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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.
Consequently it was after five when she garaged her car and gathered all her purchases together.
She made the foyer and was about to ascend the stairs when Franco appeared.
‘Want some help with those?’
His musing drawl put her on the defensive. So did his close proximity. He’d shaved, showered and donned black trousers and a light chambray shirt, the sleeves folded back almost to each elbow.
‘I’m fine.’
Gianna missed the faint narrowing of his eyes as he examined her expressive features. ‘Come toss the salad when you’re done.’
‘OK.’
He watched her progress up the stairs, the slight sway of her denim-clad rear, the tightly held shoulders that owed nothing to the weight of the emblazoned carry-bags in each hand.
She was a piece of work. There was strength of character, integrity, pride…and vulnerability. A combination he found intriguing.
A glass of chilled white wine rested on the kitchen servery when Gianna entered the kitchen. She’d taken time to unpack and stow her purchases, shower, and don tailored trousers and a fashionable top before slipping her feet into heeled sandals. Her hair was caught in a loose knot atop her head, and her one concession to make-up was pink lipgloss.
Franco picked up the glass and handed it to her. ‘For you.’
‘Because you think I need it?’
He collected his own glass and touched its rim to her own. ‘Salute.’
She wanted to slip into the light camaraderie they shared, to enjoy the anticipation of how the night would end. To know she could lose herself in him and emerge whole.
Except she had to deal with the spectre of Famke intruding between them. If what he’d shared with the actress came close to what he shared with her.
The thought of his tightly muscled body locked with Famke in the throes of lovemaking almost destroyed her.
A vivid imagination was fast becoming her own worst enemy. Something she must fight to control, or she’d be lost.
Pretend, a silent voice bade. You’re good at it.
A redolent aroma wafted from a small pot simmering on the cook-top, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation. ‘Marinara sauce?’
‘Uh-huh. Want to choose the pasta?’
