When he was making love to her it was all too easy to imagine that it was for real. That her years of quiet devotion had finally borne fruit and that they were a proper couple. But it wasn’t real, and they weren’t. It was just amazing sex—something he happened to be extremely good at. And if she was being honest—wasn’t it likely that
every
woman he took to his bed felt the way she did? As if she wanted him to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her and couldn’t bear to live without her.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen—not in a million years. And deep down she
knew
all this—so when was she actually going to start believing it? Nothing was going to change unless she made it change—so maybe she needed to start being a bit tougher in order to protect herself.
For the first time, she allowed her eyes to drift around the room and to acknowledge how truly beautiful it was. Rich brocade drapes shimmered like precious liquid metal at the windows and similarly rich fabrics were used in the heap of cushions piled onto a sofa. There was a writing desk, too—antique and lovingly polished and very beautiful.
Angie unpacked her case and then headed off for the bathroom—which was as gleamingly modern as the castle itself was old. Rich soaps and shampoos were lined up and she washed away all traces of the journey and Riccardo’s love-making—before emerging pink and scented. Wrapping herself in a giant towelling robe, she walked back into the bedroom to see that a laptop had been placed on the desk in her absence, and she stopped in her tracks.
He certainly hadn’t wasted any time in driving home her real status! Flinging a load of mundane tasks at her even though they’d only just arrived. Angie picked up a brush and began to pull it through her wet hair. Well, the work could wait. She was through with being useful, doormat Angie. Angie who took just whatever Riccardo Castellari cared to chuck at her. Because she was slowly beginning to realise that Riccardo treated her the way he did
because she let him
!
And she wasn’t going to let him. Not any more.
The thought empowered her and, seeing that there were almost two hours until the formal dinner, Angie spent ages drying her hair, then settled down with a book. It was a very good book and she felt especially pleased that she had been able to push Riccardo out of her mind enough to really get into the story.
In fact, she was two thirds into it when she saw that there was only half an hour to go before dinner. Hastily, she put on some make-up and then opened the wardrobe—wondering if she had the courage to wear the only dress which would be suitable for a grand event in a place like this.
It gleamed provocatively at the back of the wardrobe—the red dress which she had been unable to resist bringing and which she had vowed she would never wear again. But it was strange how seductive a beautiful garment could be. And Angie wasn’t stupid—she recognised that it had a power all of its own. Beside it, her own conservative clothes looked boring and so
safe
—no matter how much she tarted them up with accessories. How could she
not
wear it?
Her hands were trembling as she slipped it on, because of course this was much more than a dress—it was imbued with significance. Riccardo had bought it for her. It was what she had been wearing the night he had taken her to bed. It was what had made him stop looking
through
her—and realise that she was a woman.
Was it too risqué an outfit in which to meet his mother? she wondered as she slowly circled in front of the mirror. No. The designer was world famous and Italian women were famously stylish. And Riccardo’s mother won’t
care
what I wear, she thought. To her—I am just someone he employs. She’ll barely notice me.
There was a knock at the door and Angie’s heart raced. Would Riccardo approve? Would he perhaps try to kiss her—to mollify her after his earlier display of anger? Well, this time she wouldn’t let him.
But it was not Riccardo who stood at the door. A young female stood there, looking rather diffident—her plain dark dress marking her out clearly as a servant.
Just like me, thought Angie with a pang—only I expect that this young girl doesn’t get any of the ‘perks’ which Riccardo pointed out earlier.
‘Buona sera,’
she said hesitantly.
‘Como si nama?’
The girl’s English was as hesitant as Angie’s Italian, but her smile was wide. ‘My name is Marietta. You…you follow me?’
‘Of course. Thank you.’ But it was strange how feelings could suddenly switch. From dreading seeing Riccardo, Angie could now feel herself fervently wishing that he’d come to collect her himself as all her bravado slipped away. How could she walk into a room full of important people she didn’t know—all proper invited guests, apart from her—with even some members of the aristocracy thrown in? Would they look at her and judge her, and find her wanting?
She heard the murmur of voices and the chink of glasses as she descended the curving wooden staircase. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she looked fine but inside she was trembling like a leaf. Pinning a smile to her shiny lips, she began to walk down towards the assembled guests—a rainbow display of finery contrasting with the dark suits worn by the men. A dazzling and glamorous assembly. Some of them looked up and some turned around.
But all she could see was the ebony spotlight of Riccardo’s eyes following her every movement.
‘W
ELL
, well, well—I see that you have decided to dress like the siren for the party tonight,
piccola
.’
Riccardo’s words were silken-soft but the look which accompanied them was anything but. The coal-dark glitter of his eyes moved provocatively over her face, the quick flick of his tongue over his lips reminding Angie of how they’d just spent the afternoon. Bringing back with aching clarity the slow, almost drugging quality of their love-making.
Angie shook her head, trying to clear her head of the memory. ‘But you bought me this dress, Riccardo,’ she protested, taking a proffered glass of
Prosecco
from the passing waitress. ‘And surely the whole point was to wear it?’ She glanced around at the other women, reassured to see that some were in gowns which made hers look positively demure. ‘Unless you’re saying that it’s unsuitable for the occasion.’
There was a pause. The only thing about it which was unsuitable was the fact that it reminded him just what lay beneath it. A nerve flickered at his temple. ‘You know very well that it’s suitable. In fact, you look more beautiful than any other woman in the room,’ he countered.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Sì, cara,’
he said steadily. ‘I do. Now, you’d better come and meet my mother.’
‘I’d love to.’ But her cheeks pinkened at the unexpected compliment as she looked around. ‘Where’s the bride-to-be?’
With narrowed eyes, Riccardo checked out the room, his tone doing nothing to disguise his disapproval. ‘She still hasn’t shown.’
‘Oh, well—it’s the bride’s prerogative to be late.’
‘That’s not supposed to be until the wedding day,’ he returned acidly. ‘There’s still two days to go.’
‘And what about the groom?’
‘The
Duca
is standing over by the woman wearing diamonds.’
‘Every woman is wearing diamonds.’
He laughed. ‘He’s by the fireplace, but don’t stare, Angie—it’s rude.’
Angie didn’t need to stare—one quick glance was enough to surprise her so much that she stared down into the fizzing bubbles in her drink in an attempt to compose herself. Surely Floriana couldn’t be marrying
him
! She took a sip of the wine. The
Duca
was elegant, yes—but he must have been almost fifty, judging from the harsh lines on his face. And wasn’t that the hint of baldness at the crown of his head? He looked
ancient
in comparison to the beautiful young Italian girl.
She lifted her eyes to find a sudden coldness in Riccardo’s—as if daring her to make the obvious comment. But why should she? As he had reminded her earlier—it was none of her business. ‘Floriana’s a lucky girl,’ she said dutifully.
‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely. ‘She is. Now come and meet my mother.’
Angie was aware of eyes following them as they made their way across the crowded room—before stopping in front of the matriarch of the family.
‘
Mamma
, I told you that I was bringing Angie with me? And I believe you have spoken on the phone many times.’
Despite her elegant high heels, Riccardo’s mother was surprisingly small and terrifyingly elegant. Her figure was as neat as a young girl’s and she was clad in very obvious couture—a gleaming burgundy gown of heavy silk with a string of large, lustrous pearls around her neck. The two women shook hands and her black eyes looked Angie up and down with interest.
‘So we meet at last,’ she said, in perfect English. ‘The woman who makes my son’s life run like clockwork, or so he tells me.’
Angie blinked, slightly taken aback to hear
another
compliment and glad that Riccardo had gone over to talk to his brother—even though the two men were standing dominating the room, like a pair of dark and formidable statues. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she joked.
‘No, I can imagine,’ came the dry rejoinder and then Signora Castellari smiled as she looked her up and down. ‘And you look wonderful. I had no idea that your taste in clothes was quite so exquisite, my dear.’
There was an awkward pause as Angie tried not to flinch. What did she
say
? That it was a Christmas present from her son? Wouldn’t that seem like much too intimate a gift from boss to secretary, and might it not make his mother raise her eyebrows—possibly in disapproval?
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly.
‘At least I know that Riccardo must be compensating you adequately, if you can afford to dress that well.’
Angie nodded and raised her drink to lips which suddenly felt like stone as the elegant woman moved away to greet another guest, hoping that her face didn’t betray the terrible sense of distress that her innocent remark had provoked. Because Signora Castellari had said nothing untoward; not really. She thought that she was simply meeting her son’s long-time secretary—she wasn’t to realise that the secretary in question was also his lover, which made innocent remarks about financial compensation acutely embarrassing.
At that moment, there was a stir of expectation from the guests and everyone looked up towards a second staircase to see Floriana slowly descending the staircase with a girl by her side whose pale skin and unruly red curls marked her out from the mainly Mediterranean gathering. That must be the bridesmaid, thought Angie.
Floriana’s black dress was stark and her own hair was piled up into an elaborate creation on top of her head, fixed with small diamond pins. Round her neck were more diamonds—a veritable waterfall of glittering icy stones. She looked, Angie realised with a shock, like a mannequin. As if she were composed of wax instead of flesh and blood.
But then they were being called into dinner and, to Angie’s relief, Riccardo came to accompany her to the table. ‘Surely you can’t seat this many people all at once?’ she whispered.
‘Wait and see.’
The dining room—well, it was more of a hall—was absolutely beautiful, lit by hundreds of tall candles and scented rather overpoweringly with lilies. A single long table was draped in snowy linen and glittered with gold and crystal. Angie found herself seated next to a very sweet old man who had once spent a holiday in Brighton and who was eager to practise his English. On her other side was a teenage cousin of the groom who was clearly bored out of his mind and would rather have been somewhere else.
At the opposite end of the table and next to Riccardo’s mother she could see the
Duca
holding forth, with a morose-looking Floriana by his side. And on opposite sides sat the grim-faced Romano and the redhaired bridesmaid who seemed to spend the majority of the meal glaring at one another. What was
their
problem? Angie wondered as she lifted her napkin, thinking that this made
her
little sister’s pre-wedding party look like a match made in heaven.
Although delicious, the meal seemed to go on for ever, and if Angie was full up after the pasta course no one seemed to notice or to care whether she ate or not. She told herself she was glad Riccardo was sitting far away from her. Yet her feelings were at war with common sense—she ached for his touch, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that she was a stupid fool for wanting him.
Did she make those feelings apparent? Was that why when she looked up from her unwanted plate of sorbet to find herself caught in the crossfire of his gaze his black eyes seemed to mock her while his lips curved into a smile of sensual promise. Angie swallowed. He was so…so
sure
of himself, wasn’t he? So certain of her—that no matter what he said or did, she would still sink into his embrace whenever he snapped his fingers.
And you will, won’t you? Because despite all your little pep talks about no longer being a doormat, aren’t you secretly counting off the seconds until you can feel him in your arms again?
After dinner, there was dancing in a huge ballroom which had been decked out with garlands of scented blooms and shiny balloons in silver and gold. It seemed that every VIP and dignitary from miles around was attending and Angie told herself that of
course
Riccardo wouldn’t ask her to dance—and that even if he asked she would refuse. She would sweetly tell him to go and entertain his guests and not his employee. But she was wrong—on both counts. He
did
ask, and she didn’t refuse—because when it came to it, how could she? Not when her heart was racing with excitement and her skin tingling when he laid his hand on her bare arm.
‘Having a good time?’ he murmured as he pulled her against him, splaying his fingers over the buttery satin of her dress.
It wasn’t her role to spoil his fun and to tell him that she thought this was the strangest atmosphere she’d ever encountered at a pre-wedding party. And besides, those thoughts were fading from her mind already—eclipsed by the sheer pleasure of being in his arms again.
As they danced, sensations began to bombard her—wearing down a resistance which was already thin. She was aware of his own particular musky scent and the now familiar feel of his hard body against hers. Angie certainly wasn’t an accomplished dancer, but she didn’t need to be because Riccardo was guiding her around the dance-floor with a sure touch which made her feel positively graceful.
‘Mmm?’ he prompted, his lips close to her ears.
‘I’m…I’m having a great time,’ she answered truthfully, because in that moment she couldn’t think of a place she’d rather be.
‘Me, too.’ Tightening his hands around her waist, he looked down into her flushed face. Saw the way that her lips had parted. Noted the tiny pulse which hammered at the base of her throat. And suddenly he wanted to kiss her. Damn the ballroom, he thought. And damn the guests with their quick and curious eyes. Riccardo swallowed, pulling her even closer—wanting to demonstrate just how aroused she had made him. ‘I may just take you out for the day tomorrow,’ he added. ‘If you’re lucky.’
Angie’s heart missed a beat.
If you’re lucky.
Maybe the words weren’t intended to be patronizing, but that was how they came across—or maybe it was because they were accompanied by the shameless thrust of his pelvis, so that she could feel the hard heat at the very cradle of him. It was nothing but a silent and arrogant sexual boast and it seemed to mock at her own romantic interpretation of the dance, making her feel stupid. Angie pulled back, ignoring the screaming objection of her body. ‘Sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to work tomorrow.’
He stared at her blankly. ‘Work?’
‘That’s what you supplied the laptop for, remember?’
He was in such a state of frustrated desire that she might as well have been speaking in Greek for all the sense he made of her words until his head cleared. ‘But you did that work this afternoon,’ he said quickly.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t?’
Angie allowed herself a serene smile. ‘No. I took a long bath and read a book instead, actually.’
A pulse began to flicker at his temple. Was this the beginning of rebellion—of Angie abusing her position simply because they’d become lovers? Why, in all the years of working for him she had never refused to carry out one of his orders. ‘That’s not what I wanted,’ he snapped.
‘Well, it’s what
I
wanted,’ she returned.
‘But I’m paying you to do what
I
want,’ he reminded her with silken cruelty.
‘No, you pay me to support you in a secretarial role.’ The words came out in a breathless rush, fuelled by a fury at what he’d just said and suddenly Angie didn’t care that they were in the middle of the dance-floor. Because wasn’t this long overdue? ‘Don’t you think I’ve done enough out-of-hours for you over the years to recognise when I deserve some time off, Riccardo? If you trust me enough to make me privy to all your confidential business dealings—then you should credit me with the judgement to decide when I want to ease off!’
There was a stunned kind of silence for a moment, and then he smiled. ‘Oh,
cara
,’ he murmured. ‘Your insubordination is such a turn-on that I can hardly wait until I get you into bed again. If only I’d realised that I had such a little wildcat hiding away all these years.’
‘Well, you’re the one who’s made me into a wildcat,’ she returned, without thinking.
‘Am I really? Then at least I have something to be grateful for.’ Trickling his thumb down over her hips in what felt like a proprietorial marking of his territory, he bent his mouth to her ear. ‘But you will forgive me if I leave you now. Much more of this on the dance-floor and I shall be dragging you off to the nearest alcove to peel off your panties and that really wouldn’t do, would it?’
And without another word, he turned and walked away and Angie was left staring after him with flaming cheeks and a hammering heart. Had he meant to drive home that her impact on him was purely physical? She felt faint, dizzy, and wondered how soon she could decently slip away from here—away from the eyes which she sensed were looking at her with open curiosity.
Distractedly, she went to the side of the ballroom and was just thinking about making her escape when she felt a tap on her shoulder and she turned to see Floriana standing there.
Up close, her mannequin-like appearance was even more apparent and Angie thought that the girl’s lips looked positively bloodless. Pushing thoughts of Riccardo out of her mind, Angie forced a smile. ‘Lovely party,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ But Floriana’s smile didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Angie, would you like to come and see my wedding dress?’
‘Me?’ questioned Angie in surprise.
‘
Please
. You’d like to, wouldn’t you? I thought that all women liked wedding dresses.’
Telling herself she should feel flattered, Angie nodded. ‘Of course. I’d love to.’
‘Then come with me—but let’s be quick,’ the Italian girl urged. ‘Before Romano accuses me of neglecting my guests.’ Linking their arms as if they’d been lifelong friends, Floriana led her along one of the long corridors alongside the ballroom and which led to yet another staircase. At the top of the stairs was Floriana’s bedroom and as she pushed open the door Angie could see the gleam of ivory satin beneath Chantilly lace.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she exclaimed, walking over to where the gown hung, marvelling at the delicate fabric and thinking that this was the kind of wedding dress that little girls sometimes dreamed of. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’