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The Marriage Campaign
HELEN BIANCHIN
Dominic Andrea wanted Francesca - badly. She was stunning, a woman out of reach for most men. But Dominic wasn't most men. And he'd planned a very special campaign for winning Francesca. First, win her attention: Easy - Dominic simply oozed sex appeal!Secondly, make her fall in love: Francesca was intrigued by Dominic, but she'd lost one husband and was scared of loving again… . Then, propose marriage! It was all or nothing for Dominic, and he was going to pursue, charm and seduce Francesca relentlessly until she said yes!USA TODAY bestselling author Helen Bianchin brings us a stunning sequel to An Ideal Marriage?
Letter to Reader (#u958c4a98-eefd-583d-95d3-bbe9c7c2c55e)Title Page (#u8c912e8b-c693-549a-84ce-2b4e2e1eef76)CHAPTER ONE (#u1dbd3887-1a77-5068-9efe-6ab33fe1179f)CHAPTER TWO (#u6dc6d539-4ea5-5973-a8ba-682b36c60ee4)CHAPTER THREE (#ued6bde95-5afb-5a99-bee4-a3f4ea254e67)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Teaser chapter (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader,
An avid reader of romance novels since early teenage years, I had my first novel accepted and published in 1975.
I enjoy the challenge of creating a powerful hero and independent heroine, and breathing life into their characters...showing how attraction, physical and emotional, between this special man and woman becomes love....
Harlequin Presents
holds universal appeal, and I am honored to be a small part of that.
Please join me in congratulating Presents on achieving twenty-five successful years. I extend warmest best wishes for continued publishing prosperity.
With love
Helen Bianchin
P.S. As you read this story, I’m sure you’ll recognize my hero and heroine—Dominic Andrea and Francesca Angeletti.... And you’d be right to feel that you’ve met them before—in my last book, An Ideal Marriage?
I became fascinated with Francesca and Dominic when they appeared as minor characters in that book. The chemistry between them was so strong, I felt they deserved their own story....
The Marriage Campaign
Helen Bianchin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
IT DIDN’T matter how far or how frequent the journey, returning home had a significant effect on her emotions, Francesca mused as the jet banked over the harbour and prepared its descent.
Sydney’s cityscape provided a panoramic vista of sparkling blue ocean, numerous coves and inlets, tall city buildings, the distinctive bridge, the Opera House.
Brilliant sunshine held the promise of warm summer temperatures, a direct contrast to those she’d left behind in Rome the day before.
The Boeing lined up the runway and within seconds wheels thudded against the Tarmac, accompanied by the scream of engines thrown into reverse, followed by the slow cruise into an allotted bay.
Collecting baggage and clearing Customs was achieved in minimum time, and Francesca was aware of a few circumspect glances as she made her way through the arrivals lounge.
The deep aqua-coloured trouser suit adorning her tall, slender frame was elegantly cut, her make-up minimal, and she’d caught her dark auburn hair into a loose knot atop her head. The result was an attractive image, but downplayed her status as an international model.
There were no photographers or television cameras in sight as she emerged onto the pavement, nor was there the customary chauffeured limousine waiting at the kerb.
Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid the dark-lensed frames into place.
She wanted, needed, a few days’ grace with family and friends before stepping onto the carousel of scheduled modelling assignments, contracted photographic shoots and public appearances.
Cabs formed a swiftly moving queue at the kerb and she quickly hired one, providing the driver with a Double Bay address as he slid out into traffic exiting the international terminal.
Cars, buses, trucks—all bent on individual destinations. Warehouses, tree-lined parks, graffiti decorating—or desecrating, depending on one’s opinion—numerous concrete walls. It could be any city in the world, Francesca mused.
Yet it was her city, the place where she’d been born and raised of an Italian immigrant father and an Australian mother who had never quite come to terms with the constraints of marriage.
Francesca retained a vivid recollection of voices raised in bitter recrimination, followed soon after by boarding school, with vacation time spent equally between each parent.
Happy families; she mused with a rueful grimace as she reflected on the years that had followed. Three stepfathers: two who’d bestowed genuine affection and one whose predilection for pubescent girls had become apparent during a school vacation soon after the honeymoon. Acquired step-siblings who had passed briefly in and out of her life. And then, there was Madeline, her father’s beautiful blonde wife.
The modelling career which had begun on a whim had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Paris, Rome, New York. She had an apartment in each city and was sought after by every major fashion house in Europe.
“Twenty-five dollars.’
The cab-driver’s voice intruded, and Francesca delved into her shoulder bag, extracted two notes, and handed them to the driver. ‘Keep the change.’
The tip earned her a toothy grin, a business card and the invitation to call him any time she needed a cab.
Francesca slid a coded card into a slot adjacent to double glass doors, and stepped into the lobby as they slid open.
The girl on Reception offered a bright smile. ‘Nice to have you back.’ She reached beneath the desk for a set of keys and a slim packet of mail. ‘The hire car is parked in your usual space. Paperwork’s in the glovebox.’
‘Thanks.’
Francesca rode the lift to the top floor, deactivated her security system, then entered her apartment.
Beeswax mingled with the scent of fresh flowers. Delicate peach-coloured roses stood in a vase on the sofa table, with a card from her mother. ‘Welcome home, darling.’
A bold display with strelitzia and Australian natives reposed in the middle of the dining room table, with a card from her father, who had inscribed an identical greeting.
The answering machine recorded no less than five messages, and she played them through. A call from her agent; the rest were social. Seven faxes, none of which were urgent, she determined as she flicked through the pages. All, she decided, could wait until she’d had time to shower and unpack. Then she’d go through her mail.
It was good to be home. Satisfying to see familiar things and to know that she would enjoy them for several weeks.
Oriental rugs graced the marble-tiled floor, and there were soft leather sofas in the large lounge area. A formal dining room, modern kitchen, two bedrooms with en suite facilities, and floor-to-ceiling glass. Ivory drapes flowed on from ivory silk-covered walls, and the marble tiles were ivory too. Framed prints in muted blue, pink, aqua and lilac graced the walls, the colours accented by several plump cushions placed with strategic precision on sofas and single chairs.
Understated elegance combined with the rich tapestry of individual taste. Lived in, and not just a showcase, she assured herself silently as she took her bags through to the main bedroom.
Unpacking could wait until later, she decided as she stripped off her clothes and entered the en suite bathroom.
A leisurely shower did much to ease the strain of too many hours’ flight time, and she riffled through her wardrobe, selecting casual cotton trousers and a matching sleeveless blouse, then thrust bare feet into low-heeled sandals.
Collecting shoulder bag and keys, she rode the lift down to the underground car park.
Sydney traffic was swift, but civilised, and far different from the hazardous volume of cacophonous vehicles that hurtled the city streets of Rome.
Italy. The birthplace of her paternal ancestors and the place where she’d met and married world-renowned racing-driver Mario Angeletti three years ago during a photo shoot in Milan, only to weep at his funeral a few months after their wedding when a spectacular crash claimed his life. Last week she’d stood beside an adjacent grave site as her widowed mother-in-law had been laid to rest.
Nothing could be achieved by focusing on the sadness, she rationalised as she drove to the nearest shopping complex.
Her immediate priorities were to access Australian currency and do some food shopping.
Minutes later she parked the car, then crossed to the bank.
There were several people queuing at the automatic teller machine, and she opted for the bank’s air-conditioned interior rather than wait in the blazing heat, only to give a resigned sigh at the lengthy column of customers waiting for vacant teller locations.
For a moment she considered saving time by utilising her bank card at the foodhall, then dismissed the idea.
The man in front of her moved two paces forward, and her attention was captured by his cologne. A light, musky exclusive brand that aroused a degree of idle speculation over the man who wore it.
Impressive height, dark, well-groomed hair. Broad shoulders, the muscle structure outlined beneath a fitted polo shirt. Tapered waist, well-cut trousers. Tight butt.
Accountant? Lawyer? Probably neither, she mused. Either would have worn the requisite two-piece suit during office hours.
The queue was dissipating more quickly than she’d anticipated, and she watched as he moved to a vacant teller.
Mid-to-late thirties, Francesca judged as she caught his features in profile. The strong jaw, wide-spaced cheekbones and chiselled mouth indicated a European heritage. Italian, maybe? Or Greek?
The adjoining teller became vacant, and she moved to the window, handed over her access card and keyed in her PIN code, requested an amount in cash, then folded the notes into her wallet.
Francesca turned to leave, and collided with a hard male frame. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The startled apology tumbled automatically from her lips, and her eyes widened at the steadying clasp of his hand on her elbow.
Dominic’s scrutiny was unhurried as it slid negligently down her slim form, then travelled back to linger on the soft curve of her mouth before his eyes lifted to capture hers.
There was something about her that teased his memory. Classical fine-boned features, clear creamy skin that was too pale, gold-flecked brown eyes. But it was the hair that fascinated him. Twisted into a knot at her nape, he wondered at its length. And imagined how it would look flowing loose down her back, its vibrant colour spread out against the bedsheets.
It was an evocative image, and one he banked down.
The breath caught in Francesca’s throat at the primitive, almost electric awareness evident, and for endless seconds the room and its occupants faded into obscurity.
Crazy to feel so absorbed Francesca decided shakily as she forced herself to breathe normally.
She came into contact with attractive men almost every day of her life. There was nothing special about this particular man. Merely sexual chemistry, she rationalised, at its most magnetic.
Recognition was one thing. It was quite another to feel the tug of unbidden response.
She didn’t like it, didn’t want it.
And he knew. She could see it in the faint curve of that sensually moulded mouth, the slight darkening of those deep, almost black eyes. His smile deepened fractionally, and he inclined his head in silent acknowledgement as he released her arm.
Francesca kept her expression coolly aloof, and with a deliberately careless movement she slipped her wallet into the capacious shoulder bag, then turned with the intention of exiting the bank.
He was a few paces ahead of her, and it was difficult to ignore the animalistic grace of well-honed muscle and sinew. Leashed power and steel. Of body, and mind.
A man most women would find a challenge to explore, mentally as well as physically. To discover if the hinted knowledge in those dark eyes delivered the promise of sensual excitement beyond measure.
Ridiculous, she dismissed, more shaken than she was prepared to admit by the passage of wayward thought. It was merely a figment of an over-active imagination, stimulated by the effects of a long flight and the need to adjust to a different time-zone.
There was a slight tilt to her chin as she emerged onto the pavement. The sun was bright, and she lowered her sunglasses from their position atop her head, glad of the darkened lenses.
Head high, eyes front, faint smile, practised walk. Automatic reflex, she mused as she crossed the mall.
The foodhall was busy, and she took care selecting fresh fruit before adding a few groceries to the trolley. With various family members and friends to see, breakfast was likely to be the only consistent meal she’d eat in her apartment.
Family. A timely reminder that she should make the first of several calls, she determined wryly as she selected milk from the refrigerated section, added yoghurt and followed it with brie, her favourite cheese.
‘No vices?’ Low-pitched, male, the faintly accented drawl held a degree of mocking amusement.
Francesca was familiar with every ploy. And adept at dealing with them all. She turned slowly, and the light, dismissive words froze momentarily in her throat as she recognised the compelling dark-haired man she’d bumped into at the bank.
He possessed a fascinating mouth, white, even teeth, and a smile that would drive most women wild. Yet there was something about the eyes that condemned artifice. An assessing, almost analytical directness that was disturbing.
Had he followed her? She cast his trolley a cursory glance and noted a collection of the usual food staples. Perhaps not.
Humour was a useful weapon. The edges of her mouth tilted slightly. ‘Ice cream,’ she acknowledged with a trace of flippancy. ‘Vanilla, with caramel and double chocolate chip.’
Dark eyes gleamed, and his deep husky laughter did strange things to her equilibrium.
‘Ah, the lady has a sweet tooth.’
There was a ring on her left hand, and he wondered at his stab of disappointment. His cutting edge style of wheeling and dealing in the business arena hadn’t stemmed from hesitation. He didn’t hesitate now.
He reached forward and placed a light finger against the wide filigree gold band. ‘Does this have any significance?’
Francesca snatched her hand from the trolley. ‘Whether it does or not is none of your business.’
So she had a temper to go with that glorious dark auburn hair, Dominic mused, and wondered if her passion matched it. His interest intensified. ‘Indulge me.’
She wanted to turn and walk away, but something made her stay. ‘Give me one reason why I should?’
‘Because I don’t poach another man’s possession.’ The words held a lethal softness that bore no hint of apology, and his expression held a dispassionate watchfulness as she struggled to restrain her anger.
Dignity was the key, and she drew in a calming breath, then slowly raked her eyes over his tall frame from head to foot, and back again.
‘Attractive packaging,’ she accorded with silky detachment. She met his gaze squarely and held it. ‘However, I have no interest in the contents.’
‘Pity,’ he drawled. ‘The discovery could prove fascinating.’ There was droll humour apparent, and something else she couldn’t define. ‘For both of us.’
‘In your dreams,’ she dismissed sweetly. The check-out lane was located at the far end of the aisle, and she had everything she needed.
He made no effort to stop her as she moved away, yet for one infinitesimal moment she’d had the feeling he’d seen into the depths of her soul, acknowledged her secrets, staked a claim and retreated, sure of his ability to conquer.
Insane, Francesca mentally chastised herself as she loaded carrybags into the boot and returned the trolley. Then she slid in behind the wheel of her car and switched on the ignition.
She was tired, wired. The first was the direct result of a long flight; she owed the second to a man she never wanted to meet again.
Re-entering the apartment, she stowed her purchases into the refrigerator and pantry. Rejecting coffee or tea, she filled a glass with iced water and drank half the contents before crossing to the telephone.
