‘That’s because she has insisted on having a woman as bridesmaid whom Romano thinks entirely unsuitable for the task.’
‘But surely it’s her decision, not his? Nothing to do with him?’
‘It’s certainly nothing to do with you,’ he returned softly. Rubbing a thumb over the rasp of his chin, he yawned. ‘I’d better go.’
But Angie couldn’t help noticing the exhaustion in his face; the dark shadows beneath his eyes—and, despite his prickly attitude, she felt her heart soften. Caring about Riccardo’s welfare was an impossible habit to break, it seemed. Gently, she began to stroke his black hair until she saw him relax and saw his eyelids shuttering—as if he were fighting the temptation to close them. Why not let him sleep—just for a little while? ‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered. ‘Just for a minute.’
Pulling the duvet over them both, she snuggled herself against his body, hearing his sigh and echoing it with one of her own as she heard his breathing steady into sleep.
Much later, she woke—feeling hungry and realising that they’d eaten no lunch—and she was just thinking about waking Riccardo when she felt him stir next to her.
For a moment he felt as if he was in the most comfortable place on the planet. His knee was thrust between two soft thighs and he could hear the even sounds of a woman’s breath as it fanned against his shoulder. For a moment he sank into the feeling, revelling in the sensations which were whispering over his skin before he realised where he was—and then he swore softly in Italian.
‘Che ora e?’ he snapped, lifting his wrist to glance at his watch. He sat up, his face wreathed in anger. ‘Why the hell did you let me sleep?’
Dismayed, Angie stared at him. ‘Because you looked as if you needed to.’
Jumping out of bed, he grabbed his jeans and began to pull them on. ‘Madre di Dio!’ he exclaimed furiously. ‘You’ve certainly changed your tune! From worrying about what my brother might think of our behaviour—you switch to luring me into staying.’
‘I didn’t lure you!’
‘You covered me up with a duvet,’ he accused.
‘Is that such a heinous crime?’
It felt like a trap. A trap as seductive as those great big eyes of hers and her warm, soft body. He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to spend half the afternoon in your bedroom!’ he declared.
‘Then don’t! Nobody’s keeping you here. Go!’
‘Oh, I’m going all right.’ He pulled the dark sweater over his naked torso and turned his back on her while he zipped up his jeans—wanting to distract himself from the alluring sway of her naked breasts and the still rosy flush which darkened them. And only when he had mentally doused himself with the equivalent of a cold shower did he feel able to turn and face her again with his customary cool.
‘Right—you’d better know what’s happening,’ he clipped out. ‘There’s a formal dinner tonight here in the castle—you’ll need to wear something smart. And did you bring your laptop with you?’
His statement had started her mind start buzzing—wondering what to wear to the formal dinner—but the subsequent question threw her in her tracks. ‘Er, no. I didn’t think I had to.’
‘Really?’ he questioned coolly. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have one sent up here. I want you to chase up the Devonshire account for me. There are plenty of scenic locations around the estate where you can work.’ He walked over to the door, seeing the outraged expression on her face, and he paused. ‘What’s the matter, Angie—surely you were expecting to work? That, after all, is the reason you’re here. The sex is simply a perk.’
It was possibly the most hateful thing he could have said and presumably he meant it to be—but Angie didn’t react. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing how much his words could rip right through her. When would she ever learn that their agendas were completely different? ‘Of course,’ she answered, as if nothing would bring her greater pleasure. ‘And I might as well tidy up the Posara portfolio while I’m at it.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘If you must.’
And, oh, wasn’t it worth the act of pretending that his words hadn’t hurt—just to see that rare look of uncertainty which had crossed his arrogant face? ‘Close the door behind you, would you?’ she murmured. ‘I want to take a shower.’
But after he had left, she did not head for the bathroom—she didn’t think her shaky legs would carry her. Instead she sat down on the rumpled mess they’d made of the bed and wondered what she was doing here. Had she thought it would be easy?
Yes, in a way—perhaps she had. Which only went to prove how short-sighted she could be. She had always associated arrogance with Riccardo—but hadn’t she been guilty of an arrogance of her own? Thinking that she could handle her emotions both in and out of his arms. But she couldn’t. Women weren’t built like that—or, rather, she wasn’t.
When he was making love to her it was all too easy to imagine that it was for real. That her years of quiet devotion had finally borne fruit and that they were a proper couple. But it wasn’t real, and they weren’t. It was just amazing sex—something he happened to be extremely good at. And if she was being honest—wasn’t it likely that every woman he took to his bed felt the way she did? As if she wanted him to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her and couldn’t bear to live without her.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen—not in a million years. And deep down she knew all this—so when was she actually going to start believing it? Nothing was going to change unless she made it change—so maybe she needed to start being a bit tougher in order to protect herself.
For the first time, she allowed her eyes to drift around the room and to acknowledge how truly beautiful it was. Rich brocade drapes shimmered like precious liquid metal at the windows and similarly rich fabrics were used in the heap of cushions piled onto a sofa. There was a writing desk, too—antique and lovingly polished and very beautiful.
Angie unpacked her case and then headed off for the bathroom—which was as gleamingly modern as the castle itself was old. Rich soaps and shampoos were lined up and she washed away all traces of the journey and Riccardo’s love-making—before emerging pink and scented. Wrapping herself in a giant towelling robe, she walked back into the bedroom to see that a laptop had been placed on the desk in her absence, and she stopped in her tracks.
He certainly hadn’t wasted any time in driving home her real status! Flinging a load of mundane tasks at her even though they’d only just arrived. Angie picked up a brush and began to pull it through her wet hair. Well, the work could wait. She was through with being useful, doormat Angie. Angie who took just whatever Riccardo Castellari cared to chuck at her. Because she was slowly beginning to realise that Riccardo treated her the way he did because she let him!
And she wasn’t going to let him. Not any more.
The thought empowered her and, seeing that there were almost two hours until the formal dinner, Angie spent ages drying her hair, then settled down with a book. It was a very good book and she felt especially pleased that she had been able to push Riccardo out of her mind enough to really get into the story.
In fact, she was two thirds into it when she saw that there was only half an hour to go before dinner. Hastily, she put on some make-up and then opened the wardrobe—wondering if she had the courage to wear the only dress which would be suitable for a grand event in a place like this.
It gleamed provocatively at the back of the wardrobe—the red dress which she had been unable to resist bringing and which she had vowed she would never wear again. But it was strange how seductive a beautiful garment could be. And Angie wasn’t stupid—she recognised that it had a power all of its own. Beside it, her own conservative clothes looked boring and so safe—no matter how much she tarted them up with accessories. How could she not wear it?
Her hands were trembling as she slipped it on, because of course this was much more than a dress—it was imbued with significance. Riccardo had bought it for her. It was what
she had been wearing the night he had taken her to bed. It was what had made him stop looking through her—and realise that she was a woman.
Was it too risqué an outfit in which to meet his mother? she wondered as she slowly circled in front of the mirror. No. The designer was world famous and Italian women were famously stylish. And Riccardo’s mother won’t care what I wear, she thought. To her—I am just someone he employs. She’ll barely notice me.
There was a knock at the door and Angie’s heart raced. Would Riccardo approve? Would he perhaps try to kiss her—to mollify her after his earlier display of anger? Well, this time she wouldn’t let him.
But it was not Riccardo who stood at the door. A young female stood there, looking rather diffident—her plain dark dress marking her out clearly as a servant.
Just like me, thought Angie with a pang—only I expect that this young girl doesn’t get any of the ‘perks’ which Riccardo pointed out earlier. ‘Buona sera,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Como si nama?’
The girl’s English was as hesitant as Angie’s Italian, but her smile was wide. ‘My name is Marietta. You…you follow me?’
‘Of course. Thank you.’ But it was strange how feelings could suddenly switch. From dreading seeing Riccardo, Angie could now feel herself fervently wishing that he’d come to collect her himself as all her bravado slipped away. How could she walk into a room full of important people she didn’t know—all proper invited guests, apart from her—with even some members of the aristocracy thrown in? Would they look at her and judge her, and find her wanting?
She heard the murmur of voices and the chink of glasses as she descended the curving wooden staircase. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she looked fine but inside she was trembling like a leaf. Pinning a smile to her shiny lips, she began to walk down towards the assembled guests—a rainbow display of finery contrasting with the dark suits worn by the men. A dazzling and glamorous assembly. Some of them looked up and some turned around.
But all she could see was the ebony spotlight of Riccardo’s eyes following her every movement.
CHAPTER TEN
‘WELL, well, well—I see that you have decided to dress like the siren for the party tonight, piccola.’
Riccardo’s words were silken-soft but the look which accompanied them was anything but. The coal-dark glitter of his eyes moved provocatively over her face, the quick flick of his tongue over his lips reminding Angie of how they’d just spent the afternoon. Bringing back with aching clarity the slow, almost drugging quality of their love-making.
Angie shook her head, trying to clear her head of the memory. ‘But you bought me this dress, Riccardo,’ she protested, taking a proffered glass of Prosecco from the passing waitress. ‘And surely the whole point was to wear it?’ She glanced around at the other women, reassured to see that some were in gowns which made hers look positively demure. ‘Unless you’re saying that it’s unsuitable for the occasion.’
There was a pause. The only thing about it which was unsuitable was the fact that it reminded him just what lay beneath it. A nerve flickered at his temple. ‘You know very well that it’s suitable. In fact, you look more beautiful than any other woman in the room,’ he countered.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Sì, cara,’ he said steadily. ‘I do. Now, you’d better come and meet my mother.’
‘I’d love to.’ But her cheeks pinkened at the unexpected compliment as she looked around. ‘Where’s the bride-to-be?’
With narrowed eyes, Riccardo checked out the room, his tone doing nothing to disguise his disapproval. ‘She still hasn’t shown.’
‘Oh, well—it’s the bride’s prerogative to be late.’
‘That’s not supposed to be until the wedding day,’ he returned acidly. ‘There’s still two days to go.’
‘And what about the groom?’
‘The Duca is standing over by the woman wearing diamonds.’
‘Every woman is wearing diamonds.’
He laughed. ‘He’s by the fireplace, but don’t stare, Angie—it’s rude.’
Angie didn’t need to stare—one quick glance was enough to surprise her so much that she stared down into the fizzing bubbles in her drink in an attempt to compose herself. Surely Floriana couldn’t be marrying him! She took a sip of the wine. The Duca was elegant, yes—but he must have been almost fifty, judging from the harsh lines on his face. And wasn’t that the hint of baldness at the crown of his head? He looked ancient in comparison to the beautiful young Italian girl.
She lifted her eyes to find a sudden coldness in Riccardo’s—as if daring her to make the obvious comment. But why should she? As he had reminded her earlier—it was none of her business. ‘Floriana’s a lucky girl,’ she said dutifully.
‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely. ‘She is. Now come and meet my mother.’
Angie was aware of eyes following them as they made their way across the crowded room—before stopping in front of the matriarch of the family.
‘Mamma, I told you that I was bringing Angie with me? And I believe you have spoken on the phone many times.’
Despite her elegant high heels, Riccardo’s mother was surprisingly small and terrifyingly elegant. Her figure was as neat as a young girl’s and she was clad in very obvious couture—a gleaming burgundy gown of heavy silk with a string of large, lustrous pearls around her neck. The two women shook hands and her black eyes looked Angie up and down with interest.
‘So we meet at last,’ she said, in perfect English. ‘The woman who makes my son’s life run like clockwork, or so he tells me.’
Angie blinked, slightly taken aback to hear another compliment and glad that Riccardo had gone over to talk to his brother—even though the two men were standing dominating the room, like a pair of dark and formidable statues. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she joked.
‘No, I can imagine,’ came the dry rejoinder and then Signora Castellari smiled as she looked her up and down. ‘And you look wonderful. I had no idea that your taste in clothes was quite so exquisite, my dear.’
There was an awkward pause as Angie tried not to flinch. What did she say? That it was a Christmas present from her son? Wouldn’t that seem like much too intimate a gift from boss to secretary, and might it not make his mother raise her eyebrows—possibly in disapproval?
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly.
‘At least I know that Riccardo must be compensating you adequately, if you can afford to dress that well.’
Angie nodded and raised her drink to lips which suddenly felt like stone as the elegant woman moved away to greet another guest, hoping that her face didn’t betray the terrible sense of distress that her innocent remark had provoked. Because Signora Castellari had said nothing untoward; not really. She thought that she was simply meeting her son’s long-time secretary—she wasn’t to realise that the secretary in question was also his lover, which made innocent remarks about financial compensation acutely embarrassing.
At that moment, there was a stir of expectation from the guests and everyone looked up towards a second staircase to see Floriana slowly descending the staircase with a girl by her side whose pale skin and unruly red curls marked her out from the mainly Mediterranean gathering. That must be the bridesmaid, thought Angie.
Floriana’s black dress was stark and her own hair was piled up into an elaborate creation on top of her head, fixed with small diamond pins. Round her neck were more diamonds—a veritable waterfall of glittering icy stones. She looked, Angie realised with a shock, like a mannequin. As if she were composed of wax instead of flesh and blood.
But then they were being called into dinner and, to Angie’s relief, Riccardo came to accompany her to the table. ‘Surely you can’t seat this many people all at once?’ she whispered.
‘Wait and see.’
The dining room—well, it was more of a hall—was absolutely beautiful, lit by hundreds of tall candles and scented rather overpoweringly with lilies. A single long table was draped in snowy
linen and glittered with gold and crystal. Angie found herself seated next to a very sweet old man who had once spent a holiday in Brighton and who was eager to practise his English. On her other side was a teenage cousin of the groom who was clearly bored out of his mind and would rather have been somewhere else.
At the opposite end of the table and next to Riccardo’s mother she could see the Duca holding forth, with a morose-looking Floriana by his side. And on opposite sides sat the grim-faced Romano and the redhaired bridesmaid who seemed to spend the majority of the meal glaring at one another. What was their problem? Angie wondered as she lifted her napkin, thinking that this made her little sister’s pre-wedding party look like a match made in heaven.
Although delicious, the meal seemed to go on for ever, and if Angie was full up after the pasta course no one seemed to notice or to care whether she ate or not. She told herself she was glad Riccardo was sitting far away from her. Yet her feelings were at war with common sense—she ached for his touch, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that she was a stupid fool for wanting him.
Did she make those feelings apparent? Was that why when she looked up from her unwanted plate of sorbet to find herself caught in the crossfire of his gaze his black eyes seemed to mock her while his lips curved into a smile of sensual promise. Angie swallowed. He was so…so sure of himself, wasn’t he? So certain of her—that no matter what he said or did, she would still sink into his embrace whenever he snapped his fingers.
And you will, won’t you? Because despite all your little pep talks about no longer being a doormat, aren’t you secretly counting off the seconds until you can feel him in your arms again?
After dinner, there was dancing in a huge ballroom which had been decked out with garlands of scented blooms and shiny balloons in silver and gold. It seemed that every VIP and dignitary from miles around was attending and Angie told herself that of course Riccardo wouldn’t ask her to dance—and that even if he asked she would refuse. She would sweetly tell him to go and entertain his guests and not his employee. But she was wrong—on both counts. He did ask, and she didn’t refuse—because when it came to it, how could she? Not when her heart was racing with excitement and her skin tingling when he laid his hand on her bare arm.
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