The High-Society Wife

‘Well done, darling,’ she complimented lightly, and was totally unprepared for the brush of his lips against her own, the slow sweep of his tongue.

Reassurance? A public declaration of espousal unity?

The latter, she decided as he lifted his head away from her own.

His eyes, so dark and faintly brooding…did he glimpse what she didn’t want him to see? Sense it?

Doubtful. They didn’t share that degree of empathy…did they?

Almost as if he guessed at her train of thought, he threaded his fingers through her own and brought them to his lips.

He was verging on overkill, and she took it to the brink by touching gentle fingers to his cheek…resisting the urge to press the tips of her pale-pink-lacquered nails hard against the smooth olive skin.

To any onlookers it presented a loving gesture, but the brief flaring of those dark eyes revealed he recognised her intent, caught her restraint…and the silent promise she was far from done.

She kept the smile in place and refrained from saying a word as coffee and tea were served.

There wasn’t a question if Famke might circulate among the guests, but when…and if the actress would make a beeline for their table and Franco, or be a little more circumspect.

A tiny humourless laugh bubbled up in her throat. Circumspection didn’t form part of Famke’s modus operandi.

Something which became glaringly apparent within minutes as Gianna, together with the attending guests, saw the glamorous actress appear from backstage in the glare of a spotlight.

A brilliant smile, a light laugh, followed by a seemingly touching air-kiss to the crowd at the sound of more applause…and Famke stepped down onto the ballroom floor.

Admittedly her passage was interrupted. Not so her direction. However long it took…two minutes or ten…the actress’s destination was never in doubt.

Act, Gianna bade herself silently. You’re good at it.

All her life she’d conformed, aware how much it meant to her father to be an exemplary daughter. To excel in school, gain honours, show the Giancarlo-Castelli corporation she possessed the skill to climb the corporate ladder…in a manner that proved nepotism didn’t enter the equation.

A gap year spent in France had provided an opportunity to tilt at windmills…something she’d refrained from—unless riding a motorcycle behind a male student at speed or visiting a few questionable nightclubs in his company counted. Besides, there had always been a shadow bodyguard in the background, ensuring she came to no harm.

‘Franco.’

The feline purr made much of his name, while the sultry heat evident in the actress’s gaze set Gianna’s teeth on edge.

‘I just wanted to thank you, darling, for joining me on stage.’

Darling. Oh, my.

Franco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘A public request made it difficult for me to refuse.’

Was there the suggestion of a pout forming on Famke’s beautifully shaped mouth?

‘Fitting, don’t you think?’ The actress queried with a hint of teasing censure. ‘Considering your known generosity to the charity?’

With a deliberate gesture Franco caught hold of Gianna’s hand and threaded his fingers through her own. ‘Allow me to introduce Gianna…my wife.’

Impossible Famke was unaware of his marriage. It had received international media coverage at the time.

Blue eyes chilled to resemble an arctic ice floe for a fleeting second before the actress masked their expression.

‘Such an…interesting alliance.’

‘Famke.’ She kept her tone light, and only those who knew her well would have detected the slight hint of steel beneath the surface.

‘We must get together.’

‘For old times’ sake?’ Gianna queried with pseudo-politeness, aware the invitation was aimed at Franco…solo.

A faint laugh emerged from the actress’s lips. ‘We do have a history.’

‘The emphasis being history.’

Famke arched one eyebrow. ‘I so dislike territorial women.’

‘Really? Surely it adds to the challenge?’

‘Afraid, sweetie?’

Gianna didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Lines were being drawn, and the game was about to begin. She felt Franco’s fingers tighten on her own, and ignored the silent warning. ‘Perhaps Franco can answer that.’

‘Why? When you’re doing so well on your own.’ His drawled comment caused Famke’s gaze to narrow.

Unity was everything. She could do polite. She’d had years of practice. ‘The evening is winding down, and we’re about to leave.’

‘Can’t stand the pace?’

Gianna was sorely tempted to reveal she was taking her husband home for some hot sex. Instead, she merely smiled and rose to her feet as Franco stood and bade their immediate guests ‘goodnight’.

‘I’m sure we’ll run into each other again before long,’ Famke offered silkily.

Not if she could help it, Gianna vowed silently, barely controlling the itch to slap the actress’s face.

Talk about eating a man alive!

There were friends and business associates who caught their attention as they began threading their way through the ballroom, reminders of invitations exchanged and news of upcoming social events.

She was conscious of Franco’s arm along the back of her waist, the light stroke of his fingers…an attempt to soothe her ruffled composure?

Was he aware how his touch affected her? In bed, without doubt. The thought of their shared intimacy caused her pulse to leap into an accelerated beat. His mouth, hands…dear heaven. Heat flowed through her veins as sensation unfurled deep inside.

She needed the physicality of their loving, to lose herself in him and believe, for a while, that he cared. More than mere affection, and their marriage, although forging an alliance between two families, surpassed duty.

He’d never said anything. Not once, even in the throes of their lovemaking, had he mentioned the L word. And he never lost control. Something which irked her unbearably.

‘We’ll look forward to seeing you Wednesday evening.’

Get with it, a tiny voice prompted, providing a memory jog…dinner party at the home of Brad and Nikki Wilson-Smythe. ‘Of course,’ she managed with a smile.

It was a relief to eventually gain the hotel lobby, even more so to slip into the car and lean back against the cushioned headrest as Franco eased into the flow of traffic departing the city.

Any attempt at small-talk was out, and she didn’t offer so much as a word during the relatively short drive home.

Instead, she idly noted the passing scene through the windscreen. The bright neon lights, various vehicles, the dark indigo night sky, the sturdy leafed trees lining the main thoroughfare, an electric tram…the light sprinkling shower of rain that wet the bitumen and set the windscreen wipers in action. The changing cityscape as they reached the established suburb of Toorak, with its stately homes partially hidden behind high walls and security gates.

An almost inaudible sigh whispered from her lips as Franco eased the Mercedes into their driveway.

Strategically placed lights outlined the gentle curve lined with topiary that led to the elegant two-storeyed home Franco had purchased on his return from the States.

He’d employed contractors to preserve the main Georgian-style structure, whilst completely renewing the interior to resemble the original. Refurbishment, beautiful antique furniture, original art gracing the walls, had made it one of the most admired homes in the district, receiving media attention when he’d acquired the adjoining property, razed the existing home and added a swimming pool and tennis court.

Franco brought the Mercedes to a halt inside the multi-vehicle garage, above which resided a two-bedroom apartment occupied their trusted staff, by Rosa and Enrico, connected to the house by an enclosed walkway shrouded from the front by shrubbery. A functional gym and studio had been cleverly constructed to fit behind the walkway between the house and garages.

Together they entered the large tiled lobby, whose focal point was an exquisite crystal chandelier and a curved double staircase leading to the upper floor.

She adored the large spacious rooms, with a splendid mix of formal and informal areas occupying the ground level, the exquisite marble tiling and huge luxurious oriental rugs, and the main and guest suites situated upstairs, superbly carpeted in aubusson and furnished with genuine antiques.

‘Nothing to say?’

Gianna paused and turned towards him, aware of his ability to read her so well. Too well for her peace of mind.

‘An argument in the car might have proved too much of a distraction,’ she managed evenly, meeting his gaze and holding it.

One eyebrow rose in silent query, and she went for the direct approach.

‘Do you intend seeing her?’

His expression didn’t change, although she had the distinct impression his body stilled, and for an instant there was something unreadable in those dark eyes.

‘Why would I do that?’

His soft drawl sent shivers feathering down her spine, and her chin tilted a little in defence. ‘Because it’s what Famke wants.’

‘Your trust in me is so tenuous?’

Gianna took a moment to compose the right words. ‘I won’t become a figure of public ridicule.’

‘You want a promise of my fidelity?’

‘Only if you mean it.’ She turned towards the staircase. ‘Promises can be broken.’ It was as good an exit line as she could come up with.

Respect, affection, friendship and sexual compatibility formed the base of their marriage. Love wasn’t supposed to enter the equation.

Yet it had, and she was willing to go on oath that a one-sided love was hell on earth.

Gianna sensed rather than heard Franco join her as she reached the upper level, and she directed him a steady glance.

‘You evaded the question.’

Together they crossed the spacious central area separating each wing and made their way towards the main suite.

Gianna entered the room ahead of him and slipped off her evening sandals…a mistake, given it merely accentuated her diminutive height.

‘It shouldn’t require an answer.’

Her chin lifted a fraction, and her eyes were remarkably clear. She held up one hand and began ticking off each finger. ‘We’re joined together in marriage, legally bound in business.’ Her gaze didn’t waver. ‘I deserve your honesty in our private life.’

Something moved in the dark depths of his eyes. ‘Have I ever been dishonest with you?’

She didn’t have to weigh her answer. ‘No.’

‘Accept that isn’t going to change.’

Reassurance? Possibly. He was no fool, and she indicated as much.

He moved close and saw the way the pulse at the base of her throat jumped to a faster beat. ‘A compliment, cara?’

That was the thing…she wasn’t his darling. Merely a convenient partner when she longed for more…so much more.

There were those among the social clique who imagined she had it all. The trappings of extreme wealth, a perfect job, the ultimate man… Yet she’d willingly give it up in exchange for his love.

So…dream on, a tiny voice taunted. It isn’t going to happen.

Franco took hold of her wrists, then shaped her arms to settle on each shoulder. He lowered his head and sought her lips with his own, nibbling a little, teasing until he sensed her breath catch.

She nipped at his lower lip with her teeth, held on for a few seconds, then eased back. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Stupid question. She knew exactly what he was doing!

His mouth captured hers, seeking, exploring, and wreaking havoc with her emotions as heat coursed through her veins, bringing her alive as only he could.

Gianna felt the familiar swirling sensation begin deep inside, and she was scarcely aware of his fingers easing the spaghetti straps of her gown aside, or the zip fastening easing open…until the red chiffon slithered to a silken heap at her feet.

Lacy red bikini briefs were all that separated her from total nudity, and her body shook a little as he traced the lace, following its pattern with a deliberate finger before easing in to stroke the soft hair curling at the apex of her thighs.

Acute sensuality arrowed through her body, and she sought the buttons on his shirt, wanting, needing the sensation of skin to skin, to feel and savour his warmth and essence.

‘You’re wearing too many clothes.’ Was that husky voice her own?

He trailed a path down to her breasts and savoured one dusky peak until she groaned out loud.

‘Remove them.’

How had she not noticed he’d already shrugged out of his jacket, torn off his bow tie and toed off his shoes?

Because she lost all her senses when he kissed her…except one. Sensuality to a heightened degree… invasive and all-encompassing.

Franco had the power to make her forget who she was, her surroundings. Everything.

There was only him, his warm musky male scent, the magic of his touch…the heat, the passion, and the wild erotic sorcery he was able to weave with her emotions.

She barely registered her fingers slipping free the buttons on his shirt, nor did she make a teasing play to draw out the moment, or seek to provoke.

Need guided the speed with which she dispensed with his shirt, freed him of the fine tailored trousers…and sought the source of her pleasure.

His indrawn breath as she enclosed him brought a soft sensual smile to her lips, and her fingers slid slowly down to cup him, only to return to create a slow, tantalising pattern that had him grasping her bottom and lifting her high against him.

Gianna cried out as his mouth closed over her breast and suckled, teasing the tender peak with the edge of his teeth before exploring its soft curve.

It was almost more than she could bear as his fingers sought and found the aroused clitoris, caressing it until she went wild, swept high by mesmeric primitive sensation.

Just as she began to ease down, he sent her up again, closing his mouth over her own in an invasive kiss that mirrored the sexual act itself.

It wasn’t enough, and she wrenched her mouth free and told him so, demanding more…so much more.

Franco shifted, reached for the bedcovers and tossed them aside before drawing her down onto the bed.

What followed was a feast of the senses, a long leisurely tasting that drove them both to fever pitch, and it was she who lost control as her body sang to a tune only their shared sexual chemistry could evoke.

Passion…mesmeric, electric, tempestuous. A hungry slaking of the senses driven by shameless need and primeval desire.

The feel of him entering her, the long slow thrust as he slid in deep, sent every nerve and muscle into convulsing life, and she arched up to meet him when he began to move, exulting in the wonder of two people in perfect sexual accord.

Gianna became lost, so caught up in him she was unaware of the guttural cries emerging from her throat, or the soft feline purr of satisfaction so much later as Franco gathered her in against him on the verge of sleep.

Sated, she tucked a hand against his chest and burrowed in, a soft smile curving her generous mouth as he gently traced a soothing trail down her back.

Within minutes her breathing slowed into a regular pattern and she didn’t feel the light touch of his lips against her temple. Nor was she aware he lay awake for some time.

CHAPTER THREE

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.