time you got here,” he snapped without a trace of the Italian accent he adopted for his popular A Passion for Pasta TV show. His parents had migrated to Sydney over half a century earlier, not long after the Second World War; all their eight children had been born here—three boys and five girls—and Rico was the youngest.
Charles couldn’t get his head around the idea of so many siblings. He didn’t have any.
“I’m right on time,” Charles countered calmly, in far too good a mood to be riled by Rico’s burst of Latin temper.
“No, you’re not. The game is supposed to be underway by eight. It’s already five minutes past, courtesy of your gasbagging and gossiping out here with the hired help. Here, James, fill this up again, will you?” Rico said curtly and handed the butler his empty glass.
Charles wondered what was eating at Rico but he decided not to ask. Best to just get in there and start playing poker.
The others were already sitting at the card table where it was always set up, next to the bullet-proof plate-glass window which overlooked the city below. Renée, looking softer than usual in a pale pink cashmere sweater, lifted her glass of white wine in Charles’s direction in acknowledgement of his arrival.
Ali, dressed in blue jeans and a shirt, managed a polite nod as he sipped his usual glass of mineral water. Ali never touched alcohol himself but always supplied the best in spirits and wine for his guests.
“See, Rico?” Renée said in that silky voice of hers as the two men sat down at the table. “I told you he’d show up. Though he’d be forgiven if he didn’t. After all, he’s only been married to that stunner of a wife of his for a month.”
Renée was still a stunner herself, Charles appreciated. Just not his type. Too tall and too thin. And a brunette. Charles preferred blondes, and a softer more feminine kind of beauty.
There was nothing soft about Renée. But she was very striking, with those high cheekbones and unusual eyes. Pale green they were, with rather heavy lids which she emphasised by plucking her eyebrows to the finest of arches. The set of her eyebrows gave her face a range of expressions, none of which were soft or sweet. When smiling, she looked either drily amused or downright sardonic. Unsmiling, Renée carried an air about her which could be interpreted as snobbishness, or at the very least belief in her own superiority. Possibly this had been an asset on the catwalk, where models specialised in looking aloof these days. But not such an asset in one’s social life.
Charles had not liked her to begin with. But first impressions were not always correct, he’d found. He still could not claim to know her all that well, even now after five years’ acquaintance. But he’d warmed to her after a while. Impossible to totally dislike a woman who could play poker as well as she did, and who had what he called strength of character. Renée was always her own person, and he admired that.
It didn’t matter to him if she’d married the banker for his money or not. No doubt she had her reasons. Still, Renée was far too cool and controlled for him. Not like Dominique, who was a wonderful mixture of sweet surrender and wildly impassioned demands.
“Again, Charles,” she’d beg him, even after he thought he was done. But he was rarely ever done with Dominique.
Damn. He shouldn’t have started thinking about Dominique.
After they had cut cards for the deal—which Renée won, much to Rico’s irritation—Charles tried to settle back to enjoy the game. But it was no use. His concentration was shot to pieces. By the time they broke off for supper at ten-thirty, he was losing more than he liked.
“Your mind’s not on your game tonight, Charles,” Ali remarked over coffee and cake.
“I’m just a bit rusty,” he replied.
“Maybe he’s setting us all up for a sting later on in the evening,” Renée suggested.
Charles smiled what he hoped was an enigmatic smile.
“Trust you to think that,” Rico snapped. “That’s just the sort of thing a devious female like you would do. But Charles is a straight shooter. The reason he’s not playing well tonight is because he can’t keep his thoughts above his waist.”
“And who could blame him?” Ali said in that rich Eton-educated voice of his. “Renée is right. You are a very lucky man, Charles, to have found a woman so beautiful for your bed.”
Charles bristled at the inference that Dominique’s role in his life was nothing more than sexual.
“Dominique has a beautiful mind as well as a beautiful body, Ali,” he said with a hint of reproach in his voice. “We are friends as well as lovers. Equals, in every way.”
Rico laughed. “Who do you think you’re kidding, Charles? That girl has you by the short and curlies.”
“Must you be so crude?” Renée said with a withering glance Rico’s way. “Take no notice of him, Charles. He’s just jealous because he can’t find anyone to love, or who truly loves him in return.”
Rico laughed again, yet it had a hard, hollow ring to it. “I wish I were jealous. Oh, yes. That would be much better.”
“Better than what?” Charles asked, not quite following Rico’s train of thought.
Rico looked remorseful for opening his mouth. “Nothing. I’m rambling. I’ve had too much to drink. I think I’ll stick to coffee for the rest of the night.”
“An excellent idea, Enrico,” Ali said. “Alcohol is the root of all evil.”
“I thought that was money,” Rico retorted.
“No. It’s sex,” Renée surprised them all by saying. “Sex is the root of all evil. We would all be much better off without it.”
“But then there wouldn’t be any children,” Charles pointed out.
“Exactly,” she returned.
“Trust you not to like children,” came Rico’s cutting comment.
Renée stiffened. “I didn’t say that. But the world is overpopulated as it is. And so many children are suffering. I would rather there be no more children than to see such suffering.”
“Sorry, but I can’t oblige you there, Renée,” Charles piped up. “Dominique and I are planning to have children. And soon.”
Rico’s eyes jerked his way. “I thought you’d put that off for a while,” he said with a frown. “Hell, Charles, you’ve only been married a month!”
“I’m forty-one next birthday, Rico. I haven’t got time to waste. Besides, Dominique’s keen to have a baby.”
“Is she, now?” he said, and Charles heard the cynical note which always flavoured Rico’s voice when he spoke about Dominique.
Rico didn’t like Dominique. Charles could no longer ignore that fact. Why Rico didn’t like her was just as obvious. He thought Dominique was a gold-digger, like his own ex.
Charles could have been insulted by his friend’s opinion—didn’t he think any woman could love him for himself?—but he understood Rico
