by Kim Lawrence
Her serene smile vanished and she crumbled as sobs that sounded like an injured animal were dragged from deep inside her.
She wept for half an hour before she finally released her hold on the damp pillow and headed for the bathroom. She looked at her tear-stained refection in the mirror and winced.
God, but I look a wreck, she thought, switching on the cold tap full. After splashing her face with water, she straightened her shoulders.
‘This is the deal, Mirrie,’ she told her mirror image. ‘So deal with it,’ she added, pushing back the sections of damp copper hair from her eyes and pressing her forehead on the glass.
The option was … She closed her eyes and thought, no, she could not deal with the option yet. When it did end it would hurt, but she would cope. Hearts didn’t break and, anyway, those thoughts were for the future.
She straightened up and lifted a hand to clear the misted surface of the mirror before she picked up the watch she had left on the washstand. She wasn’t here on holiday; she was here to do a job and there was always something to do … and doing was more productive than thinking.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS amazing how much a person could get done when they wanted to fill every moment with activity. The place, already immaculate, shone. Every surface was polished, every weed removed from the flower beds, even the dogs’ coats were scented and gleaming after she had spent hours grooming them.
She even managed to fit some leisure time into her work schedule. Though her first instinct had been to refuse Joe’s invitation to join his team at a local pub quiz on Tuesday night, she had accepted. After all, there was no reason not to accept. It wasn’t as if Gianni were sitting home nights pining after her.
She actually had a good time. Their team came last, but that did not dampen the light-hearted spirits of this non-competitive team who were keen to party on.
The effects of one glass too many of the local cider to celebrate the loss, Miranda had got up an hour later than normal the next morning and didn’t even have time to work out how many hours it was before she was likely to see Gianni.
In the event it turned out that she saved herself a wasted effort of maths calculations, because just before dusk that evening as she was closing the stable door on Cecil, the aged pony, giving him his usual treat of one of the mints that he loved, a silver monster of a car roared into the yard, throwing up a shower of loose chippings as it came to a screeching halt a few feet away from where she was standing.
She slid home the latch just as the door of the car was flung open. Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of the man who unfolded his long, lean frame from the driving seat. As he began to stride across the yard towards her, their recent parting still fresh in her mind, her initial thrill of excitement became interlaced with layers of uncertainty.
It was Gianni, but the man coming towards her was not the Gianni she knew. The car had changed and so had he and she wasn’t sure what she felt about the changes. Not that there was anything to criticise—far from it!
Her heart raced as she watched him approach, struggling to see the jean-clad arrogant devil she had fallen for in this tall, dauntingly elegant and immaculately clad, expensive figure who oozed confidence, poise and, yes, she realised with a tiny thrill of unease, power. He wore it as naturally as the beautiful suit that was moulded to his equally beautiful body.
For a moment she struggled to see beyond the Italian tailoring of the dove-grey three-piece and pale silk shirt. Then he began to pull at the silk tie to loosen it and got close enough for her to see his eyes.
As she identified the gleam of raw need she saw shining in those velvet dark depths a wave of relief rushed through her. Unconscious of the soft cry of relief that left her parted lips, she began to move forward, slowing before she actually broke into a run in response to the voice in her head that cautioned … Too eager, Mirrie.
Good advice.
She halted a few feet away from where he now stood. She could play it cool; she just couldn’t stop shaking. ‘It’s Wednesday,’ she accused in a voice nerves had wiped clean of animation.
His dark brows lifted as he dug his hands in his pockets to stop himself grabbing her there and then. ‘I was expecting a slightly more enthusiastic welcome.’
The sardonic comment made her feel even more awkward. ‘It’s nice to see you, obviously.’
It was not so obvious to Gianni.
‘I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. You said Friday …?’
He gave a casual shrug. ‘I had a meeting cancelled.’
Two, to be accurate, but as he had pointed out to his PA when he had confronted her with his diary he was not making effective use of his time. Why have three meetings in three different locations when the issues under discussion overlapped? Surely it made more sense to combine them?
Not exactly rocket science and it irritated Gianni that nobody but him had picked up on this.
In case his PA had not got the drift, he had run a red pen through the two he felt could be dispensed with that would effectively free up two half days. When she had tentatively pointed out that due to the late notice some of the people involved might have trouble adjusting their schedules, he had retorted that if he could he didn’t see why they could not.
Feeling slightly guilty later that day, and uneasily aware that he had been guilty of displaying some of the temperamental qualities that he despised in those in positions of power, he had made an effort to be less abrasive and had probably gone too far the other way, even admitting that there were some problems at home.
He didn’t normally take his domestic worries into the office, but since they had returned to London things had not been normal. To begin with Liam talked continually about Mirrie and kept asking when he was going to see her, unwittingly echoing the question that remained uppermost in Gianni’s thoughts. Like his son, he couldn’t get the woman out of his head.
Miranda, who received this information with mixed feelings—did him being here now mean he wouldn’t be here at the weekend?—responded with an inane sounding, ‘Oh … that’s nice.’
He dragged a hand through his ebony hair and retorted grimly, ‘Nothing about this week has been nice.’
The knot of emotions that had lain like a heavy weight in his chest since he had left at the beginning of the week had not, as he had anticipated, fallen away once he reached London.
That explained the tension she could feel coming off him in waves—a bad week at the office.
‘Sorry,’ she said lamely.
The awkward silence stretched and Miranda felt her resentment build. What was she meant to do? He knew about this sort of stuff but Gianni wasn’t helping … He hadn’t touched her yet, let alone kissed her.
Should she make the first move?
‘I was just about to …’ In the face of his fierce, soul-stripping stare, her voice faded. She stared at the nerve clenching in his lean cheek.
‘What were you just about to?’
The sound of his voice made Miranda jump. Too stressed to think of an interesting amusing alternative, she blurted the literal truth without thinking. ‘I was going to have cocoa and go to bed.’
His dark features melted into a fierce grin. ‘That works for me!’ And he was beside her in one stride, breaking through the invisible barrier that had kept them apart. ‘Minus the cocoa.’
Then she was in his arms and Gianni was kissing her with the driving hunger of a starving man.
A blissful couple of hours later Miranda laughed when Gianni walked back into the bedroom carrying a steaming mug.
He arched a brow. ‘You said you wanted cocoa …’ And he set it down on the beside cabinet.
‘Aren’t you having one?’ she asked, picking up the mug and nursing it between her palms.
‘No, I am not. It is a vile concoction and I do not have a sweet tooth.’
A tiny sigh of appreciation escaped her as she buried her nose in the mug and watched him over the rim as he
unbuckled his belt and let the trousers he had pulled on before he left the room fall to the floor. She had never imagined that she would take so much carnal pleasure from looking at a naked man, but she had done quite a few things lately that had previously not featured in her imagination.
‘It helps me sleep.’
‘That,’ Gianni admitted as he lifted the quilt and slid beneath, fitting his hard body up against her soft curves, ‘is something I had not considered.’ He took the mug from her hands and planted it out of reach.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I have no plans for you falling asleep on me just yet.’
Miranda snuggled in closer to him and lay her head on a chest that had the texture of satin and the consistency of granite. There was not an ounce of surplus flesh on his greyhound-lean toned body. She gave a voluptuous sigh of appreciation.
‘Well, I hate to break it to you, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. If I’d known you were coming I wouldn’t have stayed out so late last night, and the cider …’ She shook her head. ‘Next time I’ll give that stuff a wide berth.’
‘I am glad that you have not been bored in my absence.’ Last night he had spent the evening working until the small hours so that he could be here this evening and now it seemed she had been out partying.
Miranda lifted her head to direct an enquiring look at his face. He did not sound at all glad. ‘Is something wrong?’
He sketched a tight smile. ‘Not with me. I’m not the one who’s been drinking.’
‘Hardly drinking,’ Miranda protested, stifling a yawn and missing the austerity in his deceptively soft voice. ‘I had two small glasses all night. Joe had—’
Gianni swore, his accent thickening as, grabbing her shoulders, he pushed her away far enough to allow him to direct an outraged glare at her bemused face. ‘Joe? You were with Joe last night?’
‘Yes, I was. Well, not just Joe, the rest of …’ She stopped and thought, Why am I telling him this? Why am I acting as though I have anything to explain?
Suddenly the utter inequality of this situation she had got herself into hit home with a vengeance. She had actually been on the point of apologising and for what?
She’d done nothing to be ashamed of except shelve all her principles. Because she had fallen so deeply in love she was prepared to do anything, sacrifice anything, be anything to be with Gianni. All the burning shame and frustration bubbled to the surface as she lifted her chin to a belligerent angle and pulled free of his arms, shuffling away on her bottom until her back was digging into the carved headboard.
Gathering her anger around her, as well as a handful of the sheet, she pulled her knees up to her chest and met his hostile stare head-on.
‘I did spend the evening with Joe and I enjoyed it,’ she announced, enjoying her residence in the moral high ground.
He sucked in a furious breath and loosed a short, angry-sounding Italian epithet.
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’ she asked him, ignoring the fact she knew it was dangerous to challenge him when he looked the way he did right now.
He vented a hard laugh. ‘Dio, if you have to ask me that …? Tell me,’ he asked with the triumphal attitude of someone producing the winning argument, ‘what if I had arrived last night and not tonight?’
‘I suppose you would have let yourself in with the key.’ It was still where it was the first time he had used it. ‘You’re good at turning up uninvited.’
His nostrils flared as he regarded her with a magnificent hauteur that his swashbuckling Italian ancestors would have applauded. ‘You are suggesting I am not welcome?’
‘I’m suggesting that you’ve got a damned cheek expecting me to sit here waiting for you,’ she told him frankly. ‘I went to a pub quiz with Joe. You’re acting as if I’ve taken an active part in some sort of … of … orgy! And for the record if I wanted to it would be none of your damned business. We’re not even in a damned relationship. This is just sex! Isn’t it, Gianni?’
The silence that followed her outburst was electric.
On anyone else she would have called the dark bands of colour that outlined the crests of his slashing cheekbones a blush.
‘You introduced the exclusivity clause,’ he reminded her heavily. And he had not even demurred—what the hell was wrong with him? Why was he letting her call the tune?
‘I don’t expect you not to talk with women, only not have sex … You can’t … just can’t think I would sleep with Joe …? Hell, the idea of anyone but you touching me like that is …’ She pressed a hand to her throat and gave an expressive little shudder before she could consider the wisdom of being this frank with Gianni—the last man in the world she would have imagined falling in love with and the only man now she could bear the thought of touching her.
Her guileless admission sent a stab of savage male satisfaction through Gianni. He gave a concessionary grunt and amazed himself by matching her frankness with some of his own.
‘I do not like the idea of you being with another man,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.
Miranda’s jaw dropped in shock.
‘Is that what you would call jealousy …?’ he asked her, the glimmer of self-mockery in his eyes mingled with genuine shock as he faced a fact he had been avoiding.
She tipped her head. ‘I think most people would think so.’
‘I think most people would also say we are wasting our limited time arguing.’ He opened his arms. ‘Come here.’
With a cry Miranda flung herself at him and felt his arms close like iron bands around her as he lay down, pulling her with him. ‘You are so innocent,’ he murmured, smoothing her hair with a tender hand. ‘The next time a man tries to ply you with drinks, remember,’ he warned darkly, ‘you can’t judge by appearances and many a wolf is disguised in sheep’s clothing.’
She breathed in the delicious musky male smell of his skin, enjoying the moment, but still confused by the dizzying change of mood she frequently experienced around him. ‘You’re a font of wisdom,’ she replied, her voice muffled by his chest.
‘I’m so glad I amuse you.’ He glanced down at her tawny head and murmured, ‘Now go to sleep.’
‘Actually I’m not feeling that tired any more.’
He placed a hand under her chin and turned her face up to him. ‘Is that so?’
‘I might not be able to sleep for hours and hours …’
‘Insomnia is a terrible thing … You know earlier when you mentioned orgies? I had in mind a very private version, just you and me …?’
She looked at him through her lashes, smiling wickedly. ‘I’m up for it if you are …’ Her hand slid down his body and she pretended shock. ‘Oh, gosh, you are!’
That first evening set a pattern that was repeated over the next three weeks, minus for the most part the major arguments. Gianni would turn up, generally without warning, two or even three times a week.
The time together was very intense. It frequently felt to Miranda as if they were trying to squeeze an entire week into a few hours. The Liam situation still remained a problem for Miranda. The first time she had mentioned the little boy’s name Gianni had just spoken across her.
It had happened three times before the penny had dropped. She felt foolish that it hadn’t earlier. She had foolishly assumed that he thought of her as more than a disposable lover, but she was wrong. He was still determined to protect Liam from her and she felt stupid for thinking otherwise.
The idea came to her when Gianni arrived while she was in the shower. It turned out to be a very long shower, but it made her think—was there any reason that she couldn’t be the one doing the surprising?
She planned her surprise for the next Monday. She knew his London address from an envelope he had left behind and, while she knew she would not be welcomed there because of Liam, she didn’t see how it would be a problem if she rang him from the hotel room she planned to book.
She caught the early train up, having taken up the o
ffer made by a friendly neighbour to fill in for her at the cottage if she ever wanted a day off.
‘The dogs can stay with me and it’s no trouble for me to nip over the fence and feed the others.’
Miranda headed straight to the department store where she had booked herself in for the full works—hair, a facial and make-up. At the suggestion of the woman doing her make-up she took advantage of the services of the store’s personal shopper. It seemed a good idea. She was wearing the only even vaguely dressy thing she had brought with her from home—the green skirt that Gianni loved—but he had seen her in it loads of times.
She wanted to show him that she wasn’t all jeans and boots—she wanted to knock his socks off!
When she’d walked into the department store she’d had her doubts about fulfilling this ambition, but when she walked out of the changing room three hours later she hardly recognised the slim, elegant figure in four-inch heels and green silk shift dress with the Peter Pan collar—apparently the fifties look was very in. She’d never manage to duplicate the sleek chignon they’d tamed her hair into, though the bag filled with samples of make-up made her hope she might be able to manage something similar herself … though maybe not the red lipstick.
I’m hot, she decided modestly as she turned to get a look at her rear view in the full-length mirror, an opinion that seemed to be reinforced by the number of double takes and admiring looks she received during the short walk to her hotel.
When she walked into the hotel her confidence was on an all-time high that lasted right up to the moment she was inserting the swipe card into her room door, because at that exact moment Sam Maguire walked out of the door of the room opposite.
The woman was a hundred times more striking in the flesh than she looked on a TV screen. Not only slimmer, but taller and blessed with a figure that any catwalk model would have envied that didn’t come across on the screen—nor did her height or her great skin. Dressed in a nude-coloured lace dress, high at the neckline, sleeveless and covered with intricate beading, she projected the sort of elegance that had not taken a team of professionals several hours to achieve. She projected happy, glowing confidence that couldn’t be bought.
