was Famke doing here? Not only Melbourne, but here, tonight? And why go to such elaborate lengths to ensure a public face-to-face encounter with Franco?
‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?’ Gianna’s dinner companion observed. ‘I heard she’s recently divorced.’
And hunting.
Not any wealthy man, Gianna concluded with sickening certainty.
Franco Giancarlo.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS difficult to produce a smile as Franco rose to his feet. Yet Gianna managed it with seemingly effortless ease, and joined the guests in applauding his progress to the podium.
No one could possibly guess at the pain knifing her mid-section, or the effort it took to regulate her breathing as she caught the sexual voltage Famke exuded as Franco joined her on stage.
The actress’s effusive greeting was no doubt seen by most as an orchestrated act…the brush of Famke’s lips to Franco’s left cheek, then the other, as a familiar European gesture.
Famke’s sultry laugh, the lingering trail of scarlet-lacquered nails, were like sharp daggers piercing Gianna’s vulnerable heart.
Get over it, she bade herself silently. Famke is a witch, and Franco isn’t playing into her game.
Not in the public arena, a devilish voice pursued. But privately?
The possibility tore at her composure and reduced it to shreds.
It said much for her social élan that she managed to smile, applaud, even laugh at the on-stage production…for the benefit of the guests, the excitement generated in favour of the three children whose names were chosen, and the television cameras.
How long did it take? With on-screen cameos of each child, the family, with commentary? Fifteen minutes…twenty?
To Gianna it felt like a lifetime as she endured witnessing Famke’s touchy-feely antics on stage, the actress’s sultry smile and provocative laugh as she endeavored to display a picture of remembered intimacy with the man who numbered among her previous lovers.
Was it physically possible to burn with resentment whilst presenting a calm and cool persona?
Body language was an art form, and one she’d studied to her advantage in the business and social sector. Consequently there was no visible evidence, no betraying signals that could be noted by those who might choose to observe the effect Famke’s play might have on Franco Giancarlo’s wife.
Gianna smiled with fellow guests as Franco left the podium and returned to his table. A smile she forced to reach her eyes as he resumed his seat.
‘Well done, darling,’ she complimented lightly, and was totally unprepared for the brush of his lips against her own, the slow sweep of his tongue.
Reassurance? A public declaration of espousal unity?
The latter, she decided as he lifted his head away from her own.
His eyes, so dark and faintly brooding…did he glimpse what she didn’t want him to see? Sense it?
Doubtful. They didn’t share that degree of empathy…did they?
Almost as if he guessed at her train of thought, he threaded his fingers through her own and brought them to his lips.
He was verging on overkill, and she took it to the brink by touching gentle fingers to his cheek…resisting the urge to press the tips of her pale-pink-lacquered nails hard against the smooth olive skin.
To any onlookers it presented a loving gesture, but the brief flaring of those dark eyes revealed he recognised her intent, caught her restraint…and the silent promise she was far from done.
She kept the smile in place and refrained from saying a word as coffee and tea were served.
There wasn’t a question if Famke might circulate among the guests, but when…and if the actress would make a beeline for their table and Franco, or be a little more circumspect.
A tiny humourless laugh bubbled up in her throat. Circumspection didn’t form part of Famke’s modus operandi.
Something which became glaringly apparent within minutes as Gianna, together with the attending guests, saw the glamorous actress appear from backstage in the glare of a spotlight.
A brilliant smile, a light laugh, followed by a seemingly touching air-kiss to the crowd at the sound of more applause…and Famke stepped down onto the ballroom floor.
Admittedly her passage was interrupted. Not so her direction. However long it took…two minutes or ten…the actress’s destination was never in doubt.
Act, Gianna bade herself silently. You’re good at it.
All her life she’d conformed, aware how much it meant to her father to be an exemplary daughter. To excel in school, gain honours, show the Giancarlo-Castelli corporation she possessed the skill to climb the corporate ladder…in a manner that proved nepotism didn’t enter the equation.
A gap year spent in France had provided an opportunity to tilt at windmills…something she’d refrained from—unless riding a motorcycle behind a male student at speed or visiting a few questionable nightclubs in his company counted. Besides, there had always been a shadow bodyguard in the background, ensuring she came to no harm.
‘Franco.’
The feline purr made much of his name, while the sultry heat evident in the actress’s gaze set Gianna’s teeth on edge.
‘I just wanted to thank you, darling, for joining me on stage.’
Darling. Oh, my.
Franco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘A public request made it difficult for me to refuse.’
Was there the suggestion of a pout forming on Famke’s beautifully shaped mouth?
‘Fitting, don’t you think?’ The actress queried with a hint of teasing censure. ‘Considering your known generosity to the charity?’
With a deliberate gesture Franco caught hold of Gianna’s hand and threaded his fingers through her own. ‘Allow me to introduce Gianna…my wife.’
Impossible Famke was unaware of his marriage. It had received international media coverage at the time.
Blue eyes chilled to resemble an arctic ice floe for a fleeting second before the actress masked their expression.
‘Such an…interesting alliance.’
‘Famke.’ She kept her tone light, and only those who knew her well would have detected the slight hint of steel beneath the surface.
‘We must get together.’
‘For old times’ sake?’ Gianna queried with pseudo-politeness, aware the invitation was aimed at Franco…solo.
A faint laugh emerged from the actress’s lips. ‘We do have a history.’
‘The emphasis being history.’
Famke arched one eyebrow. ‘I so dislike territorial women.’
‘Really? Surely it adds to the challenge?’
‘Afraid, sweetie?’
Gianna didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Lines were being drawn, and the game was about to begin. She felt Franco’s fingers tighten on her own, and ignored the silent warning. ‘Perhaps Franco can answer that.’
‘Why? When you’re doing so well on your own.’ His drawled comment caused Famke’s gaze to narrow.
Unity was everything. She could do polite. She’d had years of practice. ‘The evening is winding down, and we’re about to leave.’
‘Can’t stand the pace?’
Gianna