by Diana Fraser
She turned slowly to face him. “I trust where it’s earned. I just haven’t found anyone who’s earned it yet.”
“For your sake, I hope that one day you do.” He looked down suddenly and flicked through some papers before pushing them across the desk to her. “Here, you’ve some reading to do.”
“You and I need to talk some more first. There are things you aren’t telling me and I doubt that I’ll get from any document. What’s behind all this security work?”
“You need no further information. Prior knowledge may influence your work. Just do a thorough job.”
“Don’t I always?”
“You are thorough in everything, cara. Even, in covering your tracks.”
“But you still found me.”
“Because I have power and you do not.”
“Not over me you don’t.”
“Wrong. For the moment I do. Complete you work and then you can go.”
“It will only take me a few months.”
“Then you will be able to leave earlier than the six months. I’ll amend the contract. Just do the work, Rose. Comb the records for inconsistencies, set the traps and find any culprits. With proof. That is all. I will see you later at dinner.”
“Dismissed, am I? Is that how you dismiss your wife?”
“No. That is how I dismiss an employee.”
“I am not your employee in the strictest sense of the word.”
“In whatever sense you care to name you appear to be irritated that, as far as I am concerned, our relationship is strictly business.”
“And you, signore, are too conceited to believe that I am perfectly happy with a business arrangement.”
She scooped up the papers and walked out the door, trying hard not to notice the fact that he was smiling.
He sat there for some time watching the door through which she’d just exited, amused by her ability to deceive herself.
He rarely lied. But, in this instance, it was required if he was to get Rose back where she belonged—with him, permanently.
He needed a job doing. He needed to find evidence of Alberto’s pilfering. And he needed it done well and with discretion. But he needed something more.
He needed to show her that he’d changed. He wanted to show her that he would never again allow his jealous, possessive nature to run out of control. He wanted her to see that he could let her leave his office without his hands tracing the soft blush of anger on her cheek, without his lips persuading her lips to release the tight anger he could see there and to swell into soft submission.
It seemed Alberto had been correct.
That night, two years ago, when Rose had failed to turn up to meet him when he’d returned to Milan, he’d found only Alberto and a story that he’d had no choice but to believe.
Alberto had described how Rose had come to him complaining of the way Giovanni stifled her, of how she needed someone who could think like her, who could love like her—a cool, northern love that was subtle, refined. A love that she thought she could find in the blonde Alberto. According to Alberto, he’d repulsed her advances and she’d left.
Giovanni’s pain had overtaken his sense at the time.
Devastated, he’d not questioned Alberto, knowing in his heart that the accusations were true: he was demanding, he was emotional, he was possessive. And Rose hadn’t been able to take it any more. In the last few months before she’d left, she’d become evasive in their phone calls, not answering him directly. She’d avoided meeting up with him during their enforced separation. He’d been suspicious, wondering what it was she was covering up. It had all seemed to fit with Alberto’s story. She’d wanted Alberto; she’d been rejected and she’d left, unable to face Giovanni any longer.
He didn’t doubt that someone could want and love Alberto more than they loved him. It had always been that way with his parents. Rose had fallen for Alberto, just as he’d always feared.
But it wasn’t just Alberto’s testimony, some of his own staff had back up Alberto’s story.
Damning, convincing and devastating. Until that night only a few weeks ago when he’d met up, by chance, an old friend of Rose’s who asked after her child.
Whose child was it? His? Alberto’s?
That Alberto had been lying about spurning her advances, he was sure. No-one could refuse his Rose anything. Least of all his brother who had no morality whatsoever.
Could she have been pregnant with Alberto’s child and lost it? Is that why she’d left him? Too ashamed to return, rejected by Alberto when he’d learned of the child, and likely to be spurned by the jealous Giovanni?
After he’d spent the evening with Rose’s friend, trying to glean as much information as possible, Giovanni had walked home in the hot summer night, oblivious to everything except the fact that Rose could have been in pain, needing him and he hadn’t been there for her.
The thought hadn’t left him over the following week. Making love, drinking heavily, work—nothing could expunge it. All he could think of was Rose: vulnerable beneath that unemotional façade, hidden from herself as much as from the world, alone.
It had taken only days to find her and even less time to organize the finer details. All he needed now was for her to tell him the truth but for that he needed to earn her trust. He needed to show her that he could control his jealous, passionate nature for her sake. Words wouldn’t do it this time.
He rubbed his eyes. He was tired; he was impatient but there was too much at stake to rush her. To earn her trust she needed time and space. He could afford to give her a little of both.
CHAPTER FIVE
After Giovanni had briefed Rose’s team, there was an exchange of baffled looks at Rose’s sudden reappearance. The status of Giovanni’s and Rose’s relationship remained unexplained and Rose certainly wasn’t going to enlighten them—not when she didn’t have a clue herself.
She spent the afternoon with her team in meetings discussing the new security systems she’d devised and how they’d be implemented. They’d be working closely together but she’d do the one-off investigation, have overall control and only she would know the identity of anyone found implicated in illegal transactions. Giovanni had insisted.
The rest of the day past in a whirl of meetings, culminating with a presentation to Giovanni of their plans. Giovanni listened to Rose’s presentation with an uncharacteristic, inscrutable expression. He didn’t say a word as she described the details of the overall aim and functionality of the project down to the creative strategies. Luckily, her professionalism was faultless, despite Giovanni’s unnerving attitude, and he appeared satisfied. With a flick of his hand they were all dismissed, including her.
She pulled together her papers and smiled at her team, trying hard to keep the hurt at bay.
It wasn’t until early evening that she closed down the laptop and called it a day. She stretched, yawning. Jet lag was catching up with her.
The office was deserted and she headed for the elevator.
As she exited the building, a car pulled up alongside. Simon, Giovanni’s assistant jumped out.
“Signora?” He held the door open.
“No thanks, Simon. I need some air.” She smiled and continued to walk on.
But he merely slammed the car door shut and fell into step with her as the car crawled beside them.
“Signore Visconti would like a few words.”
She stopped walking abruptly. “Would he now?”
Simon smiled and nodded diplomatically. He never elaborated, always said the minimum. Rose knew from old that there would be no information forthcoming from Simon about his boss. He was both devoted and discrete.
She bent down and peered inside the shaded interior before turning back to Simon. “I take it Signore Giovanni is too busy to ask me himself.”
“Signore Visconti is working.”
Simon opened the door and Rose got into the car next to Giovanni who was talking on his phone.
He barely acknowledge
d her as they drove off, stopping and starting through the rush-hour traffic.
She looked out the window and listened to the stream of Italian and the deep timbre of his voice. Her stomach clenched with desire.
He flicked the phone shut suddenly—without any niceties, abrupt and final.
“You really should learn how to say goodbye nicely, Giovanni. It’s only polite.”
He angled his body to hers and hooked one arm across the back seat, grazing her hair with his hand.
“And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
She looked at him sharply. “That was different.”
“Ah yes, it’s always different, always a special case when it comes to yourself, isn’t it?”
“It certainly appears to be. I don’t know many people whose husbands rob them of their company and money and force them to return to them against their will, despite the fact they have no future together.
“Their men must be weak.”
“Their men are normal.”
He laughed, harsh and short.
“If you’d wanted normal you should have stayed in London amongst your own people.” He lifted his hands and pulled back a shaft of hair that fell over her shoulder. “But you didn’t, did you? You wanted more.”
“You’re wrong. I want what every woman wants.”
“And that is?”
She grimaced. She wasn’t going to admit what she wanted to him. What was the point?
“You don’t need to tell me,” he continued. “You want a man of passion when it suits you—in the bedroom—and a man without the inconvenience of passion outside the bedroom.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Ah, but the catch is that you cannot have both. Which do you want most, I wonder?”
He brought his finger to her lips before she could reply. “Don’t worry. It will be the latter. Our bedrooms are separate; there will be no inconvenient passion to disturb your days—or nights.”
She closed her eyes briefly against the frustration. He must know that she wanted his passion more than anything. His jealousies and controlling behavior seemed nothing to her now.
“I see the thought that I do not insist you lie with me relieves you.”
“As if you could insist.”
He leaned in to her. “You know I could, dolce cuore. And not by insisting. Rather by persuasion. But I choose not to.”
“So why are you chauffeuring me from the office to the Palazzo? Think your wife might be led astray by an amorous Italian?”
She could see the barb found its mark but he recovered quickly. “It is always wise to protect one’s investment,” he smiled lightly. “Otherwise it ceases to have value.”
She glared at him.
“And what exactly is it that you want from your investment at this moment?”
“I want your assurance that your work remains completely confidential. I don’t want names mentioned to your team; I don’t want specific findings revealed. They must only ever know a small piece of the whole. It will be only you who knows the full picture. I need your assurance on this.”
Surprised, she nodded. “That’s standard. Why the secrecy?”
“The ‘why’ is not your concern. Simply do your job, fulfill your contract and then you will be free once more. Just as you wish to be.”
“Fine.”
As they pulled up outside the Palazzo, Rose didn’t wait for Simon and turned to let herself out of the car.
“And, Rose, don’t wait up, I doubt I’ll be home for dinner.”
She jumped out without a backward glance.
Rose looked down the length of the rosewood table at the antique grandfather clock that mournfully chimed two long strokes—wrong, as usual—and sipped her glass of wine.
Apart from those last few months, she couldn’t remember a time when Giovanni had not spent the evening with her. More often than not, business had to be mixed with pleasure, but it had never taken precedence before.
Times had changed, obviously. She would be dining alone.
She shook out her napkin, helped herself to dinner and looked around the oppressive room.
Alone, surrounded by the ornate paintings of his ancestors, Rose felt suffocated by the weight of his family’s history. Her eyes ranged from the older paintings depicting grim-faced ancestors to the modern-day paintings of Giovanni’s own family.
The artist had caught Giovanni’s strength and pride but not his passion: that, even the finest artist had been unable to convey.
Her eyes shifted to his brother—his only sibling. There, the artist had been more successful. Alberto’s eyes gazed upon the watcher with a bored, sardonic humor. His full upper lip was curled slightly as if irritated by the whole exercise. It was the face of a spoilt young man, with more ambition than ability.
Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest and she studied her wine as she tried to calm herself. Alberto wasn’t here. Apparently wasn’t even due back until well after her contract expired. Without him, things could continue as they were before. She could plan her future, back in New Zealand, and make her escape before his return. She loved Giovanni and it was for his sake that she needed to leave before Alberto returned.
Because she wouldn’t be able to hide from Giovanni the fact that his brother had attacked her in an attempt to rape her, destroying their baby in the process. And she didn’t know whether he’d be able to control his rage at her hurt. What if his worst fears came to pass and he attacked his brother, just as his father had when he’d nearly killed a man? She daren’t risk him discovering her secret, risk his passionate rage that might know no bounds.
She took another mouthful of food and studiously avoided looking at Giovanni’s portrait.
How could she have let herself fall back into his life again? Her love for him had continued unabated, but his passion for her had been like a distress flare—powerful, lighting up her whole life, but, seemingly, quick to extinguish.
And here she was, loving him, wanting him, but leaving him quite untouched. There was nothing but coolness from him now.
What she’d give to see that heat once more.
She sipped from her glass of wine, pushed back the half-eaten plate of food, and wondered where he was and what he was doing.
It wasn’t like him. They’d always made sure that everything stopped for their time together. But not now. And how could she expect otherwise? She’d left him believing that she’d had enough of his over-the-top passions that reminded her of the histrionics of her unstable mother.
A man with his pride would never forgive her. He was probably out now with one of the many young, beautiful Italian women that flocked around him in the up-market restaurants and clubs that he frequented. Yes, she could just see it: blonde hair flicked artfully to one side and head inclined slightly as the woman listened to him, the accidental graze of her hand upon his thigh, shifting in her seat as she indicated her receptiveness to his sexuality.
She sat back in the chair, shook her head and groaned.
He’d been right. She was disappointed because he’d wanted her for the work, rather than for anything else. She suddenly realized the depth of her need for him. Perhaps she should track him down and flirt with him, make him see what he was missing. Make him see her as a woman, not a business colleague. Then it occurred to her. She wouldn’t need to track him down. She could use his jealousy for once and lure him to her. She’d go to the club that was his second home. Giovanni would be told in minutes that she was there.
It was hot in the streets of Milan. She walked cautiously down the front steps of the Palazzo in her stiletto heels. They were one of the things she’d been glad to leave behind in Italy. But now? They might just prove useful. Once she’d got the hang of them again.
Rose carefully negotiated the cobbled street that led to her destination. It was the only place Giovanni ever went. Portofino. A complex of intimate dining rooms, bars and lounges, it met every mood of its wealthy patrons.<
br />
“Signora Visconti! How lovely to see you again. I’d heard that you were back.”
Could Rose hear a certain panic in the maitre d’s voice or was she getting paranoid?
“A table for one please—in your main bar.”
“Si, Signora. Come this way. We are always pleased to accommodate you.”
True to his word, the maitre d’ found a table in the busy bar and Rose let him seat her before she looked around. No sign of Giovanni yet. But he’d be here. The maitre d’ would make sure of that. Wherever Giovanni was, he’d be informed of her presence here within the hour.
Two hours later she was the centre of attention. She didn’t kid herself that it was her sparkling conversation or any deep connection she was making with the half-a-dozen men vying for her smile. She wriggled uncomfortably in the slim-fitting dress that she’d bought in a fit of pique three years ago and had never worn. Like all the rest of her clothes she’d left behind, it had remained in the wardrobe, as if Giovanni had always expected her to return. She’d never worn this particular dress. It had been too revealing, Giovanni had claimed, and so she’d gone along with his wishes and it had remained unworn. But tonight it was having the exact effect she’d planned—except with the wrong men. Where was he? She tugged the dress down over her thighs, crossed her legs and sipped yet more wine for courage.
Her glass was immediately refilled. She wondered, briefly, how many glasses she’d had before the thought evaporated hazily at the sensation of her straight and silky hair tickling the heated skin of her bare shoulders and back.
“You have beautiful hair, bella.” One of the young men—younger than her, she estimated—emboldened perhaps by her unfocussed gaze, leant forward and ran his hands through it before tickling her breast with a lock that had begun to curl in the heat.
That focused her sharply. “Enough,” she batted away his hand and stood up, ignoring the urgings from her companions to remain. Either Giovanni hadn’t heard about her presence in the notorious bar, or he didn’t care. If he’d cared, he would have been there fighting the men off. Time to go.
