Читать книгу Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary - Кэтти Уильямс, Cathy Williams - Страница 14

SHE did not want to go. She did not want to go. The words spun round and round in Angie’s head like a mantra. But words, no matter how fervently they were felt, didn’t change a thing. Not when you were up against the might and determination of Riccardo Castellari.

Angrily, Angie finished laying down the last neatly folded silk shirt and then slammed shut her suitcase, glancing down at her watch and realising with a fast-beating heart that Marco would be here with the car at any moment to take her to the airport. Her palms felt clammy and she felt slightly sick.

It was bribery.

Blackmail!

How dared Riccardo insist that she accompany him to Tuscany for his sister’s wedding? she had demanded to know, in that flushed and uncomfortable period after their passionate bout of office sex.

‘You will join me, ostensibly as my secretary,’ he had drawled. ‘But we both know that you’ll be fulfilling another role quite perfectly. As my mistress.’

‘But, Riccardo—’

‘No, say nothing more—for I will not countenance your objections. It is the perfect solution,’ he had mused. ‘My mother would not tolerate me bringing a lover into the house—but nobody need ever know that you are fulfilling a duel role so effectively, cara mia. You can provide me with sweet delight to distract me from all the stultifying details of the forthcoming wedding.’

‘But why, Riccardo?’ she had breathed. ‘I mean, why me?’

Almost impartially, he’d studied her and it was then that Angie had realised how cold a colour black could be—for his eyes had looked positively icy as they flicked over her distressed face.

‘Because you have unlocked a certain, inexplicable hunger in me, cara mia—and I see no reason not to feed that hunger until we are both satisfied. You have already decided to leave my employment, so lets make sure that when you do it is with no lasting regrets on either side.’

He had made it sound so impersonal—as if he were dealing with something rather than someone. Like a man who had just conducted an audacious boardroom coup. Defiance had reared its head. ‘And if I object?’

Arrogantly, he had pulled her towards him—brushing his lips over hers in an almost negligent kiss, which had soon had her shivering beneath it.

‘You won’t object,’ he had boasted softly. ‘You want me far too much to dare to object.’

She had tried. Oh, she had tried. Overriding her hungry body’s screaming protests, Angie had shaken her head and whispered no. And that was when clever Riccardo had played his trump card. If she agreed to the trip, he would let her leave his employment as soon as they returned to England.

‘But I don’t have a job to go to!’ she had objected.

‘What if I give you six months’ full salary—and we’ll call it a bonus for all your hard work?’

For a moment Angie had hesitated—some instinct making her feel uneasy about the deal. Was such an agreement wrong? And yet, wouldn’t she at least be able to preserve her sanity this way and didn’t she deserve some kind of bonus for all the hours she’d put in for him over the years? In the end, she had shrugged her shoulders and agreed and he had kissed her again, taunting her—telling her that her body could not deny how much she wanted him.

Picking up her suitcase, Angie stared in the mirror at her pale face and the set of her lips. It was true. She did want him—but her desire wasn’t straightforward, like his. Hers was complicated by feelings—intense feelings for him which wouldn’t seem to die, no matter how high-handed and hateful he could be. And surely she needed to work on herself—to try to cure herself of an unrequited love which could never have a happy ending.

In the end, it was that thought which convinced her to agree with Riccardo’s outrageous plan. She only knew the man she saw most days in the office—in his guise as highly successful businessman. She’d never seen him wearing anything other than a suit—or nothing at all. But surely if she was with him for a whole week—then she would see him for what he really was. An arrogant man with many flaws who was undeserving of her love.

She prayed that would be the case—because the alternative was terrifying. And what she couldn’t bear would be the thought that she might become one of those sad women who carried a torch for someone who didn’t care. The kind of woman who wasted her life, pining for someone who never even gave them another thought.

Her doorbell rang. Angie gave one last, nervous flick of her hair. That would be Marco. Riccardo had flown out to Tuscany yesterday afternoon—so at least she would be spared travelling with him. But she still had Marco to face. She hadn’t seen Riccardo’s driver since he had dropped his boss off after the Christmas party, when he must have sat outside her apartment for ages before deciding that his boss was there for the night. And she liked the driver—she didn’t want him thinking of her as some kind of loose woman.

‘How long does the journey take, Marco?’ she asked him, once her suitcase had been installed in the capacious boot and they were speeding towards the airport.

‘Should be there in just under the hour, signorina— the roads are quite clear,’ replied the Italian, his equable tone temporarily setting Angie’s mind at rest. It didn’t sound as if he was judging her, she thought cautiously.

Angie had never travelled first class before—in fact, her whole flying experience had been a couple of package holidays to Spain. But in the event, it was wasted on her. She poked uninterestedly at the deli-cious slices of rare roast beef which the stewardess carved for her; she even failed to be tempted by the chocolate mousse. Her stomach was too tied up in knots to face eating—though she did drink a glass of champagne which, for a while at least, gave her a little courage at the thought of facing Riccardo again.

But her nerve nearly failed her when she walked through and saw him standing at the far end of the arrivals hall, waiting for her. A Riccardo who wasn’t wearing his habitual, perfectly tailored suit. A much more casual and relaxed Riccardo and one she wasn’t quite sure she recognised.

As she approached her eyes couldn’t help drinking him in—even though she kept trying to tell herself that he was a cruel man to have insisted on her presence here as his mistress. After years of loyal service couldn’t he have just let her go with some dignity—and let her quietly fade into the background?

But his dazzling appearance eclipsed the troubled nature of her thoughts. He was wearing jeans—black jeans which clung to every lean sinew, emphasising the powerful thrust of his thighs and reminding her of things she would much rather forget. A dark sweater and soft leather jacket completed the buccaneer image—his black hair was ruffled and the olive skin glowed with life and health. But despite the outwardly relaxed appearance, nothing could disguise the hungry gleam which sparked his black eyes as she grew closer.

His gaze raked over her with predatory insolence and just for a moment Angie allowed herself to marvel at the fact that he really did seem to desire her very much indeed. He, Riccardo Castellari—billionaire tycoon—desired her—his plain little secretary. Hadn’t he told her that himself—even if he had tempered the words by shaking his dark hair in disbelief, as if such a thing was incredible.

But it was incredible, wasn’t it? Here she was, ordinary Angie Patterson—walking across the shiny floor of the arrivals lounge towards the man who was dominating the attention of just about every other person in the place. Shouldn’t she just try to enjoy it?

Lie back and enjoy it? mocked the voice of her conscience.

I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself fiercely. I’m a single woman and he’s a single man and we’re hurting no one. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and walked up to him in her new high-heeled boots.

‘Hello, Angie,’ he murmured, and gave her a slow, lazy smile.

Angie’s heart leapt—until she told herself to read nothing special into the fact that his black eyes had momentarily softened. Of course they had. What man’s wouldn’t have felt a moment of fleeting affection for a woman when she’d had her legs wrapped round his back on the floor of his office yesterday? And that was the sole reason she was here today—so he could repeat the erotic exercise as often as possible. But that didn’t mean Riccardo had suddenly acquired a deeper, more significant way of looking at her. That was all in her head.

‘Hello, Riccardo,’ she said, her voice coolly polite.

He observed her demeanour with a mocking smile. ‘So you have brought a little of the English frost with you, is that it?’

‘What did you expect—that I’d be leaping for joy having been blackmailed out here?’

‘Don’t be melodramatic, piccola—you could have easily stayed at home.’

‘And turn down the chance of a pay-off and early exit from your life?’ she challenged hotly.

‘Why, Angie,’ he murmured. ‘And here was me thinking that you were here because you couldn’t resist my body.’

Glaring at him, she glanced around. ‘Shh! Somebody might hear!’

He shrugged as he took the suitcase from her unprotesting fingers. ‘We’re speaking English,’ he remonstrated silkily. ‘And we’re in Italy—where men and women tend to be less uptight about such matters.’

‘Oh, how you twist things round to suit yourself!’ she retorted crossly. ‘One minute you’re advocating harsh rules that virgin women should marry older men—and the next minute you’re telling me that Italy is liberal about lovers.’

‘Ah, but that’s the difference between lovers and prospective marriage partners,’ he murmured flippantly.

Reinforcing her lowly status, the careless remark hurt more than it should have done and Angie dropped her passport into her handbag and zipped it up, determined to change the subject. ‘What did your sister say when she knew I was coming?’

‘She’s delighted—if a little distracted—but I guess that’s the prerogative of brides-to-be. Shall we go?’

Angie had half expected to see another chauffeur-driven car—since that was usually Riccardo’s preferred mode of transport—hoping that a third person might dilute some of the undeniable tension between the two of them. But her wish was not to be granted since an airport valet brought round a sleek, scarlet statement of a car which she realised that Riccardo was planning on driving himself. She swallowed. Just her and him. Alone together in a confined space, while her nerve endings were screaming out their heated response to his proximity.

Her pulse skittered as he pulled away from the kerb and the powerful car began heading out towards a line of mountains. Determinedly, she stared out of the window—afraid that he might read some of the conflict of emotions in her face. Or worse, the naked desire in her eyes.

Yet despite her misgivings, she soon began to relax a little—lulled by the sheer beauty of the green countryside which flashed past and by the smooth progress of the car.

‘It’s amazing,’ she said softly.

‘My driving, you mean?’

‘No.’ She laughed, in spite of her nerves. ‘The countryside. The country itself.’

‘But of course. It is the most beautiful country in the world,’ he said. ‘We have sleek cities and ancient villages. Stunning beaches and rich agriculture. Look up there and see the pure white marble which streaks the mountains like virgin snow, Angie. That is the same marble which Michelangelo used to fashion his David—which is the greatest sculpture in the world.’

She heard the pride and fervour which had deepened his voice—a side of Riccardo she’d never seen before, and one which was oddly stirring. Had she been naïve in hoping that prolonged exposure to this man might remove her longings for him? What if the reverse were true—her passion for him growing while Riccardo grew bored with her?

Surely here was a lesson to be learned. That she must protect her emotions at all costs. She felt the car swing off the main road and then turned to him as they bumped their way up a lonely little track and came to a halt. ‘This isn’t where you live,’ she said slowly as she heard the engine die.

‘No.’

The confusion in her voice was genuine. ‘Then what are we doing in the middle of—?’

‘This.’ He pulled her into his arms and stared down at her—a fierce dark blaze in his eyes. ‘What I’ve been wanting to do since I first saw you walk towards me at the airport with that misleading butter-wouldn’t-melt look on your face. To kiss you, Angie.’

It occurred to her that he could have kissed her back then—but maybe that would have been too public a display of affection for a secret mistress. People he knew might have been watching them and started asking questions; demanding answers. She was here as his sec-retary and the sex would be furtive—as if he were somehow ashamed of what he was doing.

‘I—’

‘Shh.’

His lips silenced her and all her objections were banished in that first sweet touch. She heard the low growl of appreciation he made and for a moment she luxuriated in the pleasure of being in Riccardo’s arms again. Of being able to tangle her fingers in the rich silk of his ebony hair and for his raw, musky scent to invade her nostrils like a welcome marauder. Desire flashed over her skin like sheet lightning.

‘Riccardo,’ she breathed.

‘Angie,’ he murmured back, briefly removing his lips from the soft petals of hers to stare down at her. ‘You’ve been driving me crazy with wanting, you know. It’s insane but I just can’t stop thinking about yesterday. About how we…how we…’ His fingertip seemed to be activated by memory as he began to trail it down over her cashmere coat. All the way down the thick barrier until he reached the hem, which sat primly over her knees.

She held her breath as the finger tiptoed underneath before he began sliding his hand slowly up over her thigh. Let him, she thought greedily. Let him touch me just for a minute and then I’ll stop him. She closed her eyes as the direction of his hand became more purposeful. Now it was skating even further upwards—tracing light erotic circles over each inner thigh and causing her to expel a breathless little gasp.

She could feel the stealthy and inexorable heat building. The responsive prickle of her breasts. The clamouring of sexual hunger which hadn’t featured in her life for so long that she’d almost forgotten it—and yet which Riccardo had activated and which now burned with a fierce flame inside her.

‘Riccardo!’ She caught his face between her hands as his fingers skated over the hot and aching core of her—the barrier of panties and tights doing nothing to lessen the growing hunger within her. Her throat felt constricted, her cheeks on fire—and then she realised that he was now pulling at the belt of her coat.

He wanted her here—in his car—down some little Tuscan track! His furtive secretary lover.

Her body screaming its protest, Angie wrenched herself out of his arms. ‘Stop it,’ she whispered from between lips which felt swollen to twice their normal size. ‘Stop it right now.’

A nerve worked at his temple. ‘You don’t want me to stop it.’

Maybe her body didn’t—but her dignity demanded it. Or did he think he was just going to erode that too with his sexual mastery—the way he had chipped away at her heart?

‘Oh, yes, I do.’ Ineffectually, she pushed at the hard wall of his chest. ‘Do you really want me to turn up at your house and to meet your family with my cheeks all flushed and my hair awry—making it perfectly obvious what we’ve just been doing?’

‘They won’t care what you look like,’ he snapped insultingly.

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ she returned, enjoying the outrage on his face as she dared to stand up to him. ‘And even if they don’t care—then I most certainly will. I’m here as your secretary, remember? And there’s a certain standard to maintain—a decorum—which I don’t intend to compromise with a quick fumble in your car!’

‘A quick fumble?’ he echoed, outraged.

‘Well, what would you call it?’

‘You do not think that such an experience would be pleasurable?’

‘N-no.’ She was on less sure ground now. ‘I’m not saying that at all. You’re very good, as I’m sure enough people have told you. I’m just refusing to turn up to your house giving people ammunition to make negative judgements about me.’

Struggling to rein in his ragged breath and trying to ease the unbearable ache at his groin, Riccardo glared at her. This was no coy little game she was playing, he realised with dawning disbelief. She really meant it. Did she think that he would fall under her spell if she resisted him?

And yet he could not remember the last time a woman had spurned his sexual advances.

For a moment, an unwilling respect warred with his feelings of frustration—and then he moved away from her with an impatient click of his tongue and started up the car.

‘Riccardo—’

‘Don’t talk to me when I’m driving!’ he thundered.

‘But you’ve left the handbrake on.’

With a curse, he released it—wishing that his body could be freed from its tight, aching constriction with such ease. Then he forced himself to concentrate on a road which suddenly seemed unfamiliar—though he had driven along it many times since the age of seventeen. He would make her pay in his bed tonight, he thought angrily. And she would suffer such sweet torture for the frustration she had dared inflict on him.

In the simmering atmosphere of the car, they didn’t exchange another word until they had descended a winding mountain road and they came to a small village. Angie looked out of the window, captivated by all she could see. There were lots of little houses and a clutch of shops, which were shuttered up for the afternoon, as well as a small schoolhouse, and a beautiful grey-stone church. And through it all snaked a river—crystal-clear and fast-moving as it curved a silver line through the green pastures.

Up one of the steep adjoining side-roads Riccardo drove, until at last he reached his hilltop destination and then he stopped to allow her that first view—the view which always took people’s breath away, no matter how rich or how jaded their appetites.

‘The Castellari home,’ he said, with an unmistakable ring of pride to his voice. ‘La Rocca.’

Their stand-off forgotten, Angie stared at the family home which she’d heard him mention over the years. She had always known it was a castle—had even talked about it to her mother—but the reality of actually seeing for the first time took her breath away. It really was a castle!

The pale and ancient stone building rose up out of the stunning landscape, its castellated ancient walls and loophole windows overlooking gardens which were speared by the deep green arrows of cypress trees. Against a backdrop of mountains were orchards into whose trees had been hung beautiful lanterns—presumably to help light the bridal procession.

‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she breathed, turning to look at him—her eyes shining with wonder. ‘Absolutely the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’

And something in her genuine regard soothed his jangled nerves, made him nod his head in quiet agreement—acknowledging an enthusiasm which was sweet rather than avaricious. He had never brought a woman here before, he realised with a start—until he reminded himself why. Bringing a woman here was a big deal, which might have hinted at a permanence he did not intend. And not for a moment did he underestimate the powerful allure of this ancient place, which commanded all the land which surrounded it. It was a place which people—especially women—would covet, and that was why he kept them away.

But this situation which had arisen between him and Angie was different. He did not need to keep batting off hints that the relationship might become something more—or have to guard his tongue to ensure that nothing he said might give his lover the wrong idea. His relationship with his secretary was based on honesty and mutual desire—which was undistorted by false romanticism.

He drove in through wrought-iron gates and stopped in front of a huge wooden door. Inside, the entrance hall was vast, lined with aged wood and lit by a roaring fire. A sleeping cat briefly lifted its head, yawned—and then resumed its sleep.

‘Come and meet my family,’ he said as he slipped the coat from her shoulders and hung it up and then shrugged his way out of his own leather jacket. He glanced down at his watch. ‘They’ll probably just be finishing lunch.’

Angie followed him through a maze of corridors towards the sound of voices speaking in Italian—but not particularly congenial voices, she realised. A woman’s was raised in obvious protest and a man was clearly arguing with her.

She followed Riccardo into a formal dining room—not really having time to take in the splendour of the huge space—because there was something else which was much more noticeable than all the wealth and history contained within these walls. Angie frowned. A man and a woman sat at opposite ends of the table—but there was absolutely no laughter or mirth on their faces. They might as well have been at the reading of a will, judging from their expressions.

Their dark colouring and naturally sensual features immediately marked them out as brother and sister and she could see something of Riccardo in both of them. But more than anything else, Angie was drawn to the pale, pinched face of the bride-to-be and the haunted look in her eyes.

And the instinctive thought flashed through her mind that this didn’t look like a woman about to participate in one of the happiest days of her life. This looked like a woman who was fast-tracking her way towards doom.