LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT DIDN’T matter how far or how frequent the journey, returning home had a significant effect on her emotions, Francesca mused as the jet banked over the harbour and prepared its descent.

      Sydney’s cityscape provided a panoramic vista of sparkling blue ocean, numerous coves and inlets, tall city buildings, the distinctive bridge, the Opera House.

      Brilliant sunshine held the promise of warm summer temperatures, a direct contrast to those she’d left behind in Rome the day before.

      The Boeing lined up the runway and within seconds wheels thudded against the Tarmac, accompanied by the scream of engines thrown into reverse, followed by the slow cruise into an allotted bay.

      Collecting baggage and clearing Customs was achieved in minimum time, and Francesca was aware of a few circumspect glances as she made her way through the arrivals lounge.

      The deep aqua-coloured trouser suit adorning her tall, slender frame was elegantly cut, her make-up minimal, and she’d caught her dark auburn hair into a loose knot atop her head. The result was an attractive image, but downplayed her status as an international model.

      There were no photographers or television cameras in sight as she emerged onto the pavement, nor was there the customary chauffeured limousine waiting at the kerb.

      Francesca reached for her sunglasses and slid the dark-lensed frames into place.

      She wanted, needed, a few days’ grace with family and friends before stepping onto the carousel of scheduled modelling assignments, contracted photographic shoots and public appearances.

      Cabs formed a swiftly moving queue at the kerb and she quickly hired one, providing the driver with a Double Bay address as he slid out into traffic exiting the international terminal.

      Cars, buses, trucks—all bent on individual destinations. Warehouses, tree-lined parks, graffiti decorating—or desecrating, depending on one’s opinion—numerous concrete walls. It could be any city in the world, Francesca mused.

      Yet it was her city, the place where she’d been born and raised of an Italian immigrant father and an Australian mother who had never quite come to terms with the constraints of marriage.

      Francesca retained a vivid recollection of voices raised in bitter recrimination, followed soon after by boarding school, with vacation time spent equally between each parent.

      Happy families; she mused with a rueful grimace as she reflected on the years that had followed. Three stepfathers: two who’d bestowed genuine affection and one whose predilection for pubescent girls had become apparent during a school vacation soon after the honeymoon. Acquired step-siblings who had passed briefly in and out of her life. And then, there was Madeline, her father’s beautiful blonde wife.

      The modelling career which had begun on a whim had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. Paris, Rome, New York. She had an apartment in each city and was sought after by every major fashion house in Europe.

      “Twenty-five dollars.’

      The cab-driver’s voice intruded, and Francesca delved into her shoulder bag, extracted two notes, and handed them to the driver. ‘Keep the change.’

      The tip earned her a toothy grin, a business card and the invitation to call him any time she needed a cab.

      Francesca slid a coded card into a slot adjacent to double glass doors, and stepped into the lobby as they slid open.

      The girl on Reception offered a bright smile. ‘Nice to have you back.’ She reached beneath the desk for a set of keys and a slim packet of mail. ‘The hire car is parked in your usual space. Paperwork’s in the glovebox.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      Francesca rode the lift to the top floor, deactivated her security system, then entered her apartment.

      Beeswax mingled with the scent of fresh flowers. Delicate peach-coloured roses stood in a vase on the sofa table, with a card from her mother. ‘Welcome home, darling.’

      A bold display with strelitzia and Australian natives reposed in the middle of the dining room table, with a card from her father, who had inscribed an identical greeting.

      The answering machine recorded no less than five messages, and she played them through. A call from her agent; the rest were social. Seven faxes, none of which were urgent, she determined as she flicked through the pages. All, she decided, could wait until she’d had time to shower and unpack. Then she’d go through her mail.

      It was good to be home. Satisfying to see familiar things and to know that she would enjoy them for several weeks.

      Oriental

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