The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed

Gabbi collected her clutch-purse and preceded him from the room, and, seated inside the Jaguar, she remained silent, aware that the latent power of the sports car equalled that of the man seated behind the wheel.

To attempt to play a game with him, even an innocuous one, was foolish, she perceived as the car purred along the suburban streets. For even when she won she really lost. It didn’t seem quite fair that he held such an enormous advantage. Yet the likelihood of tipping the scales in her favour seemed incredibly remote.

‘How did James react to your proposal?’ Business was always a safe subject.

Benedict turned his head slightly and directed a brief glance at her before focusing his attention on the road. ‘Small talk, Gabbi?’

‘I can ask James,’ she responded steadily.

‘I fly to Melbourne in a couple of weeks.’

I, not we, she thought dully. ‘How long will you be away?’

“Three, maybe four days.’

She should have been used to his frequent trips interstate and overseas. Yet she felt each absence more keenly than the last, intensely aware of her own vulnerability, and, dammit, incredibly insecure emotionally.

Gabbi wanted to say she’d miss him, but that would be tantamount to an admission she wasn’t prepared to make. Instead, she focused her attention on the scene beyond the windscreen, noting the soft haze that had settled over the city, the azure, pink-fringed sky as the sun sank beyond the horizon. Summer daylight-time delayed the onset of dusk, but soon numerous street-lamps would provide a fairy tracery of light, and the city would be lit with flashing neon.

The views were magnificent: numerous coves and inlets, the grandeur of the Opera House against the backdrop of Harbour Bridge. It was a vista she took for granted every day as she drove to work, and now she examined it carefully, aware that the plaudits acclaiming it one of the most attractive harbours in the world were well deserved.

Traffic at this hour was relatively minimal, and they reached Double Bay without delay. There was private parking adjacent to the gallery, and Benedict brought the Jaguar to a smooth halt in an empty bay.

Gabbi released the door-latch and slid out of the passenger seat, resisting the urge to smooth suddenly nervous fingers over the length of her hair. It was merely another evening in which she was required to smile and converse and pretend that everything was as it appeared to be.

She’d had a lot of practice, she assured herself silently as she walked at Benedict’s side to the entrance.

The gallery held an interesting mix of patrons, Gabbi could see as she preceded Benedict into the elegant foyer.

Their presence elicited an ebullient greeting from the gallery owner, whose flamboyant dress style and extravagant jewellery were as much an act as was his effusive manner. A decade devoted to creating an image and fostering clientele had paid off, for his ‘invitation only’ soirées were considered de rigueur by the city’s social élite.

‘Darlings, how are we, ça va?’

Gabbi accepted the salutatory kiss on each cheek and smiled at the shrewd pair of eyes regarding her with affection.

‘Leon,’ she responded quietly, aware that the Italian-born Leo had acknowledged his French roots after discovering his ancestors had fled France during the French Revolution. ‘Well, merci.’

‘That is good.’ He caught hold of Benedict’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. ‘There are some wonderful pieces. At least one I’m sure will be of immense interest. I shall show it to you personally. But first some champagne, out?’ He beckoned a hovering waiter and plucked two flutes from the tray, then commanded a uniformed waitress to bring forth a selection of hors d‘oeuvres. ‘Beluga, smoked salmon, anchovy.’

Gabbi selected a thin wafer artfully decorated with smoked salmon topped with a cream cheese and caper dressing. ‘Delicious,’ she complimented. ‘Franz has excelled himself.’

‘Thank you, darling,’ Leon said gently. ‘Now, do mingle. You already know almost everyone. I’ll be back with you later.’

She moved forward, conscious of the interest their presence aroused. It was definitely smile-time, and she greeted one fellow guest after another with innate charm, pausing to indulge in idle chatter before moving on.

How long would it be before James made an entrance with Monique on one arm and Annaliese on the other? Ten, fifteen minutes?

Twenty, Gabbi acknowledged when she caught sight of her father, caught his smile and returned it as he threaded his way through the throng of guests.

‘Hello, darling.’ He squeezed her hand, then turned to greet his son-in-law. ‘Benedict.’

‘Monique.’ Gabbi went through with the air-kiss routine. ‘Annaliese.’

Her stepsister’s perfume was subtle. Her dress, however, was not. Black, it fitted Annaliese’s slender curves like a glove, the hemline revealing an almost obscene length of long, smooth thigh and highlighting the absence of a bra.

There wasn’t a red-blooded man in the room whose eyes didn’t momentarily gleam with appreciation. Nor was there a woman in doubt of her man who didn’t fail to still the slither of alarm at the sight of this feline female on the prowl.

Gabbi could have assured each and every one of them that their fears were unfounded. Benedict was the target, she the victim.

‘Have you seen anything you like?’

To anyone overhearing the enquiry, it sounded remarkably genuine. Gabbi, infinitely more sensitive, recognised the innuendo in Annaliese’s voice and searched for it in Benedict’s reply.

‘Yes. One or two pieces have caught my interest.’

‘Are you going to buy?’ asked Monique, intrigued, yet able to portray dispassionate detachment.

Gabbi doubted if James was aware of his stepdaughter’s machinations, or her collusion with his wife.

‘Possibly,’ Benedict enlightened her smoothly.

‘You must point them out to me,’ Annaliese purred in a voice filled with seductive promise.

Gabbi wanted to hit her. For a wild second she envisaged the scene and drew satisfaction from a mental victory.

‘Numbers five and thirty-seven,’ Benedict was informing Annaliese.

‘Gabbi, why don’t you take Monique and Annaliese on a tour of the exhibits?’ James suggested. ‘I have something I’d like to discuss with Benedict.’

Oh, my. Did her father realise he’d just thrown her to the lions?

‘The girls can go,’ Monique said sweetly. ‘I’ll have a word with Bertrice Osterman.’

How opportune for one of the society doyennes to be within close proximity. Gabbi offered Annaliese a faint smile. ‘Shall we begin?’

It took two minutes and something like twenty paces to reach Benedict’s first choice. ‘It leans towards the avant garde,’ Gabbi declared. ‘But it will brighten up one of the office walls.’

‘Cut the spiel, Gabbi,’ Annaliese said in bored tones. ‘These art exhibitions are the pits.’

‘But socially stimulating, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Monique came along to be seen, and—’

‘So did you,’ Gabbi intercede quietly.

‘By Benedict.’

She felt the breath catch in her throat, and willed her expression not to change.