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

He looked up from his task and met her eyes in the mirror. ‘Hi, yourself.’

His appraisal was warm and lingered a little too long on the soft curve of her mouth. With determined effort she reached into the shower-stall, turned on the water, slipped off her robe and stepped beneath the warm jet-spray. When she emerged it was to find she had sole occupancy of the bathroom.

Ten minutes later her hair was swept into a sleek pleat, her make-up complete. In the bedroom she crossed to the walk-in closet and selected silk evening trousers in delicate ivory, added a beaded camisole and slid her arms into a matching silk jacket. Gold jewellery and elegant evening sandals completed the outfit, and she took time to dab her favourite perfume to a few exposed pulse-points before catching up an evening purse.

‘Ready?’

With a few minutes to spare. She directed a cool glance at him. ‘Yes. Shall we leave?’

Dominic’s home was a brilliant example of architectural design in suburban Beauty Point overlooking the middle harbour.

Dominic greeted them at the door and drew them into the lounge.

High ceilings and floor-to-ceiling glass lent the room spaciousness and light, with folding white-painted wooden shutters and deep-cushioned furniture providing a hint of the Caribbean.

There was no sign of Francesca, and Gabbi wondered if she was deliberately planning her arrival to be a fashionable, but excusable, five minutes late.

Ten, Gabbi noted, as the bell-chimes pealed when she was partway through a delicious fruit cocktail. Dominic allowed his housekeeper to answer the door.

It would seem that if Francesca had a strategy Dominic had elected to choose one of his own.

Stunning was an apt description of Francesca’s appearance, Gabbi silently applauded as she greeted her friend. Francesca’s expression was carefully bland, but there was a wicked twinkle apparent in those dark eyes for one infinitesimal second before she turned towards her host.

‘Please accept my apologies.’

‘Accepted,’ drawled Dominic. ‘You’ll join us in a drink?’

‘Chilled water,’ Francesca requested with a singularly sweet smile. ‘With ice.’

‘Bottled? Sparkling or still?’

‘Still, if you have it.’

Gabbi hid a faint smile and took another sip of her cocktail.

Francesca had dressed to kill in black, designed perhaps to emphasise her widowed state? She looked every inch the successful international model. The length of her auburn hair was swept into a careless knot, with a few wispy tendrils allowed to escape to frame her face. The make-up was perfection, although Gabbi doubted it had taken Fran more than ten minutes to apply. The perfume was her preferred Hermes Calèche, and there was little doubt that the gown was an Italian designer original bought or bargained for at an outrageously discounted price.

Gabbi wondered how long it would take Dominic to dig beneath Francesca’s protective shell and reveal her true nature. Or if Francesca would permit him to try.

Dinner was a convivial meal, the courses varied and many, and while exquisitely presented on the finest bone china they were the antithesis of designer food.

There was, however, an artistically displayed platter of salads adorned with avocado, mango and sprinkled with pine nuts. A subtle concession to what Dominic suspected was a model’s necessity to diet? Gabbi wondered.

Francesca, Gabbi knew, ate wisely and well, with little need to watch her intake of food. Tonight, however, she forked dainty portions from each course, declined dessert and opted for herbal tea instead of the ruinously strong black coffee she preferred.

‘Northern suburbs, overlooking water and trees in the garden,’ Francesca mocked lightly as she met Dominic’s level gaze over the rim of her delicate teacup.

‘Three out of five,’ he conceded in a voice that was tinged with humour. ‘Are you sufficiently curious to discover if you’re right about the remaining two?’

Her eyes were cool. ‘The detached studio and a BMW in the garage?’

‘Yes.’

One eyebrow lifted. ‘A subtle invitation to admire your etchings?’

‘I paint in the studio and confine lovemaking to the bedroom.’

Gabbi had to admire Francesca’s panache, for there was no artifice in the long, considering look she cast him.

‘How—prosaic.’

Give it up, Francesca, Gabbi beseeched silently. You’re playing with dynamite. Besides, the ‘BMW’ is a Lexus and although the studio is detached it’s above the treble garage and linked to the house via a glass-enclosed walkway.

‘More tea?’ Dominic enquired with urbanity.

‘Thank you, no.’

Benedict rose to his feet in one smooth movement, his eyes enigmatic as they met those of his wife. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Dominic?’ His smile was warm, and tinged with humour. ‘Dinner was superb. Do give our compliments to Louise.’

‘It’s been a lovely evening,’ Gabbi said gently, collecting her purse. She spared Francesca a brief, enquiring glance and could determine little from her friend’s expression. Their imminent departure provided an excellent excuse for Francesca to leave, and Gabbi’s interest intensified when her friend failed to express that intention.

Perhaps, Gabbi speculated, Francesca was determined not to cut and run at the flimsiest excuse to avoid being alone with Dominic.

‘Francesca is quite able to handle herself,’ Benedict assured her as he eased the car through the electronically controlled gates and turned onto the street.

‘So is Dominic,’ Gabbi reminded him as she spared him a frowning glance.

‘That worries you?’

. ‘Yes,’ she answered starkly. ‘I wouldn’t like to see Francesca hurt.’

‘I failed to see any hint of coercion on Dominic’s part,’ Benedict returned tolerantly. ‘And she chose not to take the opportunity to leave when we did.’ He brought the car to a halt at a traffic-controlled intersection.

‘Next you’ll predict we’ll dance at their wedding,’ Gabbi declared with a degree of acerbity, and heard his subdued splutter of laughter.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Mario—’

‘Is dead,’ Benedict stated gently. ‘And Francesca is a beautiful young woman who deserves to be happy.’

The lights changed and the car picked up speed. Gabbi turned her attention to the tracery of electric lights on the opposite side of the harbour. It was a picture-postcard scene, and one she’d admired on many occasions in the past. Tonight, however, it failed to hold any attraction.

‘You don’t think she could fall in love again?’

Gabbi was silent for several long seconds. ‘Not the way she loved Mario,’ she decided at last.

‘Affection, stability and security can be a satisfactory substitute.’