paused and examined, before rejoining James and Benedict. Monique was nowhere in sight.
‘Wonderful choice, Benedict,’ Annaliese said in a deliberately throaty tone. ‘There’s a sculpture that would look incredible in the corner of your office. You must come and see it.’ She turned towards Gabbi. ‘It is quite spectacular, isn’t it, darling?’
‘Spectacular,’ Gabbi conceded, taking a fresh flute of champagne from the tray proffered by a waiter. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a pensive sip, then dared to raise her eyes to meet those of her husband. They were dark and faintly brooding, with just a tinge of latent humour. He was amused, damn him!
‘Then I shall have to take a look.’
‘Talk to James, darling, while I drag Benedict away.’
It was a beautiful manoeuvre, Gabbi applauded silently as Annaliese drew Benedict across the room.
‘She’s grown into a very attractive girl,’ James said quietly, and Gabbi inclined her head.
‘Very attractive,’ she agreed solemnly.
‘Incredibly successful, too.’
‘Yes.’ She took a careful sip of champagne and steeled herself not to glance towards where Annaliese held Benedict’s attention.
‘I looked at those figures you submitted. They’re excellent.’
‘Thank you,’ she accepted, pleased at his praise.
‘You possess your mother’s integrity, her sense of style,’ he said gently. ‘I’m very proud of you, Gabbi. And of what you’ve achieved.’
She brushed a quick kiss over his cheek. ‘I love you too.’
‘James.’
Gabbi turned at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, smiled, and stood quietly as her father completed an introduction. A business associate who seemed intent on discussing the effects of an upcoming state election. With a murmured excuse, she left the two men to converse and began threading her way towards the opposite side of the room.
There were quite a few people present whom she knew, and she paused to exchange greetings.
A painting had caught her eye shortly after they’d arrived, and she wanted to take another look at it.
‘Gabbi.’
‘Francesca!’ Her smile was genuinely warm as she embraced the tall, svelte auburn-haired model. ‘It seems ages since I last saw you.’
‘Too long,’ Francesca agreed. ‘The catwalks were exhausting, and—’ she paused fractionally ‘—the family daunting.’
‘Do we get to talk about this over lunch?’
Francesca’s smile was infectious. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Love to,’ Gabbi agreed, and named a fashionable restaurant a short distance from the office. ‘Twelve-thirty?’
‘Done.’ Francesca took hold of her arm. ‘Do you particularly want to watch Annaliese’s attempt to snare Benedict?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s do the unexpected and examine the art exhibits for any hidden talent!’ An eyebrow arched in a sardonic gesture as she cast a glance at a nearby sculpture. ‘There has to be some, surely?’
‘It’s a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder,’ Gabbi vouchsafed solemnly as they moved from one painting to another.
‘The prices are scandalous,’ Francesca opined in a quiet aside. ‘Does anyone actually make a purchase?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Utterly.’
‘Some of the city’s rich and famous are known to buy on a whim, then years later make a killing when the artist becomes well-known.’
‘And if the artist doesn’t?’
Gabbi smiled. ‘They place it in the foyer of their office and pretend its obscure origin makes it a curiosity piece. The added advantage being the item then becomes a legitimate tax deduction.’
‘Oh, my,’ Francesca breathed. ‘When did you become so cynical?’
‘I grew up.’ It shouldn’t hurt so much. But it did.
‘And Benedict?’
She hesitated a moment too long. ‘We understand each other.’
‘That’s a loaded statement, darling. I rather imagined he was your knight in shining armour.’
‘That myth belongs in a story book.’
‘Not always,’ Francesca disagreed gently. ‘I experienced a brief taste of it.’
Too brief. Francesca’s marriage to a world-famous Italian racing-car driver had lasted six months. A freak accident three years ago on a tight turn had claimed his life and that of another driver, the horrific scene captured for ever on news-film.
Gabbi had flown to Monaco to attend the funeral, and hadn’t been able to express adequate words then, any more than she could now.
‘It’s OK,’ Francesca said quietly, almost as if she knew. ‘I’m learning to deal with it.’
Gabbi had witnessed the magic, seen for herself the rare depth of their shared love, and wondered if it was possible to cope with such a loss.
‘Mario was—’
‘One of a kind,’ Francesca interrupted gently. ‘For a while he was mine. At least I have that.’ She pointed out a glaring canvas whose colours shrieked with vivid, bold strokes. ‘Was that a kindergarten tot let loose with brush and palette, do you suppose? Or is there some mysterious but meaningful symmetry that momentarily escapes the scope of my imagination?’
‘It’s an abstract,’ an amused male voice revealed. ‘And you’re looking at the kindergarten tot who took an afternoon to slash the canvas with paint in the hope someone might pay for the privilege of putting bread on my table.’
‘Expensive bread,’ Francesca remarked without missing a beat. ‘The artist favours hand-stitched shoes, a Hermes tie and wears a Rolex.’
‘They could be fake,’ he declared.
‘No,’ Francesca asserted with the certainty of one who knew designer apparel.
Gabbi watched the interplay between her friend and the tall, broad-framed man whose dark eyes held a piercing brilliance.
‘Next you’ll tell me where I live and what car I drive.’
‘Not what people would expect of an artist,’ Francesca considered with scarcely a thought. ‘Northern suburbs, overlooking water, trees in the garden, a detached studio and a BMW in the
