawl made her lips twitch. ‘Prego.’

‘Italian conversation to match the meal?’

‘Practice,’ she responded lightly. ‘Or have you forgotten we’re entertaining Anamaria and Santo tomorrow night?’

‘The grandparents,’ Franco mused. ‘What do you have you in mind for Rosa to serve?’

She took a sip of wine, then twirled pasta onto her fork. ‘I intend to cook.’

He caught her speculative look, and bit back his amusement. ‘You’re planning something ambitious?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘With or without Rosa’s help?’

Gianna offered a brilliant smile. ‘Solo. I’ll devote the day to it.’

‘Which will make for an interesting evening.’

Her eyes assumed a mischievous sparkle. ‘Ah, you get the drift.’

She’d taken a course during a sojourn in Rome and had learnt from the best. In another life she could have been a chef. Except the sole surviving Castelli had no future in a restaurant kitchen.

Annamaria Castelli prided herself on her culinary expertise, and had personally trained her housekeeper to serve her favourite dishes. She had an acute knowledge of taste and smell, and could, she liked to boast, sample a dish and divulge not only every ingredient, but the precise measure in any recipe.

Santo Giancarlo, on the other hand, loved to eat. If it tasted fine and didn’t upset his digestion, he had no inclination to examine and dissect the ingredients.

Two grandparents who were as chalk to cheese in personalities, yet with more in common than they were prepared to admit.

Gianna forked the last of her fettuccine, followed it with a morsel of garlic bread, then finished off her wine.

‘You cooked; I’ll take care of the dishes,’ she declared, and gathered up their plates. Leaving them for Rosa didn’t enter her head.

‘Coffee?’

Franco rose to his feet. ‘I’ll make, and take mine in the study.’

‘Likewise.’ She needed to check e-mails, send out a few, peruse the week’s business and social diary, and decide what to prepare for Sunday evening’s dinner.

With deft movements she soon restored the kitchen surfaces to their former state of gleaming cleanliness, settled for tea instead of coffee, and took it into the room she used as a study.