At the Italian's Command

by Cathy Williams

  Her heart sank further at the contents of the note. No recriminations. Just a gentle command that she take it easy for the morning and meet him for lunch at an Italian café in Knightsbridge. Because he needed to have a little chat with her.

  For the remainder of what was left of the morning, Sophie’s mind went into runaway mode at the prospect of what that little chat might be about. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. Little chats never were. At worst, she would walk away even more humiliated than she currently felt. More than she had felt when she had been an infatuated teenager and he had told her, politely but firmly, to get lost.

  But she couldn’t run away. Sooner or later she would come crash, bang into him at one of his mother’s summer barbecues or Christmas parties, which she always seemed to find herself coerced into attending. And then there was the small matter of the assignment, a favour from his mother. To run away would be to let her mother down, his mother down, the company down, and herself as well, although she thought that she would probably not lose too much sleep if she were the only person involved.

  With a trapped feeling, she found herself heading off for the restaurant at exactly eleven-thirty. On the bright side, her head had cleared up. On the other hand, her stomach had taken over where the head had left off, twisting into queasy knots as the bus deposited her too close to the restaurant for her liking.

  She had returned to her comfort clothes, in a conscious effort to distance herself from the person of the night before. She was even carrying her smart briefcase, although she couldn’t conceive of any situation arising whereby she might possibly want to take notes.

  She spotted Rafe almost as soon as she walked in. There was a bar dominating one wall of the restaurant, which was not modelled on traditional lines, and there he was, sitting on one of the bar stools and nursing a glass of something.

  And he looked amazing. Cool, sexy, expensive. Sophie had thought about what she would say, how she would apologise for her behaviour, but looking at him now, she knew that any apology would be a big mistake. He didn’t want or need some woman snivelling on his shoulder like a child. If he saw her as a liability and wanted to end their informal arrangement, then any show of vulnerable behaviour would just reinforce his decision, and, really, it would be awful to have him think of her as that drippy little woman who needed rescuing.

  Then she thought of him getting her out of that dress, his hands brushing against her naked body while she blissfully slept on, and it took a huge effort not to falter in her brisk stride towards the bar.

  ‘Hi,’ she said brightly, eyes sliding away from him towards the man serving behind the bar.

  ‘Feeling okay today?’ Rafe drawled, sipping his drink slowly and looking at her over the rim of his glass with those green, green eyes.

  ‘Oh, you know, the head was pounding this morning but nothing that a couple of painkillers couldn’t take care of!’ She hoped that her voice struck exactly the right chord of experience at life’s little foibles and amusement by them. ‘Shall I sit at the bar or is there a table reserved for us? Popular place, isn’t it? But I guess that’s to be expected considering it’s in Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Table, I think.’ He seemed to make invisible yet obvious compelling eye contact with someone, because no sooner was he off his bar stool, than a young waiter was scurrying over to them with menus under his arm.

  He allowed her to precede him and sighed under his breath. He had contemplated ignoring the whole business of the night before, but had decided against it. He had never volunteered for role of caretaker before, but what choice did he have? She wasn’t some random stranger whose irritating presence he could dispense with, or more likely delegate to his secretary to dispense with while he continued his fast-rolling life of work. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have given a second thought to what the outcome for her might have been had he dispensed with her. He would have eliminated her as unsound for her job.

  He had a flashback to the sight of her, as limp as a rag doll as he eased her dress off her, and his momentary reaction to seeing those breasts, innocently exposed.

  He frowned, irritated at being reminded of that fleeting moment when, for once, all his control had flown out of the window and in its place had been something dark and confusing and unsettling.

  ‘Right,’ he said abruptly, shifting his chair sideways so that he could cross his legs, ‘we need to talk.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SOPHIE felt her stomach lurch. It reminded her of that seasick feeling she had experienced as a young teenager when she had gone on a cross-channel school trip to France, but without the happy knowledge that sooner or later the ship would dock and the sickness would disappear. She had the nasty suspicion that whatever Rafe said now would haunt her for ever.

  She bit back the urge to rush into instant, hand-wringing apology and offered him a polite, interested smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t normally be inclined to dredge up embarrassing incidents…’ Rafe leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fabulous face rueful but firm. ‘However, we need to talk about what happened last night.’

  Sophie took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘I’m very sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friends.’

  She had half expected him to use that as his opening cue to lay into her, but instead he sat back and looked at her with amusement, which seemed more irritating than the response she had predicted. Instinct told her to hold onto her annoyance and run with it, but common sense thankfully prevailed, and she frowned.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny…’

  ‘Why do you imagine that your behaviour, or anyone else’s for that matter, might embarrass me? Besides, believe me when I tell you that I’ve seen far worse. No…you surprised me, but I wasn’t embarrassed.’

  ‘I surprised you? How did I surprise you?’ Her ruffled feathers were temporarily calmed by his prosaic reaction.

  And if he wasn’t going to deliver a speech on her ridiculous behaviour, then what exactly was this chat, so-called, going to be about?

  Rafe took his time answering that question. For once, he was in no huge rush, having had his early afternoon appointment cancelled because the director of the company was laid up with some ridiculous bug that was going round. He gave the waitress time to take their orders, time to pour him a glass of wine. Sophie, he noticed, was sticking to water.

  ‘Would you like a long answer or the abridged version?’ He sipped some of his wine and looked at her over the rim of his glass. Her look was telling him that she would rather he avoided the subject altogether, but in the absence of that possibility he knew that she would go for the long answer. Experience with women had long left him to conclude that they enjoyed hearing about themselves whenever possible.

  He was slightly taken aback when she shrugged and concluded in a weary voice that, since he was going to tell her anyway, he might as well decide how elaborate he wanted his answer to be.

  ‘You surprised me when you appeared wearing next to nothing…’

  Sophie reddened. ‘I was not wearing next to nothing! In fact, the saleswoman assured me that it was a very popular style! I’m not exactly ancient, you know. I don’t have to confine myself to long-sleeved dresses that reach down to my ankles.’

  ‘No, but you normally do,’ Rafe pointed out, enjoying her little flurry of self-defence. In fact, enjoying the uncustomary sensation of having a meal in the middle of the day without having to continually watch the hands of the clock ticking their way through his snatched leisure time. ‘Put it this way: every time I’ve seen you in the past at one of my mother’s little do’s—’

  ‘Your mother’s do’s are never little.’

  ‘I stand corrected. But, getting back to the point, I’ve never seen you in anything smaller than a long skirt or a pair of baggy trousers, even in the height of summer.’

  Sophie experienced a moment of true horror as she thought of him glancing at her from the cosy coterie of his sophisticated, well-dres
sed clique and catching sight of her in one of her speciality flowing outfits, which she had always thought eminently suitable when confronted with an outdoor party in the height of an English summer.

  ‘I’ve never seen the point of trying to manoeuvre a lawn in high-heeled stilettos and tight dresses,’ she retorted.

  ‘Sensible,’ he concurred, and she glared at him, not caring for that word sensible, which reeked of boring. ‘So it was quite surprising when you turned up in that little blue outfit. I suppose I should be flattered that you wore it for my benefit…’ Rafe had no idea what mischievous thought had made him say that, but he felt a shocking little buzz when she blushed. It made her look defiant and sheepish at the same time.

  She had had a crush on him when she was a kid, following him around with her sheep’s eyes whenever he had come back on his holidays. He lazily played with the notion that perhaps that crush had been lying there, dormant, waiting for a suitable opportunity to rear its head once again…and what better opportunity than enforced confinement with him over a two-week period?

  ‘It wasn’t for your benefit, Rafe,’ Sophie said calmly. ‘I know you probably think that every woman can’t help but fluff her feathers up when you’re around, but I bought that dress because I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.’ There was sufficient truth in that for her voice to remain steady. ‘I know I don’t dress in the height of fashion. Blame my parents. They always told me that it was what’s inside that counted, that it was sad to mindlessly follow fashion just because everyone else was doing it. But you had invited me to a social gathering and I’m not stupid. I know lots of people don’t share my opinions. I mean, you for one.’

  The accusation, coming from nowhere, brought all amusing thoughts to an abrupt halt. He narrowed his eyes and stared at her for a few unsettling seconds.

  ‘Care to explain where you’re going with that?’

  ‘My job here…’ if I still have a job here, she thought ‘…is to observe you. Not just the working man, but to form an impression of the whole man, the complete picture, so to speak.’

  ‘And your complete picture is…?’ His voice was cool enough to halt a charging rhino in its tracks.

  Which suggested that it was all right for him to vocalise sweeping statements about her, but not too acceptable when the shoe was on the other foot. Oh, well. If his little chat revolved around packing her back off to oblivion, then she might as well go out with a bang.

  ‘That you are entirely focused and driven when it comes to work. Too driven, I would say, but of course that’s just my personal opinion.’ She could feel her momentum gathering pace as the food was placed in front of them. Ravioli for her and fish for him, both mouth-wateringly tempting. She gratefully stabbed some of the pasta with her fork, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Go on. I’m all ears.’

  Funny, she thought, how the literal meaning of his words could offer encouragement while his tone of voice managed to take it away.

  ‘I gather you don’t give yourself time to form any lasting relationships with women, hence your unmarried status.’ Her voice faltered in the face of his continuing silence. She took another deep, bracing breath.

  ‘Or perhaps I’m of that rare breed of man who doesn’t see the value of rushing into something as important as marriage because society dictates that it’s time.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I get.’

  ‘You are overstepping your brief.’

  Sophie risked a glance. His expression was unreadable but his mouth was unsmiling. ‘I don’t have a brief, Rafe.’

  ‘Fine. Well, how’s this for a compromise? You voice your opinions, but I will not tolerate idle speculation being printed about me. In other words, you print facts, not bits of fiction that you’ve knitted together in an attempt to read my personality. Got it?’

  ‘Where does the fact end and the fiction begin?’

  ‘Fact: I work hard. Fiction: I am somehow missing out on fun. Fact: I am single. Fiction: It is because I work too hard to be interested in getting married and settling down to a house in the suburbs with the regulatory two point two children, dog and, in time, a mistress in the city. Fact: I rarely go on holiday. Fiction: It is because I have lost the art of enjoying leisure time. Are you getting the drift?’

  ‘Why would you have a mistress if you were married?’ Sophie asked, shocked by the depth of cynicism contained in that one passing phrase.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sophie.’ Rafe closed his knife and fork, sat back and tossed his napkin to the side of his plate. ‘Your father was a vicar, but surely you must have grown up with some idea of how the world works!’

  ‘Maybe that’s how it works in the circles you mix in…’

  ‘It’s the nature of man,’ Rafe gritted out, very slowly. ‘Human beings are not monogamous creatures. If you want my honest opinion, people rush into marriages for all the wrong reasons, hence the unhealthy divorce rate!’

  ‘All the wrong reasons, such as love? Affection? Devotion?’

  ‘Aren’t you missing out one vital reason?’ His mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile that sent little shivers racing up and down her spine. ‘Plain old lust. You can’t beat it. Sadly, it tends to get confused with other, nobler sentiments and that’s the problem. Relationships start out fine and dandy and if you’re not careful you start thinking that, because you can’t wait to hop in the sack with someone, then it must be something lasting and wonderful. Then the lust factor starts getting tarnished round the edges and, before you know it, the whole thing’s gone belly up and you’re left with two warring adults, unhappy children and, usually in the man’s case, alimony repayment till the day he dies.’

  ‘Can I quote that?’ Sophie asked lightly and he shot her an irritated frown.

  ‘Not word for word, but you can use the general sentiment.’

  ‘As an excuse for your single state…’

  ‘No one needs an excuse to remain single. Just a healthy dose of common sense.’

  ‘Maybe you just haven’t met the right woman,’ Sophie mused, risking a glance. She just couldn’t picture Rafael Loro with the right woman because that would mean losing that formidable self-control of his, being vulnerable to someone else. Rafe and vulnerable weren’t two words that went together. It was a bit like linking shark with tender-hearted. She couldn’t help a ghost of a smile from forming and Rafe, who never missed a thing, was quick to catch on.

  ‘Share the joke.’ Of course she was as innocent as the day was long. It showed in those half-baked romantic notions of hers, but he still found it annoying to have her level that vaguely pitying look at him, as though she had managed to find the secret key to the meaning of life. He scowled and beckoned across a waiter so that he could order a cafetière of coffee.

  ‘There’s no joke,’ Sophie said, fixing her features. ‘So you haven’t got married, not because you believe in it and you’re waiting for the right woman. You haven’t got married because on paper it’s an institution that just has too many things going against it.’

  Rafe inclined his head to one side. ‘You’re sensible with your clothes,’ he drawled, ‘and I’m sensible when it comes to women.’

  Sophie wondered whether he had meant to sound insulting or whether it had been an unconscious arrangement of words. It didn’t matter. The effect was the same. She still felt nettled.

  ‘Is that why you date women like Angela?’ she ventured recklessly.

  Rafe swung round to look at her. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s a very sexy woman.’ Admittedly not so sexy that he had raced over to see her last night, even though he had conceivably had time. It just proved his point that lust was a passing phase. Six months ago he had not been able to get enough of her. He thought with some degree of satisfaction that he was utterly in control of his emotions and thereby in control of his life, then it occurred to him that the woman sitting opposite him would probably launch into another debate on the subject. It was slightly surpr
ising that he had allowed her to get as far as she had voicing her opinions. He decided that that was simply an example of his fairness. After all, she was just doing her job.

  He also realised that he still hadn’t got round to the little chat he was determined to have and was now in danger of running late for his three o’clock meeting.

  ‘She doesn’t seem very challenging,’ Sophie said eventually, and he gave her a slow grin.

  ‘No, not mentally challenging, perhaps…’

  Which wasn’t to say that she wasn’t deeply challenging on other fronts, his look seemed to imply.

  ‘Has Claudia met her as yet?’

  Rafe looked suitably horrified, then he grinned conspiratorially at Sophie. ‘Come on, Sophie. You know my mother. What do you think?’

  Sophie thought that suddenly there was a thread of intimacy running between them that was a little nerve-racking. ‘She might like her,’ she said neutrally, and his grin broadened. When he smiled like that, without any cynicism or mockery, he was mind-blowingly attractive.

  ‘Or she might not. I’ve gone for the latter option.’ The grin became a low laugh. ‘The last time I took a woman back home, a woman very much like Angela, now I come to think of it, I had to suffer the discomfort of my mother trying her hardest to break all conversations down to their simplest terms and then a post-mortem that included a lot of disappointed sighs and heartfelt advice about thinking hard before getting too involved with her. Poor Fiona Blythe-White. She only lasted another fortnight.’

  Sophie couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing, imagining the scenario. Claudia was as sharp as a knife. She would have struggled with a bimbo.

  She had a laugh as full-bodied as her opinions, Rafe thought, disconcerted for a few seconds. She wasn’t by nature an extrovert or naturally someone who revelled in being the centre of attention, but there was a sincerity in everything she said and did that was refreshing.