Mistress for a Month

by Miranda Lee

  His mind returning to Renée once more brought a scowl to his. He’d promised himself earlier he wasn’t going to think about that witch today. He’d already given her enough thought to last a lifetime!

  The sight of a very familiar roadside postbox coming up on his right soon wiped the scowl from his face.

  His parents’ property wasn’t anything fancy. Just a few acres of market garden with a large but plain two-storeyed cream brick house perched on the small rise in the middle of the land. But Rico’s heart seemed to expand at the sight of it and he found himself smiling as he turned into the driveway.

  There was nothing like coming home. Home to your roots, and to people who really knew you, and loved you all the same.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TERESA MANDRETTI was picking some herbs from her private vegetable and herb garden—the one she planted and personally tended—when a figure moved into the corner of her eye.

  ‘Enrico!’ she exclaimed on lifting her head and seeing her youngest child walking towards her. ‘You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’

  The first Sunday of the month was traditionally family day at the Mandretti household, with her youngest son always coming home to share lunch with his parents, plus as many of his siblings and their families that could make it.

  ‘Mum.’ He opened his arms and drew her into a wrap-around hug, his six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame totally enveloping her own short, plump one.

  How he had come to be so big and tall, Teresa could only guess. His father, Frederico, was not a big man. When the family back in Italy had seen photos of Enrico at his twenty-first birthday, they said he had to be a throwback to Frederico’s father, who’d reputedly been a giant of a man. Teresa had never actually met her father-in-law. Frederico Senior had been killed in a fight with another man when he was only thirty-five, having flown into a jealous rage when this other fellow had paid what he called “improper” attention to his wife.

  Teresa could well imagine that this was where Enrico got quite a few of his genes. Her youngest son had a temper on him, too.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ she asked when her son finally let her come up for air. He was a hugger, was Enrico, like all the Mandrettis. Teresa was from more reserved stock. Which was why she’d found Frederico Mandretti so attractive. He’d taken no notice of her shyness and swept her off to his bed before she could say no. They’d been married a few weeks later with her first son already in her belly. They’d migrated to Australia a few months after that, just in time for Frederico the Third to be born in their new country.

  ‘No, but I’m not hungry,’ came her son’s surprising reply.

  Teresa’s eyes narrowed. Not hungry? Her Enrico, who could eat a horse even if he was dying! Something was not right here.

  ‘What’s wrong, Enrico?’ she asked with a mother’s worried eyes and voice.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong, Mum. Truly. I had a very large, very late breakfast, that’s all. Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s gone to the races. Not the horse races. The dog races. Down at Appin. Uncle Guiseppe has a couple of runners today.’

  ‘Dad should buy himself a greyhound or two. The walking would do him good. Get rid of that spare tyre he’s carrying around his middle. I think he’s been eating too much of your pasta.’

  Teresa bridled. ‘Are you saying your papa is fat?’

  ‘Not fat, exactly. Just well fed.’

  Teresa suspected Enrico was deliberately diverting the subject away from himself. She knew all her children well, but she knew Enrico even better than the others. He’d come along when she’d thought there would be no more bambinos. She’d already had eight children, one each year or so, three boys followed by five girls. After giving birth to Katrina, the doctor had told her she should not have any more babies. Her body was exhausted. So she’d gone on the Pill with her sensible priest’s permission, and for the next nine years, had not had the worry of being pregnant.

  But the Pill was not perfect, it seemed, and another child had eventually been conceived. Although she was worried, a termination had not even been considered, and fortunately Teresa had been blessed with a trouble-free pregnancy that time and an amazingly easy birth. Enrico being a boy was an added bonus after having had five girls in a row.

  Of course, he’d been very spoiled, by all of them, but especially his sisters. Still, despite the temper tantrums he threw when he didn’t get what he wanted, Enrico had been a loving child who had grown into a loving man. Everyone in the family adored him, not the least being herself. Teresa would never have admitted it openly, but Enrico held a special place in her heart, possibly because he was her youngest. With the ten-year age gap between Enrico and his closest sister, Teresa had been able to devote a lot of time to raising her last baby. Enrico had followed her around like a little puppy, and mother and son were very close.

  Enrico could never fool her. Aside from his suspicious lack of hunger today, she knew something had to be up to take him away from the races on a Saturday afternoon. With a mother’s intuition, she sensed it had something to do with a woman. Possibly with that Renée lady he often spoke about but whom she’d never met, the one he played poker with every Friday night and who was part of his racing syndicate. Teresa had sensed an odd note in his voice whenever he mentioned her.

  And he mentioned her quite a bit.

  Teresa would have liked to ask him about her but suspected that the direct approach would be a waste of time. At thirty-four, her youngest son was long past the age that he confided matters concerning his personal and private life to his mother. Which was a pity. If he’d consulted her before he’d become tangled up with that Jasmine creature, she could have saved her son a lot of heartache.

  Now, there was a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. Clever, though. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth around the Mandrettis till the wedding, after which she’d gradually stopped coming to family functions, making poorer and poorer excuses till there weren’t any left to be made.

  Fortunately, she was now past history. Though not generally believing in divorce, Teresa was a realist. Some divorces were like taking the Pill. A necessity. Still, Teresa didn’t want Enrico repeating his mistake by getting tangled up with another unsuitable woman.

  ‘Did you play cards last night?’ she asked as she bent to pull a few sprigs of mint.

  ‘Of course,’ came her son’s less than enlightening reply.

  ‘Charles well, is he?’ Charles was the only one of Enrico’s three poker-playing friends whom Teresa had actually met, despite her having invited the trio to several parties over the years. That Renée woman was a bit like Jasmine, always having some excuse not to come. The other man, the Arab sheikh, had also always declined, though his refusals Teresa understood.

  Enrico had explained that Prince Ali kept very much to himself, because of his huge wealth and family connections. Apparently, the poor man could never go anywhere in public without having a bodyguard accompany him. Sometimes two.

  What a terrible way to live!

  Enrico had to cope with a degree of harassment from the Press and photographers himself, but he could still come and go as he pleased without feeling he was in any physical danger.

  ‘Charles is very well,’ her son answered. ‘He and his wife are going to have a baby. In about six months time, I gather.’

  ‘How lovely for them,’ Teresa enthused as she straightened, all the while wondering if that was what had upset Enrico. He’d always wanted children of his own. Most Italian men did. It was part of their culture, to father sons to proudly carry on their name, and daughters to dote upon.

  Teresa had no doubt Enrico would make a wonderful father. He was marvellous with all his nephews and nieces. It pained Teresa sometimes to see how they always gravitated towards their uncle Rico, who was never too busy to play with them. He should be playing with children of his own.

  If only she could say so.

  Teresa suddenly decided that s
he was too old and too Italian for the tactful, indirect approach.

  ‘When are you going to stop being silly and get married again, Enrico?’

  He laughed. ‘Please don’t hold back, Mum. Say it like you see it.’

  ‘I do not mean any disrespect, Enrico, but someone has to say something. You’re thirty-four years old and not getting any younger. You need a wife, one who will be more than happy to stay home and have your children. A man of your looks and success should have no trouble finding a suitable young lady. If you like, we could ask the family at home to look around for a nice Italian girl.’

  That should spur him on to do the looking around for himself! Enrico might have Italian blood flowing in his veins but he was very Australian in many ways. Look at the way he always called her Mum and his father Dad, whereas his older brothers and sisters always called them Mama and Papa.

  Naturally, arranged marriages were anathema to her youngest son. He believed in marrying for love, and, up to a point, so did Teresa.

  But best not to tell him that.

  Her son’s look of horror was very satisfying.

  ‘Don’t start that old-fashioned nonsense, Mum. When and if I marry again, it will be to a lady of my choosing. And it will be for love.’

  ‘That’s what you said the first time, and look where it got you!’

  ‘Hopefully, not every woman is like Jasmine.’

  ‘I still can’t understand what you saw in that girl.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s because you’re not a man.’

  Teresa shook her head at her son. Did he think she was so old that she had no memory of sex? She was only seventy-three, not a hundred and three.

  ‘She might have had a pretty face and a good body but she was vain and selfish,’ Teresa pronounced firmly. ‘You’d have to be a fool not to see that.’

  ‘Men in love are fools, Mum,’ he retorted with a self-mocking edge which Teresa immediately picked up on.

  She stared up at Enrico but he wasn’t looking at her. He was off in another world. It came to her that he wasn’t thinking of Jasmine, but some other woman. Teresa’s heart lurched at the realisation that her youngest son, the apple of her eye, was in love with a new woman.

  Dear God, she hoped and prayed that it wasn’t his card-playing friend. Despite never having met the lady, Teresa had gleaned quite a few facts about her from Enrico’s various comments. She was a widow for starters, a wealthy widow, whose late husband had been a much older man. An ex-model, she was also a highly astute businesswoman who ran a modelling agency in the city. To cap it all off, she was in her mid-thirties and had never had any children. Probably hadn’t wanted any. A lot of career women didn’t.

  In other words, she was not good daughter-in-law material for Teresa Mandretti.

  ‘I won’t be coming home for lunch tomorrow, Mum,’ Enrico said abruptly. ‘I have somewhere else I have to go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The man who trains our horses is having a special open day at his place for all his owners to celebrate the arrival of spring, and presumably get everyone in the right mood for the imminent spring racing carnivals.’

  ‘Like a party,’ his mother said.

  ‘Yes. I suppose you could call it that,’ Rico agreed.

  Earlier this year, Ward’s very savvy personal assistant, a smart little piece called Lisa, had instigated the increasingly popular tradition amongst horse trainers of having an open day for the owners every Sunday where they could visit their horses, discuss their valuable charges’ prospects with the trainer or his stable foreman, then enjoy each other’s company afterwards over a buffet lunch. But tomorrow was going to be extra-special, with the best of champagne and food.

  Rico hadn’t been going to attend, the same way he never attended any open day which fell on the first Sunday of the month, because it clashed with his monthly family get-together, an occasion which was far more important to him than socialising with the rich and famous, or having another clash with Renée.

  But tomorrow was different. Tomorrow was D day. Desperation day.

  ‘I see,’ his mother said thoughtfully. ‘Will Charles be there?’

  ‘Probably not. He’s not as interested in the horses as he once was.’

  ‘That is understandable, Enrico. He has more to think about now that he has a wife and a little bambino on the way. What about your sheikh friend? He’s not married. Will he be there?’

  ‘No. You know Ali rarely goes to functions like that.’

  Which left…the widow, Teresa deduced. Unless this horse trainer had a blonde girl jockey in his employ.

  Enrico was partial to blondes. But tall, curvy ones, come to think of it, not teenie-weenie skinny ones. Which begged the question of what this Renée looked like.

  She had to be tall, since she was an ex-model. And probably blonde, since her son was attracted. Maybe even busty, as Jasmine had been. Gone were the days when models had to be flat-chested.

  ‘What about your other card-playing friend?’ Teresa couldn’t resist asking. ‘The lady. Renée, isn’t it? Will she be there?’

  He smiled. He actually smiled. But it wasn’t a happy smile. More a wryly resigned one.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sure to be.’

  Which gave Teresa the answer she was looking for. Enrico was in love with this Renée, but the lady didn’t return his feelings.

  Now Teresa didn’t know what to think, or to feel. That any woman could resist her Enrico annoyed her considerably. Her youngest son was irresistible, in her opinion. At the same time, the last woman she would want him getting tangled up with was another creature like that gold-digging Jasmine.

  So perhaps it was just as well this Renée didn’t fancy him. But truly, she had to be some kind of blind fool. Enrico was a magnificent man. A man amongst men. What kind of stupid woman would not want him in her bed, and in her heart?

  Teresa dropped the sprigs of mint she’d picked into the front pocket of her apron and linked arms with her handsome son. ‘Come, Enrico. I have another pasta recipe to show you. A brand-new one.’ And she drew him towards the back door, chattering away all the while, showering him with her love and approval.

  Rico allowed himself to be cosseted and comforted, because he knew that, come tomorrow, he would be going into battle again with his nemesis. His decision just now to attend the open day showed how addicted he was to that witch’s company. He simply could not go a single weekend without seeing her. Avoiding her at the races this afternoon hadn’t worked at all.

  It was a deplorable state of affairs. But what could he do about it? How could he change it? How could he change her?

  He couldn’t. All he could do was change himself. But how, was the problem. How did you stop yourself craving what you’d become addicted to?

  He’d tried the out-of-sight, out-of-mind method, and that hadn’t worked. Going cold turkey didn’t apply, as he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of having what he craved. There was counselling, he supposed, but he just couldn’t picture that working, either.

  So tell me, Mr Mandretti, what is it about this lady that you like so much?

  Let’s see, now, Doc, he could hear himself replying. First there are her eyes. The slanting green ones which gleam with contempt every time they look at me. And then there’s her gorgeous mouth, which cuts me to ribbons every time she opens it. But mostly there’s her long, tall, far-too-slender body, which I shouldn’t find incredibly sexy but I do!

  He’d be diagnosed a masochist with obsessional compulsive disorder and sent home with a swag of antidepressants, an appointment for a therapy session every week into eternity and a bill you couldn’t climb over.

  No, he wasn’t going to try counselling.

  Which left what?

  The answer really was quite simple…if you were prepared to embrace the joys of rejection. He could ask the merry widow out. On a date.

  He had asked her out before, of course. Many times. But under the guise of a general invitation to one of his mo
ther’s parties.

  Renée had always refused. Oh, she’d been polite enough on those occasions, but the bottom line was always the same. Clearly, she didn’t want to spend any more time in his company than that which she presently endured.

  To ask her out on a one-on-one basis was true masochism. But damn it all, what did he have to lose?

  Tomorrow, he would jump right into the lion pit and put his head in the lioness’s mouth. What happened after that was anybody’s guess.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AROUND twelve-thirty the following day, a gut-tightened Rico left his new penthouse apartment—the one he’d snapped up from Charles when he relocated to the North Shore—and rode his private elevator down to the basement car park. There he strode quickly over to his Ferrari, jumped in behind the wheel, shoved in the key and started the engine.

  He was running a bit late, considering the invitation stated from eleven onwards, but it wouldn’t take him long to get there. Fifteen minutes at most. That was one of the great things about Charles’ old place, aside from the views. Its location down near Circular Quay was so darned convenient.

  Rico hadn’t exited the underground car park and driven more than a block before realising that having the top down on his car was downright uncomfortable. The day was not a picture-perfect spring day, unlike yesterday, which had been lovely and warm.

  As he grudgingly zapped the top up on his car, Rico told himself that the grey skies were not an omen of the day ahead, just typical of Sydney in early September. He still marvelled how the Sydney Olympics—which had been held in that same month—had been blessed with such consistently magnificent weather. Most of the time you never knew what you were going to get in spring in Sydney till you stuck your head out of the window in the morning. Relying on the weather forecast the night before was as silly as thinking Renée was actually going to say yes to his asking her out today.