Celebration: Italian Boss, Ruthless RevengeOne Magical ChristmasHired: The Italian’s Convenient Mistress

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘The lawyer just called—we’ve won!’ Her voice broke then, laughter turning to tears. ‘We can keep the house.’

  And even though their lawyer had said over and over that Cheryl had no case, that her grandfather’s wishes had been clear, that her mother’s contribution to the home had been documented, to have it confirmed, to know that it was finally over brought such a sweet flood of release that only then did Caitlyn actually realise the strain she had been under.

  ‘Thank you …’ Helen cried into the phone. ‘I know what I’ve put you through. I know it wasn’t fair to ask you to take on such a huge mortgage …’

  ‘I didn’t have to, though!’ Caitlyn smiled.

  ‘But you would have,’ her mother pointed out.

  ‘And you did,’ Caitlyn said softly. ‘You did it for your dad, remember?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they have a bridal registry?’ Lazzaro was utterly perplexed as, smiling, she walked into his office. ‘Of all the stupid things … What are you looking so happy about?’

  ‘I just am.’

  She’d never told him about her problems. The sum of money that was so huge to her was a drop in the ocean to Lazzaro, and worse for Caitlyn than him not understanding would have been the prospect of him sorting it out—the idea of somehow being beholden to him. As she took Alberto Mancini’s daughter’s wedding invitation from him, her smile widened. ‘I actually think it’s nice that they don’t have a registry! It means that people like you can’t just click their mouse and have their gift dispatched—it means pompous, arrogant people like you actually have to stop and think about what their friends might want for a wedding gift.’

  ‘They are not my friends.’ Lazzaro flicked his hands skywards in exasperation. ‘She is the daughter of a friend of mine—a daughter I have not seen for five years, and I have never even met her fiancé. How could I possibly know what they want?’

  ‘Well, you’d better think fast,’ Caitlyn said cheekily. ‘You fly out on Thursday.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Caitlyn groaned. ‘I know you’re used to it, Lazzaro, and I know we’ll be travelling first-class and I can sleep all the way there—I know all that—but honestly …’

  ‘Okay—I get it …’ he relented. ‘You need your weekend off.’

  ‘I do.’

  And, oh, she did. Just needed a weekend to catch up with friends, to sleep in, to see her mum, to read … Lazzaro had said the job would be demanding, and it was, but add to the most demanding of jobs the most demanding of lovers, and Caitlyn was actually looking forward to a weekend of … nothing.

  ‘So you’re definitely not coming.’ He gave a regretful smile, then shot her a look that had her in flames. ‘Which means I won’t be either.’

  ‘You’ll survive!’ Caitlyn gave a saucy wink.

  ‘I guess I’ll have to—but for your sins you can choose the gift.’ He waved away her protest. ‘That is why us pompous, arrogant people have assistants—off you go.’

  What did you get someone who had everything? Someone you’d never met, someone who … Racking her brains, Caitlyn trailed the shops, wishing she knew enough to come back with something fabulous and meaningful … Why the hell didn’t they have a bridal registry? Caitlyn thought as she trudged back a couple of hours later to the hotel—defeated and empty-handed, but still smiling. She’d splurged on a bottle of champagne—she would bung it in the fridge at work and open it the second she got home tonight …

  ‘Ms Bell?’ Caught unawares, Caitlyn started at the sound of her name, swinging around and frowning at the woman who promptly thrust a microphone under her nose. ‘What do you have to say about the rumours that Lazzaro Ranaldi is dating his rival’s wife?’

  ‘Pardon …?’ Like a rabbit in headlights, Caitlyn froze as she saw the television camera zooming in on her.

  ‘We have it from a reliable source that Mr Ranaldi has been seeing rather a lot of Bonita Mancini—we have photos of them at lunch, and we have heard that he spent the afternoon of Mr Mancini’s sixtieth birthday with her. And that night he put him to bed drunk and then consoled his wife—’

  ‘No!’ Caitlyn’s denial was immediate, her mind whirring. It was just a week to the wedding—all Bonita had wanted was for her stepdaughter to marry before hearing the news that her father was terminally ill—and now somehow the press had twisted what few facts they had into something sordid.

  ‘But Mrs Mancini did spend the afternoon in Mr Ranaldi’s suite …?’

  Caitlyn didn’t answer. Two spots of colour were burning on her cheeks, and she wished she was better prepared for this. She knew, as Lazzaro’s assistant, that she should have just walked away at the outset, should have said nothing, should neither have confirmed or denied.

  ‘And she did spend the night with Mr Ranaldi?’

  ‘No.’ Caitlyn was adamant now. ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘How can you be sure? My sources state that—’

  ‘I’m quite sure Mr Ranaldi didn’t spend the night with Mrs Mancini.’ She knew even as she said it that she would regret it, but knew she had no choice. She had to quash the rumours now.

  ‘And you’re sure because …?’

  And even if it was a rushed decision it wasn’t blind—Caitlyn could still feel Bonita’s hand in hers, feel the love that everyone denied she had for her husband, and she knew that even if it wasn’t what was wanted, it was something she had to do.

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t with Mrs Mancini, because Lazzaro Ranaldi spent the night with me.’

  Turning, she walked away—away from the hotel—disappearing into the crowds, wondering how she would face him, wondering what Lazzaro’s reaction would be when he heard what she’d done …

  Never for a second did she imagine the truth.

  The frown on his face as he watched after his sister rang him on his mobile and told him to turn on the news, the black anger as he heard the reporter’s allegations.

  His hand jerked to his desk phone, to ring Bonita and warn her, but his grim face broke into a smile as he heard her blurt out her admission—as Caitlyn Bell dragged them out to face the world.

  ‘She’s lovely …’ a forgottenAntonia said down his mobile.

  ‘Not exactly discreet, though!’ Lazzaro pointed out, but he was still smiling.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it, brother?’

  He didn’t answer straight away, just stared out of his vast window down to the city streets below, knowing she was down there—imagining her embarrassment, her horror at what she had done, and wanting to soothe it.

  To tell her it was okay.

  To tell her that they were okay.

  For the first time in the longest time he breathed without pain. For just a moment or two Lazzaro felt peace creep somewhere into his soul—glimpsed a future that was bearable.

  ‘Lazzaro?’ Antonia pushed excitedly, smiling herself when her brother spoke again, then hung up the phone.

  ‘We’ll let you know.’

  But numbing a toothache didn’t make the rot go away. Even if the pain was deadened for a while, still the damage went on inside—weakening the roots, prolonging the inevitable, till it erupted in an agony that couldn’t be escaped. And then extraction was preferable to treatment.

  As Lazzaro clicked off the phone, as he wondered if he should just ring her now and tell her to stop hiding, the door opened and his smile faded—as the one woman on God’s earth he’d hoped never to see again walked into his office and plunged him out of his momentary oasis and straight back into hell.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘WHAT the hell do you want?’ Lazzaro sneered out the words, contempt blazing in his eyes as he stared at the person he hated most in the world. ‘Who let you in?’

  ‘Audrey let me up—she still remembers me.’ Roxanne flicked back her dark curls, strode across his office as if she owned it. ‘I thought we should clear the air …’

  ‘Clear the air?’ Lazzaro spat. ‘The air stinks when y
ou’re here. The stench of you makes me—’

  ‘Better out than in!’ Roxanne’s red lips smiled sweetly at him. ‘I saw Caitlyn on the news—she’s good, I have to admit that. When she sets her mind on something she always gives it her best.’

  ‘What?’ Lazzaro snapped, then shook his head—because he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t need to hear, didn’t want to be in the same room as Roxanne for even a second. ‘Get out, Roxanne—you make me sick.’

  ‘Did you fund her lawyers, Lazzaro?’

  ‘Lawyers?’ Narrowed eyes watched his smudge of a frown appear. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You mean she didn’t tell you? Did sweet little Caitlyn forget to mention when she had her legs wrapped around you that, even though her mother had freeloaded off my grandfather for years, not satisfied with living there, because Helen Bell couldn’t afford to raise her bastard child herself, even after he died they refused to move out, that they’re refusing to give my mother her fair share?’

  ‘You’re full of it,’ Lazzaro sneered. ‘You couldn’t tell the truth on your deathbed.’ A thud of papers on his desk held his gaze for a second. Legal letters. He pointedly pushed them away, but he was rattled now—and she knew it.

  ‘Why would I lie?’ Roxanne stared at him, those blue eyes the same as Caitlyn’s, but utterly, utterly steady—not even a hint of a flicker as they pinned him—and at that moment Lazzaro truly didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. Whether it was Roxanne looking him in the eye and lying, or Caitlyn who couldn’t.

  ‘Knowing Caitlyn, you were probably her plan B.’

  ‘What do you want, Roxanne?’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘As if I didn’t already know.’

  ‘I want what my mother’s entitled to.’

  ‘If she’s so entitled the courts would have seen it that way.’

  ‘Unlike Caitlyn, I don’t have access to limitless funds to pay lawyers—unlike my cousin, I’m not screwing a Ranaldi!’ Her face twisted with bitterness. ‘You really think she’s all sweetness and light, don’t you? You’re so bloody quick to make out I’m the bitch here.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘You know, she always said she’d get you in the end …’ Roxanne watched his jaw tighten, but he shook his head.

  ‘You’re a liar, Roxanne,’ Lazzaro hissed. ‘You’re just rotten to the core.’

  ‘I can still see her the day before Luca died, with that stupid photo of you she carried around, rattling on about how you’d given her a lift home and how she was already a shoe-in.’ Watching his face pale, watching as a muscle pounded in his cheek, Roxanne was sure that she had him. ‘Anyway I’m tired of playing with lawyers. Journalists are far more fun—they actually pay to listen—and I’m sure they’d be delighted to hear the full story about Luca!’

  ‘How much do you want?’ Pulling out his chequebook, somehow Lazzaro’s hands were steady—but his face was as white and as cold as marble.

  ‘My mother’s share.’ Roxanne spat out the figure, her blue eyes boring into his as he wrote not the sum she quoted, but two very choice little words. He watched her greedy hand snatch the cheque from his, watched her mouth twist in rage as she read his none too polite request for her to leave.

  ‘Talk to your journalist,’ Lazzaro jeered as she screwed it up and hurled it at him. ‘But, as you pointed out, I have limitless funds—and if you do talk I will spend whatever it takes to ensure you never see a single cent. I tell you now that I will devote the rest of my life to making yours hell. Never threaten me again, Roxanne, and never try to bribe me. I don’t deal with dirt!’

  ‘Oh, but you do, Lazzaro—and, just like your brother, you’re too foolish to realise!’ She turned at the door, excising her jealousy, her venom, her hatred, with every spiteful word. ‘The only difference between Caitlyn and me is that she chose more wisely. My cousin happened to hitch her star to the right wagon!’

  Her smell lingered long after she’d left—a sickly-sweet perfume that seeped into his pores, the same sickly scent she’d had on that day … here, right here. Sinking into his seat, he closed his eyes, waited for the nausea to recede—only it didn’t.

  ‘Luca …’ He closed his eyes. He could see his brother’s face. The face that had always been the same as his was different, and it wasn’t just the years of agony, regret and bitterness that had wreaked changes … Lazzaro’s fingers ran along the jagged line on his cheekbone—the numb knot of flesh, the scar that Luca had inflicted on his last day on earth.

  Still numb.

  Memories he’d spent more than two years quashing were bobbing to the surface now, and no matter how quickly he pushed one down, another popped up. He was locked in a shooting range—each image a target, each picture shot down, only to reappear stronger and more relentless than before.

  Two years on the pain was still just too big to deal with—but, like an anaesthetic wearing off, sensation was starting to creep in, raw wounds that weren’t ready to be exposed yet were starting to make themselves known.

  Only he didn’t want to feel—didn’t want to face it.

  But that was exactly what Caitlyn did—she made him face the impossible.

  As soon as she walked into his office, Caitlyn realised he couldn’t have heard her knock. Knew, somehow, that she was glimpsing a side to Lazzaro Ranaldi that he would prefer no one, not even his lover, to see.

  His head was in his hands, his shoulders slumped, his complexion grey beneath his fingers. She should turn, Caitlyn thought, walk out and knock again, save them both the embarrassment of explanations. But in that frozen second he looked up.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ She spilled the words out. ‘What I said to the press—I know it was indiscreet, I know I should have called you straight after. I was just so embarrassed …’

  His expression gave her nothing, no clue at all, and even though he was looking at her it was as if he was looking straight through her—as if he wasn’t even hearing her.

  ‘I was just put on the spot. I knew how important it was that it didn’t come out about Alberto, what it would do to him if there was even a hint of an affair …’

  The clap of his hands was like the crack of a whip, making her jump, making her eyes widen in confusion as it continued—as Lazzaro leant back in his chair and gave a slow hand-clap, on and on, as she stood there mute.

  ‘Bravo, Caitlyn.’ He’d stopped clapping now, but still it echoed in her head, stinging her ears as he stared at her now—stared at her as if he hated her. ‘You’re wasted as a PA. You should try your hand on the stage after I fire you.’

  ‘Because of what I said to the press—?’ she started, but her words were cut off by his.

  ‘Don’t play a player, Caitlyn. Especially not one as good as me.’

  ‘A player? I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘She’s still playing …’ Lazzaro jeered to an absent crowd. ‘Hey, why the champagne, Caitlyn? Come on—get out the glasses …’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean …’

  Tears were pricking her eyes, her head spinning, but he pulled two from the shelf and grabbed the bottle, popping the cork against the wall as a sob escaped her lips.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ Lazzaro smiled, but his eyes were black with hatred. ‘Your little announcement about us to the press? Or the fact you’ve screwed your cousin out of her inheritance?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Caitlyn’s teeth were chattering now.

  ‘I make it my business to know. Come on, Caitlyn.’ He pressed a glass into her hand. ‘At least you won’t need to use plan B.’

  ‘Plan B?’

  ‘Your cousin—’ he spat the word out ‘—the one you omitted to mention, the one who just happened to be dating my brother when he died, just paid me a little visit …’

  ‘Please, you don’t know what she’s like …’ Caitlyn begged. ‘You don’t know what she’s capable of …’

  ‘Oh, but I do!’ he roared. ‘How
many chances have I given you? How many times have I tried to ignore your lies?’ His voice was ominously calm now. ‘So innocent …’ He chinked his glass against hers. ‘My innocent little virgin, who just happened to be on the pill.’

  ‘They’re for my spots …’

  She shuddered. She didn’t have to justify herself to him—didn’t have to tell him anything. Her shaking hand placed her glass on the table, spilling champagne. She was trying to leave, only her legs wouldn’t move.

  ‘You lie to the bank, lie on your résumé. It comes so naturally I’m sure you don’t even know when you’re doing it. Hey, Caitlyn—when you told Roxanne you’d get me, did you really believe it? When you cut out my photo from a magazine …?’

  Her cheeks were burning, humiliation seeping into her bone marrow. It was like being stuck in a nightmare, her mouth opening to speak but the words not coming out.

  ‘When you set your little cap at the big prize, did you honestly think you’d win? Did you honestly think I wouldn’t see through you? Did you really think that by announcing things to the press you could push me into marrying you? Didn’t you realise that I’d only ever marry a woman I love—and that was never, could never, be you.’

  ‘I’m going.’ Her voice was a mere croak, her legs like jelly, but at least they were moving.

  ‘Good!’ Lazzaro snarled, and he was already ahead of her, brushing past her as he stormed out. ‘Get your things and then get the hell out. You’ve got five minutes—I don’t want a single thing of yours left behind. You make me sick.’

  ‘I hate you!’ she screamed out at him. Her voice was back now, and there was agony, truth, in every word. ‘And I wish to God I’d never fallen in love with you!’

  She watched his shoulders stiffen, could see his knuckles white on the handle of the door for just a second—and then he slammed it closed behind him.

  There would be time for tears later—but right now, after her outburst, she was numb, frozen, mute. She shook as she stood in the office, trembling at the task in hand, then moved, heart pounding, on a strange kind of autopilot—picking up her things, her books, her pens, her overnight bag that was permanently packed in case they jetted off at a second’s notice … There were things to leave too. She pulled out her purse, put down the credit card, wondered what to do with the phone. But it was too much to think about, too hard to stand and delete messages. Somebody else would have to deal with those.