Excerpt of The High-Society Wife by Helen Bianchin

"SOMETHING bothers you?"

The male voice held a faintly inflected drawl, and Gianna met her husband's dark gaze across the master bedroom with equanimity.

It was a spacious room with two walk-in wardrobes with adjoining dressing-rooms, and two en suite bathrooms. Beautifully carved antique furniture complemented plush furnishings in muted colours of cream and pale green.

"What makes you think that?" There was no point in relaying she'd had the day from hell, and right now she'd sell her soul for a soothing session in the Jacuzzi followed by an early night.

Instead, she'd battled peak-hour traffic, arrived home late and raced upstairs to shed her tailored business suit and take a quick shower.

The thought of attending a fundraiser held in a city hotel ballroom, where she'd graciously participate in conversation, attempt to make her way through a three- course dinner, limit herself to one glass of champagne and play the pretend game held little appeal.

His eyes sharpened, and for a moment she thought he'd read her mind. "Take something for that headache before we leave."

Oh, my. "You know this...because?" Her voice sounded vaguely truculent even to her own ears.

He stood tall, with the build of a warrior, well-honed muscle and sinew flexing beneath smooth olive skin, his lithe body unadorned except for black silk hipster briefs covering his tight butt.

His dark hair was damp from a recent shower, his strong facial features all angles and planes, the dark shadow beard clean-shaven.

Dark eyes held her own. "You want to argue?" She waited a beat. "Not particularly." One eyebrow lifted in silent cynicism before he returned to the task at hand.

Franco Giancarlo was something else, Gianna reflected as she entered her en suite bathroom and began applying make- up.

A ruggedly attractive man in his late thirties, who commanded respect among his peers and wreaked havoc with many a feminine heart.

Something she knew only too well. He'd captured hers at an impossibly young age — an adoration for a teenager ten years her senior that had shifted to hero-worship with the growing years before taking the leap to love.

An entity that had made it easy for her to accept his proposal.

For the sake of the Giancarlo-Castelli conglomerate, founded by their respective grandparents during the last century. An extremely successful business temporarily put under pressure little more than three years ago by a fatal plane crash which had claimed both Franco's parents and Gianna's widowed father.

Losses on the share market had been regained when Franco assumed directorial control. Restoring shareholders' faith had taken three consecutive successful financial quarters. Yet future stability had remained in question, given Franco Giancarlo's bachelor status and Gianna Castelli's seeming lack of interest in choosing a husband.

The two widowed grandparents, matriarchal-Anamaria Castelli and patriarchal Santo Giancarlo, had presented what they had considered to be the perfect solution.

What better way to take Giancarlo-Castelli into the fourth generation than with children issued from a marriage between Franco Giancarlo and Gianna Castelli?

The fact Franco and Gianna had complied, for reasons of their own, had been cause for matriarchal and patriarchal delight.

The marriage had been accorded the wedding of the year, with a list of guests who figured high on Australia's social register. Distant relatives and farflung friends had flown in from Italy, France and America. The event had garnered television coverage and had featured in several prominent magazines.

A year down the track they remained the golden couple, their presence at various functions duly recorded and reported by the media.

In public she could play the part of adoring wife. Yet she was conscious of an invisible barrier.

Crazy, she silently chastised. She wore his ring, shared his bed, and played the role of social hostess with the ease of long practice. His in every way. Except she didn't have his heart. Or his soul.

She told herself it was enough. And knew she lied. Dammit, what was the matter with her? Introspection wouldn't achieve a thing, and right now she needed to fix her hair, then dress.

Twenty minutes later she re-entered the bedroom to find Franco waiting with indolent ease, looking every inch the wealthy sophisticate in a black dinner suit, his black bow tie perfectly aligned.

Her heart leapt to a quickened beat as sensation surged through her veins. Breathe, she commanded silently, inwardly cursing the way her body reacted to his presence.

Did he know? In bed, without doubt. But out of it?

She didn't want to fall prey to such acute vulnerability. It wasn't fair.

"Beautiful," Franco complimented her lightly, skimming her slight curves sheathed in red silk chiffon. Undoubtedly the gown was the work of a master seamstress, with its fitted bodice and spaghetti straps. The bill for which Gianna would have insisted on paying herself.

A slight intransigence which irked him. Independence was fine, up to a point. It appeased his sensibility she'd chosen to wear the diamond drop earrings he'd gifted her on their wedding anniversary.

A matching wrap completed the outfit, and she'd swept the length of her hair high into a smooth twist held fastened with a jewelled clip. A diamond pendant rested against the curved valley of her breasts.

Stiletto heels added four inches to her height, and he crossed the room, caught the subtle Hermes perfume, and offered a warm smile.

"Grazie." "For looking the part?" The edges of his mouth lifted a little. "That, too." He offered her a glass half filled with water, and two pills.

"Playing nurse?" 'Tell me you've already taken care of it and I'll discard the role."

Gianna merely shook her head, popped the pills and swallowed them down. "Are we ready to leave?"

Southern hemisphere summer daylight saving meant they joined the flow of city-bound traffic while the sun sank slowly towards the horizon.

"Want to talk about it?" He hadn't missed the slight edge of tension apparent, or the faint darkness clouding her expressive features.

Gianna cast him a wry glance. "Where would you have me begin?" 'That bad?"

Her PA had called in sick, the replacement had proved hopeless, paperwork despatched via courier had been unavoidably detained, and lunch had been a half-eaten sandwich she'd discarded following a constant stream of phone calls.

"Nothing I couldn't handle." Wasn't that what she'd been educated, trained and groomed for?

One goal...to take her rightful place in the Giancarlo- Castelli conglomerate. Yet, like Franco, she'd begun on the lower rung of the corporate ladder, learning firsthand how the business worked from the ground up, winning each subsequent promotion by her own merit.

Nepotism wasn't an option in either family, and no one with any nous could accuse her of riding on her father or grandmother's coat-tails.

Giancarlo-Castelli were generous supporters of several worthy charities, and tonight's event held prominence among Melbourne's social echelon. Children were very dear to Gianna's heart, and the terminally ill deserved maximum effort in raising funds. She would make her own sizable donation privately.

"Show-time," she murmured as Franco brought the powerful top-of-the-range Mercedes to a halt outside the hotel's main entrance.

The spacious foyer adjacent to the grand ballroom held a large number of invited guests, mingling as they sipped champagne. Designer gowns from home and abroad, together with a king's ransom in jewel-lery, graced the female contingent, while the men appeared almost clones of each other in black dinner suits, white pin-pleated dress- shirts and black bow ties.

Wealthy scions of the corporate and professional world — although none, Gianna conceded, emanated quite the degree of power as the man at her side.

Beneath the sophisticated exterior lurked a latent primitive sensuality that held the promise of unleashed passion...and delivered, Gianna accorded silently, all too aware of the intimacy they shared, when it was possible for her to lose herself so completely in him that nothing, nothing else mattered.

Not the longed-for gift of his love, nor the unplanned delay in conceiving his child.

"Darlings! How are you both?" The breathy feminine voice was familiar, and Gianna turned with a smile, exchanged the customary air-kiss, then gave a soft laugh as the stunning blonde touched light fingers to Franco's cheek.

"Shannay." 'Ah." Shannay's sigh held a wistful quality as Franco carried her fingers to his lips, and she offered Gianna a conspiratorial smile. "He does that so well."

"Doesn't he?"

The girls' friendship went back to boarding-school days and had continued through university. They shared a similar brand of humour, had been bridesmaid honours at each other's wedding, and remained in close touch.

"Tom?" 'About to join us," Franco drawled as Shannay's husband came into view.

"My apologies. A phone call." Tall, lean and bespectacled, Tom Fitzgibbon was a lauded heart surgeon, and one of those rare men who understood women. A widower with two young children, he'd allowed Shannay to do all the running in their relationship, only to take the wind out of her sails at the eleventh hour.

Gianna saw Shannay's eyes soften. "A problem?" Tom offered his wife a musing smile. "Hopefully not."

Together they began to circulate, greeting mutual friends, separating as they became caught up in conversation.

The society doyennes were in their element as they worked the guests, issuing verbal reminders for upcoming events and exchanging the latest gossip.

Gianna took another sip of champagne and allowed her gaze to skim the foyer. Soon staff would open the ballroom doors and begin ushering the assembled guests to their designated seats.

Franco stood at her side as he conversed with an associate, and this close she was supremely conscious of the faint muskiness of his exclusive cologne. It teased her senses and sent warmth coursing through her veins.