by Andie Brock
‘Yes, of course.’ Daisy sprang out of her trance. ‘What can I get for you?’
‘Espresso—thank you.’
‘Isobel?’
‘Nothing for me.’ Her curt reply was partly down to annoyance that Orlando was taking charge—again—and partly a newly acquired aversion to coffee. Another pregnancy-related surprise.
Pulling out a chair, Orlando squeezed in beside her. Isobel’s basement office wasn’t meant for more than one person. With its wide table, positioned beneath a glass window to let in some natural light, it worked fine as a place for Isobel to work on her designs, catch up on paperwork. But it did not feel fine right now, with Orlando taking up far too much space, somehow managing to steal the air that she needed to fill her lungs.
‘There are bound to be some teething problems with the new factory.’ Picking up a jewel-studded evening sandal, he turned it over in his hand before it was snatched back by Isobel. ‘It’s only to be expected.’
‘I know that.’ The shoes were now being swept from the table into the large cardboard box they had arrived in. ‘But this is more than teething problems—this is a disaster.’
‘Not a disaster. You need to remember that these shoes are for the ready-to-wear collection. You’re not going to get the same quality of manufacture from the factory as you do from your guys here in the workshop.’ He jerked his head towards the glass-panelled door. ‘That sort of craftsmanship is for the couture trade only.’
‘Well, thank you so much for pointing that out.’ Isobel shot him a witheringly contemptuous look. ‘But when I want your opinion of my business I will ask for it.’
If she’d hoped to put him in his place she was to be disappointed. Orlando appeared completely unmoved. And that annoyed her all the more.
‘Can I ask what you are actually doing here?’ She tried again. ‘I’m sure you must have any number of business interests that require your attention more than mine.’
‘I think our relationship has progressed somewhat further than business.’
There was that infuriating calmness again—swinging like a lead weight between them, knocking aside Isobel’s protests and somehow giving him all the power.
Turning to the distraction of her computer, Isobel caught sight of her own anxious expression in the black screen before it came to life with a string of emails. She positioned her fingers over the keyboard, hoping she was making it quite clear that it was time for Orlando to leave. But it seemed he had other ideas.
‘As it happens, I might be able to help you with the problem of these samples.’
Opening her first email, Isobel gave it her full attention. ‘I doubt that very much.’
‘I’m flying to Italy this afternoon. I have some business in Le Marche. I can go to the factory and speak to the supervisor about your concerns.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Emails forgotten, Isobel turned to face him, a dangerous flash in her green eyes. ‘When Cassano Holdings invested in Spicer Shoes it was with the understanding that I would have complete control of the day-to-day running of the business. The issue with these samples is my problem, not yours, and I will be the one to rectify it.’
‘If you say so.’ Leaning back in his chair, Orlando tried to stretch out his long legs under the table. But the space was too small and he ended up nudging Isobel’s foot with his own.
Isobel edged away.
There was a moment of silence between them.
‘Are you able to fly?’
Isobel stared at him, nonplussed. What did he mean by that? ‘I’m pregnant, Orlando. I haven’t developed super powers.’
Orlando bit back the hint of a smile. ‘What I mean is, is there any reason for you not to accompany me to Le Marche?’
Isobel could think of a hundred reasons, but none of them were to do with her being pregnant.
‘I have a private jet leaving this afternoon and I suggest you come with me—see the factory for yourself, sort out the problems face to face.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’ Casting around, Isobel desperately tried to come up with a plausible reason to say no. She couldn’t go—not this afternoon, not just like that. Not with him. ‘I’m afraid I have far too much to do here.’
‘I’m sure something can be arranged.’
Right on cue the office door opened and a smiling Daisy appeared, bearing Orlando’s espresso before her like a sacrificial offering.
‘I bet Daisy could keep things ticking over here if you went away for a couple of days—couldn’t you, Daisy?’
‘Of course.’ The smile turned into a beam of pleasure. ‘No problem at all. You can trust me to make sure that everything runs smoothly.’
‘That’s settled, then.’ Turning back to Isobel, Orlando let his gaze rake over Isobel’s flustered figure. When he spoke again his voice was as dark as bitter chocolate. ‘The flight is booked for four p.m. I’ll meet you here at three.’
CHAPTER FOUR
WANDERING THROUGH THE narrow cobbled streets of Trevente, Isobel felt her spirits soar. She had had a good day.
Her visit to the factory had gone well. The head of production had given her a tour of the site, introducing her to the technical manager, the pattern cutters and the machinists. Everyone had shown real enthusiasm and commitment and had soon understood the sort of quality and attention to detail that Isobel expected. Suddenly she felt excited about her business again. This was what she had been working towards ever since the name Spicer Shoes had so dramatically hit the headlines.
The madness had kicked off three months ago, when an A-list actress being interviewed on prime-time television had taken offence at one of the questions being asked of her. Slipping off her shoe, she had looked as if she was going to chuck it at her interviewer, before changing her mind and speaking the now famous phrase.
‘You know what? I’m not going to risk damaging my Spicer shoe on you. No man is worth that.’
Suddenly everyone had been talking about Spicer Shoes, social media had gone crazy, and before Isobel had known it she’d been swamped with an avalanche of orders from the rich and famous the world over.
It had meant a huge change for the small business. Started over fifty years ago by her grandfather, Spicer Shoes had always catered for an exclusive but relatively modest clientele. Indeed, since Isobel had been in charge there had been several times when money had been so tight she’d worried about finding the wages for her team of twelve master shoemakers employed in the workshop.
That had all changed overnight. Even though Isobel had known this massive boost of publicity would bring challenges of its own—not least a serious cash-flow problem—it had been far too good an opportunity to pass up, and she had immediately decided she was going to run with it.
And run she had—straight into the arms of Orlando Cassano.
So far today Isobel had been spared his brooding company, and she was thankful for that. Because if Orlando’s mood had been brisk and businesslike when they were in London, being on Italian soil had seen it nosedive into sullenness.
It had been late last night when they had arrived at their hotel—a stunning converted monastery perched on the edge of a cliff. With huge vaulted stone ceilings and glass floors, and startlingly modern furniture, it was obviously the work of a creative genius—and very Orlando Cassano. They had been shown to their suite of rooms and Isobel had been relieved to see that the enormous space meant she would finally be able to get away from the man whose close proximity on the journey, together with the bleak mood that surrounded him, had done nothing to make her feel any less stressed.
Quickly choosing one of the two bedrooms, she had shut herself away, too tired to try and analyse why he was being so taciturn but assuming it was because of her and the baby and the realisation that he was well and truly trapped. Which was down to him. After all, hadn’t she tried to offer him a no-strings, get-out deal?
This morning his mood had been blacker than ever. Rapping on her bedroom door, he had awok
en her from a deep sleep, seen her scrabbling to pull the bedcovers over her even though she’d been wearing her favourite old pyjamas—chosen not just for their comfort value but as a practical reminder that this trip was going to be purely business. He had stood silhouetted in the doorway, the brilliant sunshine outlining his towering figure with a golden line of brightness, and informed her that he was leaving to attend to the mysterious business he had here in Italy. He’d told her a driver would be at her disposal to take her to the factory, and that he would meet her this evening in Trevente. And with that he had closed the door and been gone.
Trevente had turned out to be nothing short of shoe heaven. A medieval town, high on the hills of the Le Marche district of Italy, it was home to an astonishing array of different kinds of shoe shops. There were old-fashioned cobblers and bootmakers, with their workshops tucked behind shops not much bigger than a street kiosk, their wares reverentially displayed in the small shop windows like the treasures they were. Then there were the more prestigious establishments—big, famous names, with lavish window displays that took your breath away with their artistry and inventiveness.
The whole town felt like a celebration of the art of beautiful footwear and Isobel loved it—especially on this beautiful May evening, with the air filled with the scent of orange blossom and the narrow streets still busy with shoppers and diners despite the relatively late hour. It was impossible not to feel uplifted.
She was staring with rapt attention at a particularly beautiful display of shoes suspended on wires from the ceiling when she sensed she was no longer alone.
‘Here you are.’
The low, distinctly surly voice spun her head around and she found herself facing the broad expanse of a muscled chest beneath an open black leather jacket.
‘We had a dinner date, remember?’ Orlando’s scowl narrowed his eyes.
Isobel pushed back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. Oops. She was supposed to have met him in a local trattoria half an hour ago. ‘I’m sorry. I lost track of time. This place is so amazing.’
She risked a smile, then wished she hadn’t when it was met with a wall of hostility.
‘Considerably less amazing when you are hungry.’ Placing the flat of his hand against the small of her back, Orlando steered her away from the shop window, then linked his arm through hers—to move her in the direction he wanted her to go rather than as any display of companionship. ‘The trattoria is this way.’
Hurrying to keep up with him, Isobel found herself being navigated through a series of empty back streets so narrow that she could almost stretch out and touch the tall buildings on either side. Above them fancy iron balconies were festooned with washing, and colourful plants spilled out of recycled oil containers.
All this Isobel registered at the impatient pace of her companion, who showed no sign of slowing down or making any sort of conversation. Slanting a glance at him revealed a jaw set with grim determination, and the muted orange street light glancing off harsh cheekbones, shadowing his deep-set eyes.
He was overreacting, surely? Okay, she was late. But it wasn’t that big a crime—no one had died.
Tugging her arm from his grip, she finally managed to halt his march. ‘Can we slow down, please?’ Tossing back her head, she placed her hands squarely on her hips in true Italian mamma style. ‘You are going too fast for me.’
Orlando’s intense gaze raked over her as they stood in the dusky shadows of an alleyway. Maybe stopping hadn’t been such a good idea. Suddenly her breathing felt too shallow, and her chest was rising and falling too fast.
‘It’s these boots.’ Leaning back against the wall, she lifted her leg to inspect a heel and escape his stare. ‘They weren’t designed to take cobbles at high speed.’
‘Evidently.’ He was closer now—so close that she could feel the heat emanating from him as he looked down at her foot, feel the whisper of his breath against her hair. ‘What sort of crazy design are these anyway?’
Isobel waited to draw in a sensible breath before returning her leg to the ground and tipping her face to meet his. ‘They are from my new collection.’ Shoes she could talk about—a nice safe topic of conversation. ‘A sort of cross between a slave sandal and a boot.’ As Orlando’s lowered gaze raked over her open-toed footwear, over the long leather thongs that laced up the front, the topic started to feel a whole lot less safe. ‘I think they will prove to be popular.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
Something about Orlando’s low growl set her pulse racing off at a gallop—especially when it was matched with the unmistakably male gleam in his eyes. Swallowing hard, she ordered herself to get a grip.
‘However—’ she gave a small cough ‘—had I known we would be using these backstreets as a race track I would have worn my trainers.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
At the sound of an approaching scooter Orlando came still closer, placing the flat of his palms on the wall on either side of her head. With every nerve ending in Isobel’s body singing with anticipation, she had to stifle an involuntary gasp.
‘I happen to like your boots very much.’
Argh, now he was being nice to her. And that, combined with his lethal nearness, was more than Isobel’s poor overloaded senses could take.
The scooter put-putted past, giving them a cheery toot as it did so. But still Orlando didn’t move away, looking down on her, his breath warm on her face. ‘In fact I think your designs are brilliant.’
‘Thank you.’ Miraculously her voice seemed to be operating normally, even if the rest of her had gone into free fall.
For a long moment Orlando stared at her, the eye contact between them producing clenching waves that pulsed low in her abdomen. She felt her lips parting in unconscious invitation as she waited, her breath high in her throat. Slowly Orlando’s head lowered until his mouth was no more than a whisper away from hers. The world began to do a giddy spin.
‘Which is one of the reasons I agreed to invest in Spicer Shoes.’
Right, of course it was. A little voice inside her head was clamouring to find out what the other reasons might be, but before Isobel had a chance to go there Orlando had pushed himself away from the wall and with one last, punishing stare had moved away, leaving Isobel nakedly exposed.
‘Now, is there any chance we might actually make it to this restaurant?’
Lusardi’s was small and cosy, with a heavenly aroma of garlic and onions that made her mouth water as soon as they entered. With candles on the basic wooden tables, it had an intimate charm that Isobel immediately loved. The trattoria was full of noisy families—several generations chattering and laughing: rotund Italian men with their napkins tucked under their chin, tiny tots wielding full-sized cutlery as they put food into their small mouths.
The table that Orlando and Isobel were shown to was squashed into a small space, and the neighbouring diners obligingly pulled in their chairs and shifted their tables to give them a bit more room. Even so, Isobel was acutely aware of Orlando’s long legs brushing against hers as they tried to find some room under the table. She could sense the heat of his body in the confined space.
But the service was fast and efficient, and very soon they were tucking into delicious plates of fritto misto, stuffed olives and the most delectable truffle lasagne that Isobel could ever have imagined. She ate hungrily, realising she had hardly eaten anything all day, really enjoying the food. But she couldn’t say the same for the company.
Opposite her, Orlando had devoured his meal with a determined concentration that Isobel had decided she wasn’t even going to try to interrupt. Her brief attempts at conversation had been scythed down in favour of the food in front of him, so she had given up and left him to it. But that didn’t stop her being so aware of his presence that her body seemed to vibrate with it, making her fidget in her seat, cross and uncross her legs beneath the cramped table, pull at the neckline of her sleeveless dress in an attempt to cool herself down.
Raising his head from his meal, Orlando was immediately trapped by the sea-green gaze of his companion. Wide eyes were staring at him—watchful, wary, beautiful.
He knew his behaviour was puzzling Isobel, but right now he didn’t seem to have his usual reserves of good manners and he couldn’t do anything about it. His urbane charm had deserted him in favour of something much darker, more primal—something he couldn’t control.
His visit to the family solicitor that morning had been every bit as bad as he had expected. The hope in the old man’s eyes as he had formally unrolled the parchment deeds for Orlando’s signature had very soon been extinguished. After solemnly shaking Orlando’s hand, and addressing him by his new title—Marchese di Trevente—he had asked him about his plans for the Trevente estate. His optimism that Orlando would be the man to rescue the failing, run-down estate had been quite unmissable. And misplaced. As Orlando had wasted no time in telling him.
On hearing that he intended to put the whole place up for sale immediately, the solicitor had simply returned the heavy wooden seal to its velvet box, then looked down at the hardening wax next to Orlando’s signature with a look of deep regret.
It was only afterwards that Orlando had realised that by trying so hard to distance himself from his father, to make it clear that he was his son in name only, and that he wanted nothing to do with the title or the Trevente estate, he had actually displayed the sort of boorish behaviour that his father had been well known for. And that had done nothing to improve his mood.
And neither did sitting in this cramped restaurant with Isobel. Bringing her here had been a mistake. They could have gone for a meal anywhere—back to their hotel, with its cool air-conditioning and its Michelin-starred chef. Instead he had chosen this steamy, stuffy, frankly sweaty little trattoria. And why? Because he’d known that Isobel would like it here, that was why. A fact borne out by the way she was hungrily wolfing down her meal.
