Читать книгу The Italian's Trophy Mistress - Diana Hamilton - Страница 7

‘DARLINGS—have you heard? Henry Croft is divorcing his third wife and moving on to number four!’

Across the candlelit dinner table Claudia Neill’s black eyes sparked with what Bianca Jay could only describe as malicious glee, and a shiver inched coldly down her spine as Cesare’s younger sister continued, the sympathetic curve of her mouth at odds with the spiteful relish of her tone. ‘Amanda’s absolutely gutted, of course. The poor thing’s been living on a knife-edge since Henry was photographed at the Oscars with that busty little film star—whose name escapes me for the moment—but you know the one. Bit parts, mostly, huge blonde hair down to her waist. Used to sing in a pop group. Mind you, poor Amanda will get lots of lovely alimony—’

Claudia gave a languid shrug, her naked shoulders smooth as silk above the little black slip dress she was wearing. ‘However big the settlement, it won’t make up for being dumped for a younger, flashier model, will it? But what did poor Amanda expect? Marry a man with a roving eye, an image to live up to and more money than he knows what to do with and you can think yourself lucky if you last more than a couple of years!’

Was she supposed to answer that? Bianca wondered grittily as she tried to ignore the sudden lurch of her stomach. For the hundredth time she wished she hadn’t so weakly agreed to come. But Cesare had told her, ‘I’m sorry about this, especially as it’s my first night back in London. But it’s my little sister’s birthday and I promised to give her dinner at my apartment. There’ll only be the four of us. You, me, Claudia and Alan. And they won’t stay late; I believe their babysitter won’t stay beyond eleven—she can’t take the strain of trying to get those two little monsters to stay in bed! And then there will be just the two of us.’

And, as always, she had found him dangerously impossible to resist.

Throughout the evening she’d been thinking of that danger. It was a subject that had been occupying her mind almost constantly over the past few weeks. To tell him their six-month relationship was over before she got in too deep, did herself some serious damage. Or go on as they were, knowing that the day would inevitably come when he would tell her their affair was over. It was a decision she simply had to make.

‘Of course—’ Claudia was practically purring now, smiling sideways at her doting husband, one hand dipping a silver spoon into her strawberry sorbet, the other playing with the sapphire pendant that had been Cesare’s birthday gift to her ‘—Alan’s not wealthy enough to trade me in, so I guess I’m pretty safe.’ A fluting laugh, as artificial as tinsel, then her dark eyes fed on Bianca’s suddenly pale face. ‘And at least you and Cesare know where you stand, don’t you, my darlings? All the fun of a temporary affair with none of the chores of marriage.’

‘Chores?’ Alan lifted one sandy brow in an imitation of pained outrage, and Claudia rolled her dark eyes.

‘Oh, you know, caro—squabbling over my dress allowance, dealing with the twins’ tantrums, organising babysitters—’

But Bianca wasn’t listening. That had been a direct dig at her mistress status. It wasn’t a status she was remotely proud of. A rich man’s trophy, to be paraded around all the right places, casually introduced to his circle of exalted friends, and just as casually dropped when someone new and exciting piqued his interest.

She had met Cesare Andriotti through her PR work, organising the opening shindig for the latest in the string of luxury hotel, leisure and conference complexes owned by his illustrious family and bearing the Andriotti name.

It had been lust at first sight, she recalled, ignoring the friendly bickering going on between Claudia and her husband.

She’d known it was dangerous, not what she wanted. She was career-driven, independent, and had no time for a steady personal relationship—a husband and family wouldn’t fit in with the largely unsociable hours she worked, with the often draining emotional commitments she already had.

And how many times had she told herself that Cesare Andriotti was the kind of man she had most reason to despise?

Countless.

Wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, drop-dead handsome, with barrow-loads of Italian charisma and the almost indefinable touch of arrogance that sent delicious shivers down the spine of any female in his vicinity. The kind of men who had everything, who took mistresses, showered them with gifts, and felt they had the perfect right to drop them flat—very politely, with oodles of charm, of course—just when they felt like it.

She had tried to keep him at arm’s length—at least, that was what she had told herself she’d been doing—but within a month of first meeting him she’d become his mistress. She simply hadn’t been able to help herself. He had overwhelmed her, ridden roughshod over each and every one of her objections—moral, practical and self-preserving.

His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Her spine tingled. He’d been watching her ever since his sister had made that barbed comment about them having only a temporary affair.

She refused to turn her head and look at him, meet those incredibly sexy, slate-grey moody eyes, let her own eyes linger on that passionate mouth or devour the lean and whippy lines of that elegantly clad, seemingly indolent body. To do so would mean she would be lost, the ever-hardening resolve to end their affair blown apart in her body’s consuming need for him.

‘Might I ask a favour, sir?’ Alan asked gruffly, reddening as he amended, ‘Cesare.’

Alan Neill was Head of Accounts for the UK side of the huge financial empire, had fallen in love with Claudia Andriotti when she’d been visiting Cesare at his London apartment and had never quite come to terms with the fact that his boss was his brother-in-law.

Bianca’s heart went out to him.

At thirty-four years of age, heading up the Andriotti business empire since his father’s retirement four years ago, Cesare struck awe into the hearts and minds of everyone who met him. Alan was out of his depth. He was thoroughly nice, too stolid and loyal ever to even think of betraying his pretty, temperamental wife; Claudia would never have to worry about being traded in.

At his wife’s pointed arch of one fine, dark brow Alan stumbled on, ‘Would it be possible for us to have the company jet in early August? It seems a bit much to ask but, the fact is, the twins would be a nightmare on a commercial flight. Won’t keep still, into everything, and you know how shrill three-year-old boys are when they get over-excited.’ He pushed his fingers through his thick sandy hair and made an abortive attempt at a lightly relaxed laugh. ‘I’d hate to inflict them on fare-paying passengers.’

‘Darling—’ Claudia placed a delicate, scarlet-tipped hand on her husband’s sleeve ‘—do stop rambling. Of course Cesare won’t mind.’ She smiled at her brother, her long lashes fluttering. ‘Mamma and Papa insist we take the boys out to Calabria for their wedding anniversary in August. And I’m quite sure you have your orders, too! So, if we may, we’ll join you on the flight out and back again? But if you can’t make it—’ she pouted prettily ‘—then please may we have the use of the Lear?’

Bianca covered her wineglass with her long, tapering fingers as Cesare made a move to refill it, looking directly ahead, anywhere but at him, carefully keeping a slight smile on her face, her expression on the politely interested side of bland.

But she wasn’t listening to a word of the affectionate family conversation. Claudia had probably been twisting her big brother round her tiny finger since she had first learned to walk!

Any arrangements that were being made for the family reunion wouldn’t, of course, include her.

Meeting up with his sister and brother-in-law on one or two social occasions had been unavoidable, hence her inclusion in this private birthday celebration. She was important to him for the nights they could spend together. For now. But not important enough to be included in a visit to his parents.

She hadn’t met Cesare’s twin nephews, whose precocious misdemeanours were now being so fondly discussed. But she’d heard about them.

Right at the start of their affair Cesare had told her, in response to her probably gauche comment that she wasn’t into long-term commitment, ‘Neither am I. Why should I marry? My sister has already done her duty and presented the family with twin boys.’

His long fingers had been relaxed on the stem of his wineglass, the slight smile that had always both unnerved her and captivated her playing around his mouth as his eyes had slid lingeringly over her features. ‘Our arrangement suits me perfectly.’

At least he was honest, she thought tiredly as she watched the waiter from the firm of caterers Cesare always used when he entertained at his London apartment glide towards them with a tray of coffee. As she knew to her cost, many men in his rarefied financial position married and divorced with monotonous regularity.

That conversation had taken place back in the early days, she reminded herself as the waiter deferentially placed a gold-rimmed coffee cup in front of her. But things were changing. Cesare was beginning to want things she didn’t dare to give.

And now was the time to make a clean and decisive break before she was left with a shattered heart, aching regrets and a desperate yearning for things that could never be, things she hadn’t wanted in the first place, shouldn’t even be thinking about wanting now.

Placing her linen napkin on the table amongst the beautiful china, the Venetian glass, she murmured, ‘This has been delightful, but I really must go. Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Claudia.’

A polite social smile on her face, Bianca rose to her feet. She was shaking inside with the enormity of what she now knew she had to do, but no one must know it.

Claudia’s eyes were bright, almost chillingly knowing as she uttered with obviously false regret, ‘Darling, must you? Really? I would hate to think Alan and I had cramped your style!’

‘Not at all,’ Bianca made herself reply lightly and turned to Alan, who had risen awkwardly to his feet. ‘Please. Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ she said, before forcing herself to walk out of the elegantly appointed dining room with at least the outward appearance of unhurried grace.

Cesare was following, as she had known he would. She heard the scrape of his chair as he rose from the table, the low murmur of his velvety voice as he made his excuses, and her stomach twisted sharply inside her.

In the adjoining vast sitting room Bianca snatched her mobile from her slim evening bag and punched in the numbers of her usual minicab firm with shaking fingers. Her breath was coming in rapid, shallow gasps as she ended the call and Cesare, right beside her now, said, ‘Cara mia, what is wrong? You were to stay with me tonight. Don’t go. For three weeks I have ached for you.’

He placed both hands on her shoulders and she felt her body go rigid. His low-pitched sexy drawl swamped her with longing, the possessive pressure of his fingers burned through the tawny-coloured silk that clothed her shoulders, reinforcing the mindlessly driven need to turn in his arms, loop her hands against the back of his beautifully shaped proud head, tangle her fingers in the thick, silky luxuriance of his jet-black hair and drown in the passion of his kiss.

Fighting against the incredible danger, Bianca moved away, putting much-needed space between them, blinking fiercely to stop the prickle of tears becoming a flood. He’d asked her what was wrong. Everything was wrong. Their no-strings, light-hearted affair was becoming much deeper and darker, at least as far as she was concerned.

She was growing too dependent on him, inclined to be unreasonably angered and hurt when he had to cancel a date, missing him until she ached all over, could think of nothing but him when he was out of the country, her ears on permanent alert for the phone call that would tell her he was back in London.

She was falling fathoms deep in love with him, that was the answer to his question!

But no way could she tell him. No way!

Love wasn’t part of their ‘arrangement’.

A long, easy stride brought him in front of her. The slightly musky, slightly sharp scent of him engulfed her, pushing the words she knew she had to say to him back down her throat, making the struggle to reassemble them well nigh impossible.

‘Stay,’ he said gently. ‘I need you. If there’s a problem—with work, with anything—I’ll handle it.’ The slight but inescapable pressure of his fingertip beneath her chin forced her eyes to meet his. Slate-grey enigmas fringed with thick dark lashes above the proud jut of his cheekbones, the thinly arrogant blade of his nose at certain odds with the savage passion of his beautiful mouth. He was so shatteringly handsome he made her heart ache.

His automatic assumption that he could effortlessly solve problems that would tie lesser mortals in knots made her throat tighten with near-hysterical reaction. It had nothing to do with wealth or position and everything to do with his sheer masculine virility, the dynamism of his personality.

‘I can’t.’ Bianca managed the reply to his request through lips so numb they felt as if they didn’t belong to her, her eyes still held to the mesmerising force field of his.

‘Why? I thought it was all arranged.’ His long, lean fingers curved gently around her jaw and his head lowered just a little. A preliminary to kissing her senseless?

Unwilling to take that risk, she jerked her head away, dragging in an anguished breath. Of course she’d meant to stay, drawn to his presence like the proverbial moth to the flame, saved only by antennae that had sensed and finally and unmistakably understood the danger before it had been too late.

Her fingers digging into the soft kid of her slim evening bag, she mentally formed the words that once spoken would be completely final.

He would accept what she said with a word or two of polite regret; he had too much pride to ask her to reconsider. From the moment the words were out it would be over. There would be no going back.

A steadying breath, a straightening of her shoulders, a flick of a tongue-tip over lips that felt stiff and dry. ‘It’s over, Cesare. I won’t be seeing you again.’

There, it was out, the bald statement that would leave her with some self-respect, that would save her heart from permanent damage. It had taken all her resolve to say the words that had felt as if they were being dragged from her, dropping like stones into an atmosphere that had suddenly become charged with more than the effect of her tightly wired nerves.

The tension was coming from him now, a subtle hardening of his strong jawline, a momentary flicker in the depths of those enigmatic eyes, a lifting of the dark head, emphasising the whippy power of a six-foot frame that was outrageously masculine. It made her shudder in instinctive response.

Cesare gritted his teeth against a violent internal surge that seemed to be tearing him apart and had to use all his self-control to prevent himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her lovely mouth until she retracted her words.

She couldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t let her!

Pulling a sharp breath through his nostrils, he closed his eyes briefly before allowing them to dwell on her face. Beautiful. There was a touch of the exotic about her creamy skin, the smooth black hair, lush mouth and long amber eyes, her slender, perfectly formed body clothed tonight in glowing tawny silk.

She couldn’t disguise the way her soft lips trembled, but there was a cold light of determination in her eyes that told him that, although the touch of his lips to hers, the slide of his hands, moving slowly from her slender shoulders to the globes of her breasts so tantalisingly delineated beneath the thin silky fabric, would ignite the conflagration of passion they were both helpless before, nothing would change her decision.

A vague uneasiness at the way their relationship had been going had been eating away at him for many weeks. Her refusal to move in with him, the look of pain when she’d refused the gifts that had been meant to give her pleasure, the way she had never once invited him into her home, her soft evasiveness when he’d questioned her about her family, her upbringing, her hopes for the future.

He knew as little about her now as he had done when he’d first met her and had known, with shattering immediacy, that he’d wanted her in his bed.

Despite the gossip, he hadn’t had as many mistresses as he’d been credited with. And when the time for parting had come, as it inevitably had, there had been no rancour on either side, no heartache.

So was it the mystery of her that made her different? He didn’t know. He only knew that he had never felt like this before. Emptied of his normal assurance, his self-sufficiency, filled instead with a yearning pain.

Denying the temptation to reach out and touch her, evoke the magic that would keep her with him just one more time, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his narrow-fitting black trousers and said with an impulsiveness that rocked him back on his heels, ‘Marry me, Bianca.’