‘Go!’ He said it nicely—rather too nicely, in fact … sort of undressing her with his eyes as he did so … sort of warning her to get out while the going was good. ‘Enjoy your afternoon …’
If only she’d picked up her bag then and headed to her suite. But when Lazzaro was being nice there was no one nicer … when Lazzaro was looking at her like that there was every reason to stay.
‘Lazzaro …’
The deep, throaty, familiar voice made her start. Utterly unprepared, all she could do was sit as he stood, as he took the stunning woman in his arms and kissed her as only Italians did—only there was a tenderness there, a protectiveness there that she’d never witnessed before—and certainly not for herself. There was a gentleness in Lazzaro as he greeted this woman that made Caitlyn’s heart bleed.
‘Bonita, this is my new personal assistant, Caitlyn Bell—Caitlyn this is Bonita Mancini …’ He gave Caitlyn a sudden smile. ‘Of course—stupid me. You two will have already met.’
‘Met?’ Caitlyn frowned, and so too did Bonita.
‘We’ve spoken on the telefono, yes?’
‘That’s right.’ Caitlyn nodded, then turned to Lazzaro. ‘We’ve never actually met.’
‘But surely at your interview for the PR position …?’ Lazzaro was still smiling, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘Oh—sorry, Caitlyn. I didn’t introduce you properly—you see, not only is Bonita Alberto Mancini’s wife, she’s head of PR. That’s how they met, in fact!’
‘Still he keeps me working!’ Bonita laughed, but her laughter faded as her eyes—not her Botoxed forehead—crinkled in concentration. ‘You say you had an interview …?’ she attempted, her voice fading as she attempted to place Caitlyn.
‘It must have been with another hotel chain.’ It was Lazzaro who broke the appalling silence. ‘My mistake.’ He might have broken the silence, but nothing could take away the awkwardness—everyone present knew he never made mistakes—at least not when it came to work!
‘I’d better get on!’ Caitlyn forced a smile and excused herself, reeling from the news that Bonita was Bonita Mancini, and looking back just once, in time to see his arm slide around her shoulders and pull her in—in time to see her rest her head on his chest as if she’d missed him for ever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE looked … Caitlyn stared back at her reflection and actually said the word out loud. ‘Fabulous!’
And it had nothing to do with the flattering mirror!
There was no place for self-deprecation tonight—it was about self-preservation. And, oh, the gods had been kind tonight, because if ever she’d needed to pull out all the stops to face Lazzaro, if ever she’d needed to know not just that she was okay, but to know she was fabulous—it was tonight.
The hairdressers had practically fallen over themselves to do her hair—and though she’d planned to wear her hair up, in her usual safe French roll, after a glass of champagne and a large boost to her ego Caitlyn had, for the first time in her life, actually listened to what the hairdresser had to say. Instead of staying safe, why not play up her natural asset? Why not wear a head full of blonde curls?
So now she stood, curls snaking around her face and onto her shoulders—her eyes unrecognisable after the skilled attention of the makeup artist.
‘Uno o l’altro,’ the beautician had explained as she’d scrutinised her face, and Caitlyn had understood—she could play up either her eyes or her mouth, but not both.
The eyes had it!
Slate-grey eyeshadow and lashings of eyeliner and mascara brought out every last glimmer of blue in her eyes, soft blush accentuated her cheekbones, and her lips were full but teasingly neutral. As for the dress—black had never been less safe. A million hand-sewn black glass beads covered every inch of fabric, and the deep empress line showed off her bosom—and from the second she’d slipped it on, feeling guilty for being greedy, Caitlyn had been wanting to ask if it was hers or on loan.
Well, for tonight at least it was hers.
And for tonight at least she had enough confidence to deal with Lazzaro—was enough of a woman to walk away from the man of her dreams.
She’d always thought that he’d come back.
That the bitter man, so twisted by grief, would one day return to the man she had first met. She had been sure in her heart that the man she had fallen in love with was in there somewhere.
Only he wasn’t.
Tears glittered in her eyes as the door to her heart closed to him—closed to a man who could do such a thing to his friend. It was all she’d thought about all day, as she was primped and preened to within an inch of her life, to make her fit to grace the arm of Lazzaro Ranaldi when he attended his good friend’s birthday party. The friend whose wife he was having an affair with.
‘Are you ready?’
It was hardly an effusive greeting, but Caitlyn was relieved not to have to make small talk as she tried to squeeze lipstick, face powder and her key into the tiniest of bags—relieved because in all her efforts to look the part she’d forgotten to prepare herself for the sight of him. Always effortlessly stunning, tonight, when he had made an effort, he quite simply took her breath away. Black hair was smoothed back from his face, and his tuxedo was so superbly cut it accentuated his already broad shoulders. The white of his shirt and immaculate trousers highlighted the smooth planes of his stomach and the thick muscular legs that seemed to go on for ever.
‘Is that all you’re taking?’ Lazzaro frowned. ‘You know we’ll be staying there?’
‘Where?’
‘At the Mancini hotel—of course.’
She hadn’t known, of course—though now she thought about it, it seemed obvious. Someone with the wealth and resources of Alberto Mancini would ensure his guests were extremely well looked after.
‘It would be rude to decline …’ Lazzaro gave a pompous shrug as Caitlyn turned to race to pack an overnight bag. ‘Even if my hotel is better.’
‘How was your afternoon?’ Caitlyn asked as the elevator doors clanged behind them.
‘Long,’ came the single-word reply as he stared fixedly ahead.
Lazzaro was holding his breath—trying to block out her heady scent—trying not to look at her. Oh, he’d always known she was stunning—that with the right clothes, the right make-up, she could rival any of the A-list beauties who would be paraded tonight—but knowing what he knew, what he’d found out today, seeing her so sleek, so polished, instead of melting him it did the opposite. Tonight she turned him to stone.
He strode out of the lift and across the foyer and into the waiting car. Caitlyn struggled to keep up, tossing her bag to his driver and not offering a single word as the car sped through the wet Rome streets.
A blonde Medusa—bewitching, beguiling. Well, not tonight. Tonight he was impervious to her charms. Tonight he would hold onto the truth—the truth that was becoming clear, no matter how she, how he, tried to gloss over it. So many times he’d been tempted to trust her, to ignore the red flags—to just deny what he knew—see only the good … She bewitched him, just as Roxanne had Luca—one look at those eyes and he was gone.
Well, no more!
Tonight he would confront her.
‘Lazzaro!’
Alberto Mancini was, of course, the guest of honour at his own party, but Lazzaro clearly came a close second. Their host quickly excused himself from the gathered crowd and made his way over, talking in rapid Italian as he greeted his friend, but politely switching to English as soon as Caitlyn was introduced.
‘So, you are Lazzaro’s new personal assistant—congratulations! No doubt we will be seeing quite a bit of each other.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Caitlyn dutifully answered.
‘May I say you look stunning? Every head turned when you walked in.’
In Lazzaro’s direction, Caitlyn wanted to point out. But instead she murmured her thanks.
‘This is my wife, Bonita …’ Alberto said cheerfully, slidin
g an arm around his wife’s tiny waist as she came over. ‘Looking stunning too—though so you should, darling,’ he teased good-naturedly, ‘with the amount of time you spent at the parlour today! Bonita, this is Caitlyn—Lazzaro’s new personal assistant!’ And from the tiny nervous dart in Bonita’s eye, from her polite response and the kiss on Caitlyn’s cheek, if any confirmation had been needed that Alberto knew nothing of his wife’s whereabouts that afternoon, then she had it.
As Alberto excused himself and wandered off to mingle with his guests, all pretence at politeness was dropped. Bonita reverted to Italian, taking Lazzaro by the arm and guiding him away, leaving Caitlyn awkward and alone and trying not to show it. She sipped on her drink and made occasional small talk, standing on heels that hurt with a smile that ached—and a heart that was literally breaking.
In a room of beautiful people, somehow Lazzaro topped them all.
He stood just that bit taller, that bit straighter than the rest—with beautiful women floating around him like humming birds, like butterflies … like angry bees, Caitlyn thought sometimes, watching through narrowed eyes as he danced with many—or merely stood as they fought for the beam of his smile, for a second dance with the master, for the chance of a night with him. Alberto Mancini joined him, chatting and laughing and utterly, utterly oblivious—and it made Caitlyn feel sick.
‘He’s an attractive man …’ Bonita was beside her as the painful night was thankfully drawing to a close, sipping on champagne and watching the proceedings. ‘Your boss.’
‘So is your husband,’ Caitlyn answered tightly, her back straightening as if it had a rod in it, her hand so tight on her glass she half expected the stem to snap.
‘He is …’
The affection in Bonita’s voice confused Caitlyn.
‘A lot of people, my family included, think it can only be about money … why would I look at him otherwise? They do not know how he makes me feel.’
‘How does he make you feel?’
‘Safe,’ Bonita answered. ‘When I am with Alberto, my world is safe.’
Then what the hell are you doing? Caitlyn wanted to scream at her. Only she didn’t—just stiffened more, if that were possible, as Lazzaro caught her eye. Her whole body was torn between want and loathing as he excused himself from the masses and made his way over.
‘We were just talking about you, Lazzaro.’ Bonita smiled.
‘All good, I hope?’ he drawled, but his face was grim. ‘I think Alberto has had enough.’
‘I agree.’ Bonita gave a tight smile. ‘Will you …?’
‘I have told him.’ Lazzaro nodded. ‘He is just saying his farewells—I will help him to his room.’ His eyes were thoughtful as he looked over at Caitlyn. ‘I’m sorry if I have left you to your own devices …’
‘I’m not your date, Lazzaro,’ Caitlyn answered tightly. ‘This is work.’
‘Then, when I return, it’s time I asked my assistant to dance.’
A heart that should be utterly unmoved by him somehow leapt when finally they danced.
Even as he held her, even as they danced, it was at arm’s length—the boss and his assistant—the duty dance. But even if his hands barely touched her dress, even if her body wasn’t against his, the energy was undeniable—the space between them thick with loathing and bitter attraction. Her hair occasionally tickled his cheek, her scent filled his nostrils, and the awkwardness between them was arousing somehow. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, to pull her soft, warm body to his hard one, but instead he spoke.
‘Thank you …’ His voice was low in her ear. ‘For not saying anything to Alberto about this afternoon.’
‘Don’t thank me.’ His hands were loosely around her waist, their bodies somehow close enough to look as if they were comfortable with each other even while barely touching—oh, but she ached, longed to move that dangerous couple of inches, to rest herself against him, to close her eyes and feel him, have him hold her. But Caitlyn knew if she did she’d be lost. ‘Don’t make me a part of it.’
‘I’m not with you—a part of it?’ Now and then he did that—his English was seemingly not quite so perfect, needing her to translate—but Caitlyn knew better. Knew he was, in fact, just buying a little more time.
‘Don’t …’ She looked up to him. ‘Don’t ever put me in that position again. I’ll lie to your girlfriends, Lazzaro—but not to their partners.’
‘I never asked you to lie …’
‘Should I have told him Bonita and I had already met?’ Her words hissed into his ears. ‘When she came to your suite. Should I have told him that the reason his young gold-digging wife’s looking so fabulous—with that flush on her face and her sparkling eyes—has nothing to do with hours at the salon, but everything to do with your—?’ Her voice stopped abruptly as his hand caught her wrist.
His words were caustic as they reached her. ‘How dare you judge me by your own standards?’
‘At least I have some standards!’
They weren’t even pretending to dance now, just standing in the middle of the dance floor, bristling, bursting with unsaid words. But thankfully the music paused then, the room rippling with applause, and Lazzaro’s hand tightened around hers, practically dragging her across the dance floor to a secluded table.
Only there was no such thing as total seclusion when you were Lazzaro Ranaldi. A waiter appeared—offering drinks, pouring water—when all they wanted was to be left alone.
‘What standards?’ Lazzaro sneered, picking up the conversation exactly where they had left it. ‘You’re the liar …’
‘Me?’
‘It was confirmed today—you never did have a second interview lined up with Mancini.’ He watched as she coloured up, watched her hands tighten around her drink, and couldn’t help but smile in triumph. It was Caitlyn playing for time now. ‘You never even had a first!’
‘No,’ Caitlyn finally answered, glad for the water that had been poured—glad that there was actually something she could do with her hands as she fiddled with her glass.
‘You never even sent them your résumé, did you?’
‘Why bother asking when clearly you’ve been checking up?’
‘Of course,’ Lazzaro answered evenly. ‘What? Did you think that I wouldn’t? Did you expect me to just trust you? Did you think that I really thought I had the hotel name wrong?’
‘I’m surprised you had time to even think of me when you were with Bonita,’ Caitlyn spat. ‘I’m surprised I even entered you head.’
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’ In a curiously insolent gesture Lazzaro raised one shoulder, then dropped it. ‘But clearly, after your little display, it has slipped your mind that I am in fact your boss, and you do have to explain yourself to me! So, why did you lie?’
But suddenly he changed his mind—the question he had just voiced temporarily forgotten as angrily he leant over the table.
‘Alberto Mancini is my friend—how dare you insult me—how dare you insult Bonita too—when you know nothing of what has gone on? Nothing!’
‘Then tell me,’ Caitlyn begged. ‘What the hell am I supposed to think, Lazzaro? She’s on the phone every five minutes, and coming up to your room, and clearly Alberto doesn’t have a clue …’
‘Why would I tell you? I don’t trust you,’ Lazzaro sneered. ‘So come on—why did you lie?’
‘I just did.’ Caitlyn shrugged tightly.
‘Surely in an interview you must—’
‘When I lied,’ Caitlyn interrupted, ‘I wasn’t even aware I was being interviewed. In fact, if I remember correctly, when I lied to you, Lazzaro, I was trying to leave my job, not wangle another one.’
‘You said you had another job practically lined up,’ Lazzaro pointed out. ‘You specifically said—’
Caitlyn put down her drink and stood up—she didn’t need this sort of inquisition now, didn’t want to go over that awful day again. And she was also angry—angry at the accusing way he always looked a
t her, the accusing way he so often looked at her.
‘Oh, I lied,’ Caitlyn flared, ‘and you were bloody grateful at the time, if I remember rightly. Grateful that you didn’t have to explain to your precious sister the type of man she was married to—grateful that you could put another Band-Aid over a raw subject rather than deal with it!’
‘I never asked for you to lie! I told you I wanted the truth.’
‘Perhaps!’ People were looking at them now, heads turning in their direction—the Italians were not exactly known for their discretion—but Caitlyn couldn’t have cared less. ‘But please don’t sit there and try to tell me you weren’t just a little bit relieved when you didn’t have to face up to it, didn’t have to actually deal with it—just like you don’t want to deal with your br—’ Her mouth snapped closed, her voice abruptly halting as if a plug had suddenly been pulled.
‘Go on.’ His voice was like ice. ‘Finish what you were going to say.’
‘I—I don’t want to …’ Caitlyn stammered, horrified at what she had just said, horrified at where this argument had led. But Lazzaro wasn’t letting her leave it there.
‘What is it I don’t want to deal with?’
‘Lazzaro, don’t.’
‘Clearly you have an opinion on me,’ Lazzaro continued, utterly ignoring her words. ‘And I’d like to hear it!’
There was no chance of even pretending this evening was going to conclude politely—no chance of making small talk when the big talk was hanging in the air. ‘I should go …’
She stood up. Hand shaking, Caitlyn reached for her bag—but Lazzaro caught her wrist. ‘Why would you leave when the conversation is just starting to get interesting?’
‘I’m going to bed.’ She pulled back her hand, and he let her go, but even as she turned, even as her shaking legs tried to walk her out of the ballroom, she knew that he was behind her.
Momentarily she lost direction—the Mancini lobby was unfamiliar—but, locating the lifts, she clipped towards them, knowing it wasn’t over. Without looking over her shoulder, Caitlyn closed her eyes as he stepped in the lift beside her, but her eyelids couldn’t dim the burn of his eyes on her. Her body was drenched in his anger—her mind trapped in the maze of a row that hadn’t yet happened but, thanks to her careless words, it would seem now had to.
Celebration: Italian Boss, Ruthless RevengeOne Magical ChristmasHired: The Italian’s Convenient Mistress Page 10
