by Various
Of course, he never enquired about Sam’s father—it was none of his business, and he didn’t want to get involved in the bitter stuff which came after a couple split up.
Besides, he never really thought of Natasha in those terms. She was Sam ’s mother and his housekeeper, and it seemed to suit them all….
‘Dio!’ he swore. What the hell was he doing, thinking about the past, when he had the biggest problem of his life on his hands right now—in the present? ‘What on earth am I going to do about Elisabetta, Natasha ?’ he demanded.
‘You’re doing everything you can,’ she soothed. ‘Presumably, she’s in the best clinic that money can buy. You can support her by visiting her—’
‘She isn’t allowed visitors for the first four weeks,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s one of the rules.’
Natasha nodded. How would he find that? she wondered. He, who had made up his own rules in life as he went along. ‘Well, the other stuff, then. You know. Like keeping her safe.’ Her eyes shone. ‘You’re good at that.’
But he barely heard a word she was saying, because the sudden shrill ring of the doorbell pealed out with its own particular sense of urgency.
He strode off to answer it, checking first in the peephole that it wasn’t the dreaded press-pack. But it was Troy standing on the doorstep, and when Raffaele opened the door and the other man stepped inside the lawyer’s grim face confirmed his worst fears.
‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’
There was a pause. ‘The press have got hold of the story,’ Troy said. ‘They’ve found out where Elisabetta is.’
Chapter 3
‘Are you certain—absolutely certain?’ demanded Raffaele, feeling an overwhelming sense of rage run through him at the thought of his vulnerable little sister being at the mercy of the unscrupulous press hounds. Had Elisabetta really had her cover blown? His black eyes bore into his lawyer. ‘They’ve found out where she is?’
Troy nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just had a telephone call from one of our people. They’re outside the clinic now,’ he said.
Raffaele swore very softly and very quietly in the Sicilian dialect he had picked up one long, hot summer on the island, when he’d still been railing against the intrusion of his new stepfather. Few people could understand the language, but it had remained with him in times of anger ever since. But he recognised now that his fury was a nothing but redundant luxury and would not help solve the problem. Every problem had a solution—he knew that. Hadn’t he demonstrated it over the years, time and time again?
He thought quickly. ‘Come through to my study,’ he said, and then glanced at Natasha , who was standing there, looking as if she wanted to say something. He waved his hand at her impatiently. ‘Can you bring some coffee for Troy , Natasha ? Have you eaten? I’m sure Natasha can make you something if you want.’
Troy shook his head. ‘No. Coffee will be fine. And maybe one of those biscuit things, if you have them?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Natasha, nodding with a brisk smile and turning away, telling herself that of course Raffaele was going to dismiss her like that—because what was happening with Elisabetta was nothing whatsoever to do with her.
She was an employee, for heaven’s sake, not Raffaele’s confidante—no matter how much she longed to be. And that was one of the drawbacks to the strange position she had in his life—
she was part of it and, yet, nothing to do with it. Always hovering on the outskirts of it, like a tiny satellite star which relied on the mighty light of a huge planet, so that sometimes she felt she was consumed by him. But at times like this he would send her away to provide refreshments, just like the servant she really was.
After she’d gone, the two men walked through the long, arched hallway which led to his study, where they sat on either side of the desk.
‘Can we kill the story?’ Raffaele asked.
‘Only temporarily. The London News is threatening to run a piece in its gossip column tonight.’
‘Then slam out an injunction!’
‘I already have done,’ said Troy . ‘But the trouble is that they aren’t actually breaking any privacy code. It’s just a general piece, with a few old photos, about concerns for “party-loving heiress, Elisabetta de Feretti ”.’
‘But this is intolerable!’ gritted Raffaele from between clenched teeth. ‘Doesn’t anyone give a damn about her well-being?’
‘Not if it sells more newspapers.’
Raffaele shook his dark head, his frustration accentuated by real concern. Had he failed his sister? Been too enmeshed in the world of business to notice that her life was disintegrating around her? ‘How the hell did they find out about it? Didn’t the clinic give me a thousand assurances that Elisabetta’s anonymity would be protected? Do we know the source of the story?’
‘We do now. It’s a member of staff, I’m afraid,’ said Troy slowly, sitting back in his chair as if putting distance between himself and the outburst about to follow.
For a moment Raffaele’s long olive fingers curved, so that they resembled the deadly talons of some bird of prey. ‘ Madonna mia!’ he said, with soft venom resonating like liquid poison from his voice. ‘Do you know what we shall do, Troy ? We shall hunt down and find the cheating Judas who betrayed my sister. And, much as I should like to inflict a Sicilian form of punishment that they will never forget, we will discipline them formally.’ He punched his fist over his heart. ‘And make sure that he or she never works in a position of trust or authority again!’
There was a pause. ‘You can do that,’ said Troy , with the smooth diplomacy of his profession. ‘But it will be a waste of your time and ultimately of your resources—and at a time when you can least afford to squander them.’
‘You are saying that this kind of behaviour should go unpunished?’ Raffaele demanded icily.
‘Is that the course of action you are recommending to me?’
Troy held his hands up in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger pose. ‘Of course I can see that to carry out such a threat would give you satisfaction—but it would be a short-lived achievement and it would detract from your real aim of making sure that Elisabetta gets the treatment she needs without anything making it more difficult for her. And, unfortunately, all the railing and lawsuits in the world won’t change human nature or the lure of big money—haven’t you said that yourself, Raffaele, more times than you can count?’
Raffaele was silent for a moment while he digested the other man’s words. He had known and admired Troy since both men had met at the Sorbonne in the concluding year of their international law degrees—and he had discovered Troy was that rare thing, an Englishman who spoke several languages. They had been educated as equals, had good-naturedly fought over women, and Troy had never been cowed by the black-eyed Italian who was held in so much awe wherever he went because of his presence and his unforgettable good-looks.
The fact that the Englishman had also been considered to be a bit of a sex god by the women of Paris had meant that there was no rivalry between the two men.
As well as Troy ’s fluency in both Italian and French, he possessed the valuable impartiality which was so much a characteristic of his nationality, and all these factors had made him the perfect choice to be personal advocate for the powerful Raffaele de Feretti . There were not many men to whom Raffaele listened, but this was one of them—and he was listening now.
‘Si, Troy , mio amico—you are right, of course,’ Raffaele said heavily, still feeling that he had somehow failed his sister—even though logic told him otherwise. ‘So, what do we do?’
Troy placed the tips of his fingers together in an almost prayerlike gesture of careful thought.
‘We run a spoiler. We take attention away from Elisabetta by giving them a bigger story.’
Raffaele gave a sceptical laugh. ‘And how do you propose doing that?’
Troy leaned forward. ‘Elisabetta is newsworthy because, yes, she’s young, and beautiful,
very rich and occasionally flawed—but ultimately she’s famous for being your sister.’
‘I think that you overestimate my interest value,’ demurred Raffaele—because he had sought no publicity for himself.
Troy gave a short laugh. ‘It’s true that in terms of your power and your money everything that can possibly have been written on the subject already has been. But don’t forget, Raffaele, that there is one area of a your life which has held a particular fascination for the press ever since you passed puberty.’
Raffaele stared at him, his black eyes narrowing. ‘Be a little more specific, Troy,’ he instructed softly.
‘They’ve been trying to marry you off for years!’
‘So?’
‘So the only story which could draw interest away from Elisabetta would be if you finally did it.’
‘Did what, precisely?’
‘Got yourself a wife,’ said Troy , just as there was a rap on the door and it began to open.
‘Maybe it’s time you married, Raffaele!’
Natasha entered the room just in time to hear Troy ’s enthusiastic statement and, for a moment, she honestly thought that she might drop her tray. She felt the blood drain from her face and her knees grow weak and some terrible roaring sound deafened her ears—like the sound of an express train racing through her head.
‘ Natasha ?’ Raffaele was frowning at her. ‘Are you sick?’
‘I…’
‘Put the damned tray down,’ he instructed tersely, but he had risen from his chair and was taking it from her himself. He put it down on the desk and caught her by the arm. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’
But with a few deep breaths Natasha had quickly recovered her equilibrium and she shook him off, telling herself that it was very important she didn’t make a fool of herself.
Raffaele had been nothing but decent and fair to her over the years, and he had done more for Sam than could reasonably be expected of a boss. So she was not going to blow the whole thing by showing her distress at what was, after all, a long overdue piece of news. Or had she really expected a man like Raffaele to remain single for the rest of his life, just so that she could maintain her little fantasies about him?
‘You’re getting married?’ she exclaimed brightly, and then forced the next word out, even though it felt like a fishbone stuck in her throat. ‘Congratulations!’
Raffaele was staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘So this is how gossip begins!’ he objected moodily. ‘Something half overheard and then, before you know it, you are dealing with “fact”—only, it isn’t fact at all. Just some crazy conjecture!’
‘You mean, you’re not getting married?’ questioned Natasha cautiously, unable to prevent the wild leap of her heart, and thankful that he wouldn’t be able to detect it.
‘Of course I’m not getting married!’ he retorted.
‘I’m trying to persuade him to get married,’ said Troy .
‘Oh.’ Natasha forced a smile as she looked at Troy , hating—just hating—Raffaele’s smart-aleck lawyer at that moment. She cleared her throat as she began to pour their coffee. ‘Isn’t marriage an honourable institution that isn’t supposed to be entered into lightly?’ she asked, as casually as if she was enquiring whether they wanted milk or sugar. ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’
‘I’m not talking about a real marriage,’ said Troy . ‘I’m talking about a pretend one.’
‘A pretend one?’ said Raffaele and Natasha at exactly the same moment, and Natasha began to fiddle around unnecessarily with the sugar bowl.
Troy nodded. ‘You don’t have to actually go through with it—just make the gestures. You know—you buy a whopping engagement ring and then you pose with your fiancée for the papers and she gives them a few interviews telling them where the wedding will be, where she’s going to buy her dress. They love all that kind of stuff.’
‘You seem remarkably well informed on the subject,’ remarked Raffaele, with a sardonic elevation of his black brows.
‘I try,’ said Troy modestly.
‘And even if I were to entertain such a bizarre remedy, aren’t you forgetting one thing?’
‘Like what?’
Raffaele’s black eyes were like hard, cold jet. ‘That there isn’t a candidate.’
Did he hear Natasha ’s pent-up sigh of relief? Was that why he turned his head and fixed her with an impenetrable stare. ‘Didn’t you say you had a cake to make?’
Natasha blinked. Of all the times to prove that he had actually been listening to something she had to say he had to choose this one! ‘Er…yes.’
‘Well, then, run along, cara ,’ he said softly.
‘Right.’ Reluctantly, Natasha headed for the door, while they just carried on with their conversation as if she was invisible. Which I might as well be, she thought furiously.
‘You just need someone who is prepared to go along with it,’ Troy was saying.
‘Like who? Oh, I can see your reasoning. It’s a good idea, Troy —but there’s just one problem, and it’s the nightmare scenario.’ Raffaele’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Most women I know would be only to happy to go through with it—the difficulty would be getting them off my back afterwards.’
Troy laughed. ‘Which is why we choose someone who wouldn’t dare try to hang around.’
‘Again, I say—who?’
Fascinating as she found the subject, Natasha knew that she really couldn’t justify hanging around any longer, and she was almost out of the door when her eagle eye spotted a rogue little yellow plastic brick lying underneath one of the two wing chairs by the bookcase.
Now, how the hell had that gotten in here—especially when Sam wasn’t even supposed to go into Raffaele’s study? She was so fastidious about keeping all signs of young children carefully hidden away. Raffaele might be tolerant, and kinder to her son than his position warranted, but he certainly didn’t want to be tripping up over model soldiers every time he came home.
She made a little exclamation of annoyance as she leaned over to retrieve the brick, and as the sound diverted his attention Raffaele found his eyes drawn to her bent figure.
Nobody could accuse Natasha of vanity—indeed, the garments she wore for work wouldn’t have been out of place in a boot-camp and they’d never have been Raffaele’s choice for a woman—never in a million years. He’d often used to think that here was a woman who would never distract him as she went about her work.
Maybe it was something to do with the fact that his nerves were on edge, or that it had been a long time since he’d had someone in his bed. Or maybe it was just something as simple as the fact that the moment had caught her with the material of her dress stretched tight across her derrière. Raffaele swallowed. And a very attractive derrière it was, too.
He narrowed his eyes and became aware of Troy ’s gaze following exactly the same path as his.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Troy softly. ‘Yes. That is perfect.’
Why was it that Raffaele found himself looking at his lawyer with cold distaste, wanting to tell him not to dare look at Natasha in that way—that she deserved his respect, not his predatory gaze? He shook himself. Predatory? Over Natasha ?
She was straightening up now, with a piece of yellow plastic held between her fingers, and the fabric fell loose away from where it had been moulded to the tight, high curve of her buttocks. And all Raffaele could think was why the hell had he never noticed that before?
‘You wouldn’t have wanted to have stepped on that with bare feet!’ she said triumphantly, and put it in her pocket as she marched out without a backwards glance.
Raffaele watched as she shut the door behind her, and suddenly there was Troy , sitting with some dumb, expectant grin on his face, looking at him as if he had found the key to the universe.
‘Well? What do you think, Raffaele? Isn’t this the answer to our predicament? Wouldn’t Natasha do?’
Chapter 4
‘No!’ Raffaele sna
pped back, in an icy voice. ‘ Natasha would not do! She’s my housekeeper, for Dio’s sake!’
Outside the study door, the sound of her name halted Natasha right in her tracks and presented her with an age-old moral dilemma. Should she stay or should she go? Should she listen or not? But, surely, if they were talking about her didn’t she have every right to listen?
Heart thumping, and with misgivings which were making her forehead ice into a cold sweat, she put her head close to the door. Their voices were muffled, but she could make out certain words like unsuitable, inappropriate. And then something else, which ended with Raffaele saying, quite loudly and quite forcefully, ‘No one would ever believe it!’
And Troy ’s response. ‘Why not ask her?’
She heard the sound of a chair being scraped back, and instinct made her move quickly away from her giveaway position. She hurried down to the kitchen, realising that time was tight if she wanted to have the cake made before she went out to collect Sam .
The radio was blaring as she changed her mind about lemon drizzle and instead made cupcakes, which she iced in lurid shades of green and blue, especially designed to appeal to small boys—and to hell with the additives!
Despite the apron she’d put on, she’d still managed to get splodges of cake mixture over her dress—and she was going to have to leave in a minute. She ran upstairs and changed into something warmer—because the autumn afternoons were beginning to bite.
She put on a pale blue sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes, and a pair of old jeans Then she brushed her hair and wove it into its habitual French plait. Her fingers hesitated over the little tub of lipgloss which had been on special offer at the chemist back in the summer, and which some impulse had made her buy. She’d only used it a couple of times, and it didn’t really seem to be her, so she’d put the top back on and had never used it again.
