Читать книгу Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary: The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress / The Secretary's Scandalous Secret / The Boss's Inexperienced Secretary - Кэтти Уильямс, HELEN BROOKS, Cathy Williams - Страница 11

‘YOU’RE not eating very much, Angie.’

‘I’m not that hungry, Mum.’

‘Oh, don’t give me that, darling. It is Christmas day. Go on—have some more!’

Angie’s smile didn’t slip as she obediently speared a sprout and began chewing it even though she felt as if the effort might choke her. But then it had been like that ever since she’d woken up that morning and eyed the few presents under the tree with a dutiful rather than enthusiastic eye. If the truth were known, she’d rather have put her head back under the duvet and stayed in bed all day than have to go through the charade of celebrating!

Yet her Christmas probably looked picture-perfect from the outside—with snow tumbling prettily down over the houses in the village where her mother lived and every shiny front door decked with a bright wreath of holly. You could have painted the scene and stuck it on the front of a Christmas card and people would have cooed over it.

There had been a traditional service in the tiny church, chatting to people she’d known since she’d been a little girl and then trudging back through the silent white lanes to open their presents. But her mother always found this particular holiday difficult and Angie had been aware of a terrible dull ache which had nothing to do with it being the anniversary of her father’s death. Her sister’s current marital woes weren’t helping matters any either.

Phone calls had been arriving with scary regularity from Australia. Angie had worried how on earth her sister was going to pay for them all with a costly divorce pending—and she wasn’t even sure how useful they were, since they consisted mainly of Sally sobbing and saying how unhappy she was with the ‘Aussie idiot’.

‘Believe me, Angie,’ she had sniffed. ‘There’s a lot to be said for the single life!’

Not from where Angie was sitting. Today, she felt like the loneliest person on the planet—an uncomfortable feeling only sharpened by her regret at having so recklessly gone to bed with Riccardo.

Riccardo. Angie swallowed down the last of the sprout and tried not to feel sick. It didn’t matter what she did or said—nor how much she tried to fill her waking hours with mundane tasks which would occupy her mind—her thoughts stubbornly kept coming back to the arrogant Italian.

The glow of physical pleasure had faded quickly—helped by the knowledge that he regretted the sex had ever happened. His hasty retreat from her apartment had left her feeling abandoned and foolish. And she had quickly realised that her long-cherished dream of ending up in the arms of her boss hadn’t turned out as she’d expected.

Because Riccardo didn’t want her. Not in any way which didn’t involve fielding his phone-calls or typing his letters. He didn’t even desire her enough to want to repeat the sex on a different occasion—why, he’d left so fast that morning that she hadn’t seen him for dust. And if she’d been harbouring some small hope that he might have had second thoughts—that he might have rung her up to apologise for his abruptness and to ask to see her again outside work—well, that hope too had been crushed. There had been nothing but a deafening kind of silence from Signor Castellari.

And then, of course, there was the bigger picture. Like, what the hell was she going to do when she got back to work after the holiday was over? Act as if it had never happened? Primly place his coffee on the desk in front of him while trying not to remember the way that he had pushed her hair back from her face and then lowered his head to kiss her? Or remember the way that his tongue had trickled its way over an extremely intimate part of her anatomy? Her cheeks flushing with remorse, Angie bit her lip. There was no way she was going to be able to remain there, that much was certain. Before Christmas she had been aware that she couldn’t stay working for Riccardo for ever—but that vague wish had now become an absolute necessity.

As soon as she got back to London, she would start applying for a new job.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Her mother’s voice broke into her silent deliberations and Angie quickly put her fork down.

‘Yes, Mum—I’m fine.’

‘You’ve been distracted since you arrived. Nothing’s wrong, is it, Angelina?’

Angie managed a weak smile. ‘No, of course not. Nothing’s wrong.’ Because what woman in the world could confide to her mother that she had broken the cardinal rules of advancement in the workplace? Never mix business with pleasure. Never fall for a man who is light years out of your league. And never end up in bed with the boss after the Christmas party.

‘And how’s that nice boss of yours?’

Could mothers mind-read? ‘Oh, he’s…he’s fine. Successful as ever.’

‘So I keep reading in the newspapers,’ murmured her mother approvingly. ‘You were so lucky the way he plucked you out of the typing pool like that!’

Angie only just stopped herself from cringing at her mother’s choice of words—but, come to think of it, didn’t she used to feel exactly the same way about her rapid promotion? As if Riccardo were some kind of knight in shining armour, galloping into the office and carrying her away on his white charger. Back then, in her eyes, her boss could do no wrong—no matter how irascible he could be. In a way, she had been stuck in a groove of adoring him—her mind still fixed in the same mode it had been when he’d ‘rescued’ her.

Except he hadn’t done anything of the sort. All he had done was recognise that he’d found a woman who would completely submerge her life in his. Who would put up with just about anything he cared to throw at her. Long, thankless hours spent helping him meet some deadline or other—just for the occasional heart-fluttering smile or glinty-eyed look he threw across the office.

And just because he’d done the unthinkable—events had taken an unexpected turn. If he hadn’t bought her the kind of dress she would never normally have looked at, then she would never have been transformed into someone else. Someone who had taken a night off from being Angie—so that Riccardo hadn’t treated her like Angie at all. He’d treated her like a woman he’d just been tantalised by. He’d taken her to bed and made her discover just how wonderful a man could make you feel. And just because she had woken up the next morning in a smitten state and wondering if perhaps they had some kind of future together didn’t mean that he felt the same way.

On the contrary. He wanted to erase the woman in the red dress from his mind and replace her with the old, familiar version of herself—the dull one that he scarcely noticed. Angie didn’t know whether that was possible—and, more importantly, she had to ask herself whether she wanted it, even if it was. Could you possibly go back to the life you’d been living after an event like that?

‘So what’s he doing for Christmas?’ asked her mother brightly.

Angie shrugged. ‘Same as he always does. Spending it with his family in Tuscany.’

‘In the castle?’

‘Yes, Mum—in the castle. They’re all getting ready for a wedding—his sister’s getting married to a Duke in the new year.’

‘A Duke?’

‘Well, they call him a Duca but it means the same thing.’

‘Oh, Angelina,’ sighed her mother. ‘It sounds just like a fairy tale.’

Yes, it did, thought Angie grimly. But it was as illusionary as any other fairy tale—with all those dark undercurrents swirling around beneath the supposedly perfect surface.

Angie felt a new restlessness as she mentally psyched herself up to going back to work, staring at her bland image in the mirror and trying hard not to remember how different she’d looked in the bright party dress. For the first time in her life she had seen how clothes could make you blossom. Could make a man—even a man as gorgeous as Riccardo—look at you with naked desire in his eyes.

She might have hung the scarlet dress at the back of her wardrobe, vowing never to wear it again—but she realised that everything else she owned made her look and feel like a piece of wallpaper. She blended in so that nobody noticed her; she always had. But suddenly the prospect of continuing down that road terrified her.

She was scared that she would become completely invisible—inside and out. That if she wasn’t careful, she would let the destruction of her dreams slide her into a dark place from which she might not emerge. And she wasn’t going to live like that. Not any more.

Her clothes were expensive and she could never afford to replace her wardrobe overnight—especially not with the cheap kind of clothes which didn’t really suit her—but surely she could brighten things up with a few carefully chosen accessories bought in the post-Christmas sales?

She found herself in a huge department store on Oxford Street, drifting her fingertips through a filmy selection of shawls. Holding a vivid red one next to her face and deciding that perhaps vibrant colours brought out her colouring in a way that her usual camel or taupe didn’t.

She bought a wide brown leather belt which cinched in her waist and made it look impossibly small—and another in glossy black patent. And a rich, emerald velvet scarf which emphasised the green flecks in her hazel eyes. New, squashy brown leather boots too—and a pair of high black court shoes. Brightly coloured beads cost very little, but gave a dress an entirely new appearance—or so the helpful girl on the jewellery stand told her. And when she went to her new job she wouldn’t be classified by her fellow workers as a bland, boring person whom nobody noticed. They would think of her as bright, bouncy Angie who wore a clutch of plastic bangles which clanked as she moved.

But the most daring thing of all she saved until last—walking into the hairdresser’s with a defiant expression on her face and letting her sand-coloured hair spill all over her shoulders.

‘Can you just cut it off?’ she asked.

‘Anything particular in mind?’ asked the assistant.

‘Something really flattering,’ said Angie, colouring slightly. ‘But nothing too wild.’

It seemed to Angie that her new haircut and her new boots and belt became more about trying to update her image without losing her essential personality—but they also felt like a shield she could hide behind. And if she felt brittle on the inside as she travelled into work after the Christmas break—she knew that from the outside she looked newly bright and breezy.

The snow had melted into a thick grey slush but the man who owned the coffee shop next door lifted her spirits, telling her she was the best thing he’d seen all year.

‘Ah, but that’s because it’s only the second of January!’ She smiled, though if she’d been paying more attention she might have noticed the dark figure who had paused momentarily outside the plate-glass window.

But despite her determination not to slink into work as if she were ashamed of herself, Angie’s heart was still beating quickly as she walked into the office carrying her blueberry muffin. With a nervous repetition which bordered on hysteria, she silently told herself that since Riccardo didn’t have a meeting until lunch-time, he probably wouldn’t be in the office until later.

But he was.

Sitting at his desk, his chair pushed back and his long legs stretched out in front of him, he was flicking through a sheaf of papers and he glanced up as she walked in.

And frowned.

Angie hung her coat up as she met his gaze, praying that her own face held just the right amount of friendly interest which you might direct at your boss if the last time you’d seen him he had just been putting his clothes back on. But his face was looking distinctly stony and her heart sank.

‘Happy new year!’ she said, nervous words tumbling out of her mouth. ‘How was Tuscany? Busy, I expect. Not long now until the wedding.’

He completely ignored her question and her babbled statements, the black eyes flicking over her with an incredulous light in their ebony depths. And when he spoke, his voice was silky—a tone she’d never heard before and didn’t quite recognise. ‘Well, well, well. And what, pray, is this?’

Steadily, she regarded him—praying that her calm face didn’t betray a trace of the heart-thumping excitement she felt at being alone with him again. Because she didn’t want to feel heart-thumping excitement. She wanted nothing more than neutrality to get her through the days until she could slap her resignation letter on his desk and walk away without a backward glance.

‘What is what?’ she questioned brightly even though her heart was slamming against her ribcage.

Riccardo flicked her another cool glance. He had psyched himself up for a very different encounter. Had been expecting—and dreading—Angie to creep into the office with red-rimmed eyes. For her to sulk and pointedly give him the cold shoulder. For cups of coffee to be slammed down in front of him. And that the memories of that unbelievably erotic night would fade with every glance he cast over her drab figure. Except that she wasn’t looking in the slightest bit drab. He frowned again.

What the hell had changed? He was sure the plain woollen dress she wore wasn’t new and yet the garment seemed to have undergone a dramatic transformation. Was it the tight belt which was drawing his attention to the narrow curve of her waist and the tempting swell of her breasts? Or just the fact that he now knew what treasures the dress concealed? He felt his throat constrict. ‘You’ve…you’ve had your hair cut,’ he said suddenly.

He’d noticed! Angie felt a shaft of pleasure pierce her—until she forced herself to get real. Don’t be so pathetic. He’s noticed that at long last you’ve changed your hairstyle—big deal. Nevertheless, her fingertips touched the newly shorn locks.

‘That’s right. Do you…do you like it?’ The question came out before she could stop it—did it sound like the desperate query of a discarded lover keen to reappraise herself in the eyes of the man who had walked away?

Riccardo’s gaze flicked over her. Unfortunately, the question required him to continue looking at her, and looking at her was the last thing he wanted. Or rather, it was. It was just that looking at her made him remember the pink and cream softness of her body and the way she had cried out when he had entered her.

Today she didn’t look remotely pink. Or soft. She looked glossy, and sleek. Like some pampered little pussy-cat who was longing to be stroked.

With an effort, he forced his mind away from the pert thrust of her breasts and up to the shiny new haircut. Did he like it? It was difficult to judge because his head was now full of conflicting images which were jangling for his attention. Angie with her hair scraped back from her face in its usual stark, utilitarian style. Angie with her hair spread out all over the pillow. And now Angie with her hair all feathered around her chin and showcasing a remarkably long and slender neck. He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘It’s okay.’

Suddenly Angie understood the meaning of the expression being damned with faint praise. So stop seeking it, she told herself fiercely. Act like you’d normally act—the way you used to before you spent the night with him. The trouble was although she could remember how—she wasn’t sure whether she was going to be able to accomplish it. She had been in love with him for so long, but had become an expert at hiding her feelings for him behind the easy working relationship they’d forged. But now it felt all skewed. Odd.

Now she knew the reality of Riccardo as a lover and it was the memories of that which dominated her thoughts. For how could you possibly keep your mind on his latest financial acquisition when you kept being reminded of the way his lips had whispered with a featherlight touch across your bare belly?

Remember how callous he was the morning after you slept with him, she told herself. Remember how your stupid heart was welling up with love for him and he took those feelings and crushed them beneath the heel of his arrogant Italian shoe.

‘I’m just going to make some coffee,’ she said.

‘I don’t want a cup of coffee.’

‘Well, I do.’ Tearing her eyes away from his piercing black gaze, she clattered around with the sophisticated coffee machine he’d insisted on installing when he’d first arrived—which produced coffee to rival the stuff served in the shop next door. But it wasn’t until she’d completed the task and put the cup on her desk that she realised he was still looking at her. And that there was no way she was going to be able to munch her way through the skinny blueberry muffin she’d brought in for breakfast. But neither could she ignore the accusatory stare which was lancing through her.

‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’

‘I just wondered why you’d come to work looking as if you were going straight out to a party.’

Angie feigned outrage at the acid remark, though secretly she was pleased; more than pleased. So he’d noticed her clothes, had he? Good. And he disapproved of them, did he? Even better.

‘I don’t think that’s an accurate assessment of a simple woollen dress you’ve seen many times before, do you?’ she asked coolly.

Riccardo gave what sounded uncomfortably like a growl—though the sound wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the sudden heavy aching at his groin. He was overreacting and it was time to stop it. He should be grateful that she’d had the sense not to play up—or want to talk about what had happened after the Christmas party. His mouth hardened. Even though her reasons for sharpening up her wardrobe were quite clear. Women could be so transparent. She thought he’d go right over there and rip it off, didn’t she? Thought he’d be laying her over the desk, and pulling down her…

‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’

Uncomfortably, he snapped out of his erotic daydream. ‘Why?’

‘You’d just gone a rather peculiar colour, that’s all.’

His black eyes seared through her. Was she daring to taunt him? ‘Make me a coffee!’ he ordered.

‘But you just said—’

‘I don’t care what I said, Angie—just make me a coffee, will you—since that’s one of the things I pay you to do!’

Not for much longer, she thought furiously as she got up and walked over to the coffee machine.

She could feel his eyes burning into her as she clattered around and tried to stop her fingers from shaking. But when she placed the cup carefully in front of him, his hand snaked out to capture her wrist.

‘So are you enjoying a flirtation with that man?’ he demanded.

Pulse rocketing in instant response to his touch, she stared at him incredulously. As if she could even look at another man! ‘Which man?’

‘The one who owns the sandwich shop next door.’

For a moment she almost laughed until she realised that he was deadly serious. ‘Don’t be so absurd, Riccardo.’

His fingers tightened around her wrist. ‘But I saw you on my way into the office. Fluttering your eyelashes at him. Wiggling your hips in the way a woman does when she is aware of her own sexual power.’

And despite the ludicrous nature of his accusation, Angie could feel the urgent escalation of her heart and the now thready flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers. Could he feel it, too? she wondered. Was he as affected by her touch as she was by his? Quickly, she snatched her hand away—terrified at how quickly that brief, almost contemptuous contact could still make her melt with longing. ‘You’re being ridiculous!’

‘You think so? Yet I recognise all too well the signs of desire in a man.’ His gaze was steady, but inside he was angry. With himself, more than anyone—because she seemed to be showing a remarkable sangfroid he was far from feeling. He wanted to storm round to the other side of his desk and kiss her until she begged him to take her. He wanted to lose himself in her sweet softness one more time…Instead, he glared at her. ‘Who knows? Perhaps I am not the only recipient of your undeniably sweet favours.’

Angie stared at him in disbelief. And yet—could she blame him for making such an accusation? Hadn’t she just fallen into bed with him, with nothing in the way of real wooing? He wasn’t to know that there had only ever been one lover in her life, and that had been a bit of a disaster. ‘You…really…really think that, Riccardo?’

He didn’t know what to think; the rule-book seemed to have been torn up and flung out of the window during that inexplicably erotic night with her. And he was behaving in a way which was completely out of character. As if he cared what she did!

He shrugged. ‘It is none of my business what you do or who you associate with. You must have all the boyfriends you wish. You are a free agent.’ There was a pause. ‘As am I.’

And this hurt almost as much as anything else he had said—his precise words making it patently clear that their one night really had been one night. Well, she would not react. He would never know how much she cared for him. How much she had cared for him, she corrected herself silently.

‘I know that, Riccardo. And if you don’t mind—I’d prefer not to discuss what happened before Christmas. I thought we’d already decided that.’ Or rather, he had decided it. She gave him a thin smile. ‘It was unfortunate, yes—a mistake which should never be repeated—so the sooner it’s forgotten, the better. Don’t you agree?’

For a moment, he was completely taken aback. That was supposed to be his line. He was the one who erected boundaries in his relationships and other people were the ones who fell in with his wishes. And she was daring to call it a mistake? A mistake to have spent the night in the arms of Riccardo Castellari! For a moment he was tempted to go round there and take her in his arms and kiss her and then let her tell him it was a mistake. As if she could! But he did not need to prove his sexual power to anyone—least of all to himself. And wasn’t it easier this way? With Angie taking the whole episode in her stride—even if it was only an act and secretly she was longing for his kiss once more?

‘It’s forgotten. It is of no consequence,’ he drawled, with a careless shrug. ‘Now get me all the paperwork on the Posara account, would you? And after that I’d like you to organise a conference call with Zurich about the Close merger. Oh, and can you sort out a fitting for the suit I’m wearing to my sister’s wedding?’

‘My pleasure,’ she answered tightly as she walked over towards the filing cabinet.

For the rest of the day, they barely spoke—except when it was impossible not to—and Angie buried herself in her work, staying on late in the office after Riccardo had departed to get ready for some fancy black-tie dinner which was taking place at Somerset House, with its beautiful ice rink and views of the river.

Was he taking some other woman to it? she wondered jealously as sat poring over the job advertisements. Of course he was! As if a man like Riccardo Castellari would ever go to a do like that on his own.

She thought of the long journey home and the cold little apartment which awaited her. The day she’d just spent—trying her best to be professional but unable to ignore the tension which had been sizzling across the office between her and Riccardo, no matter how much they’d both kept their distance, circling round each other like two wary animals.

How could she bear to exist in that kind of atmosphere—while his imposing presence mocked her with the pleasures he had given her, which were destined never to be repeated? The simple answer was that she couldn’t.

Staring at the blank screen, Angie began composing a letter of application with a grim new determination.