by Various
‘Let…me…go!’ she breathed.
‘But you should not kiss a man like that if you are not prepared to take the consequences!’
‘You…you bastard!’
But now the spark of fire in her eyes was doing the impossible, turning him on even more, and he wondered why the hell that should be—until he realised that her usual role in his life was docility. Suddenly, she had stepped out from behind that role and he found himself wondering what else he might find beneath.
‘Shh, cara ,’ he said softly. ‘We don’t want that nice journalist to think we are rowing, do we?
Not when we are about to tell the world we’re engaged.’
‘Will you let me go?’
‘In a minute.’ But still he held her, unable to relinquish the softness of her body as he willed the exquisite pain of desire to subside. He felt her relax against him, heard her soft sigh of submission and saw her eyes briefly close in surrender. ‘Si,’ he whispered. ‘This is the way of it. You see how helpless we all can be, Natasha —held in thrall to our most primitive longings? You and I, we choose to play a game—to concoct an elaborate masquerade—but underneath it all we are just a man and a woman, programmed by nature to join together in the most fundamental way possible.’
But, oh, how that hurt. That almost anatomical dissection of their kiss, which was poles apart from her crazy longings. If anything could have painted a picture of just how heartless Raffaele de Feretti really was, then his words had done it with perfect clarity.
‘Will you let me go?’ she whispered.
‘I will.’ He snaked his tongue out over his dry lips and his eyes sparked with provocation, but the ache in his body was real enough—as was his fleeting sense of regret that this was a game. That he couldn’t just haul her upstairs and let this mad desire burn itself out in a few hours of delicious sex. ‘Unless you want one last kiss before I do?’ he murmured.
The awful thing was that she did—even though he had done it just to give the reporter an eyeful! But it was—as he had gone to great pains to remind her—nothing but a physical hunger. It wasn’t something rooted in the emotions—well, certainly not in his—and she mustn’t forget that. I don’t want to end up being badly hurt, she thought fiercely, and this time she did pull away.
‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see Sam —and then to hang all these beautiful clothes up before they get too creased.’
Anger carried her along to flounce past him, enjoying his faintly bemused expression as she left him to carry in all her bags. Let him wait on her for a change, she thought!
But inside, her negative feelings dissolved into love as she found Sam fast asleep in the garden room, as Raffaele had said. In front of him ran a film showing The World’s Greatest Ever Goals—her little boy was football- mad, and didn’t Raffaele occasionally take him to see a match on one of those rare Saturdays when he was free?
She stood and watched his snuggled little form, feeling a huge lump constricting her throat, knowing that one day soon she was going to have to take her child away from a man he had grown to love—almost like a father. But Raffaele wasn’t his father, and what choice did she have but to leave? To grow old before her time in this house, not living at all except in his formidable shadow—what example would that be to set for her young son?
She touched her fingers to his soft cheek. ‘Wake up,’ she said softly. Wake up, darling.’
Sleepily, Sam blinked up to her. ‘You look different, Mama.’
‘Mama’s had her hair cut, that’s why.’ And Mama’s wearing fine clothes and underwear. All paid for with Raffaele’s money. She felt the stain of guilt flare into her cheeks. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘No,’ he said absently, and then murmured something in Italian, as he often did if he’d spent a protracted period of time with Raffaele. Usually, she delighted in how he could practise his language skills, but today all it served to do was to emphasise the advantages that this life gave him—advantages which would swiftly disappear, like a bubble popping, once she left the Italian’s employment.
Raffaele walked in the room and saw her lean over to tenderly brush a lock of hair away from the boy’s head—but it was as if he was looking at someone he’d never met before. Yes, she was an exemplary mother and a reliable worker—yet, today, it was as if someone had waved a magic wand and made her into someone else. Where was the Natasha he knew?
He had brusquely told her that his taste in women was exacting—but he had not in his wildest dreams believed that she could have so magnificently become the very embodiment of his ideal woman. Was this going to complicate matters? Mercilessly, he quelled the raw rush of desire, knowing that he couldn’t afford to let it.
But then his phone rang, and Raffaele went out of the room to answer it. It was Troy , and he sounded both bemused and pleased.
‘I’ve just had the Daily View on the line, saying that you’ve been spotted kissing a glamorous blonde outside the house and they want a comment,’ he said. ‘What’s going on, Raffaele?
This is pretty confusing. I thought that it was Natasha who was going to be the decoy—
though you know I always had my reservations about her ability to carry it off. So who is it?
Who’s the mystery woman?
‘There is no mystery,’ said Raffaele, with a beat of satisfaction whose source he did not recognise. ‘The woman was Natasha .’
There was a stunned silence. ‘ Natasha ?’
‘Yes, Natasha ,’ Raffaele answered coolly. ‘As for a comment—there is none. But you might like to mention that I shall be taking the glamorous blonde in question to a charity dinner on Monday night.’ His voice dipped. ‘And she will be wearing my engagement ring.’
Chapter 6
‘ Natasha !’
She could hear the note of impatience in his voice.
‘ Natasha !’ he called again.
‘I’ll be two seconds, Raffaele!’ she called down, and turned back to her son.
Sam was sitting before an open drawing book at the little desk in his room, silvering the stars which were sprinkled through a unicorn’s mane. ‘Good night, darling,’ she said—feeling as if she were proposing to leave him for a month, instead of just one evening.
‘’Night, Mama,’ he murmured, and smiled. ‘You look nice.’
She didn’t feel nice. She felt like a fraud—or whatever the feminine equivalent of a wolf all done up in sheep’s clothing was. Natasha shivered. And she was cold—unused to having such large areas of flesh on show, even though she knew that other women would wear dresses such as these to the charity ball she and Raffaele were due to attend that night.
‘You’re sure you don’t mind being left with the babysitter?’ she asked anxiously, as she had asked him several times since supper. It occurred to Natasha that if Sam had been a more manipulative child then he might have said that, yes, he did mind, that he wasn’t used to his mother leaving him with other people—and demand that she stay behind. And wasn’t there a part of her that would have been hugely relieved to have done just that? Surely, just being Raffaele’s fiancée would be enough to fool people—without them having to turn up and appear at parties like a pair of performing seals?
Sam shook his head. ‘No, I like Anna . She’s fun. She sings songs into a hairbrush!’
Natasha forced a smile. ‘Does she?’ The drama student daughter of some people down the road was certainly lively—and she adored Sam —but it was the first time Natasha had ever used her. Would she be able to detect a fire if one started in the basement? Or would she use this opportunity to import a load of unsuitable friends, leaving Sam forgotten while she partied?
Telling herself that her own nervousness was being transmitted into worrying about her son, Natasha set off downstairs, where Anna was waiting in the hall, talking to Raffaele. They both looked up as Natasha carefully began to descend the wide and sweeping staircase—still finding the scarlet patent shoes a little high and her dress a lit
tle long—the red silk gown making soft whispering sounds as it slithered down to the ground around her.
It seemed to take for ever to get to the bottom, especially with Raffaele’s eyes fixed on her like that—an ebony spotlight which spilled over her with dark light. ‘Here I am,’ she said brightly.
There was a heartbeat of a pause. ‘So I see.’ Raffaele’s gaze was steady as he watched her unaccustomed movements. He was used to seeing Natasha in jeans and trainers, striding around the place at a fast pace, but this Natasha moved differently—probably because of those killer heels she was wearing. If he stopped to listen carefully enough, would he hear the silken sound of her thighs brushing together? And was she wearing stockings underneath that bright waterfall of a dress? He felt a pulse spring to life deep in his groin.
‘Wow—you look amazing, Natasha !’ said Anna . ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Natasha wryly, relieved to have reached the bottom of the stairs without tumbling over.
‘Come here, over to the light, and let me look at you properly,’ murmured Raffaele.
He stepped back to survey her, one hand cupping his elbow, a forefinger pressed to his lips—
in exactly the way people did when they were studying a painting in an art gallery. As if I’m on show, thought Natasha indignantly, as if I’m a possession—until she reminded herself that there was no point in being indignant. She had known exactly what she was getting into. This was exactly what it was supposed to be. A game.
So play it. She tipped her head slightly, feeling the heavy mass of her hair, which was piled high in an elaborate confection courtesy of a hairdresser who had arrived earlier this evening for just that purpose. The circle of platinum around her finger felt heavy, too—as if her slender hands were too fragile to cope with the weight of such a colossal gem, and the imbalance was threatening to make her topple and fall.
Deciding that to go and shop for a ring like normal mortals would be too crass in light of the exceptional circumstances, Raffaele had sent out for the jewels in the way that other people might send out for a takeaway! A tray of engagement rings had been brought to the house in a window-darkened car which had housed two hefty bodyguards as well as the jeweller and gem expert. Before he had ordered a selection Raffaele had demanded to know which stones she would like to look at.
‘I don’t really know,’ she’d blustered.
Raffaele had frowned. ‘You must have some idea?’
‘Why should I? It’s not something I’ve ever given a lot of thought to.’
‘No?’ His voice had been frankly disbelieving. ‘I thought that all women dreamed of engagement rings?’
For once, Natasha ’s gaze was genuinely cold. Of all the arrogant assertions he could have made—that was possibly the most offensive! ‘Maybe in your circles they do!’ she retorted.
‘Oh, they do.’ He gave a cynical laugh. ‘Most certainly they do.’
Oddly enough, that made Natasha think. Of course he was eligible—she didn’t have to see the articles in all the glossies to know that—but she had always thought that he would be liked…loved…for sheer charisma alone. But Raffaele had power and prestige, as well as a hard body and the face of a fallen angel—wouldn’t that make any woman want him? Enough to plot to get him? she wondered. She felt her heart softening, wanting to defend him against such scheming women—until she reminded herself that Raffaele was well able to look after himself.
‘No, you choose,’ she said evasively, because there was part of her that wanted nothing to do with the ring. It was a prop, she reminded herself—nothing more. If she started telling him that she liked one gem more than another, if she started investing it with her likes and dislikes, then it would assume an importance which would be unnecessary. More as a defence mechanism than anything— Natasha didn’t want to become in any way attached to a meaningless bauble—she bit back the information that she had always rather liked aquamarines and insisted that he decide.
Yet wasn’t it a very feminine reaction to be disappointed when he opted for a diamond? For its cold, precious fire seemed so totally lacking in feeling. It was a huge, pear-shaped stone of a seriously significant carat-size—according to the jeweller.
‘It’s a good investment, Signor de Feretti .’
Raffaele had turned to her. ‘Do you like it, cara ?’
Did he see her wince at the jeweller’s crass observation? And was she supposed to go through the pantomime of dazed fiancée as he slipped it on to her finger? Apparently, she was.
‘It’s magnificent,’ she said truthfully.
And now, tonight’s charity ball was the ring’s first outing—and their first outing as a couple.
Raffaele slipped the velvet evening wrap around her shivering shoulders, his fingertips brushing against her pale smooth flesh, and he noticed how dark his skin looked against hers.
Unbidden and unwanted, came another image—the one which couldn’t seem to stop burning itself with searing clarity into the fevered recesses of his mind. Of his hard dark body pinning down her submissive milky whiteness. Of running his hands and his tongue over every curve she possessed.
Beneath the exquisitely cut evening trousers Raffaele felt the ache of sexual hunger—
surprising in its intensity. Was that because he knew he couldn’t have her? Because she was not his equal and to take her to his bed would be to take advantage of her—was that her sudden inexplicable lure for him? Surely, to a man who had everything, the forbidden would have a powerful lure all of its own.
‘The car is here,’ he said huskily.
Outside the night was clear, the indigo sky star-sprinkled, and Raffaele could see the faint cloud of his warm breath against the cold air as he watched her get into the back of the limousine.
‘So, do you like going to these kind of dos?’ asked Natasha , as he slid onto the backseat beside her.
‘They serve a purpose.’
‘You mean, they raise money for charity?’
In the darkness he gave a brief half-smile. How genuinely innocent she was in the ways of the world he inhabited. ‘Something like that.’
‘What else?’ she persisted—because they had to talk about something if they were going to get through this evening.
He turned to her. The shadows and the flickered illumination from the passing streetlamps were playing interesting combinations of light and shade on her face. Her lips glistened with unaccustomed lipstick and her eyes looked huge, almost startled. This new Natasha was taking some getting used to.
‘You don’t want to know,’ he murmured. ‘Keep your sweet, idealistic view, Natasha —
believe me, it’s a rare quality.’
Idealism was all very well—but not if it meant you were always on the outside, looking in. ‘I want to learn,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I might as well get something out of the experience.’
Surprisingly, her comment wounded him—though whether it was just his pride which was hurt, he wasn’t quite sure. Raffaele gave a short laugh. Maybe it served him right. What did he expect? Fluttering gratitude at all times of the day? ‘Okay, then, I’ll teach you all about the big, bad world. Yes, of course these events raise money for worthy causes—but, for a lot of people, it’s important to be seen to be giving.’
‘But not to you?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Was that a question or a statement? Should I be flattered or offended?’
Natasha might have been worried about the evening ahead and feeling out of her depth, but she always tried to be scrupulously fair and she shook her head. ‘I don’t think you need your ego bolstered by other people’s opinions of you.’
‘Why, thank you, Natasha ,’ he murmured.
The look which washed over her filled her with ridiculous pleasure and, quickly, she turned to look out of the window, afraid that he might see. It was important that he didn’t. He must not see how vulnerable she was to his praise. She had already let herself down by respondi
ng to his kiss like that—much more and he might begin to guess at her feelings for him. And then what?
Wouldn’t he be appalled? Embarrassed? Even outraged that she had dared to presume to nurture longings for a man like him?
‘Here we are,’ he murmured, his voice butting into her thoughts. ‘Now, take a deep breath before you prepare to enter into the fray, cara .’
Natasha peered out of the window at the dazzling sight which awaited them. The venue was one of London ’s most glitzy hotels, its exterior bright with lights so that it looked as if there was a whole galaxy of stars burning at the front of its upmarket site opposite Hyde Park .
A roped-off red carpet made a startling red river and, on either side, were banks of photographers with huge and rather intimidating lenses which looked like alien eyes. Natasha sucked in a breath. Could she really go through with this?
Raffaele saw the way she had stiffened, and he tilted his dark head. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this, Natasha ?’
She was tempted to say that she wasn’t. That she was hopelessly miscast for this role and no one would ever believe that a man like Raffaele de Feretti would have proposed marriage to someone like her.
But if she backed out now, then wouldn’t she always be left feeling some kind of wimpish failure, as well as letting Raffaele down horribly at the very last moment? Shouldn’t she just seize on this as a glamorous adventure—a taste of real luxury which she could store in her memory bank?
Turning a little, she shook her head and smiled. ‘I’m as ready as a woman could possibly be!’
she said.
He thought that if it had been any other woman looking like that in the backseat of the car then by now he would have kissed her and touched her—why, they might even have…
‘Raffaele!’
‘Mmm?’ His erotic daydream shattered.
‘The chauffeur is holding the door open,’ she scolded.
Adjusting his jacket and trying to quell the dull ache of frustration, Raffaele got out of the car first and then held his hand out for hers. Her left hand. The one with the ring on it.
