The Italian's Christmas Secret

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘The car is outside waiting to take you into the city centre,’ he said. ‘And the stylist will meet you there.’

  ‘A stylist?’ she echoed, her gaze flickering uncertainly to her scuffed brown boots.

  ‘A very famous stylist who’s going to take you shopping.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought you might need a little guidance.’

  His condescension only intensified Keira’s growing feelings of inadequacy and she glared at him. ‘What, in case I opt for something which is deeply unsuitable?’

  His voice was smooth. ‘There is a different way of looking at it, Keira. I don’t expect you’ve been given unlimited use of a credit card before, have you?’

  Something in the way he said it was making Keira’s blood boil. ‘Funnily enough, no!’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is you! I bet you’re just loving this,’ she accused. ‘Does flashing your wealth give you a feeling of power, Matteo?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Actually, I was hoping it might give you a modicum of pleasure. So why don’t you go upstairs and freshen up before the car takes you into the city?’

  Keira put her empty cup down on a spindly gold-edged table and rose to her feet. ‘Very well,’ she said, forcing her stiff shoulders into a shrug.

  ‘By the way,’ he said as he gestured for her to precede him, ‘I notice you didn’t make any comment about my driving on the way here.’

  ‘I thought it might be wise, in the circumstances.’

  ‘But as a professional, you judged me favourably, I hope?’

  She pursed her lips together. ‘You were okay. A little heavy on the clutch, perhaps—but it’s a great car.’

  She took a stupid and disproportionate pleasure from the answering humour which gleamed from his eyes before following him up a sweeping staircase into a sumptuous suite furnished in rich brocades and velvets, where he left her. Alone in the ballroom-sized bathroom, where water gushed from golden taps, Keira dragged the hairbrush through her hair, wondering what on earth the stylist was going to think about being presented with such unpromising raw material.

  But the stylist was upbeat and friendly—even if the store on the Via dei Condotti was slightly terrifying. Keira had never been inside such an expensive shop before—although in her chauffeuring days she’d sat outside places like it often enough, waiting for her clients. A slim-hipped woman named Leola came forward to greet her, dressed in an immaculate cream dress accessorised with gleaming golden jewellery and high-heeled patent shoes. Although she looked as if she’d stepped straight off the catwalk, to her credit, she didn’t seem at all fazed by Keira’s appearance, as she led her around the shop and swished her fingertips over rail after rail of clothes.

  In the chandelier-lit changing room, she whipped a tape measure around Keira’s newly abundant curves. ‘You have a fantastic figure,’ she purred. ‘Let’s show it off a little more, shall we?’

  ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ said Keira quickly. ‘I don’t like to be stared at.’

  Leola raised perfectly plucked black eyebrows by a centimetre. ‘You are dating one of the city’s most eligible bachelors,’ she observed quietly. ‘And Matteo will expect people to stare at you.’

  Keira felt a shimmer of anxiety as she tugged a blue cashmere dress over her head and pulled on some navy-blue suede boots. What possible response could she make to that? What would the stunning Leola say if she explained that she and Matteo weren’t ‘dating’, but simply parents to a darling little boy? And even that wasn’t really accurate, was it? You couldn’t really describe a man as a parent when he regarded his newborn infant with the caution which an army expert might display towards an unexploded bomb.

  Just go with the flow, she told herself. Be amenable and do what’s suggested—and after you’ve been dressed up like a Christmas turkey, you can sit down with the Italian tycoon and talk seriously about the future.

  She tried on hip-hugging skirts with filmy blouses, flirty little day dresses and sinuous evening gowns, and Keira was reeling by the time Leola had finished with her. She wanted to protest that there was no way she would wear most of these—that she and Matteo hadn’t even discussed how long she would be staying—but Leola seemed to be acting on someone else’s orders and it wasn’t difficult to work out whose orders they might be.

  ‘I will have new lingerie and more shoes sent by courier to arrive later,’ the stylist explained, ‘since I understand you’re returning to Umbria tomorrow. But you certainly have enough to be going on with. Might I suggest you wear the red dress this evening? Matteo was very specific about how good he thought you would look in vibrant colours. Oh, and a make-up artist will be visiting the house later this afternoon. She will also be able to fix your hair.’

  Keira stared at the slippery gown of silk-satin which was being dangled from Leola’s finger and shook her head. ‘I can do my own hair,’ she said defensively, wondering if dressing up in all this finery was what Matteo usually expected for dinner at home on a weekday evening. ‘And I can’t possibly wear that—it’s much too revealing.’

  ‘Yes, you can—and you must—because you look amazing in it,’ said Leola firmly, before her voice softened a little. ‘Matteo must care for you a great deal to go to so much trouble. And surely it would be unwise to displease him when he’s gone to so much trouble.’

  It was a candid remark which contained in it a trace of warning. It was one woman saying to another—don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. But all it did was to increase Keira’s sensation of someone playing dress-up. Of being moulded for a role in the billionaire’s life which she wasn’t sure she was capable of filling. Her heart was pounding nervously as she shook the stylist’s hand and went outside to the waiting car.

  And didn’t she feel slightly ashamed at the ease with which she allowed the chauffeur to open the door for her as she slid onto the squishy comfort of the back seat? As if already she was turning into someone she didn’t recognise.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE CLOCK WAS striking seven and Matteo gave a click of impatience as he paced the drawing room, where an enormous fire crackled and burned. Where the hell was she? He didn’t like to be kept waiting—not by anyone, and especially not by a woman who ought to have been bang on time and full of gratitude for his generosity towards her. He wondered how long it would have taken Keira to discover how much she liked trying on lavish clothes. Or how quickly she’d decided it was a turn-on when a man was prepared to buy you an entire new wardrobe, with no expense spared. He was just about to send Roberto upstairs to remind her of the time, when the door opened and there she stood, pale-faced and slightly uncertain.

  Matteo’s heart pounded hard in his chest because she looked... He shook his head slightly as if to clear his vision, but the image didn’t alter. She looked unrecognisable. Light curls of glossy black tumbled over her narrow shoulders and, with mascara and eyeliner, her sapphire eyes looked enormous. Her lips were as red as her dress and he found himself wanting to kiss away her unfamiliar lipstick. But it was her body which commanded the most attention. Santo cielo! What a body! Scarlet silk clung to the creamy curve of her breasts, the material gliding in over the indentation of her waist, then flaring gently over her hips. Sheer stockings encased her legs and skyscraper heels meant she looked much taller than usual.

  He swallowed because the transformation was exactly what he’d wanted—a woman on his arm who would turn heads for all the right reasons—and yet now he was left with intense frustration pulsing through his veins. He wanted to call their host and cancel and to take her straight to bed instead, but he was aware that such a move would be unwise. He had less than twenty-four hours to get Keira Ryan to agree to his plan—and that would not be achieved by putting lust before logic.

  ‘You look...beautiful,’ he said unsteadily, noticing how pink her cheeks had grown in response to his compliment, and he was reminded once again of her innocence and inexperience.

  S
he tugged at the skirt of the dress as if trying to lengthen it. ‘I feel a bit underdressed, to be honest.’

  He shook his head. ‘If that were the case then I certainly wouldn’t let you leave the house.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘What, you mean you’d keep me here by force? Prisoner of the Italian tycoon?’

  He smiled. ‘I’ve always found persuasion to be far more effective than force. I assume Leola organised a suitable coat for you to wear?’

  ‘A coat?’ She stared at him blankly.

  ‘It’s November, Keira, and we’re going to a party in the city. It might be warmer than back in England, but you’ll still need to wrap up.’

  Keira’s stomach did a flip. ‘You didn’t mention a party.’

  ‘Didn’t I? Well, I’m mentioning it now.’

  She gave the dress another tug. ‘Whose party is it?’

  ‘An old friend of mine. Salvatore di Luca. It’s his birthday—and it will be the perfect opportunity for you to meet people. It would be a pity for you not to have an audience when you look so very dazzling.’ His gaze travelled over her and his voice thickened. ‘So why not go and get your coat? The car’s waiting.’

  Keira felt nerves wash over her. She was tempted to tell him she’d rather stay home and eat a panino in front of the fire, instead of having to face a roomful of strangers—but she was afraid of coming over as some kind of social misfit. Was this some strange kind of interview to assess whether or not she would be up to the task of being Matteo’s partner? To see if she was capable of making conversation with his wealthy friends, of getting through a whole evening without dropping a canapé down the front of her dress?

  Her black velvet swing coat was lined with softest cashmere and Keira hugged it around herself as the driver opened the door of the waiting limousine, her heart missing a beat as Matteo slid onto the seat beside her. His potent masculinity was almost as distracting as the dark suit which fitted his muscular body to perfection and made him look like some kind of movie star on his way to an awards ceremony. ‘You aren’t driving, then?’ she observed.

  ‘Not tonight. I have a few calls I need to make.’ His black eyes gleamed. ‘After that I’m exclusively yours.’

  The way he said it sent ripples of excitement whispering over her skin and she wondered if that had been deliberate. But there was apprehension too because Keira wasn’t sure she would be able to cope with the full blaze of his undivided attention. Not when he was being so...nice to her.

  She suspected he was on his best behaviour because he wanted her to agree to his masterplan—whenever he got around to unveiling it. And although he hadn’t shown any desire to parent their son, something told her that he saw Santino as his possession, even if so far he had exhibited no signs of love. Because of that, she suspected he wouldn’t let her go easily and the stupid part was that she didn’t want him to. She was beginning to recognise that she was out of her depth—and not just because he was a billionaire hotelier and she a one-time car mechanic. She didn’t have any experience of relationships and she didn’t have a clue how to react to him. Part of her wished she were still in the driver’s seat, negotiating the roads with a slick professionalism she’d been proud of until she’d ruined her career in the arms of the man who sat beside her, his long legs stretched indolently in front of him.

  She forced herself to drag her eyes away from the taut tension of his thighs—and at least there was plenty to distract her as she gazed out of the window at the lights of the city and the stunning Roman architecture, which made her feel as if she’d fallen straight into the pages of a guide book.

  Salvatore de Luca’s apartment was in the centre of it all—a penthouse situated close to the Via del Corso and offering commanding views of the city centre. Keira was dimly aware of a maid taking her coat and a cocktail being pressed into her hand and lots of people milling around. To her horror she could see that every other woman was wearing elegant black and her own expensive scarlet dress made her feel like something which had fallen off the Christmas tree. And it wasn’t just the colour. She wasn’t used to displaying a hint of cleavage, or wearing a dress which came this high above the knee. She felt like an imposter—someone who’d been more at home with her hair hidden beneath that peaked hat, instead of cascading over her shoulders like this.

  She saw a couple of the men give her glances which lingered more than they should have done—or was that just something Italian men did automatically? Certainly, Matteo seemed to be watching her closely as he introduced her to a dizzying array of friends and she couldn’t deny the thrill it gave her to feel those dark eyes following her every move.

  Keira did her best to chat animatedly, hugely grateful that nearly everybody spoke perfect English, but conversation wasn’t easy. She was glaringly aware of not mentioning the one subject which was embedded deeply in her heart and that was Santino. She wondered when Matteo was planning to announce that he was a father and what would happen when he did. Did any of his friends have children? she wondered. This apartment certainly didn’t look child-friendly and she couldn’t imagine a toddler crawling around on these priceless rugs, with sticky fingers.

  Escaping from the growing pitch of noise to the washroom, Keira took advantage of the relative calm and began to peep into some of the rooms on her way back to the party. Entering only those with open doors, she discovered a bewildering number of hand-painted salons which reminded her of Matteo’s villa. His home wasn’t exactly child-friendly either, was it?

  The room she liked best was small and book-lined—not because she was the world’s greatest reader but because it opened out onto a lovely balcony with tall green plants in pots and fabulous views over the glittering city. She stood there for a moment with her arms resting on the balustrade when she heard the clip-clop of heels enter the room behind her and she turned to see a tall redhead who she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe she was a late arrival, because she certainly wasn’t the kind of woman you would forget in a hurry. Her green gaze was searching rather than friendly and Keira had to concentrate very hard not to be fixated on the row of emeralds which gleamed at her slender throat and matched her eyes perfectly.

  ‘So you’re the woman who’s been keeping Matteo off the scene,’ the woman said, her soft Italian accent making her sound like someone who could have a very lucrative career in radio voice-overs.

  Keira left the chilly balcony and stepped into the room. ‘Hello, I’m Keira.’ She smiled. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Donatella.’ Her green eyes narrowed, as if she was surprised that Keira didn’t already know this. ‘Your dress is very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There was a pause as Donatella’s gaze flickered over her. ‘Everyone is curious to know how you’ve managed to snare Italy’s most elusive bachelor.’

  ‘He’s not a rabbit!’ joked Keira.

  Either Donatella didn’t get the joke or she’d decided it wasn’t funny because she didn’t smile. ‘So when did you two first meet?’

  Aware of the sudden race of her heart, Keira suddenly felt intimidated. As if she was being backed into a corner, only she didn’t know why. ‘Just under a year ago.’

  ‘When, exactly?’ probed the redhead.

  Keira wasn’t the most experienced person when it came to social etiquette, but even she could work out when somebody was crossing the line. ‘Does it really matter?’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all. It wouldn’t happen to have been two nights before Christmas, would it?’

  The date was burned so vividly on Keira’s memory that the affirmation burst from her lips without her even thinking about it. ‘Yes, it was,’ she said. ‘How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘Because he was supposed to be meeting me that night,’ said Donatella, with a wry smile. ‘And then I got a call from his assistant to say his plane couldn’t take off because of the snow.’

  ‘That’s true. The weather was terrible,’ said Keira.

  ‘And then, when
he got back—nothing. Complete radio silence—even though the word was out that there was nobody else on the scene.’ Donatella’s green eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Interesting. You’re not what I expected.’

  Even though she hadn’t eaten any of the canapés which had been doing the rounds, Keira suddenly felt sick. All she could think about was the fact that another woman had been waiting for Matteo while he’d been in bed with her. He must have had his assistant call Donatella while she’d been in the bath and then preceded to seduce her. Had it been a case of any woman would do as a recipient of all that hard hunger? A man who’d been intent on sex and was determined not to have his wishes thwarted? What if all that stuff about not finding her attractive had simply been the seasoned technique of an expert who’d recognised that he needed to get her to relax before leaping on her. She swallowed. Had he been imagining it was Donatella beneath him instead of her?

  ‘Well, you know what they say...there’s no accounting for taste.’ From somewhere Keira dredged up a smile. ‘Great meeting you, Donatella.’

  But she was trembling by the time she located Matteo, surrounded by a group of men and women who were hanging onto his every word, and maybe he read something in her face because he instantly disengaged himself and came over to her side.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he questioned.

  ‘Absolutely lovely,’ she said brightly, for the benefit of the onlookers. ‘But I’d like to go now, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m awfully tired.’

  His dark brows lifted. ‘Certamente. Come, let us slip away, cara.’

  The practised ease with which the meaningless endearment fell from his lips made Donatella’s words seem even more potent and in the car Keira sat as far away from him as possible, placing her finger on her lips and shaking her head when he tried to talk to her. She felt stupidly emotional and close to tears but there was no way she was going to break down in front of his driver. She knew better than most how domestic upsets could liven up a sometimes predictable job and that a chauffeur had a front-row seat to these kinds of drama. It wasn’t until they were back in the villa, where a fire in the drawing room had obviously been kept banked for their return, that she turned to Matteo at last, trying to keep the edge of hysteria from her voice.