The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed. HELEN BIANCHINЧитать онлайн книгу.
ring the golf course while I unpack.’ She had a plan, and she put it into action. ‘Do you want to take the four-wheel drive or the sedan?’
‘The four-wheel drive.’
Half an hour later she backed the sedan out of the garage and headed for the nearest major shopping complex. It was fun to browse the boutiques, sip a cappuccino, before getting down to the serious business of shopping.
She had a list, and she entered the food hall, selected a trolley and began.
It was almost midday when she re-entered the house with no less than five carrier bags, the contents of which were systematically stored in the refrigerator and pantry.
The menu was basic. The accompanying sauces would be anything but. Wine, French breadsticks. A delicious tiramisu for dessert. Liqueur coffee. And she had hired a video.
At five she set the table with fine linen and lace, silver cutlery and china. Then she checked the kitchen and went upstairs to shower. After selecting fresh underwear, she donned elegant blue silk evening trousers and a matching top, then groomed her hair into a smooth knot on top of her head. She then tended to her make-up, which was understated, with just a hint of blusher, soft eyeshadow and a touch of clear rose-pink lip-gloss.
It was after six when the security system beeped, alerting her to the fact that the gates were being released, followed by the garage doors. She heard a refined clunk as the vehicle door closed, then Benedict came into view.
Gabbi stilled the nervous fluttering inside her stomach as she moved out onto the landing to greet him.
He looked magnificent. Dark hair teased by a faint breeze. Broad shoulders and superb musculature emphasised by a navy open-necked polo shirt. Strong facial features, tanned a deeper shade by several hours spent in the sun.
‘Hi. How was the game?’
He looked intensely male, emanating a slight air of aggressive goodwill that spoke of achievement and satisfaction at having pitted his skill against a rival and won.
He reached the landing and moved towards her, pausing to bestow a brief, evocative kiss. ‘I’ll hit the shower.’
‘Don’t bother dressing.’
One eyebrow lifted and his lips twisted to form a humorous smile. ‘My dear Gabbi. You want me to be arrested?’
‘We’re eating in.’ Now that she’d taken the decision upon herself, she was unsure of his reaction. ‘I’ve made dinner.’
He looked at her carefully, noting the slight uncertainty, the faint nervousness apparent, and her effort to camouflage it. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
He rejoined her in nine. Freshly shaven, showered, and dressed in casual trousers and a short-sleeved shirt.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Gabbi shook her head. ‘You have one. I’ll wait until we eat.’
He followed her into the kitchen, caught sight of numerous saucepans washed and stacked to drain. ‘Looks professional. Smells delicious. Hidden talents, Gabbi?’
She wrinkled her nose at him, then swatted his hand as he reached forward to sample the sauce. ‘No advance tasting, no peeking. Open the wine. It needs to breathe.’
She served the starter. Delicate stuffed mushrooms that melted in the mouth. French bread heated to crunchy perfection.
The main course was an exquisite filet mignon so tender that the flesh parted at the slightest pressure of the knife. With it they had asparagus with hollandaise sauce, baby potatoes in their jackets split and anointed with garlic butter and glazed baby carrots.
When they’d finished, Benedict touched his glass to hers in a silent salute. ‘I haven’t tasted better in any restaurant.’
‘To the French, food is a passion. The meals I shared with Jacques’s family were gastronomical feasts, visual works of art.’ Her eyes sparkled with remembered pleasure. ‘I made a deal with his mother,’ she said solemnly.
‘You kept your hands off her son, and she taught you to cook?’
Gabbi began to laugh. ‘Close.’
‘One look at you and any mother would fear for her son’s emotional sanity,’ Benedict drawled.
She met his gaze and held it. What about his emotional sanity? Was it so controlled that no woman could disturb it?
‘I’ll get dessert.’ She rose to her feet and stacked his plate and cutlery with her own, then took them through to the kitchen.
Two wide individual crystal bowls held the creamy ambrosia of liqueur-soaked sponge, cream and shaved chocolate that was tiramisu.
It was good; she’d even have said delicious.
Benedict sat back in his chair and discarded his napkin. ‘Superb, Gabbi.’
She lifted one shoulder in a negligible shrug. ‘We dine out so often, I thought it would make a change to stay home.’
‘I’ll help with the dishes.’
‘All done,’ she assured lightly. ‘I’ll make coffee. There’s a video in the VCR.’
When the coffee had filtered, she poured it, added liqueur and topped it with cream, then took both stemmed glasses through to the lounge.
Benedict had chosen one of three double-seater leather settees, and he indicated the empty space beside him.
The movie was a comedy, loosely adapted from the original La cage aux folies. It was amusing, well acted and entertaining.
Gabbi sipped her coffee slowly, then, when she had finished, Benedict took the glass and placed it together with his on a side table.
She relaxed and leaned her head back against the cushioned rest. Being here like this was magical. No guests, no intrusions.
An arm curved round her shoulders and drew her close. She felt his breath stir her hair. And she made no protest as he used a modem to switch off the lights.
The only illumination came from the television screen, and the electric candles reflected from the chandelier. Which he dimmed.
Awareness flared as his fingers brushed against her breast and stayed. His lips lingered at her temple.
She let her hand rest on his thigh, and didn’t explore.
Occasionally his fingers would move in an absent pattern that quickened her pulse and triggered the heat deep inside her.
It was a delightful, leisurely prelude to a rhapsody that would gather momentum and crest in a passionate climax.
Gabbi wasn’t disappointed. Just when she thought there were no more paths she could travel, Benedict took her along another, gently coaxing, pacing his pleasure to match her own before tipping her over the edge.
Close to sleep, she whispered, Je t‘aime, mon amour, to the measured heartbeat beneath her lips. And wondered if he heard, if he knew.
They rose early and took a leisurely walk along the beach, then stripped down to swimwear and ventured into the ocean.
The water was cool and calm, the waves tame, and afterwards they sprinted back to the house and rinsed the sea from their skin and hair, donned casual clothes and ate a hearty breakfast out on the terrace.
‘How do you feel about a drive to the mountains?’
Gabbi took a sip of coffee, then rested the cup between both hands. Visions of a picnic lunch and panoramic views were enticing. ‘What of the call you’re expecting?’
Benedict subjected her to a measured appraisal, then moved his shoulders in an indolent gesture. ‘Divert the house phone to my mobile, sling the briefcase and laptop onto the rear seat.’
It