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An Ideal Marriage?
HELEN BIANCHIN


The trophy wife When Gabbi married Benedict Nicols, it was the wedding of the decade, uniting two prominent, wealthy families. To the outside world, it seemed the perfect match. No one would guess Gabbi's secret heartache: that she loved her husband, but to him she was simply a social accessory… .Benedict also expected Gabbi to provide him with a son and heir. If she didn't, her glamorous stepsister was only too eager to give Benedict everything he wanted! Suddenly, Gabbi had a fight on her hands to save her marriage… . And Benedict was definitely a man worth fighting for!Helen Bianchin creates "tantalizing sexual tension." - Romantic Times







Gabbi tilted her chin (#u01ad1dbf-37f7-5a2f-98b0-f6f286cb4ec2)About the Author (#u11f0483e-a718-5711-8f76-6a6e81a0d22f)Title Page (#u5d5f60a5-6f0b-592b-af2e-6ae21fac2491)CHAPTER ONE (#u2a6bd0b3-4a56-5dbc-9058-2a61aaf9bc87)CHAPTER TWO (#uf3abc8e0-a41d-55e2-aa28-fc87206e92cb)CHAPTER THREE (#u361b3894-d8bf-5f69-855b-79aaa9280aa2)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)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Gabbi tilted her chin

“Suitable marriages,” she began fearlessly, “are manipulated among the wealthy for numerous reasons. Love isn’t a necessary requisite.”

Benedict’s expression didn’t change, but she sensed a degree of anger. “And what we share in bed? How would you define that?”

A lump rose in her throat. “Skilled expertise.”

“You’d relegate me to a position of stud?”

“No. No,” she reiterated, stricken. She closed her eyes. He was angry. And it hurt, terribly. Yet what had she expected? A declaration that she was too important in his life for him to consider anyone taking her place?


HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia.

Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975. An animal lover, she says her terrier and Persian catregard her study as as much theirs as hers!


An Ideal Marriage?

Helen Bianchin










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

GABBI eased the car to a halt in the long line of traffic banked up behind the New South Head Road intersection adjacent to Sydney’s suburban Elizabeth Bay. A slight frown creased her forehead as she checked her watch, and her fingers tapped an impatient tattoo against the steering wheel.

She had precisely one hour in which to shower, wash her hair, dry and style it, apply make-up, dress, and greet invited dinner guests. The loss of ten minutes caught up in heavy traffic didn’t form part of her plan.

Her eyes slid to the manicured length of her nails, and she dwelt momentarily on the fact that time spent on their lacquered perfection had cost her her lunch. An apple at her desk mid-afternoon could hardly be termed an adequate substitute.

The car in front began to move, and she followed its path, picking up speed, only to depress the brake pedal as the lights changed.

Damn. At this rate it would take two, if not three attempts to clear the intersection.

She should, she admitted silently, have left her of fice earlier in order to miss the heavy early evening traffic. Yet stubborn single-mindedness had prevented her from doing so.

As James Stanton’s daughter, she had no need to work. Property, an extensive share portfolio and a handsome annuity placed her high on the list of Sydney’s independently wealthy young women.

As Benedict Nicols’ wife, her position as assistant management consultant with Stanton-Nicols Enterprises was viewed as nepotism at its very worst.

Gabbi thrust the gear-shift forward with unaccustomed force, attaining momentary satisfaction from the sound of the Mercedes’ refined engine as she eased the car forward and followed the traffic’s crawling pace, only to halt scant minutes later.

The cellphone rang, and she automatically reached for it.

‘Gabrielle.’

Only one person steadfastly refused to abbreviate her Christian name. ‘Monique.’

‘You’re driving?’

‘Stationary,’ she informed her, pondering the purpose of her stepmother’s call. Monique never rang to simply say ‘hello.’

‘Annaliese flew in this afternoon. Would it be an imposition if she came to dinner?’

Years spent attending an élite boarding-school had instilled requisite good manners. ‘Not at all. We’d be delighted.’

‘Thank you, darling.’

Monique’s voice sounded like liquid satin as she ended the call.

Wonderful, Gabbi accorded silently as she punched in the appropriate code and alerted Marie to set another place at the table.

‘Sorry to land this on you,’ she added apologetically before replacing the handset down onto the console. An extra guest posed no problem, and Gabbi wasn’t sufficiently superstitious to consider thirteen at the table a premise for an unsuccessful evening.

The traffic began to move, and the faint tension behind her eyes threatened to develop into a headache.

James Stanton’s remarriage ten years ago to a twenty-nine-year-old divorcee with one young daughter had gifted him with a contentment Gabbi could never begrudge him. Monique was his social equal, and an exemplary hostess. It was unfortunate that Monique’s affection didn’t extend to James’s daughter. As a vulnerable fifteen-year-old Gabbi had sensed her stepmother’s superficiality, and spent six months agonising over why, until a friend had spelled out the basic psychology of a dysfunctional relationship.

In retaliation, Gabbi had chosen to excel at everything she did—she’d striven to gain straight As in each subject, had won sporting championships, and graduated from university with an honours degree in business management. She’d studied languages and spent a year in Paris, followed by another in Tokyo, before returning to Sydney to work for a rival firm. Then she’d applied for and won, on the strength of her experience and credentials, a position with Stanton-Nicols.

There was a certain danger in allowing one’s thoughts to dwell on the past, Gabbi mused a trifle wryly as she swung the Mercedes into the exclusive Vaucluse street, where heavy, wide-branched trees added a certain ambience to the luxurious homes nestled out of sight behind high concrete walls.

A few hundred metres along she drew the car to a halt, depressed a remote modem and waited the necessary seconds as the double set of ornate black wrought-iron gates slid smoothly aside.

A wide curved driveway led to an elegant two-storeyed Mediterranean-style home set well back from the road in beautiful landscaped grounds. Encompassing four allotments originally acquired in the late 1970s by Conrad Nicols, the existing four houses had been removed to make way for a multi-million-dollar residence whose magnificent harbour views placed it high in Sydney’s real-estate stratosphere.

Ten years later extensive million-dollar refurbishment had added extensions providing additional bedroom accommodation, garages for seven cars, remodelled kitchen, undercover terraces, and balconies. The revamped gardens boasted fountains, courtyards, ornamental ponds and English-inspired lawns bordered by clipped hedges.

It was incredibly sad, Gabbi reflected as she released one set of automatic garage doors and drove beneath them, that Conrad and Diandra Nicols had been victims of a freak highway accident mere weeks after the final landscaping touches had been completed.

Yet Conrad had achieved in death what he hadn’t achieved in the last ten years of his life: His son and heir had returned from America and taken over Conrad’s partnership in Stanton-Nicols.

Gabbi slid the Mercedes to a halt between the sleek lines of Benedict’s XJ220 Jaguar and the more staid frame of a black Bentley. Missing was the top-of-the range four-wheel drive Benedict used to commute each day to the city.

The garage doors slid down with a refined click and Gabbi caught up her briefcase from the passenger seat, slipped out from behind the wheel, then crossed to a side door to punch in a series of digits, deactivating the security system guarding entry to the house.

Mansion, she corrected herself with a twisted smile as she lifted the in-house phone and rang through to the kitchen. ‘Hi, Marie. Everything under control?’

Twenty years’ service with the Nicols family enabled the housekeeper to respond with a warm chuckle. ‘No problems.’

‘Thanks,’ Gabbi acknowledged gratefully before hurrying through the wide hallway to a curved staircase leading to the upper floor.

Marie would be putting the final touches to the four-course meal she’d prepared; her husband, Serg, would be checking the temperature of the wines Benedict had chosen to be served, and Sophie, the casual help, would be running a final check of the dining-room..

All she had to do was appear downstairs, perfectly groomed, when Serg answered the ring of the doorbell and ushered the first of their guests into the lounge in around forty minutes.

Or less, Gabbi accorded as she ascended the stairs at a rapid pace.

Benedict’s mother had chosen lush-piled eau-de-nil carpet and pale textured walls to offset the classic lines of the mahogany furniture, employing a skilful blend of toning colour with matching drapes and bed-covers, ensuring each room was subtly different.

The master suite was situated in the eastern wing with glass doors opening onto two balconies and commanding impressive views of the harbour. Panoramic by day, those views became a magical vista at night, with a fairy-like tracery of distant electric and flashing neon light.

Gabbi kicked off her shoes, removed jewellery, then quickly shed her clothes en route to a marble-tiled en suite which almost rivalled the bedroom in size.

Elegantly decadent in pale gold-streaked ivory marble, there was a huge spa-bath and a double shower to complement the usual facilities.

Ten minutes later she entered the bedroom, a towel fastened sarong-style over her slim curves, with another wound into a turban on top of her head.

‘Cutting it fine, Gabbi?’ Benedict’s faintly accented drawl held a mocking edge as he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

In his late thirties, tall, with a broad, hard-muscled frame, his sculpted facial features gave a hint of his maternal Andalusian ancestry. Dark, almost black eyes held a powerful intensity that never softened for his fellow man, and rarely for a woman.

‘Whatever happened to “Hi, honey, I’m home”?’ she retaliated as she crossed the room and selected fresh underwear from a recessed drawer, hurriedly donned briefs and bra, then stepped into a silk slip.

‘Followed by a salutatory kiss?’ he mocked with a tinge of musing cynicism as he shed his shirt and attended to the zip of his trousers.

She felt the tempo of her heartbeat increase, and she was conscious of an elevated tension that began in the pit of her stomach and flared along every nerve-end, firing her body with an acute awareness that was entirely physical.

Dynamic masculinity at its most potent, she acknowledged silently as she snatched up a silk robe, thrust her arms through its sleeves, and retraced her steps to the en suite.

Removing the towelled turban, she caught up the hair-drier and began blow-drying her hair.

Her attention rapidly became unfocused as Benedict entered the en suite and crossed to the shower. Mirrored walls reflected his naked image, and she determinedly ignored the olive-toned skin sheathing hard muscle and sinew, the springy dark hair that covered his chest and arrowed down past his waist to reach his manhood, the firmly shaped buttocks, and the powerful length of his back.

Her eyes followed the powerful strength of his shoulders as he reached forward to activate the flow of water, then the glass doors slid closed behind him.

Gabbi tugged the brush through her hair with unnecessary force, and felt her eyes prick at the sudden pain.

It was one year, two months and three weeks since their marriage, and she still couldn’t handle the effect he had on her in bed or out of it.

Her scalp tingled in protest, and she relaxed the brushstrokes then switched off the drier. Her hair was still slightly damp, its natural ash-blonde colour appearing faintly darker, highlighting the creamy smoothness of her skin and accentuating the deep blue of her eyes.

With practised movements she caught the length of her hair and deftly swept it into a chignon at her nape, secured it with pins, then began applying make-up.

Minutes later she heard the water stop, and with conscious effort she focused on blending her eyeshadow, studiously ignoring him as he crossed to the long marbled pedestal and began dealing with a day’s growth of beard.

‘Bad day?’

Her fingers momentarily stilled, then she replaced the eyeshadow palette and selected mascara. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You have expressive eyes,’ Benedict observed as he smoothed his fingers over his jaw.

Gabbi met his gaze in the mirror, and held it. ‘Annaliese is to be a last-minute guest at dinner.’

He switched off. the electric shaver and reached for the cut-glass bottle containing an exclusive brand of cologne. ‘That bothers you?’

She tried for levity. ‘I’m capable of slaying my own dragons.’

One eyebrow lifted with sardonic humour. ‘Verbal swords over dessert?’

Annaliese was known not to miss an opportunity, and Gabbi couldn’t imagine tonight would prove an exception. ‘I’ll do my best to parry any barbs with practised civility.’

His eyes swept over her slim curves then returned to study the faint, brooding quality evident on her finely etched features, and a slight smile tugged the edges of his mouth. ‘The objective being to win another battle in an ongoing war?’

‘Has anyone beaten you in battle, Benedict?’ she queried lightly as she capped the mascara wand, returned it to the drawer housing her cosmetics and concentrated on applying a soft pink colour to her lips.

He didn’t answer. He had no need to assert that he was a man equally feared and respected by his contemporaries and rarely, if ever, fooled by anyone.

Just watch my back. The words remained unuttered as she turned towards the door, and minutes later she selected a long black pencil-slim silk skirt and teamed it with a simple scoop-necked sleeveless black top. Stiletto-heeled evening shoes completed the outfit, and she added a pear-shaped diamond pendant and matching ear-studs, then slipped on a slim, diamond-encrusted bracelet before turning towards the mirror to cast her reflection a cursory glance. A few dabs of her favourite Le Must de Cartier perfume added the final touch.

‘Ready?’

Gabbi turned at the sound of his voice, and felt her breath catch at the image he presented.

There was something about his stance, a sense of animalistic strength, that fine tailoring did little to tame. The dramatic mesh of elemental ruthlessness and primitive power added a magnetism few women of any age could successfully ignore.

For a few. timeless seconds her eyes locked with his in an attempt to determine what lay behind the studied inscrutability he always managed to portray.

She envied him his superb control...and wondered what it would take to break it.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was steady, and she summoned a bright smile as she turned to precede him from the room.

The main staircase curved down to the ground floor in an elegant sweep of wide, partially carpeted marble stairs, with highly polished mahogany bannisters supported by ornately scrolled black wrought-iron balusters.

Set against floor-to-ceiling lead-panelled glass, the staircase created an elegant focus highlighted by a magnificent crystal chandelier.

Marble floors lent spaciousness and light to the large entry foyer, sustained by textured ivory-coloured walls whose uniformity was broken by a series of wide, heavily panelled doors, works of art, and a collection of elegant Mediterranean-style cabinets.

Gabbi had just placed a foot on the last stair when the doorbell pealed.

‘Show-time,’ she murmured as Serg emerged from the eastern hallway and moved quickly towards the impressively panelled double front doors.

Benedict’s eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Cynicism doesn’t suit you.’

Innate pride lent her eyes a fiery sparkle, and her chin tilted slightly in a gesture of mild defiance. ‘I can be guaranteed to behave,’ she assured him quietly, and felt her pulse quicken as he caught hold of her hand.

‘Indeed.’ The acknowledgement held a dry softness which was lethal, and an icy chill feathered across the surface of her skin.

‘Charles,’ Benedict greeted smoothly seconds later as Serg announced the first of their guests. ‘Andrea’ His smile was warm, and he appeared relaxed and totally at ease. ‘Come through to the lounge and let me get you a drink.’

Most of the remaining guests arrived within minutes, and Gabbi played her role as hostess to the hilt, circulating, smiling, all the time waiting for the moment Monique and Annaliese would precede her father into the lounge.

Monique believed in making an entrance, and her arrival was always carefully timed to provide maximum impact. While she was never unpardonably late, her timing nevertheless bordered on the edge of social acceptability.

Serg’s announcement coincided with Gabbi’s expectation and, excusing herself from conversation, she moved forward to greet her father.

‘James.’ She brushed his cheek with her lips and accepted the firm clasp on her shoulder in return before turning towards her stepmother to accept the salutatory air-kiss. ‘Monique.’ Her smile was without fault as she acknowledged the stunning young woman at Monique’s side. ‘Annaliese. How nice to see you.’

Benedict joined her, the light touch of his hand at the back of her waist a disturbing sensation that provided subtle reassurance and a hidden warning. That it also succeeded in sharpening her senses and made her incredibly aware of him was entirely a secondary consideration.

His greeting echoed her own, his voice assuming a subtle inflection that held genuine warmth with her father, utter charm with her stepmother, and an easy tolerance with Annaliese.

Monique’s sweet smile in response was faultless. Annaliese, however, was pure feline and adept in the art of flirtation. A skill she seemed to delight in practising on any male past the age of twenty, with scant respect for his marital status.

‘Benedict.’ With just one word Annaliese managed to convey a wealth of meaning that set Gabbi’s teeth on edge.

The pressure of Benedict’s fingers increased, and Gabbi gave him a stunning smile, totally ignoring the warning flare in the depths of those dark eyes.

Dinner was a success. It would have been difficult for even the most discerning gourmand’s palate to find fault with the serving of fine food beautifully cooked, superbly presented, and complemented by excellent wine.

Benedict was an exemplary host, and his inherent ability to absorb facts and figures combined with an almost photographic memory ensured conversation was varied and interesting. Men sought and valued his opinion on a business level, and envied him his appeal with women. Women, on the other hand, sought his attention and coveted Gabbi’s position as his wife.

A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN, the tabloids had announced at the time. THE WEDDING OF THE DECADE, a number of women’s magazines had headlined, depicting a variety of photographs to endorse the projected image.

Only the romantically inclined accepted the media coverage as portrayed, while the city‘s—indeed, the entire country’s—upper social echelons recognised the facts beneath the fairy floss.

The marriage of Benedict Nicols and Gabrielle Stanton had occurred as a direct result of the manipulative strategy by James Stanton to cement the Stanton-Nicols financial empire and forge it into another generation.

The reason for Benedict’s participation was clear... he stood to gain total control of Stanton-Nicols. The bonus was a personable young woman eminently eligible to sire the necessary progeny.

Gabbi’s compliance had been motivated in part by a desire to please her father and the realistic recognition that, given his enormous wealth, there would be very few men, if any, who would discount the financial and social advantage of being James Stanton’s son-in-law.

‘Shall we adjourn to the lounge for coffee?’

The smooth words caught Gabbi’s attention, and she took Benedict’s cue by summoning a gracious smile and rising to her feet. ‘I’m sure Marie has it ready.’

‘Treasure of a chef’, ‘wonderful meal’, ‘delightful evening’. Words echoed in polite praise, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you. I’ll pass on your compliments to Marie. She’ll be pleased.’ Which was true. Marie valued the high salary and separate live-in accommodation that formed part of the employment package, and her gratitude was reflected in her culinary efforts.

‘You were rather quiet at dinner, darling.’

Gabbi heard Monique’s softly toned voice, and turned towards her. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Annaliese is a little hurt, I think.’ The reproach was accompanied by a wistful smile, and Gabbi allowed her eyes to widen slightly.

‘Oh, dear,’ she managed with credible regret. ‘She gave such a convincing display of enjoying herself.’

Monique’s eyes assumed a mistiness Gabbi knew to be contrived. How did she do that? Her stepmother had missed her vocation; as an actress she would have excelled.

‘Annaliese has always regarded you as an elder sister.’

There was nothing familial about Annaliese’s regard—for Gabbi. Benedict, however, fell into an entirely different category.

‘I’m deeply flattered,’ Gabbi acknowledged gently, and incurred Monique’s sharp glance. They had lingered slightly behind the guests exiting the dining-room and were temporarily out of their earshot.

‘She’s very fond of you.’

Doubtful. Gabbi had always been regarded as a rival, and Annaliese was her. mother’s daughter. Perfectly groomed, beautifully dressed, perfumed...and on a mission. To tease and tantalise, and enjoy the challenge of the chase until she caught the right man.

Gabbi was saved from making a response as they entered the lounge, and she accepted coffee from Marie, choosing to take it black, strong and sweet.

With a calm that was contrived she lifted her cup and took a sip of the strong, aromatic brew. ‘If you’ll excuse me? I really must have a word with James.’

It was almost midnight when the last guest departed, a time deemed neither too early nor too late for a mid-week dinner party to end.

Gabbi slid off her heeled sandals as she crossed the foyer to the lounge. Her head felt impossibly heavy, a knot of tension twisting a painful.path from her right temple down to the edge of her nape.

Sophie had cleared the remaining coffee cups and liqueur glasses, and in the morning Marie would ensure the lounge was restored to its usual immaculate state.

‘A successful evening, wouldn’t you agree?’

Benedict’s lazy drawl stirred the embers of resentment she’d kept carefully banked over the past few hours.

‘How could it not be?’ she countered as she turned to face him.

‘You want to orchestrate a post-mortem?’ he queried with deceptive mildness, and she glimpsed the tightly coiled strength beneath the indolent facade.

‘Not particularly.’

He conducted a brief, encompassing appraisal of her features. ‘Then I suggest you go upstairs to bed.’

Her chin tilted fractionally, and she met his dark gaze with equanimity. ‘And prepare myself to accommodate you?’

There was a flicker of something dangerous in the depths of his eyes, then it was gone, and his movements as he closed the distance between them held a smooth, panther-like grace.

‘Accommodate?‘ he stressed silkily.

He was too close, his height and broad frame an intimidating entity that invaded her space. The clean, male smell of him combined with his exclusive brand of cologne weakened her defences and lodged an attack against the very core of her femininity.

He had no need to touch her, and it irked her unbearably that he knew it.

‘Your sexual appetite is...’ Gabbi paused, then added delicately, ‘Consistent.’ Her eyes flared slightly, the blue depths pure crystalline sapphire.

He lifted a hand and caught hold of her chin, lifting it so she had little option but to retain his gaze. ‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to decline.’

She looked at him carefully, noting the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the deep vertical crease slashing each cheek, and the firm, sensual lines of his mouth.

The tug of sexual awareness intensified at the thought of the havoc that mouth could wreak when it possessed her own, the pleasure as it explored the soft curves of her body.

‘And a man’s inclination to employ unfair persuasion,’ Gabbi offered, damning the slight catch of her breath as the pad of his thumb traced an evocative pattern along the edge of her jaw, then slid down the pulsing cord to the hollow at the curve of her neck, cupping it while he loosened the pins holding her hair in place.

They fell to the carpet as his fingers combed the blonde length free, then his head lowered and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed her temple, then feathered a path to the edge of her mouth, teasing its outline as he tested the soft fullness and sensed the faint trembling as she tried for control.

She should stop him now, plead tiredness, the existence of a headache...say she didn’t want to have to try to cope with the aftermath of his lovemaking. The futility of experiencing utter joy and knowing physical lust was an unsatisfactory substitute for love.

His body moved in close against her own, its hard length a potent force she fought hard to ignore. Without success, for she had little defence against the firm pressure of his lips as he angled her mouth and possessed it, gently at first, then with an increasing depth of passion which demanded her capitulation.

She didn’t care when she felt his hands slide the length of her skirt up over her thighs, and she cared even less when he shaped her buttocks and lifted her up against him.

There was a sense of exultant pleasure as she curved her legs around his hips and tangled her arms together behind his neck, the movement of his body an exciting enticement as he ascended the stairs to their bedroom.

She was on fire, aching for the feel of his skin against her own, and her fingers feverishly freed his tie and attacked the buttons on his shirt, not satisfied until they found the silken whorls of hair covering his taut, muscled chest.

Her mouth slid down the firm column of his throat, savoured the hollow at its base, then sought a tantalising path along one collarbone.

At some stage she became dimly aware she was standing, her clothes, and his, no longer a barrier, and she gave a soft cry as he pulled her down onto the bed.

Now, hard and fast. No preliminaries. And afterwards he could take all the time he wanted.

His deep, husky laugh brought faint colour to her cheeks. A colour that deepened at the comprehension that she’d inadvertently said the words out loud.

He sank into her, watching her expressive features as she accepted him, the fleeting changes as she stretched and the slight gasp as he buried his shaft deep inside her.

He stayed still for endlessly long seconds, and she felt him swell, then he began to withdraw, slowly, before plunging even more deeply, repeating the action and the tempo of his rhythm until she went up in flames.

The long, slow after-play, his expertise, the wicked treachery of skilful fingers, the erotic mouth, combined to bring her to the brink and hold her there until she begged for release—and she was unsure at the peak of ecstasy whether she loved or hated him for what he could do to her.

Good sex. Very good sex. That’s all it was, she reflected sadly as she slid through the veils of sleep.


CHAPTER TWO

‘VOGEL on line two.’

Gabbi’s office was located high in an inner city architectural masterpiece and offered a panoramic view beyond the smoke-tinted glass exterior.

It was a beautiful summer morning, the sky a clear azure, with the sun’s rays providing a dappled effect on the harbour. A Manly-bound ferry cleaved a smooth path several kilometres out from the city terminal and vied with small pleasure craft of varying sizes, all of which were eclipsed by a huge tanker heading slowly into port.

With a small degree of reluctance Gabbi turned back to her desk and picked up the receiver to deal with the call.

Five minutes later she replaced it, convinced no woman should have to cross verbal swords with an arrogant, sexist male whose sole purpose in life was to undermine a female contemporary.

Coffee, hot, sweet and strong, seemed like a good idea, and she rose to her feet, intent on fetching it herself rather than have her secretary do it for her. There were several files she needed to check, and she extracted the pertinent folders and laid them on her desk.

The private line beeped, and she reached for the receiver, expecting to hear James’s or Benedict’s voice. A lesser possibility was Marie and—even more remote—Monique.

‘Gabbi.’ The soft, feminine, breathy sound was unmistakable.

‘Annaliese,’ she acknowledged with a sinking feeling.

‘Care to do lunch?’

Delaying the invitation would do no good at all, and she spared her appointment diary a quick glance. ‘I can meet you at one.’ She named an exclusive restaurant close by. ‘Will you make the reservation, or shall I?’

‘You do it, Gabbi,’ Annaliese replied in a bored drawl. ‘I have a meeting with my agent. I could be late.’

‘I have to be back in my office at two-thirty,’ Gabbi warned.

‘In that case, give me ten minutes’ grace, then go ahead and order.’

Gabbi replaced the receiver, had her secretary make the necessary reservation, fetched her coffee, then gave work her undivided attention until it was time to freshen up before leaving the building.

The powder-room mirror reflected an elegant image. Soft cream designer-label suit in a lightweight, uncrushable linen mix, and a silk camisole in matching tones. Her French pleat didn’t need attention, and she added a touch of powder, a re-application of lipstick, then she was ready.

Ten minutes later Gabbi entered the restaurant foyer where she was greeted warmly by the maître d’ and personally escorted to a table. She ordered mineral water and went through the motions of perusing the menu, opting for a Caesar salad with fresh fruit to follow.

Three-quarters of an hour after the appointed time Annaliese joined her in a waft of exclusive perfume. A slinky slither of red silk accentuated her model-slender curves. She was tall, with long slim legs, and her skilfully applied make-up enhanced her exotic features, emphasised by dark hair styled into a sleek bob.

No apology was offered, and Gabbi watched in silence as Annaliese ordered iced water, a garden salad and fresh fruit.

‘When is your next assignment?’

A feline smile tilted the edges of her red mouth, and the dark eyes turned to liquid chocolate. ‘So keen to see me gone?’

‘A polite enquiry,’ she responded with gentle mockery.

‘Followed by an equally polite query regarding my career?’

Gabbi knew precisely how her stepsister’s modelling career was progressing. Monique never failed to relay, in intricate detail, the events monitoring Annaliese’s rise and rise on the world’s catwalks.

‘It was you who initiated lunch.’ She picked up her glass and took a deliberate sip, then replaced it down on the table, her eyes remarkably level as she met those of her stepsister.

Annaliese’s gaze narrowed with speculative contemplation. ‘We’ve never been friends.’

In private, the younger girl had proven herself to be a vindictive vixen. ‘You worked hard to demolish any bond.’

One shoulder lifted with careless elegance. ‘I wanted centre stage in our shared family, darling. Numero uno.’ One long, red-lacquered nail tapped a careless tattoo against the stem of her glass.

Gabbi speared the last portion of cantaloupe on her plate. ‘Suppose you cut to the chase and explain your purpose?’

Annaliese’s eyes held a calculated gleam. ‘Monique informed me James is becoming increasingly anxious for you to complete the deal.’

The fresh melon was succulent, but it had suddenly lost its taste. ‘Which deal are we discussing?’

‘The necessary Stanton-Nicols heir.’

Gabbi’s gaze was carefully level as she rested the fork down onto her plate. ‘You’re way out of line, Annaliese.’

‘Experiencing problems, darling?’ The barb was intentional.

‘Only with your intense interest in something that is none of your business.’

‘It’s family business,’ Annaliese responded with deliberate emphasis.

Respect for the restaurant’s fellow patrons prevented Gabbi from tipping a glass of iced water into her stepsister’s lap.

‘Really?’ Confrontation was the favoured option. ‘I have difficulty accepting my father would enrol you as messenger in such a personal matter.’

‘You disbelieve me?’

‘Yes.’ The price of bravery might be high. Too high?

‘Darling.’ The word held a patronising intonation that implied the antithesis of affection. ‘The only difference between daughter and stepdaughter is a legal adoption decree. Something,’ she continued after a deliberate silence, ‘Monique could easily persuade James to initiate.’

Oh, my. Now why didn’t that devious plan surprise her? ‘James’s will is watertight. Monique inherits the principal residence, art and jewellery, plus a generous annuity. Shares in Stanton-Nicols come directly to me.’

One delicate brow arched high. ‘You think I don’t know that?’ She lifted a fork and picked at her salad. ‘You’ve missed the point.’

No, she hadn’t. ‘Benedict.’

Annaliese’s eyes assumed an avaricious gleam. ‘Clever of you, darling.’

‘You want to be his mistress.’

Her soft, tinkling laugh held no humour. ‘His wife.’ ‘You aim high.’

‘The top, sweetheart.’

Iced water or hot coffee? Either was at her disposal, and she was sorely tempted to initiate an embarrassing incident. ‘There’s just one problem. He’s already taken.’

‘But so easily freed,’ her stepsister purred.

‘You sound very sure.’ How was it possible to sound so calm, when inside she was a molten mass of fury?

‘A wealthy man wants an exemplary hostess in the lounge and a whore in his bedroom.’ Annaliese examined her perfectly lacquered nails, then shot Gabbi a direct look. ‘I can’t imagine passion being your forte, or adventure your sexual preference.’

Gabbi didn’t blink so much as an eyelash. ‘I’m a quick study.’

‘Really, darling? I wonder why I don’t believe you?’

Gabbi summoned the waiter, requested the bill, and signed the credit slip. Then she rose to her feet and slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

‘Shall we agree not to do this again?’

‘Darling,’ the young model almost purred. ‘I’m between seasons, and where better to take in some rest and relaxation than one’s home city?’ Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. ‘As family, we’re bound to see quite a lot of each other. The social scene is so interesting.’

‘And you intend being included in every invitation,’ Gabbi responded with soft mockery.

‘Of course.’

There wasn’t a single word she wanted to add. A contradiction—there were several...not one of which was in the least ladylike, and therefore unutterable in a public arena. It was easier to leave in dignified silence.

Three messages were waiting for her on her return. Two were business-oriented and she dealt with each, then logged the necessary notations into the computer before crossing to the private phone.

There was a strange curling sensation in the pit of her stomach as she waited for Benedict to answer.

‘Nicols.’

His voice was deep and retained a slight American drawl that seemed more noticeable over the phone. The sound of it caused her pulse to accelerate to a faster beat.

‘You rang while I was out.’

She had a mental image of him easing his lengthy frame in the high-backed leather chair. ‘How was lunch?’

Her fingers gripped the receiver more tightly. ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’

‘Annaliese requested your extension number.’ He relayed the information with imperturbable calm.

Any excuse to have contact with Benedict; Gabbi silently derided her stepsister.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’ His voice held a tinge of cynicism and prompted a terse response.

‘Lunch was fine.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Is that why you rang?’

‘No. To let you know I won’t be home for dinner. A Taiwanese associate wants to invest in property, and has requested I recommend a reputable agent. It would be impolite not to effect the introduction over dinner.’

‘Very impolite,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘I won’t wait up.’

‘I’ll take pleasure in waking you,’ he mocked gently, ending the call.

A tiny shiver slithered the length of her spine as she recalled numerous occasions when the touch of his lips had woken her from the depths of sleep, and how she’d instinctively welcomed him, luxuriating in the agility of his hands as they traversed a tactile path over the slender curves of her body.

With concentrated effort she replaced the receiver down onto the handset, then focused her attention on work for what remained of the afternoon.

It was almost five-thirty when she left the building, and although traffic was heavy through the inner city it had begun to ease when she reached Rushcutter’s Bay, resulting in a relatively clear run to Vaucluse.

The sun’s rays were hot, the humidity level high. Too high, Gabbi reflected as she garaged the car and entered the house.

A long, cool drink, followed by a few lengths in the pool, would ease the strain of the day, she decided as she slipped off her jacket and made her way towards the kitchen.

Marie was putting the finishing touches to a cold platter, and her smile was warm as she watched Gabbi extract a glass and cross to the large refrigerator.

‘Are you sure all you want is salad?’

Gabbi pushed the ice-maker lever, filled the glass with apple juice, then crossed to perch on one of four buffet stools lining the wide servery.

‘Sure,’ Gabbi confirmed as she leaned forward and filched a slice of fresh mango from the tastefully decorated bed of cos lettuce, avocado, nuts, and capsicum. ‘Lovely,’ she sighed blissfully.

Marie cast her an affectionate glance. ‘There’s fresh fruit and gelato to follow.’

Gabbi took a long swallow of iced juice, and felt the strain of the day begin to ebb. ‘I think I’ll change and have a swim.’ The thought of a few laps in the pool followed by half an hour basking in the warm sunshine held definite appeal. ‘Why don’t you finish up here? There’s no need for you to stay on just to rinse a few plates and stack them in the dishwasher.’

‘Thanks.’ The housekeeper’s pleasure was evident, and Gabbi reciprocated with an impish grin.

It wasn’t the first evening she’d spent alone, and was unlikely to be the last. ‘Go,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.’

Marie removed her apron and folded it neatly. ‘Serg and I’ll be in the flat, if you need us.’

‘I know,’ Gabbi said gently, grateful for the older woman’s solicitous care.

Minutes later she drained the contents of her glass, then went upstairs to change, discarding her clothes in favour of a black bikini. Out of habit she removed her make-up, applied sunscreen cream, then she caught up a multi-patterned silk sarong and a towel and made her way down to the terraced pool.

Its free-form design was totally enclosed by nonreflective smoke-tinted glass, ensuring total privacy, and there were several loungers and cushioned chairs positioned on the tiled perimeters.

Gabbi dropped the sarong and towel onto a nearby chair, then performed a racing dive into the sparkling water. Seconds later she emerged to the surface, cleared excess moisture from her face, then began the first of several leisurely laps before slipping deftly onto her back to idle aimlessly for a while, enjoying the solitude and the quietness.

It was a wonderful way to relax, she mused, both mentally and physically. The cares of the day seemed to diminish to their correct perspective. Even lunch with Annaliese.

No, she amended with a faint grimace. That was taking things a bit too far. Calculating her stepsister’s next move didn’t require much effort, given the social scene of the city’s sophisticated élite.

Stanton-Nicols supported a number of worthy charities, and Benedict generously continued in Diandra and Conrad Nicols’ tradition—astutely aware that as much business was done out of the office as in it, Gabbi concluded wryly.

The thought of facing Annaliese at one function or another over the next few weeks didn’t evoke much joy. Nor did the prospect of parrying Monique’s subtle hints.

Damn. The relaxation cycle was well and truly broken. With a deft movement, Gabbi rolled onto her stomach and swam to the pool’s edge, hauled her slim frame onto the tiled ledge, then reached for the towel and began blotting her body.

Faced with a choice of eating indoors or by the pool, she chose the latter and carried the salad and a glass of chilled water to a nearby table.

The view out over the harbour was spectacular, and she idly watched the seascape as numerous small craft cruised the waters in a bid to make the most of the daylight-saving time.

On finishing her meal, scorning television, Gabbi made herself some coffee, selected a few glossy magazines and returned to watch the sunset, the glorious streak of orange that changed and melded into a deep pink as the sun’s orb sank slowly beneath the horizon providing a soft pale reflected glow before dusk turned into darkness.

A touch on the electronic modem activated the underwater light, turning the pool a brilliant aqua-blue. Another touch lit several electric flares, and she stretched out comfortably and flipped open a magazine, scanning the glossy pages for something that might capture her interest.

An article based on the behind-the-scenes life of a prominent fashion guru provided a riveting insight, and endorsed her own view on the artificiality of a society where one was never sure whether an acquaintance was friend or foe beneath the token facade.

The publishers had seen fit to include an in-depth account by a high-class madam, who, the article revealed, had procured escorts for some of the country’s rich and famous, notably politicians and visiting rock stars, for a fee that was astronomical.

Somehow the article focusing on cellulite that followed it seemed extremely prosaic, and Gabbi flipped to the travel section.

Paris. What a city for ambience and joie de vivre. The language, the scents, the fashion. French women possessed a certain élan that was unmatched anywhere else in the world. And the food! Très magnifique, she accorded wistfully, recalling fond memories of the time she’d spent there. For a while she’d imagined herself in love with a dashing young student whose sensual expertise had almost persuaded her intó his bed. Gabbi’s mouth curved into a soft smile, and her eyes danced with hidden laughter in remembrance.

‘An interesting article?’

Gabbi looked up at the sound of that deep, drawling voice and saw Benedict’s tall frame outlined against the screened aperture leading into the large entertainment room.

His jacket was hooked over one shoulder, and he’d already removed his tie and loosened a few buttons on his blue cotton shirt.

Her eyes still held a hint of mischief as they met his. ‘I didn’t realise it was that late,’ she managed lightly, watching as he closed the distance between them.

‘It’s just after ten.’ He paused at her side, and scanned the open magazine. ‘Pleasant memories?’

Gabbi met his gaze, and sensed the studied watchfulness beneath the surface. ‘Yes,’ she said with innate honesty, and saw his eyes narrow fractionally. ‘It was a long time ago, and I was very young.’

‘But old enough to be enchanted by a young man’s attentions,’ Benedict deduced with a degree of cynical amusement. ‘What was his name?’

‘Jacques,’ she revealed without hesitation. ‘He was a romantic, and he kissed divinely. We explored the art galleries together and drank coffee at numerous sidewalk cafés. On weekends I visited the family vineyard. It was fun,’ she informed him simply, reflecting on the voluble and often gregarious meals she’d shared, the vivacity and sheer camaraderie of a large extended family.

‘Define “fun”.’

The temptation to tease and prevaricate was very strong, but there seemed little point. ‘He had a very strict maman,’ she revealed solemnly. ‘Who was intent on matching him with the daughter of a neighbouring vintner. An Anglaise miss, albeit a very rich one, might persuade him to live on the other side of the world.’

Amusement lurked in the depths of his eyes. ‘He married the vintner’s daughter?’

‘Yes. His devoted maman despatches a letter twice a year with family news.’

‘Did you love him?’ The query was soft, his voice silk-smooth.

Not the way I love you. ‘We were very good friends,’ she said with the utmost care.

His intense gaze sent a tiny flame flaring through her veins, warming her skin and heating the central core of her femininity.

‘Who parted without regret or remorse when it was time for you to leave?’ Benedict prompted gently.

A winsome smile curved the edges of her mouth. ‘We promised never to forget each other. For a while we exchanged poetic prose.’

‘Predictably the letters became shorter and few and far between?’

‘You’re a terrible cynic.’

‘A realist,’ he corrected her with subtle remonstrance.

Gabbi closed the magazine and placed it down on a nearby table. With an elegant economy of movement she rose to her feet, caught up the sarong and secured it at her waist ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Please.’

He turned to follow her, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in awareness. She subconsciously straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to walk at a leisurely pace.

In the kitchen she crossed to the servery, methodically filled the coffee-maker with water, spooned ground beans into the filter basket, then switched on the machine.

The large kitchen was a chefs delight, with every conceivable modem appliance. A central cooking island held several hobs, and there were twin ovens, two microwaves, and a capacious refrigerator and freezer.

With considerable ease Gabbi extracted two cups and saucers, then set out milk and sugar.

‘How was dinner?’

‘Genuine interest, or idle conversation, Gabbi?’

Was he aware of the effect he had on her? In bed, without doubt. But out of it? Probably not, she thought sadly. Men of Benedict’s calibre were more concerned with creating a financial empire than examining a relationship.

It took considerable effort to meet his lightly mocking gaze. ‘Genuine interest.’

‘We ate Asian food in one of the city’s finest restaurants,’ Benedict informed her indolently. “The business associate was suitably impressed, and the agent will probably earn a large commission.’

‘Naturally you have offered them use of the private jet, which will earn you kudos with the Taiwanese associate, who in turn will recommend you to his contemporaries,’ she concluded dryly, and his lips formed a twisted smile.

‘It’s called taking care of business.’

‘And business is all-important.’

‘Is that a statement or a complaint?’

Her eyes were remarkably steady as she held his gaze. ‘It’s a well-known fact that profits have soared beyond projected estimates in the past few years. Much of Stanton-Nicols’ continuing success is directly attributed to your dedicated efforts.’

‘You didn’t answer the question.’ The words held a dangerous softness that sent a tiny shiver down her spine, and her eyes clashed with his for a few immeasurable seconds before she summoned a credible smile.

‘Why would I complain?’ she queried evenly, supremely conscious of the quickening pulse at the base of her throat.

‘Why, indeed?’ he lightly mocked. ‘You have a vested interest in the family firm.’

‘In more ways than one.’

His eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Elaborate.’

Gabbi didn’t hedge. ‘The delay in providing James with a grandchild seems to be the subject of family conjecture.’

For a brief millisecond she caught a glimpse of something that resembled anger, then it was lost beneath an impenetrable mask. ‘A fact which Annaliese felt compelled to bring to your attention?’

One finger came to rest against the corner of her mouth, while his thumb traced the heavy, pulsing cord at the side of her throat.

‘Yes.’

His hand trailed lower to the firm swell of her breast, teased a path along the edge of her bikini top, then brushed against the aroused peak before dropping back to his side.

‘We agreed birth control should be your prerogative,’ Benedict declared with unruffled ease, and she swallowed painfully, hating the way her body reacted to his touch.

‘Your stepsister is too self-focused not to take any opportunity to initiate a verbal game of thrust and parry. Who won?’

‘We each retired with superficial wounds,’ Gabbi declared solemnly.

‘Dare I ask when the game is to continue?’

‘Who can tell?’

‘And the weapon?’

She managed a smile. ‘Why—Annaliese herself. With you as the prize. Her formal adoption by James would make her a Stanton. Our divorce is a mere formality in order to change Stanton to Nicols.’

He lifted a hand and brushed light fingers across her cheek. ‘Am I to understand you are not impressed with that scenario?’

No. For a moment she thought she’d screamed the negative out loud, and she stood in mesmerised silence for several seconds, totally unaware that her expressive features were more explicit than any words.

‘Do you believe,’ Benedict began quietly, ‘I deliberately chose you as my wife with the future of Stanton-Nicols foremost in mind?’

Straight for the jugular. Gabbi had expected no less. Her chin tilted slightly. ‘Suitable marriages are manipulated among the wealthy for numerous reasons,’ she said fearlessly. ‘Love isn’t a necessary prerequisite.’

His expression didn’t change, but she sensed a degree of anger and felt chilled by it.

‘And what we share in bed? How would you define that?’

A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it. ‘Skilled expertise.’

Something dark momentarily hardened the depths of his gaze, then it was gone. ‘You’d relegate me to the position of stud?’

Oh, God. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘No. No,’ she reiterated, stricken by his deliberate interpretation.

‘I should be thankful for that small mercy.’

He was angry. Icily so. And it hurt, terribly.

Yet what had she expected? A heartfelt declaration that she was too important in his life for him to consider anyone taking her place?

Gabbi felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were trapped by his, her body transfixed as though in a state of suspended animation.

‘The coffee has finished filtering.’

His voice held that familiar cynicism, and with an effort she focused her attention on pouring coffee into both cups, then added sugar.

Benedict picked up one. ‘I’ll take this through to the study.’

Her eyes settled on his broad back as he walked from the kitchen, her expression pensive.

Damn Annaliese, Gabbi cursed silently as she discarded her coffee down the sink. With automatic movements she rinsed the cup and stacked it in the dishwasher, then she switched off the coffee-maker and doused the lights before making her way upstairs.

Reaching the bedroom, she walked through to the en suite, stripped off her bikini, turned on the water and stepped into the shower.

It didn’t take long to shampoo her hair, and fifteen minutes with the blow-drier restored it to its usual silky state.

In bed, she reached for a book and read a chapter before switching off the lamp.

She had no idea what time Benedict slid in beside her, nor did she sense him leave the bed in the early- . morning hours, for when she woke she was alone and the only signs of his occupation were a dented pillow and the imprint of his body against the sheet.


CHAPTER THREE

GABBI glanced at the bedside clock and gave an inaudible groan. Seven-thirty. Time to rise and shine, hit the shower, breakfast, and join the queue of traffic heading into the city.

Thank heavens today was Friday and the weekend lay ahead.

Benedict had accepted an invitation to attend a tennis evening which Chris Evington, head partner in the accountancy firm Stanton-Nicols employed, had arranged at his home. Tomorrow evening they had tickets to the Australian première . performance at the Sydney Entertainment Centre.

The possibility of Annaliese discovering their plans for tonight was remote, Gabbi decided as she slid in behind the wheel of her car. And it was doubtful even Monique would be able to arrange an extra seat for the première performance at such short notice.

It was a beautiful day, the sky clear of cloud, and at this early-morning hour free from pollution haze.

Gabbi was greeted by Security as she entered the car park, acknowledged at Reception en route to her office, and welcomed by her secretary who brought coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other.

As the morning progressed Gabbi fought against giving last night’s scene too much thought, and failed. During the afternoon she overlooked a miscalculation and lost valuable time in cross-checking. Consequently, it was a relief to slip behind the wheel of her car and head home.

Benedict’s vehicle was already parked in the garage when she arrived, and she felt her stomach clench with unbidden nerves as she entered the house.

Gabbi checked with Marie, then went upstairs to change.

Benedict was in the process of discarding his tie when she reached the bedroom.

‘You’re home early.’ As a greeting it lacked originality, but it was better than silence.

She met his dark gaze with equanimity, her eyes lingering on the hard planes of his face, and settling briefly on his mouth. Which was a mistake.

‘Dinner will be ready at six.’

‘So Marie informed me.’ He began unbuttoning his shirt, and her eyes trailed the movement, paused, then returned to scan his features.

Nothing there to determine his mood. Damn. She hated friction. With Monique and Annaliese it was unavoidable—but Benedict was something else.

‘I should apologise.’ There, it wasn’t hard at all. Did he know she’d summoned the courage, wrestled with the need to do so, for most of the day?

A faint smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, and the expression in his eyes was wholly cynical. ‘Good manners, Gabbi?’

He shrugged off the business shirt, reached for a dark-coloured open-necked polo shirt and tugged it over his head.

Honesty was the only way to go. ‘Genuine remorse.’

He removed his trousers and donned a casual cotton pair.

He looked up, and she caught the dark intensity of his gaze. ‘Apology accepted.’

Her nervous tension dissolved, and the breath she’d unconsciously been holding slipped silently free. ‘Thank you.’

Retreat seemed a viable option and she crossed to the capacious walk-in wardrobe, selected tennis gear, then extracted casual linen trousers and a blouse.

The buzz of the electric shaver sounded from the en suite bathroom, and he emerged as she finished changing.

Gabbi felt the familiar flood of warmth, and fought against it ‘What time do you want to leave?’ It was amazing that her voice sounded so calm.

‘Seven-fifteen.’

They descended the stairs together, and ate the delectable chicken salad Marie had prepared, washed it down with mineral water, then picked from a selection of fresh fruit. A light meal which would be supplemented by supper after the last game of tennis.

Conversation was confined to business and the proposed agenda at the next board meeting.

Chris and Leanne Evington resided at Woollahra in a large, rambling old home which had been lovingly restored. Neat lawns, beautiful gardens, precisely clipped hedges and shrubbed topiary lent an air of a past era. The immaculate grassed tennis court merely added to the impression.

A few cars lined the circular forecourt, and Gabbi slid from the Bentley as Benedict retrieved their sports bags from the boot.

Social tennis took on rules of its own, according to the host’s inclination and the number of participating guests.

The best of seven games would ensure a relatively quick turn-around on the court, Chris and Leanne determined. Partners were selected by personal choice, and it was accepted that two rounds of mixed doubles would precede two rounds of women’s doubles and conclude with two rounds of men’s doubles.

Gabbi and Benedict were nominated first on the court, opposing a couple whom Gabbi hadn’t previously met. All four were good players, although Benedict had the height, strength and skill to put the ball where he chose, and they emerged victorious at the end of the game with a five-two lead.

Chris and Leanne’s son Todd had nominated himself umpire for the evening. A prominent athlete and law student, he had any number of pretty girls beating a path to his door. That there wasn’t one in evidence this evening came as something of a surprise.

Until Annaliese arrived on the scene, looking sensational in designer tennis wear.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Annaliese offered a winning smile.

‘Mixed has just finished,’ Leanne informed her. ‘The girls are on next.’

Annaliese turned towards Gabbi. ‘Will you be my partner? It’ll be just like the old days.’

What old days? Gabbi queried silently. Surely Annaliese wasn’t referring to an occasional mismatch during school holidays?

Leanne allocated the pair to the second round, and Gabbi accepted a cool drink from a proffered tray.

The guests reassembled as Todd directed play from the umpire’s seat. The men gravitated into two groups, and in no time at all Annaliese had managed to gain Gabbi’s attention.

‘I had a wonderful afternoon phoning friends and catching up on all their news.’

‘One of whom just happened to mention the Evington tennis party?’ Gabbi queried dryly.

‘Why, yes:

‘Who better to know the guest list than Todd?’

‘He’s a sweet boy.’

‘And easily flattered.’

Annaliese’s smile was pure feline. ‘Aren’t most men?’

‘Shall we join the others?’

It was thirty minutes before they took their position on the court, and evenly matched opponents ensured a tight score. Deuce was called three times in the final game before Annaliese took an advantage to winning point by serving an ace.





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