The Marriage Bed. Helen BianchinЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      GABBI chose red silk evening trousers, matching camisole and beaded jacket. It was a striking outfit, complete with matching evening sandals and clutch-purse. The colour enhanced her delicate honey-coloured skin, and provided an attractive contrast for her blonde hair.

      With extreme care she put the finishing touches to her make-up, donned the trousers and camisole, then brushed her hair. Loose, she decided, after sweeping it high and discarding the customary French pleat.

      Her mirrored image revealed a confident young woman whose clothes and jewellery bore the exclusivity of wealth. There was a coolness to her composure, a serenity she was far from feeling.

      Which proved just how deceptive one’s appearance could be, she decided wryly as she slid her feet into the elegant sandals.

      ‘Is the colour choice deliberate?’

      ‘Why do you ask?’ Gabbi countered as she met Benedict’s indolent gaze.

      ‘I get the impression you’re bent on making a statement,’ he drawled, and she directed a deceptively sweet smile at him.

      ‘How perceptive of you.’

      He looked the epitome of male sophistication, the dark evening suit a stark contrast to the white cotton shirt and black bow tie.

      It was almost a sin, she reflected, for any one man to exude such a degree of sexual chemistry. The strong angles and planes of his facial features bore the stamp of his character. The unwavering eyes were hard and inflexible in the boardroom, yet they filled with brooding passion in the bedroom. And the promise of his mouth was to die for, she concluded, all too aware of the havoc it could cause.

      He possessed the aura of a predator, arresting and potentially dangerous. Compelling, she added silently.

      A tiny thrill of excitement quivered deep inside her at the thought of the pleasure it would give her to pull his tie free and help discard his clothes. And have him remove her own.

      ‘Why the faint smile?’

      The desire to shock deepened the smile and lent her eyes a tantalising sparkle. ‘Anticipation,’ she enlightened him wickedly.

      ‘Of Leon’s exhibition?’

      She doubted he was fooled in the slightest, for he seemed to find her achingly transparent. ‘Naturally.’

      ‘We could always arrive late,’ Benedict suggested in dry, mocking tones, and the edges of her mouth formed a delicious curve.

      ‘Leon would be disappointed.’ Not to mention Annaliese, she added silently, mentally weighing up which might be the worst offence.

      ‘I could always placate him by making an exorbitant purchase.’

      She gave it consideration, then shook her head with apparent reluctance.

      ‘Teasing incurs a penalty,’ Benedict declared with soft emphasis.

      ‘I am suitably chastened.’

      ‘That compounds with every hour,’ he completed silkily, and saw the momentary flicker of uncertainty cloud those beautiful eyes. It made him want to reach out and touch his hand to her cheek, see the uncertainty fade as he bent his head to claim her mouth. He succumbed to the first but passed on the latter.

      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