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Fifteen minutes later she’d connected with each parent and made arrangements to see them. Next, she punched in the digits necessary to connect with Laraine, her agent.
Business. For the past three years it had been her salvation. Travelling the world, an elegant clotheshorse for the top fashion designers. She had the face, the figure, and the essential élan. But for how long would she remain one of the coveted few? More importantly, did she want to?
There were young waifs clamouring in the wings, eager for fame and fortune. Designers always had an eye for the look, and the excitement of a fresh new face.
Fashion was fickle. Haute couture a viperish nest of designer ego fed by prestigious clientele, the press, and the copy merchants.
Yet amongst the outrageousness, the hype and the glitter, there was pleasure in displaying the visual artistry of imaginative design. Satisfaction when it all came together to form something breathtakingly spectacular.
It made the long flights, living out of a suitcase in one hotel room or another, cramped backstage changing rooms, the panic that invariably abounded behind the scenes worthwhile. A cynic wouldn’t fail to add that an astronomical modelling fee helped lessen the pain.
Financial security was something Francesca had enjoyed for as long as she could remember. As a child, there had been a beautiful home, live-in help, and expensive private schooling. Yet, while her mother had perpetuated the fairytale existence, her father had ensured his daughter’s feet remained firmly on the ground.
There were investments, property, and an enviable blue chip share portfolio, the income from which precluded a need to supplement it in any way.
Yet the thought of becoming a social butterfly with no clear purpose to the day had never appealed.
Perhaps it was her father’s inherited Italian genes that kept the adrenalin flowing and provided the incentive to put every effort into a chosen project. ‘Failure’ didn’t form part of her father’s vocabulary.
Which brought Francesca back to the present. ‘A week’s grace,’ she insisted, and listened to her agent’s smooth plea to reconsider. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll confer over coffee. Your office. Shall we say ten?’
She replaced the receiver, stretched her arms high, and felt the weariness descend. She’d make something light for dinner, then she’d undress and slip beneath the sheets of her comfortable bed.
CHAPTER TWO
FRANCESCA leaned across the desk in her agent’s elegantly appointed office and traced a list of proposed modelling assignments with a milk-opal-lacquered nail.
‘Confirm the cancer charity luncheon, the Leukaemia Foundation dinner. I’ll do Tony’s photo shoot, and I’ll judge the junior modelling award, attend the gala lunch on the Gold Coast.’ She paused, considered three invitations and dismissed two. ‘The invitation-only showing at Margo’s Double Bay boutique.’ She picked up her glass of iced water and took an appreciative sip. ‘That’s it.’
‘Anique Sorensen is being persuasive and persistent,’ Laraine relayed matter-of-factly.
The fact that Francesca was known to donate half her appearance fee whenever she flew home between seasons invariably resulted in numerous invitations requesting her presence at various functions, all in aid of one charity or another.
‘When?’
‘Monday, Marriott Hotel.’
Tell me it’s for a worthwhile cause, and I’ll kill you.’
‘Then I’m dead. It’s for the Make-A-Wish Foundation
of Australia.’
‘Damn,’ Francesca accorded inelegantly, wrinkling her nose in silent admonition of Laraine’s widening smile.
‘But you’ll do it,’ the agent said with outward satisfaction.
‘Yes.’ Francesca stood to her feet, collected her bag and slid the strap over one shoulder. She had a particular sympathy for terminally ill children. ‘Fax me the details.’
‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’
‘A secluded beach,’ she enlightened. ‘A good book, and the mobile phone.’
‘Don’t forget the block-out sunscreen.’
Francesca’s smile held a teasing quality. ‘Got it.’
An hour later she sat munching an apple beneath a sun umbrella on a northern beach gazing over the shoreline to the distant horizon.
There was a faint breeze wafting in from the ocean, cooling the sun’s heat. She could smell the salt-spray, and there was the occasional cry from a lonely seagull as it explored the damp sand at the edge of an outgoing tide.
The solitude soothed and relaxed her, smoothing the edges of mind and soul.
Reflections were often painful, and with a determined effort Francesca extracted her book and read for an hour, then she retrieved a banana and a peach from her bag and washed both down with a generous amount of bottled water.
Phone calls. The first of which was to a dear friend with whom she’d shared boarding school during emotionally turbulent years when each had battled a stepmother and the effects of a dysfunctional family relationship.
She punched in the number, got past Reception, then a secretary, and chuckled at Gabbi’s enthusiastic greeting and a demand as to when they would get together.
‘Tonight, if you and Benedict are attending Leon’s exhibition.’
The flamboyant gallery owner was known for his soirées, invitations to which featured high on the social calendar among the city’s fashionable élite.
‘You are? That’s great,’ Francesca responded with enthusiasm. ‘I’m meeting Mother for dinner first, so I could be late.’
‘Have fun.’ Gabbi issued lightly, and Francesca laughed outright at the unspoken nuance in those two words.
It was fun listening to Sophy’s breathy gossip over chicken consommé, salad and fruit. Sophy’s permanent diet involved minuscule portions of fat-free calorie-depleted food.
A gifted raconteur, she had a wicked way with words that was endearingly humorous, and it was little wonder her mother gathered men as some women collected jewellery. All of whom remained friends long after the relationship had ended. With the exception of Rick, her first husband and Francesca’s father. He was the one who had remained impervious to Sophy’s machinations.
It was after nine when the waiter brought the bill, which Francesca paid, and she saw Sophy into a cab before crossing to her car.
Twenty minutes later she searched for an elusive parking space within walking distance of Leon’s fashionable Double Bay gallery, located one, and made her way towards the brightly lit main entrance.
There were people everywhere, milling, drinking, and it was difficult to distinguish the muted baroque music beneath audible snatches of conversation.
‘Francesca, darling!’
Leon—who else? She acknowledged his effusive greeting and allowed him to clasp her shoulders as he regarded her features with thoughtful contemplation.
‘You must have a drink before you circulate.’
Her eyes assumed a humorous gleam. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘Non. But a glass in the hand—’ He paused to effect a Gallic shrug. ‘You can pretend, oui, that it is something other than mineral water.’ He lifted a hand in imperious summons, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, tray in hand.
Dutifully, she extracted a tall glass. ‘Anything in particular you can recommend to add to my collection?’
‘A sculpture,’ Leon announced at once. ‘It is a little raw, you understand, but the talent—’ He touched fingers to his lips and blew a kiss into the air. ‘Très magnifique. In a few years it will be worth ten, twenty times what is being asked for it now.’ He smiled, and brushed gentle knuckles to her cheek. ‘Go, cherie, and examine. Exhibit Fourteen. It may not capture you immediately, but it grows, fascinates.’
An accurate description, Francesca accorded several minutes later, unsure of the sculpture’s appeal. Yet there was something that drew her attention again and again.
Leon was an expert in the art world, she trusted his judgement, and owned, thanks to his advice, several items which had increased dramatically in value since their date of purchase. Therefore, she would browse among the other exhibits, then return and perhaps view it from a fresh angle. It was certainly different from anything she owned.
There were a few fellow guests whose features were familiar, and she smiled, greeted several by name, paused to exchange polite conversation, then moved on, only to divert from her intended path as she glimpsed the endearingly familiar features of an attractive blonde threading a path towards her.
‘Francesca!’
‘Gabbi.’
They embraced, and tumbled into speech. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘And you. Where’s Benedict?’ It was unlike Gabbi’s husband to be far from his wife’s side.
‘Eyes right, about ten feet distant.’
Francesca caught the dry tone and conducted a casual sweeping glance in the indicated direction. Benedict’s tall, dark-haired frame came into view, together with that of a familiar female form. Annaliese Schubert, a model with whom she’d shared a few catwalks both home and abroad.
‘Your dear stepsister is in town, and bent on creating her usual mayhem?’ An attempt to seduce Benedict Nicols appeared Annaliese’s prime motivation. That she had been unsuccessful both before and after Benedict’s marriage didn’t appear to bother her in the slightest.
‘Perceptive of you,’ Gabbi replied wryly. ‘How was Rome?’
Francesca hesitated fractionally, unaware of the fleeting darkness that momentarily clouded her eyes. ‘The catwalks were exhausting.’ Her shoulders lifted slightly, then fell. ‘And Mario’s mother lost a long battle with cancer.’
Empathetic understanding didn’t require words, and Francesca was grateful Gabbi refrained from uttering more than the customary few.
‘Let’s do lunch,’ Gabbi suggested gently. ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’
‘Done.’
‘Good,’ Gabbi said with satisfaction. She tucked a hand through Francesca’s arm. ‘Shall we examine the art exhibits for any hidden talent?’
They wandered companionably, slowly circling the room, and when Gabbi paused to speak to a friend Francesca moved forward to give closer scrutiny to a canvas that displayed a visual cacophony of bold colour.
She tilted her head in an attempt to fathom some form or symmetry that might make sense.
‘It’s an abstract,’ a slightly accented male voice revealed with a degree of musing mockery.
Francesca’s stomach muscles tightened, premonition providing an advance warning even as she turned slowly towards him.
The bank, the foodhall, and now the art gallery?
Dominic had witnessed her entrance, and noted her progress around the room with interest. And a degree of satisfaction when she was greeted with such enthusiasm by the wife of one of his business associates. It made it so much easier to initiate an introduction.
She regarded him silently. The deeply etched male features, the hard-muscled frame tamed somewhat beneath superb tailoring. Also apparent were the hand-stitched shoes, Hermes tie, and gold Rolex.
The smile reached his eyes, tingeing them with humour, yet there was a predatory alertness beneath the surface that was at variance with his portrayed persona.
A man who knew who he was, and didn’t require any status symbols to emphasise his wealth or masculinity.
Power emanated from every pore, leashed and under control. Yet there was a hint of the primitive, a dramatic mesh of animalistic magnetism that stirred something within her, tripping the pulse and increasing her heartbeat.
‘Francesca.’
The soft American drawl caught her attention, and she turned at once, her expression alive with delight.
‘Benedict!’ Her smile held genuine warmth as she leaned forward to accept his salutary kiss. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Indeed.’ Gabbi’s husband offered an affectionate smile in acknowledgement before shifting his attention to the man at her side. ‘You’ve met Dominic?’
‘It appears I’m about to.’
Something flickered in Benedict’s eyes, then it was masked. ‘Dominic Andrea. Francesca Angeletti.’
The mention of her surname provided the key to her identity, Dominic acknowledged, as details fell into place.
He was Greek, Francesca mused, not Italian. And the two men were sufficiently comfortable with each other to indicate an easy friendship.
‘Francesca.’
Her name on his lips sounded—different. Sexy, evocative, alluring. And she didn’t want to be any one of those things with any man. Especially not this man.
Dominic wondered if she was aware the fine gold flecks in her eyes intensified when she was defensive... and trying hard to hide it? He felt something stir deep inside, aside from the desire to touch his mouth to her own, to explore and possess it.
‘Are you sufficiently brave to offer an opinion on my exhibit?’
He couldn’t be serious? ‘I’d prefer to opt out on the grounds that anything I say might damage your ego.’
His husky laughter sent a shivery sensation down the length of her spine. ‘Benedict and Gabbi must bring you to dinner tomorrow night.’
If Dominic Andrea thought she’d calmly tag along he was mistaken! ‘Why?’
‘You intrigue me.’ He saw her pupils dilate, sensed the uncertainty beneath her cool façade. And was curious to discover the reason.
‘No. Thank you,’ she added.
‘Not curious to see my artist’s attic?’
‘Where you live doesn’t interest me.’ Nor do you, she wanted to add. And knew she lied. For there was an invisible pull of the senses, a powerful dynamism impossible to ignore.
A man who sought to forge his own destiny, she perceived, not at all fooled by the smile curving that generous mouth. The eyes were too dark and discerning, dangerous.
She had the strangest feeling she should be afraid of the knowledge evident in those depths. An instinctive sureness that he was intent on being a major force in her life.
‘Six-thirty. Gabbi will give you the address.’ His lips tilted slightly as he slanted her a mocking glance. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’
‘Extraordinary man,’ Francesca commented, silently adding lethal and persistent as she watched him thread his way to the opposite side of the gallery.
