Читать книгу Hot Christmas Nights: Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding / His for Revenge / Mistletoe Not Required - Anne Oliver, Anne Oliver - Страница 12

‘WHAT is that monstrosity hanging on the front door?’

Cassie waited until Giancarlo had put his briefcase down in the hall before drawing a deep breath. ‘It’s a Christmas wreath.’

He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. ‘Forgive me, I phrased myself badly, bella. I know exactly what it is. I meant—what the hell is it doing there?’

‘I thought it looked…pretty.’

‘And I thought I told you that I don’t do Christmas.’

Cassie swallowed. ‘I know you did—I just don’t understand why.’

‘Because it’s nothing but misrepresentation. It allows sentiment to masquerade as emotion, depicts unrealisti-cally happy families and dresses up greed as some sort of seasonal need.’

‘Bah-humbug!’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s a joke. Something you say about people who don’t like Christmas. People like you.’

‘I think you’re missing the point, cara. When I say that I don’t like Christmas it means you should heed my words—not attempt to change my mind. Especially after a long day at work when I want to be greeted with nothing more controversial than a kiss.’

Cassie moved into his arms. ‘No, I suppose not.’

Giancarlo saw that her lips had softened just the way they always did when he was about to kiss her—but he heard the unmistakable trace of defiance in her soft voice. ‘And anyway, where did you get the money to buy such a magnificent monstrosity—when you have refused point-blank to accept any funds from me?’ Her stubborn refusal to do so had at first made him suspicious—for he couldn’t believe that there was a woman alive who wouldn’t itch to be given free use of his credit card during her tenure as his mistress.

He had tried insisting that she would need money—in order to go shopping. And that was when she had told him that she had no intention of doing anything as dull as shopping while she was installed in his London town house. That she could go shopping any time and she wasn’t particularly into consumerism. He remembered his surprise when he realised that she actually meant it. And that she intended spending her days enjoying the city for free—by visiting the many galleries and parks the capital had to offer.

But now it seemed that Cassandra—who would sigh wistfully whenever they passed a tacky Christmas window display—had finally succumbed and given into the temptation of a seasonal wreath.

‘I made it,’ she said suddenly as his lips brushed against hers.

‘Made what?’

‘The wreath.’

‘You can’t have made it. It looks far too professional.’

‘But I did, Giancarlo—we do sell crafts in our shop, you know, and we are supposed to know something about them. I found a sweet park-keeper in Kensington Gardens, who let me pick some holly and ivy—and I asked your driver if he had any wire I could use. And then I found the base in a cheap little—’

‘Enough!’ protested Giancarlo, but for a moment he was laughing as he bent his lips to her ear. ‘I had no idea that my mistress could be so damned stubborn.’

‘Didn’t you?’ she questioned, winding her arms around his neck. She was about to tease him back—to say something on the lines of, Well, maybe you have a lot to learn, Giancarlo. Except that wouldn’t be true. He didn’t want to learn anything about her, not really—and even if he did, there was no time left in which to do it.

The hours had become days and the days had become weeks—and there were only a few days before their arrangement came to an end. Five days until Christmas Eve—when she would be dispatched back to Cornwall like a parcel which had just caught the last post.

And her time with Giancarlo would be over for ever.

She tried not to dwell on it—to think instead of the pleasure she had had with him. All the shows, the films and the dinners they had shared—and her glorious and continuing education in the joys of sex, taught by a true master of the art. It had been just the two of them—as if the rest of the world didn’t matter—isolated in their own erotic little bubble.

And all the while she had been trying not to focus on the time which was draining away and bringing the day of her departure closer and closer—but it wasn’t easy. Especially not when you had started to care for a man who had tacitly warned you that to care for him would be a complete waste of time. But the human heart was stubbornly impervious to reason, or warnings. Sometimes it made you long for the things you could never have…

She broke away from his kiss and looked up at him. ‘So can we keep the wreath?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

His lips curved into a smile as his fingers squeezed at one pert globe of her delectable bottom. ‘On what you are prepared to do to make me agreeable.’

Glad that they had the house to themselves, Cassie slid her hand down over his belly and laid the palm of her hand over his groin. Through the immaculate suit trousers, she could feel his unmistakable arousal pressing against her. And as she stroked him with growing insistence through the fine material she lifted her lips to touch the faint rasp of his jaw.

‘Why don’t you come upstairs and find out?’

‘Or why don’t we find out right here?’ he growled.

She needed no second bidding, revelling in his powerless capitulation as she unzipped and then slithered down his trousers and slid to her knees in front of him. She took him in her lips—savouring the silken steel of his shaft, teasing it with the soft flick of her tongue and then sliding it deep inside her mouth so that he gasped. Holding onto his hips, she kept up the seductive rhythm while he feverishly tangled his fingers in her hair and then she felt the tension build—heard his helpless groan as he could contain himself no longer. And she felt an odd sense of triumph as he began to spill his seed inside her mouth.

Afterwards, there was silence foramoment—punctuated only by the sound of Giancarlo frantically drawing air back into his lungs. Then slowly, he brought her up to standing, his eyes almost opaque with lust as they scanned her face. Touching his finger to her lips, he bent his head to kiss her—tasting his own essential scent on her skin.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said softly.

‘Yes, please,’ she whispered.

In the bedroom, he removed her clothes so slowly and erotically that she writhed beneath his fingers, her blood on fire. His own clothes he took off much more efficiently, his eyes not leaving hers as his silk shirt fluttered to the floor like a flag of surrender. And at last the dark boxers were removed, to reveal his tumescent arousal in all its magnificent glory.

‘You look daunted, cara,’ he murmured.

She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. ‘Is it…is it normal for a man to be as aroused as often as you are, Giancarlo?’

He gave a low laugh tinged with satisfaction as he began to stroke her—and yet, in truth, her eagerness and her appreciation were a constant aphrodisiac which never failed to arouse him. ‘You will find few men to match me in terms of libido, bella.’

She supposed it was her own fault for asking, but his matter-of-fact reply sent a faint tremor through her body—making her feel as if she were nothing but another notch on his bedpost.

But she was just a notch, wasn’t she? Giancarlo had never promised her anything else—so if she found the thought of saying goodbye to him unpalatable, then she had only herself to blame.

Yet all her doubts and her anxieties were dissolved when his hands moved over her with practised ease. He stroked her quivering skin until she was a mass of sensitive nerve-endings and she moaned his name softly beneath her breath as he brought her slowly down onto his aching shaft.

‘Giancarlo,’ she breathed.

‘Look at me,’ he instructed silkily.

Their eyes locked as he guided her hips into a deep rhythm and his captured gaze when he was deep inside her seemed unbearably intimate. But as the erotic dance led her inexorably towards orgasm she shut her eyes tightly again—afraid that he would see the naked pain which sometimes intruded at the very moment of pleasure. Pain provoked by the thought of a life without him.

It was only later, when they were showered and dressed and eating a delicious dinner cooked by Gina—who had returned from her shopping trip—that Giancarlo raised his glass to her in silent toast.

‘Tell me, bella mia,’ he said softly. ‘Do you have a passport?’

The unexpected question made Cassie put down her wine glass as she looked at him—her heart thudding as she basked in the ebony stare he was slanting at her.

‘Yes. Yes—of course I have a passport.’

‘No “of course” about it,’ he pointed out, with a dry smile. ‘Since you told me you’d never been to Europe.’

‘Ah, but I went on a day trip to Calais when I was at school—does that count?’

Giancarlo bit back an indulgent smile as she pushed away her plate and looked at him with interest. As a mistress she had been perfect. Unwittingly amusing. Sexually curious—and with a native intelligence which sometimes surprised him. He had enjoyed introducing her to theatre and the opera—even if he hadn’t got round to introducing her to his friends. Why bother, when she would never encounter them again? No, early on he’d realised that time spent with Cassandra could be spent in a much more enjoyable way than sitting through interminable dinner parties and fielding off faintly embarrassing questions about how they’d met.

But while shaving that morning he had realised with something of a shock that there was hardly any time left and that Christmas was almost upon them. For once, he had not noticed the passing days nor been bored by the constant company of one woman. Barely a week to go until he travelled to New York to spend the holidays with friends—the way he always did. And when he returned to London it would be to a bed and a life bereft of his young, blonde lover.

Would he miss her?

He studied her as the tip of her little pink tongue snaked its way around her lips to make them gleam provocatively. And he remembered what that same talented little tongue had been doing just a little while ago. For a woman who had known nothing of a man’s body when he had first met her, she had proved to be a remarkably quick and talented learner.

Yes, he would miss her—but he would soon forget her. He always did.

‘Oh, I can think of more enjoyable ways of seeing the Continent than a school day trip,’ he murmured.

‘Really?’

‘How would you like to go to Paris?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Paris?’ she squeaked.

‘Capital of France,’ he said gravely. ‘Have you heard of it?’

Cassie looked into the gleam of his black eyes—at the rugged, proud features which made her heart flip every time he came into the room. ‘Oh, Giancarlo—do you really mean it?’

‘I really do.’

‘When?’

‘How would tomorrow morning suit you?’

‘That soon? Oh, my goodness! Yes, please. Oh—thank you! Thank you!’ She jumped up from her seat and slid her arms tightly around his neck just as Gina walked into the room to collect the plates. Quickly, Cassie let her arms fall—even if she hadn’t felt the sudden tensing of Giancarlo’s shoulders. Because he didn’t do demonstrative—not in the street, not in restaurants or in the theatre, and he certainly didn’t do demonstrative in front of his cool housekeeper.

Getting used to having live-in staff had proved more challenging than learning to share a bed. Gina hadn’t been unfriendly towards Cassie—she had just showed a polite indifference which could be terribly intimidating at times. And while Cassie could see that Giancarlo needed people to run his house for him, she wished that they could have all been dismissed during her brief stay there. She would have liked to have had the freedom to roam the house. To make love in every room. To cook for him herself instead of always having their meals served up to them—either at home or in some fancy restaurant. Because she wasn’t interested in all the trappings which came with Giancarlo’s great wealth—she was interested in him.

‘Cassandra and I are going to Paris for a few days,’ said Giancarlo as a pink-cheeked Cassie returned to her seat.

‘How delightful,’ said Gina, with a cool smile. ‘Paris is always lovely at this time of year.’

Cassie gave a watery kind of smile, thinking that the whole world was more well travelled than she was! But she blotted out her insecurity as she got ready for the trip. A few weeks ago, packing for such an event would have been beset with problems, but not any more—mainly because her wardrobe had expanded slightly to accommodate her role as a tycoon’s mistress. It had started when Giancarlo had returned from work late one night bearing two fancy carrier bags—both festooned with soft layers of tissue paper. Cassie recognised the brand names immediately and blinked as he handed them to her.

‘What are these?’

‘Why don’t you open them and find out?’

From the first bag she pulled out a black silk dress which slithered through her fingers like a snake. ‘Oh!’

‘Like it?’

‘How could I not like it? It’s…it’s…beautiful. But how did you know my size?’

There was a pause. A smile. A shrug. And Cassie’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she correctly read the expression in his eyes. Of course. She wasn’t the first woman he had bought clothes for and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. He was an expert in guessing a woman’s size.

Her fingers were trembling as she opened the second bag, which contained a pair of shoes—a pair as high as the ones she’d worn on their first date, but there all similarity ended. These were pure leather, handmade and exquisitely crafted, with a band of tiny glass beads at the toe which made them look as if they’d been dipped in fairy dust. In fact, they were fairytale shoes for a fantasy world—and a sudden sense of unreality washed over her.

‘What are these for?’ she breathed.

‘For wearing, of course.’

Cassie’s heart started beating very fast. ‘Because my own clothes aren’t good enough, I suppose?’

‘Oh, come on—don’t take it so personally. Showering mistresses with expensive gifts is written in the contract, Cassandra,’ he said softly. ‘Didn’t you know that?’

She could have flung the shoes back at him—except that it would have achieved precisely nothing. It was pointless issuing ultimatums or sulking simply because he wouldn’t behave in the way she would have secretly liked him to behave—like a man who was falling in love. Because Giancarlo would never do that. He treated her like a mistress because she was a mistress. And if she had found herself wanting the relationship to deepen instead of coming to an abrupt end—well, then she was wasting her time.

Because that was never going to happen. It had never been part of the deal. And if she had been grown-up enough to accept his terms from the outset, then she should be grown-up enough not to want to move the goalposts because she’d discovered that it didn’t really suit her after all. So she accepted his gifts with a kind of calm emptiness—and found that when it came to visiting the most romantic capital in the world she had the perfect wardrobe to take with her.

She had thought they might fly, but instead they took the train—a champagne trip through the Channel Tunnel, emerging from the darkness into the flat, French countryside until the train drew into Paris, at the Gare du Nord.

‘Are you ready for Christmas?’ questioned Giancarlo as he ushered her through the station to where a car was waiting for them. ‘Because this city does it better than any other.’

Cassie nodded as she climbed into the luxurious leather interior of the limousine, feeling as excited as a small child who had been told she was going to meet Father Christmas. ‘Ready for anything,’ she whispered.

Fairy lights woven into the trees gleamed golden-bright all the way along the Champs Élysées, and Christmas trees were festooned with fake snow. Cassie sat very close to him in the back of the car as they passed all the famous designer stores—Chanel, Gucci and Louis Vuitton—with their clever-clever windows and pencil-thin mannequins.

They were staying at a grand hotel not far from the Eiffel Tower—with a foyer in which stood the biggest Christmas tree Cassie had ever seen. It was looped with lights and hung with cinnamon sticks and baubles which glittered like icicles—and beneath it were stacked piles of fake, gold-wrapped presents.

Giancarlo had rented an enormous suite whose huge windows overlooked the Avenue Montagne where champagne awaited them—as well as big vases of bright pink roses. The bed was indescribably opulent and one of the two bathrooms contained a Jacuzzi. For a while Cassie wandered around like a woman in a trance as her fingertips skated over the heavy brocade arm of an antique sofa.

‘I keep thinking that this is a dream and that soon I will wake up.’

‘Well, don’t go to sleep just yet,’ he murmured as he pulled her into his arms. ‘Didn’t you know that Paris was invented for lovers?’

For a moment the word mocked her. Lovers, he had said—but it was an intensely misleading word, because what did this have to do with love? And how many other of his lovers had he brought to this romantic city?

But Cassie pushed the nagging thought away as Giancarlo began to undress her, sliding the whisper-soft silk lingerie from her trembling flesh as his mouth found her breast.

For three days they did all the things which tourists were supposed to do—climbing up the Eiffel Tower and marvelling at all the cathedrals and beautiful little churches which studded the city. Exploring the tiny side streets, they discovered dusty antique shops in which to browse. They walked through a frosty Left Bank and ate boeuf bourguignon with crusty bread and on another day they wandered through the Tuileries Gardens and watched the ever-changing light reflected on the river Seine. And when they weren’t exploring they were having sex—amazing sex, which Cassie suspected was sharpened by the sense that it would all soon be over.

But that sense of displacement never quite left her—and it was reinforced on their last day, when he tried to buy her a beautiful black suede coat which he’d seen in the window of Valentino and persuaded her to try on.

She shook her head. ‘Thank you—but no.’

‘But I want you to have it, bella,’ he said, in a voice of silky determination.

‘No, Giancarlo,’ said Cassie firmly, even though she could barely recognise the sleek, chic woman who stared back at her from the mirror.

‘Why not?’

‘Because…because it’s so expensive.’

‘Well, why not? You’re worth it…’

‘No!’ she said fiercely, her cheeks growing pink. ‘Please don’t say that. It makes me feel like some kind of…of…commodity.’

There was a pause. ‘If you’re trying to make me feel bad, then let me warn you now that you won’t succeed,’ he drawled, but Cassie couldn’t mistake the irritation which underpinned his words.

In the brightly lit shop their eyes clashed and one word leapt to the forefront of Cassie’s mind, while nearby the sales assistant pretended not to notice.

‘Warn me?’

‘Just don’t bother trying to lay a guilt trip on me, bella. It’s coming to the end of our time together and I wanted to buy you a warm coat, that’s all. I’ve noticed you don’t have one—and there’s a long, cold winter ahead.’

Cassie stared at him, feeling sick. He was making her sound like some urchin from a Victorian melodrama—standing in a threadbare coat selling matches while snowflakes swirled down around her!

‘You know what you can do with your damned coat,’ she flared as she pulled it off and thrust it at him. And, turning round, she walked out of the shop without looking back.

He caught up with her outside and his face was dark with fury as he caught hold of her, his fingers biting into the thin material of her coat, which now seemed to mock her. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he snapped.

‘What, refuse to be bought off?’

‘I’m talking about making a scene in public. Do you think I don’t care about my reputation—even if you have no regard for your own?’

Her body beginning to tremble, Cassie stared at him. And as his critical words registered the scales began to fall from her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? Just because she had allowed herself to be completely captivated by his magnetism and charm, she had credited him as having all kinds of attributes which didn’t exist outside her wistful imagination.

Because to Giancarlo she was a commodity. She was his mistress and he paid the bills. He brought her to Paris and in return she provided sex on tap. It was temporary and it meant nothing. Nothing.

He had spoken of reputation, but he had missed the point somewhere along the way. Because with one stroke he had managed to both save and ruin her reputation. Yes, he had ensured she didn’t have to return to Cornwall after being sacked for suspected theft—but he had persuaded her to enter into a liaison which made a mockery of all the things she believed in. Her idealistic dreams of love and fidelity had been smashed.

She had learnt that if a woman provided good sex to a rich man she was rewarded with clothes costing tens of thousands of pounds. That had been the price she’d been paid for the loss of her innocence—and maybe the cost was too high. An adventure in London had become nothing but a sordid affair—and the sooner she left it all behind, the better.

But afterwards she half wished that she had just gone ahead and let him buy her the coat because it ruined the rest of the trip—and, in a way, it ruined their goodbye.

Countless times she had played out in her head what he might say. What she might say to him when the moment of departure came. Prior to the ugly scene in the Parisian shop, she had allowed herself to pretend that he might just tip her chin and look deep into her eyes and ask her if she would consider staying until spring…

But none of that happened. The train journey back from France was mainly silent and this time they drank no champagne. Cassie felt flat and empty as his car drove them back from the station and Giancarlo disappeared to his office the moment they arrived home.

Home.

Had she taken complete leave of her senses? This felt nothing like home. It was just a tall, city mansion inhabited by a man who saw what he wanted and ruthlessly went out and took it. Maybe it was because the woman he had loved had dumped him for his twin brother but—whatever the reason—he would never change. Why should he?

She booked her ticket back to Cornwall without telling him and when he arrived back from work she told him that she was catching the train first thing in the morning.

‘That soon?’

Cassie hesitated. ‘Well, yes. I…think it’s best, don’t you?’

He studied her face and, eventually, nodded. ‘Maybe it is. But you don’t have to travel by train, bella—my driver will take you.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’d prefer the train.’

‘Why?’

Was he entirely lacking in comprehension? Couldn’t he see it from her point of view? Of course he couldn’t. Giancarlo had been hurt and betrayed once in his life and, since that day, he had been building higher and higher barriers around his heart. He didn’t let anyone inside them—and maybe they’d grown so high that he couldn’t see the outside world with any degree of clarity.

‘It’s a small village,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘And people will gossip if I turn up in a big, chauffeur-driven limousine.’

With a stab of guilt, Giancarlo registered the whiteness of her face and the blue shadowing the delicate skin beneath her eyes. And in that moment he recognised that something had changed. He found himself regretting the bitter words they had spoken in Paris—but perhaps they had been inevitable. The smooth, sophisticated farewell he had wanted had been nothing but wishful thinking—because he had suspected for days now that she was reading more into the affair than he had ever intended.

But he would give her a night to remember. So that one day she would be able to look back and remember how good it had been. She would appreciate all that he had taught her—and her future husband would benefit from him having made her an exemplary lover.

‘Okay, it is agreed—you will go by train. And now stop frowning, mia bella, and come upstairs with me. I want to make love to you—and I want it very badly.’

‘But it’s only seven.’

‘I know it is.’

‘And Gina will be preparing dinner.’

‘I have given Gina the evening off.’

‘Oh? And why would that be?’

‘Because I want you on my own,’ he growled.

Cassie felt pride warring with desire and desire won hands down. Sliding her arms around his neck, she lifted her face to be kissed and silently forgave him. He hadn’t broken any promises. Maybe she should commend him for that. He’d never filled her heart with false hopes—and if that heart was feeling wounded it was her fault for not having heeded his words. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ she whispered.

The night which followed was bittersweet—the sex sublime—but Cassie found the hours between dawn and daybreak unbearably poignant as Giancarlo slept by her side and she stared wide-eyed at the moon-dappled ceiling. This is the last time I will lie here listening to his breathing, she thought, gently touching her fingertips to the rhythmical rise and fall of his powerful chest. Never again will I waken to the soft seduction of his kiss or to feel his limbs entwined with mine. Some day I may sleep with another man and make love with another man—but it won’t be Giancarlo.

Next morning, she picked at a breakfast she didn’t want and Giancarlo walked her to the door, kissing her one last time before putting her into the car with her single suitcase. She had told him to take all the clothes he’d bought her to the charity shop—and his face had darkened as he had demanded to know why. Falteringly she’d told him that there would be nowhere to wear them back in Trevone—and how on earth could she explain to her mother that she happened to have acquired a whole heap of designer clothes on a shop assistant’s salary?

But just before he closed the car door, Giancarlo leaned inside and placed a turquoise box tied with a white ribbon into her hand. Cassie stared down at it.

‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a present.’ His lips curved in gentle mockery. ‘Don’t you know that this is the time of year for giving?’

‘But I haven’t got anything for you.’

For a moment he hesitated as a mixture of guilt and desire heated his blood, thinking that she had given him the greatest gift a woman could give a man—her purity and her innocence. ‘You’ve been the best present a man could ever want, cara,’ he said softly. ‘Just don’t open yours until Christmas morning.’

The car pulled away from the kerb and automatically Cassie found her fingers closing tightly around the box—as if wanting to treasure it as the last thing he had touched. And it was only when they were safely away from the elegant crescent and the possibility of being seen that she allowed the tears to fall.