Her legs felt so weak that getting out of bed took a little time, but after a few seconds she felt steady enough to move and made her way into the en-suite bathroom with the certainty of someone who had been there before, though not quite remembering when. Staring at herself in the mirror, she resigned herself for a shock—and a shock it certainly was.
Her hair was all over the place and her cheeks looked quite hollow—she must have lost at least five pounds. But the colour was beginning to return to her cheeks and her eyes looked surprisingly bright. Finding an unused toothbrush and some soap, she freshened up—using one of Riccardo’s brushes to try to create some kind of order out of her ruffled hair.
Back in the bedroom she could hear the sound of a radio and activity in another part of the apartment and she went to find the source of it. And there—in a streamlined kitchen, looking remarkably proficient—was Riccardo busying himself with a coffee pot. He was in a pair of dark trousers and a silk shirt, his feet were bare and his black hair was not yet dry from the shower.
He must have heard her enter because he turned round and looked at her, his eyes running over her assessingly and, stupidly, Angie found herself blushing. It wasn’t so much because she felt undressed—he’d seen her wearing a lot less than this. It was just that in a way this felt more intimate than anything which had gone before.
But it isn’t,
she reminded herself fiercely. It’s simply masquerading as intimacy.
‘You’re looking better,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘
Much
better.’
‘I feel much better. Riccardo—’ She wrapped her hands around her arms. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘You’ve been ill,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Then you’ve been…been…’
‘Not now. Sit down. Please.’ Waving aside her stumbled words, he pointed to a squashy black leather chair which was littered with cushions, and she sat down on it gratefully, her legs still weaker than she realised.
‘Coffee?’ he questioned.
She wondered if it occurred to him that their positions were suddenly reversed; that he was looking after
her
. Don’t get used to it, she thought. ‘Please.’
‘And something to eat, I imagine? You must be hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘Eggs okay?’
‘Eggs would be perfect.’
He found himself humming as he melted butter in a pan and ten minutes later they were sitting side by side at his breakfast bar, eating scrambled eggs and raisin bread and drinking strong, dark coffee.
In between mouthfuls, Angie savoured the moment, even though she knew that it would be heartbreaking to relive it afterwards. They’d never done this kind of closeness before—though pretty much every other kind. And behind all the recent storms in their working relationship the bottom line was that they had always been a team. At least this way they would part on the good terms which their long partnership deserved.
‘Thank you, Riccardo,’ she said quietly. ‘For looking after me so superbly.’
‘I don’t want your thanks.’
‘Tough. You’re getting them.’ She saw him smile and she wanted to say to him: Stop smiling.
Stop being impossible not to love—and just start being impossible again!
But Angie knew she was fighting a losing battle—no matter how he behaved. For she had loved him when he had been impossible. Loved him in her bed. Loved him even through all the misunderstandings and the angry words. She would always love Riccardo Castellari, she realised—and that was the reason why she needed to leave him. ‘Anyway, after that delicious breakfast—or was it lunch?—I guess I’d better be getting out of your hair.’
Not only was it was a stupid expression, he reflected—but it was also completely inappropriate. He couldn’t think of anything he’d prefer right now than to have her tangling those long fingers of hers in his hair.
His black eyes were fixed on her. ‘Why not stay on for a while?’
Her heart began to pound. ‘Stay on?’
‘Why not? There are more creature comforts here than in your own place—plus staff downstairs who are on tap to run errands for you. And I’m going to New York later. Remember?’
Foolishly, she felt the sudden slowing of her heart and a feeling of despair wash over her. Just how pathetic could a woman be? What, did she think he was asking her to move in because he’d been privileged enough to nurse her through an unflattering bout of the flu?
‘It’s a very kind offer, but I couldn’t possibly do that,’ she said.
‘Sure you could, Angie. Enjoy a little luxury for a change.’
She took a quick sip of coffee before he could notice her wince. If he had meant to make her feel like Little Orphan Annie, he couldn’t have done a better job of it. Could he picture her revelling in the non-clanking central heating system and the thick, wall-to-wall carpets? And did he pity her—going back to her tiny little apartment and the almost hour-long journey to get there?
‘I don’t want to impose on your kindness any longer,’ she said stiffly.
Riccardo observed the proud and stubborn little set of her lips, and sighed. She was still angry—as well she might be—but surely a little time and a little rest might have the power to dissolve some of those feelings? ‘You’re not imposing. I want you to stay here. Just enjoy it—and let’s talk when I get back.’
‘Talk?’
He moved his face close to hers. Close enough for her to feel the warm fan of his breath, but not quite close enough to kiss. ‘Let’s just see how you feel about things when I get back, hmm? Is that such an unreasonable request to make,
piccola
?’
He knew so well how to be irresistible—damn him! Because how could she refuse such an invitation when it was what she really wanted? But if she stayed here—supposedly to recuperate—then wasn’t she in danger of building castles in the air? Reading more into the situation than Riccardo ever intended her to?
Riccardo’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know that I’m not going to take no for an answer,’ he said softly.
‘In that case, I guess the answer has to be yes.’
He smiled. ‘Here are the keys. I’ve written down the security code which gets you into the building. Now enjoy,’ he added.
‘When will you be back?’ she questioned.
‘Not for a week. Stay as long as you like. And now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ll finish packing.’
This new courtesy was completely unexpected and Angie wasn’t quite sure what motivated it, or whether she trusted it. And he hadn’t made any attempt to kiss her, had he? After a while, he reappeared wearing a jacket to match the dark trousers and carrying a briefcase and small bag.
‘Okay, I’m going. Get plenty of rest—understand?’
Angie nodded, and then he was gone.
Half hidden by one of the drapes, she stood at the window and watched him get into the dark limousine which was waiting outside the building and which was quickly swallowed up by the line of traffic heading west. And then the reality of what was happening suddenly hit her.
I’m staying in Riccardo’s home. He told me to stay for as long as I liked. He’s been looking after me while I’m ill and unless I’m still hallucinating—he seemed almost…tender this morning.
Did that mean anything? Would it be naïve to suppose it didn’t—or foolish to suppose it did?
Probably a complete waste of time to suppose anything.
Instead, Angie began to make herself at home. The TV—which she eventually found hidden behind a sliding screen—was the size of a small cinema, and Riccardo had an extensive selection of films, including some amazing Italian ones which fortunately carried subtitles. Further investigation yielded a study which was crammed with books and had a sofa where you could curl up and read one of them.
When she felt better, she went out walking around Green Park and then mooching around the shops. Not that she bought anything—it just seemed such an incredible luxury to be within walking distance of all the West End stores. Riccardo rang her at lunchtime the following day—just as he was about to go into an earlymorning meeting—and asked her if everything was okay and she told him that, yes, everything was fine. There was a sudden long pause in the conversation, as if he’d planned on saying something—but then he seemed to change his mind.
‘And how’s your sister—still getting divorced?’ he asked, out of the blue.
Wryly, it occurred to Angie that they both had their share of troublesome sisters. ‘I think so. I haven’t heard much lately beyond the occasional frantic text and she never seems to look at her email.’
‘Call her from my landline.’
‘No, honestly—’
‘Just call her, Angie,’ he insisted.
She put the phone down feeling oddly warm—though this time her body heat had nothing to do with a flu virus. She’d never known Riccardo to be quite so thoughtful before—and when the phone rang later, she almost thought it might be him again.
‘Hello?’ she questioned softly.
‘Hi.’ It was a woman’s voice—silky soft and with a twangy north-Atlantic drawl which tugged at a distant memory. ‘Is this the maid?’
For a minute, Angie thought it might be a wind-up. ‘No, this is…this is Riccardo Castellari’s secretary.’
‘Oh. Hi. This is Paula—Paula Prentice and I’m a friend of his.’
‘How can I help you, Ms Prentice?’ asked Angie, trying to ignore the terrified flutter of her heart.
‘It’s just that he has a red dress of mine—one I’ve never worn. It’s a beautiful dress and Rico had it made specially and, well—it seems a kinda waste not to wear it.’
Suddenly, it all made sense. Of course. Riccardo hadn’t broken the habit of a lifetime and bought her a present which might have required a little imagination or a little thought. Instead, she had been fobbed off with a dress which had been intended for another woman. A question of being in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong one.
It was one of those moments where, if she had been in a film, Angie might have dropped the phone and gasped. Or slammed the phone down. But although she might be a foolish, foolish woman who had read far too much into a careless gesture—she was the consummate secretary.
‘Of course, Ms Prentice,’ she said smoothly. ‘Don’t worry—I’ll look into it and make sure it’s all sorted out.’
‘Thanks.’
After she’d put the phone down, Angie stared at it for a long minute, then lifted her eyes to look at the stars in the sky, remembering the night she’d been given the dress. Her innocent joy that Riccardo had bought her a gift which was intensely personal. A gift which had made her feel like a woman for the first time in her life. The dress which had transformed her enough to make Riccardo want to sleep with her. Had he been imagining that she was the other woman—the woman he’d
really
bought the dress for? Was that what he had thought of as he had thrust into her body with such passion that night—that she was really
someone else
?
Biting her lip, she looked around distractedly, as if suddenly recognising Riccardo’s home for what it really was—alien terrain. Had she ever been stupid enough to think that she might have a legitimate place here? But she would not crumple. She just needed to keep busy. To keep
doing
. And she knew exactly what needed to be done.
W
ARM
air ruffled through her hair and the sound of the ocean was as soothing as the head and neck massage she’d had earlier. Angie rubbed a little more sun-block onto her nose, and yawned. When it came to curing a broken heart—you couldn’t get a much better location than an Australian beach, she decided as she lifted her face up towards the sun.
‘Auntie Lina, Auntie Lina!’
A small dynamo of a child came bounding towards her, covering her with damp sand—and she giggled as her four-year-old nephew threw himself into her arms and clamped his cold arms around her neck. ‘Hello, Todd,’ she giggled. ‘Did you have a good swim?’
‘Mummy says I’m like a fish!’
‘Then you must be
very
good! Angie glanced up to see her sister approaching, squeezing the water out of long hair bleached blonde by the sun. They hadn’t been on a beach together since childhood—and how things had changed. When the two girls had been growing up it had been Sally who had been considered the pretty one—but since Angie had arrived, people had been commenting on how alike the two sisters were. And that had pleased Angie—not because of the implied attractiveness, but because it gave her a sense of belonging. A feeling of being part of something—a family.
She smiled at her sister. ‘How was the swimming lesson?’ she asked.
Sally grinned. ‘Brilliant—though I’m exhausted. Thought I might go back to the house and get stuff ready for the BBQ tonight—do you want to come?’
Angie stretched out on the warm sand and shook her head. ‘No. I think I’ll stay here for a while—make the most of the sun while I can. Do you want me to look after Todd?’
Sally shook her head. ‘No, he’s tired. I’m hoping he might take a nap.’ She hesitated as she picked up a towel. ‘Listen, Angie…I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘I don’t want thanks,’ said Angie fiercely, because in truth she had welcomed the distraction of being concerned about someone else’s worries for a change. She had gained a new perspective from her time with Riccardo, which had been useful when talking to her sister—and she had revelled in the opportunity of getting to know her gorgeous little nephew.
‘Well, you deserve them,’ said Sally. ‘If you hadn’t made me come to my senses. To realise just what I had—and that I was risking throwing it all away for nothing very much at all.’
Angie nodded. She had arrived at her sister’s Sydney home with a heavy heart but a determination not to talk about the cause of it. Because Riccardo was firmly in the past and, besides, it was far too painful a subject to pursue. Not when her sense of betrayal felt so raw and her self-esteem had taken such a battering.
Instead, she had concentrated on trying to see whether her sister’s marriage was really as doomed as she’d previously implied. She remembered the terrible atmosphere just before Floriana’s planned wedding and that had given her an idea. Because there was never any doubt about how besotted Sally and Brad had been about each other on the day they’d wed.
‘Try to remember just how much in love you were with Brad on the day you married him,’ she had suggested softly to Sally. ‘And take it from there.’
And, astonishingly, this simple tactic seemed to have set a reconciliation in motion. It seemed that Sally’s husband Brad been working too hard—so he felt hard done by, while Sally felt neglected. A gulf had formed between them, which time had only widened. And yet, deep down, they had always loved one another. Angie realised that maybe just having a third person—someone who cared—pointing out the obvious could be enough to make people look at their situation in a different way. And Sally had so many blessings in her life—she’d just got out of the habit of counting them.
In the meantime, Angie had got to know her little nephew—which had given Sally and Brad the space for some quality time alone together. And it seemed that their love had blossomed again.
‘And what about
you
?’ Sally had questioned eagerly one night, over a large glass of wine. ‘You’re looking so good these days, Lina—it
must
be a man.’
Well, it was—and it wasn’t. It
had
been a man. A man who had played with her—but who would never echo her love for him, despite their undeniable physical compatibility. But Angie had decided that she wasn’t going to prolong the agony by confiding in her sister. The sooner she let it fade from her mind, then the sooner she would get over it.
So she told her sister that it hadn’t been anyone special—and that was what she was still trying to convince herself.
She was just pulling a T-shirt over Todd’s damp curls when she heard Sally make a small whistling sound.
‘Oh, my—I think the gods have dropped a man straight from the heavens and he’s walking our way!’
‘You’re a married woman,’ teased Angie.
‘I’m allowed to look. And he is
something else
. And he’s…Lina, he’s heading our way!’
What instinct was it that made Angie quickly turn her head to see the man her sister was talking about? With a disbelieving lurch of her heart, she recognised him immediately. The jet-dark ruffle of his hair. The lean musculature of his tall body. Although there were plenty of beautiful people of Italian origin in Sydney—Riccardo Castellari was in a league of his own.
‘Who’s that man?’ demanded Todd, when he failed to get the attention of his mother or his auntie.
‘Yes,’ said Sally, turning slowly to her sister. ‘Who
is
that man?’
Angie couldn’t speak—the words she wanted to speak feeling like stones which were constricting her throat. What was he doing here? Why had he come to create more havoc in a life which she was trying very hard to live without him?
‘He’s my boss,’ she said slowly.
Sally gave her a funny look. ‘Your boss looks like
that
? Your boss who just
happens
to be walking along a beach towards you looking as if he’d like to shake you, or to…to…’
‘To what, Mummy?’
‘Nothing, darling,’ said Sally hastily. ‘Well, here he comes—and judging from the expression on his face, you’d better light the touchpaper and stand well back!’
Angie’s heart was thundering beneath the silky little triangles which comprised the emerald bikini which she’d bought in one of Sydney’s many beachside boutiques. She had known that inevitably she would run into him again—just not here and not now. Not when she hadn’t planned her defences or practised the cool and uncaring face she was going to present to him when that day finally arrived.
The glitter from his black eyes was not particularly friendly. He stopped in front of her, and for a moment—just looked at her. ‘Hello, Angie.’
Angie swallowed. ‘Hello, Riccardo.’
They stood facing one another.
‘Isn’t anyone going to introduce me?’ squeaked Sally. ‘I’m Sally, Angelina’s sister.’
‘My name is Riccardo Castellari and I’m very happy to meet you, Sally—but I need a private word with your sister, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure. Sure.’ Sally started nodding persistently. ‘Come back to the house later. Come on, Todd.’
Todd was staring upwards. ‘Who’s that man, Mummy?’
‘He’s a friend of Auntie Lina’s. Come on—you’ll see him later. Or at least, I
think
you will.’
Angie watched her sister and nephew walk back up the beach and her mouth dried. Because even though the white sandy beach was peppered with other bathers it felt as if the world had telescoped into that moment, leaving the two of them alone together, staring at each other like combatants.
What right did
he
have to look so angry?
‘What are you doing here, Riccardo?’ she questioned coolly.
Her insouciance made him want to haul her into his arms and crush her unreasonable lips beneath his. ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ he demanded hotly. ‘And why the hell did you do the big, melodramatic exit—leaving the damned country without a word about where you were going?’
What an arrogant nerve he had. ‘Why do you think? Because
Paula
rang—you remember Paula, the stunning Californian actress you dated for nearly a year—asking could she please have her red dress back.
Her
dress! The dress I stupidly thought was mine because
you gave it to me for Christmas
!’
His black brows knitted together. ‘Is that what this is about, Angie—a damned dress?’
‘Yes!’ She shook her head. ‘No!’
‘Let me tell you about the dress.’
She wanted to put her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t care about the dress!’
‘Well, I do—so you’d better damned well listen!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Paula ordered it from some fancy designer and put it on my account—without bothering to tell me. She used to do that kind of thing a lot. She wanted marriage, I didn’t—so we split. Some time later—much later, as it happens—the dress was delivered to
my
hotel in New York. I didn’t particularly want to renew any kind of communication with Paula and so I just brought it back to England with me. I was planning to give it to charity, to be auctioned off. And then something that day made me give it to you, instead.’
She knew exactly what that ‘something’ was. Deciding that her general frumpiness could do with a bit of a facelift, he had given the dress to his hapless secretary—without ever realising the knock-on effect if would have. Helplessly, Angie shook her head, trying to dispel the telltale prickle of tears which would make her dissolve like a fool in front of him. ‘It doesn’t matter how I got it, or why you gave it to me—although if you’d been honest about it from the start, it might have helped.’
‘What, give a woman a dress and tell her that it was really meant for someone else?’ he drawled. ‘Even I know enough about the psychological processes of the female to know that’s a non-starter.’
‘You, of course, have had plenty of research opportunities into the psychology of the female!’ she snapped.
Black eyes blazed into her. ‘Maybe I have—but not one of them has been as stubborn and as infuriating as you’re being right now, Angie Patterson.’
Tiredly, she shook her head—knowing that she’d read far too much into the dress; she could see that now. She couldn’t keep blaming Riccardo. A casual gift from boss to secretary and she had reacted to it with the excitement of a woman who had just been presented with a large diamond ring. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter,’ she whispered. ‘The dress is just a symptom of the whole malaise. It made me realise how stupid I’d been. I should be grateful to the dress, really.’
Riccardo frowned. Now she sounded as delirious as she had been when she’d had the fever. When he’d seen her so helpless and vulnerable and he had bathed her body and fed her little sips of water, as tenderly as if she’d been a tiny kitten. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
She would never make him understand unless she told him, no matter how painful that was. ‘The dress made me into…into someone I’m not,’ she stumbled. ‘Someone who could hold my own in your world. But I’m not from your world, Riccardo, and I can’t ever be. We should never have made the jump from colleagues to lovers. We just shouldn’t.’
‘You know you don’t mean that, Angie.’
‘Oh, but I do. Really, I do.’Yet wasn’t that the hardest thing in the world to say—especially when he was standing there in jeans and T-shirt, his handsome face looking stubborn and unyielding? The man she had loved for so long that doing so seemed as natural to her as the sun rising in the sky each morning. Her heart full of heaviness, she realised that she hadn’t asked the most fundamental question of all. ‘Anyway, why are you here—and how did you find out where I was?’
‘I asked your mother,’ came the grim rejoinder as he held up his hand to halt this particular line of questioning. ‘And I’m here because I want you back.’
Pain sliced through her and tears began to hover at the periphery of her vision. ‘But I can’t come back,’ she whispered. ‘No matter what you say. I can’t work for you any more, Riccardo—don’t you see?’
Impatiently, he shook his head. ‘I don’t want you to
work
for me.’
Angie stared at him in confusion. ‘You don’t?’
‘No way—I’ve already given your job to Alicia.’
‘To Alicia?’
‘
Sì
. She’s very good—you told me that some time back. Promising material for a secretarial post—and, of course, she doesn’t answer back the way you do.’ But then, no woman ever had. And no woman had ever communicated with him on such a fundamental level as Angie had. On every level, really. His rich voice hadn’t once faltered, but now—for the first time in his life—it did as he met the wary shimmer in her eyes. And discovered for the first time in his life that something wasn’t necessarily his for the taking, simply because he wanted it.
Once, he could have snapped his fingers and Angie would have come running—but she had changed, he realized, just as he had. She had put in place barriers to protect herself—which he must now tear down with his bare hands. And yet didn’t her fierce pride and her dignity only reinforce his desire for her?
‘I want you to come back to be with me,
cara mia
—as my partner, not my secretary.
Mia donna
. Because sometimes you have to have something taken away from you to realise just how much it means to you. Only it took me a little while to realise why every day seems grey—and maybe a little longer to realise what had been staring me in the face for so long.’
Love. Something he had schooled himself not to believe in—bound up in his own supposedly fail-safe recipe for a marriage. But events had demonstrated that his ideas were illusory. And his heart had made him as helpless as the next man. When he had come back from America and found Angie gone a pain incomparable to any other had ripped through him.
Catching her hand, he brought it to his lips while his black eyes blazed the intensity of their message. ‘I say to you now words I have never spoken to another woman,
piccola
,’ he said softly. ‘And that is, I love you with all my heart.’
Heart hammering with fear and disbelief, she shook her head, not wanting to believe him…not daring to believe him. Fearful of the pain coming her way if he didn’t mean it. ‘No, you don’t love me. You don’t believe in love, remember? There’s no such thing. It’s “chemistry” and it’s “lust”.’