‘Don’t nag, Angie.’
‘It’s called a timely reminder.’
He bit back a sigh of irritation. ‘What time?’
‘We start at seven-thirty.’
‘And the restaurant’s booked?’
‘Everything’s ready. I’m going there now just to check a few last-minute details. All you have to do is turn up.’
He nodded. Maybe he could grab a little sleep. ‘I’ll go back to my apartment and change,’ he said. ‘And then go straight to the restaurant. There’s nothing especially urgent that I need to handle here, is there?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait until Monday.’
She turned to leave and as he noticed the plain navy skirt which hung so unflatteringly over her bottom Riccardo suddenly remembered the package he had left lying in the car.
‘Oh, Angie?’
‘Yes, Riccardo?’
‘You don’t usually bother dressing up, like the other girls, do you?’ he questioned slowly. ‘For the office party, I mean.’
Angie halted, composing her face before she turned to face him with just the right amount of friendly interest. It wasn’t just that the question was so unexpected—it was—it was just extremely hurtful into the bargain, though she was pretty sure he didn’t mean it to be. Of course she dressed up for the party—but her taste was different from the other girls’. Inevitably. Because so was her age. When you were barely into your twenties you could easily buy up one of the cheap and sequined dresses which abounded in the shops at this time of year. You could splash out very little on an entire outfit—and end up looking like a million dollars.
But when you were twenty-seven, it was a little different. You ran the risk of looking tacky. Or like mutton dressed as lamb. So Angie handled her budget carefully and dressed accordingly. All her clothes were conservative pieces. Investment dressing, they called it. Clothes that would never date—which you could bring out year after year and they would look just as smart. Why, last year she had been wearing a lovely beige knitted dress—with a string of real pearls around her neck.
‘Oh, I just throw on any old thing,’ she responded, determined that he should not see how hurt she was.
‘Well, I have a present for you in the car,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll speak to Marco on the way out and have him deliver it up here for you.’
Angie blinked. A present? Normally, he gave her vouchers along with her Christmas bonus. And a case of wine from his family’s vineyard in Tuscany—most of which still lay untouched from last year. But he’d never bought her anything personal before. Her heart lifted—even though the thought came into her head that perhaps he was trying to sweeten her up. Had he maybe guessed that she was thinking of leaving him and so was trying to induce her to stay? No, Riccardo would never be that subtle.
‘Gosh,’ she said, and shrugged her shoulders in helpless pleasure—completely unsure how to react. ‘What kind of present?’
His eyes ran over her assessingly, and he smiled. ‘Something to wear,’ he murmured. ‘Something for the party.’
CHAPTER TWO
ANGIE gasped as she peeled back the final layer of tissue paper and pulled the dress from the shiny box, her cheeks flaring as scarlet as the fine silk-satin which slipped through her fingers. And suddenly she felt glad she was alone. Glad that nobody was around to see—because surely Riccardo wasn’t seriously proposing she wear this?
It was the kind of dress which usually featured in the glossy pages of aspirational magazines—and even Angie had heard of the designer whose name was embroidered so beautifully on the label. She swallowed. This gown must have cost a small fortune. For a brief, mad moment the thought sped through her mind that she might be able to sell it on one of the many internet auction sites. But what if Riccardo found out? Would that look awfully rude—his secretary ungratefully flogging a present which had clearly cost him a lot of money?
She held it up to the light. It felt so gossamer-light it shimmered like some kind of rich red syrup, and a feeling she’d never had before crept over her. It was curiosity and it was wistfulness and it was a desire to know whether someone like her could carry it off. Shouldn’t she just try it on? Just to see. Slipping into the en-suite bathroom where Riccardo sometimes took a shower if he was going straight out to dinner from the office, Angie locked the door and then stripped off her skirt and blouse.
The first thing which became apparent was that it was the kind of dress where it was impossible to wear a bra—unless you happened to have one of those backless, halter-neck bras, which Angie most certainly didn’t. Her underwear was as practical as the rest of her wardrobe. Pants and bras made in fabrics whose main function was to show no visible panty line.
Rather furtively, she removed her bra and then slithered into the dress just as she heard someone entering the office and she froze in absolute horror. Riccardo hadn’t told her he was expecting anyone!
‘Hello?’ she called out nervously.
‘Angie?’
Cautiously, Angie opened the door and put her head round to see young Alicia standing there and she let out a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, what is it?’ she questioned briskly, though it was difficult sounding efficient when this buttery-soft fabric was whispering against her skin like a sensual kiss.
Alicia was blinking. ‘What are you doing?’
For a moment it occurred to Angie to tell the junior secretary that it was none of her business what she was doing. But mightn’t Alicia tell her the truth? ‘Will you give me your honest opinion on what I’m thinking of wearing to the party?’ she questioned.
Alicia smiled. ‘Of course.’
Angie stepped out into the office and the minute she saw Alicia’s shell-shocked face she knew that she’d been right to ask. ‘I’ll go and take it off.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Alicia fiercely. ‘Come and stand in the light and let me see you properly. Oh, Angie—I can’t believe it’s really you. You look…you look gorgeous.’
No one had ever called her gorgeous before and Angie wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t allowed herself to bask in the unexpected—if rather back-handed—compliment. But then she caught sight of herself in the large mirror which reflected back the London skyline and she stared at herself in disbelief. She had never really understood why women were prepared to pay hundreds and hundreds of pounds for a garment which could be reproduced for a modest sum in just about any high street store, but suddenly she did. Because how on earth could a simple piece of fabric be fashioned to make the wearer look so…so…
Angie swallowed. The scarlet satin seemed to mould her skin like cream poured over a peach and the rich material skated over her bottom and clung to her bust. It should have looked tarty and yet it didn’t—for the material was rich and the gown seemed to accentuate qualities she hadn’t even known she possessed. It sung of sensuality and quality instead of screaming availability.
‘Oh, Angie,’breathed Alicia. ‘You look like a princess.’
‘And I feel like a princess,’ Angie responded slowly, before turning away from the mirror with a resolute shake of her head. ‘No, I can’t possibly wear it.’
Alicia stared at her in disbelief. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Because…because…’ Because, what? Because it made her into an Angie she’d never seen before? One she didn’t know and had no idea how to handle? One who felt all kind of squirmy and excited—the way she’d always imagined a woman should feel before a party, but which she couldn’t ever remember feeling before? Or because Riccardo had bought this dress? And that was the most incredible thing of all. Riccardo had bought it for her! Did he imagine me wearing it when he bought it? she found herself wondering—her heart hammering with an urgent kind of longing. And if that were the case—wouldn’t it be wrong not to wear it?
‘You have to wear it,’ said Alicia firmly. ‘Because you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.’
And so Angie allowed herself to be convinced—telling herself that someone as young and as
trendy as Alicia would have told her if she was making a fool of herself. She even allowed herself to be taken along to one of the shops on Oxford Street to buy a pair of towering black stilettos to do the dress justice. And the sweetest little sparkly black clutch bag. Even to take her hair down and to brush it until it gleamed and—although she had always despaired of a colour which most resembled wet sand—she had to agree that it looked rather nice. In fact, she took all the advice that Alicia offered and let her put two coats of mascara onto her eyelashes and to coat her lips in an extravagant-looking gloss.
The trouble was that this high level of preparation took much longer than it normally did and made Angie horribly late. So that instead of being the first to arrive—for once, she was the very last. Usually, she walked into a restaurant and was shown to a corner where she would sit unnoticed, quietly nursing a drink until the others arrived.
But not tonight.
Tonight, as the plate-glass doors of one of the city’s most upmarket restaurants slid open, she was aware of something very odd as she put one high-heeled shoe over the threshold. Silence. Complete and utter pindrop silence, before the buzz of conversation resumed. Angie blinked. She was sure she hadn’t imagined it.
From nowhere, a waiter appeared at her side and stuck very close to it as she mentioned the name of the Castellari table, his smile very wide indeed as he gestured that she follow him. And Angie sensed that every eye was on her as she made her way through the room. Why were they all looking at her? she wondered in a panic. Surreptitiously, her hand slid round to her bottom, smoothing down her dress—because for one awful moment she had imagined that it was tucked into her tights. But no, all seemed well.
Until she spotted the long, large table containing most of the Castellari workforce and in particular Riccardo, who sat at the head of it—staring at her as she could never remember him staring at her before. And inside, Angie felt a terrible flutter of nerves. What if Riccardo didn’t like the dress? Or was embarrassed that he had ever purchased such a personal gift for his secretary?
She slanted him a shy smile which he didn’t return. On the contrary. He continued to stare at her with a look of pure astonishment on his face—a look which he didn’t bother to hide, even when he curled his finger to beckon her over. She walked across to stand directly in front of him and his eyes flicked over her as if she had suddenly sprouted wings, or horns.
‘Is…something wrong?’ she questioned hesitantly.
Wrong? Riccardo felt his mouth dry. He wouldn’t quite put it like that. It was just that up until this precise moment he’d had no idea that his secretary possessed a pair of the most pert and lush breasts he had ever seen, and the silky fabric was caressing them like a man’s tongue. He swallowed. Or that her waist should dip in like that. Or her hips swell out into slim curves, or that she had such a luscious bottom. Or indeed that her legs should be so long…long enough to…
‘Ma che ca…’ he began, and then halted, his face darkening as the waiter murmured something to him in Italian and Riccardo snapped something back so that the man looked taken aback. And all of a sudden Riccardo was pointing peremptorily to the empty space beside him and, not quite believing her luck, Angie slid in next to him. Usually there was a battle royal to sit next to the boss and usually he conferred an imperious nod to the lucky two who would flank him while Angie watched him from afar.
But tonight Riccardo wasn’t paying anyone any attention except her.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he demanded.
She blinked at him in confusion. His black eyes looked as she’d never seen them before. With distinctly unseasonable anger lurking in their ebony depths—and why the hell was he directing it at her? ‘What do you mean?’
‘You look…’ For once, words failed him.
‘You don’t like the dress, is that it?’
He shook his head. ‘No, that is not it,’ he bit out, trying and failing to avert his eyes from her creamy décolletage.
‘What, then?’
He pulled the napkin over his lap, glad to be able to conceal the lower half of his body. How could he possibly tell her that she didn’t look like Angie any more? That he felt relaxed and comfortable with the plain and frumpy Angie—not this sizzling sex-pot of a creature who was attracting the lecherous gaze of every hot-blooded male in the place. And that he was aroused, which was as inconvenient as it was unexpected.
He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t expecting…’
She had never known Riccardo Castellari tongue-tied before. Never. ‘Wasn’t expecting what?’ she challenged, but deep down she knew exactly what he meant, even though the realisation hurt her more than he would ever know. He hadn’t been expecting her to look good in it, that was it. Angie was not in the least bit vain—but neither was she stupid. And she’d seen enough of people’s reactions tonight—as well as her own reflection in the mirror—to realise that for once her appearance was transformed. And now he was in danger of spoiling her once-in-a-lifetime Cinderella experience with that dark and faintly dangerous expression on his face.
‘If you’re implying that the outfit is unsuitable for an occasion like this, then remember that you’re the one who told me to wear it and you’re the one who bought it for me,’ she said tartly.
At this his face darkened even more, and he seemed about to say something else—presumably another insult—but then he nodded, forcing out a lazy smile. ‘Forgive me for my lack of manners, Angie.You…you fill the dress very well,’ he added slowly, impatiently waving away the bread basket which was doing the rounds.
It was a curious way to put it—and it was a very continental way to put it. It thrilled her to have Riccardo say something like that to her and the last thing in the world she needed was to increase the thrill factor where her boss was concerned. Accepting the glass of champagne which the waiter was offering her, she took a big sip. ‘Do I?’
God, yes. Riccardo felt like a man who had just been given a spoonful of bitter medicine—only to discover that it was as sweet as nectar. He had given Angie the dress more as an idle and convenient gesture than anything else—and now she had completely surprised him.
And it was a long time since a woman had surprised him.
Forcing himself to remember that this was the woman who spent more time with him than anyone else, who made his coffee and sorted out the drycleaning of his shirts, Riccardo picked up his own glass of champagne rather thoughtfully. Remember too that this is the staff party, he told himself—and that after tonight you don’t have to see her until the new year when she’ll be back to looking like Angie and you can forget all about the sex-bomb image.
‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ he questioned conversationally, willing his erection to subside as he forced himself to spear a large prawn and eat it.
‘Oh, you know.’Angie drank some more champagne. It was delicious. ‘Family stuff.’
Riccardo put his fork down. He certainly did. Sometimes he thought he could write a textbook about families—especially dysfunctional Italian ones. But Angie’s would be very different…A wry smile quirked the corners of his lips. ‘You’ll see your parents, of course? What is it—let me guess—a cosy and very English Christmas around the tree?’
Angie’s face didn’t change, but she brought the glass up to her lips more as a distraction technique than because she particularly wanted to drink any more of the wine, because it was making her feel a little bit giddy. She forced a smile. ‘Well, not really, no. As I’m sure you know—my father is dead and my mother is worried sick because my sister’s getting a divorce.’
Riccardo’s eyes narrowed as he registered the subtle dig. Had he known that? Had she perhaps told him and it had slipped his mind? He looked at the honeyed spill of her hair and wondered why she didn’t wear it down more often. ‘Sì, sì—of course.’ He shrugged—for he had wanted a polite, monosyllabic response from her, not to continue with a topic such as this one. But it was nearly Christmas and she deserved h
is civility. ‘And is that a…difficult situation?’
Angie knew her boss well enough to know when he was distracted, when he was asking a question because he felt it was expected of him rather than because he was particularly interested in the answer. And although it was usually in her nature to instinctively accede to Riccardo’s wishes, to cushion his life and make it as carefree as possible—tonight she wasn’t in a particularly cushioning or secretarial mood. Let him ask something about her for a change—for hadn’t she devoted enough of her life asking about him?
She thought about the actuality of the festival which was looming up. About the frantic phone calls she and her mother would receive from her sister. And their frustration at their powerlessness to do anything much to help because she was so far away. And she thought of Riccardo, who would be flying off to Tuscany—to his family’s amazing castle. Unlike her, his new year would be filled with lots of exciting things. New challenges. A new woman probably.
‘Actually, yes, it is difficult,’ she admitted. ‘Especially at Christmas time. Because, if you remember—my sister lives in Australia and we can’t be there for her.’
Riccardo leaned back to allow the half-eaten plate of prawns to be replaced with some sort of fish, and viewed it unenthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can imagine it can’t be easy.’
Angie doubted it. Riccardo had many, many characteristics which made him irresistible to women, but an ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes and to empathise wasn’t at the top of the list.
Angie leaned closer and peered into his face. ‘Can you really?’ she questioned pointedly.
Riccardo was so preoccupied with the tantalising glimpse of her cleavage when she leaned forward that he failed to register a word of what she was saying. Or what he had said to her. But she had clearly just asked him a question and so he tried the fail-safe approach which always worked and which women seemed to love.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he murmured.
Angie’s mouth opened into an astonished little ‘oh’ shape that Riccardo should have given her carte blanche to confide in him. He really was being attentive tonight, she thought. Understanding, even. Nobody else was even getting a look-in. And the awful thing was that, try as she might to quell it, she began to get a flicker of hope that he really might be thinking of her as a woman at last.
The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress Page 2
