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 14

‘YOU remember my sister, don’t you, Angie?’ questioned Riccardo as he led her into the room.

Angie nodded—hoping that her bright smile hid her shock at seeing Riccardo’s young sister again. Why, she looked positively gaunt—her high cheekbones like two high shadowed slashes arrowing down to her nose. Surely that amount of weight loss was due to something more than just pre-wedding nerves?

‘I certainly do. Hello, Floriana, nice to see you again—and congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.’

A faint frown criss-crossed the girl’s lovely face as she summoned up an answering smile. ‘Hello, Angie,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to see you again, too. We are…we are pleased to have you here. My mother sends her apologies for not being here to greet you herself. She’s dealing with caterers at the moment and she looks forward to seeing you at dinner. So does my brides-maid—she’s English, too.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting to mention someone, Floriana?’ drawled a silken voice from the opposite end of the table. ‘I’m sure that Riccardo’s guest is looking forward to meeting the Duca.’

Angie turned towards the dark-featured man who was reclining with indolent ease in one of the chairs, still wearing riding clothes.

‘But I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Romano?’ murmured Riccardo.

Angie shook her head. She’d certainly remember if she had. So this was Romano Castellari—another stalwart of the international gossip columns, as single, sexy Italian billionaires tended to be. In a way, the brothers looked remarkably alike—with their jet hair and imposing physiques. But this man’s features were, if anything, even harder than those of Riccardo and there was a coldly formidable air about him. She knew that he was the elder of the two and that he ran the vast Tuscan estates owned by the family. ‘No,’ she said, slightly nervously. ‘But I’ve heard lots about you.’

Romano gave a detached kind of smile as he rose with effortless grace to shake Angie’s hand, his black eyes flicking over her with cynical interest.

‘All good, no doubt?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly say—everything Riccardo says to me is in the strictest of confidence,’ answered Angie gamely, hoping to lighten the inexplicably dark mood which pervaded the room, but Floriana’s sombre look remained firmly in place.

‘It’s very good of you to bring your secretary,’ commented Romano, raising his black brows in arrogant question. ‘I do hope you aren’t planning on working all the while you’re here, Rico?’

‘I have a couple of important deals going through,’ murmured Riccardo. ‘And I decided that Angie deserved a little treat since she’s threatening to leave me.’

‘Really? What a pity—you must be sure to change her mind. Good secretaries are so hard to find. By the way, we’ve put her in the west wing—which, as you know, is at the opposite end of the house from where you’re sleeping. I do hope that won’t inconvenience you too much if you have to…work late.’ Romano’s black eyes flashed a mocking challenge at his brother and Angie suddenly went cold inside. He knows, she thought. He knows that the two of us are lovers—and he doesn’t approve.

‘You’ll meet my bridesmaid later,’ said Floriana. ‘She and a whole group of others are staying at a hotel in the village. Romano thinks it would be too distracting to have a lot of people here—though heaven only knows, there’s enough room.’

Angie felt a sudden flick of envy as her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. Oh, to be staying in the village—far away from this cold house with its strange atmosphere and its complicated menfolk. ‘Perhaps I could go and unpack now?’

‘Sure,’ said Riccardo. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

‘Have fun,’ murmured Romano. ‘I expect we’ll see you at dinner. Don’t work too hard.’

Angie didn’t say a word all the way back through the seemingly endless journey to her room, where her case had magically appeared—presumably placed there by some unseen servant. Uncaring of the huge bed or the magnificent picture-postcard view which could be seen from her window, she turned angrily on Riccardo.

‘Your brother knows!’ she accused.

‘Knows what?’

‘That…that…that we’re lovers!’

‘Are we?’ he murmured as he pulled her into his arms and pushed the hair away from her face. ‘You’ve kept me waiting for so long that I’d almost forgotten.’

Half-heartedly, she tried to pull away from his embrace but her body seemed to have other ideas. ‘He knows,’ she repeated.

‘He doesn’t know. He’s guessing—and so what, Angie?’ Tipping her chin up, he raked his gaze over her. ‘Are you ashamed?’

Was she? She was angry with herself for being here, yes—for allowing herself docilely to be led, like a lamb to the slaughter. And for accepting so little from him, when she wanted so much. But ashamed? She shook her head as she looked up into the soft, dark gleam of his eyes, feeling her heart begin to pound and the overwhelming urge to have him touch her. ‘No, I’m not ashamed,’ she whispered.

‘Then kiss me.’

‘No.’

‘Kiss me, Angie. If, as you say, my brother has guessed—then why should we endure all the innuendo without any of the pleasure?’

His arguments were beating down her objections and his lips were making resistance impossible—trailing fire where they touched. Her head fell back as they whispered along the curve of her jaw, the long line of her neck, and she shivered as he reached around her back. Unzipping her dress in one single, fluid movement, he eased her arms out of the garment with the skill of a man who had performed this particular task many times, until it pooled in a soft heap by her ankles.

‘Piccola,’ he murmured, unbearably turned on by the sight of her in that so plain underwear she wore. Despite the short notice, by agreeing to accompany him here—any other woman would have moved heaven and earth to acquire the flimsy wisps of underwear which would be expected of the mistress to a wealthy man. But she had not. And although he knew that her failing to do so was more in a spirit of defiance than anything else, there was still something ridiculously innocent about her functional bra and briefs, this miserable pair of tights. His lips drifted along the line of her collarbone. ‘You look…’

Not used to be being stripped naked in the middle of the day, Angie froze defensively. ‘What?’

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, realising to his surprise that he meant it.

Something in his voice stirred her just as much as the practised fingers which were reacquainting themselves with all her secret places—touching her softly and with unerring precision. Her senses began to sing, her blood heating her skin as he set her body alight. So why not just enjoy this? Take all the pleasure he was offering and stop wanting the impossible? To be his equal in the bedroom even if she was his subordinate outside it. Sliding her hands beneath his sweater, she began to run her fingers hungrily over the oiled silk of his back.

‘So are you,’ she whispered back.

Her urgency transferred itself to him and Riccardo momentarily moved her away while he peeled off his jeans and sweater, giving her one brief, provocative smile before tumbling them both down onto the bed. Their limbs tangled warmly as her lips sought his. Her arms wrapped him tightly to her, pulling him closer with an eagerness which made him give a low laugh of pleasure. For a moment their eyes met in a silent look as he straddled her, then drove into her with that first, longed-for thrust, which made her cry out until he kissed her quiet.

And Angie began to tremble. It felt as if she had entered another dimension of living. As if this melding together of flesh was what nature had intended her for. Even her orgasm seemed to happen in slow motion—almost miraculously at the same time as his. She heard the helpless cry he made, so that afterwards she found herself lying dazed in his arms, completely shaken by what had just happened. And for a while they just lay there, and that closeness was almost as good as what had preceded it.

‘Oh,’ she murmured eventually.

Absently, he stroked her tousled hair. ‘Good?’

‘A-amazing. Well, you know it was.’

He found himself asking a question he never asked women. ‘And how do I compare with your other lovers?’

She found the query intrusive, and yet wasn’t there a part of her which wanted him to know that she didn’t behave like this with other men? ‘I think you know that you’re a marvellous lover,’ she said quietly. ‘As for comparisons, I think they’re odious, but if you must know—I’ve had one lover before you, and it was a pretty disastrous experience.’

Riccardo felt the surface of his skin suddenly growing cold. How come she always told you more than you needed to know? So that the answer to a simple question suddenly seemed to carry a whole weight of significance. Wasn’t it easier to think of her as someone who’d been around a bit—rather than as someone who had briefly had her fingers burnt by a man? ‘What a pity,’ he murmured non-committally.

Angie turned onto her side to study the hard, perfect profile of his face. ‘There seemed to be a lot of…tension going on downstairs.’

He shrugged. ‘My sister is getting married the day after tomorrow. What do you expect?’

She hesitated. ‘There’s a difference between nerves and tension, Riccardo—and she seemed to have been having some sort of argument with your brother.’

‘That’s because she has insisted on having a woman as bridesmaid whom Romano thinks entirely unsuitable for the task.’

‘But surely it’s her decision, not his? Nothing to do with him?’

‘It’s certainly nothing to do with you,’ he returned softly. Rubbing a thumb over the rasp of his chin, he yawned. ‘I’d better go.’

But Angie couldn’t help noticing the exhaustion in his face; the dark shadows beneath his eyes—and, despite his prickly attitude, she felt her heart soften. Caring about Riccardo’s welfare was an impossible habit to break, it seemed. Gently, she began to stroke his black hair until she saw him relax and saw his eyelids shuttering—as if he were fighting the temptation to close them. Why not let him sleep—just for a little while? ‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered. ‘Just for a minute.’

Pulling the duvet over them both, she snuggled herself against his body, hearing his sigh and echoing it with one of her own as she heard his breathing steady into sleep.

Much later, she woke—feeling hungry and realising that they’d eaten no lunch—and she was just thinking about waking Riccardo when she felt him stir next to her.

For a moment he felt as if he was in the most comfortable place on the planet. His knee was thrust between two soft thighs and he could hear the even sounds of a woman’s breath as it fanned against his shoulder. For a moment he sank into the feeling, revelling in the sensations which were whispering over his skin before he realised where he was—and then he swore softly in Italian.

‘Che ora e?’ he snapped, lifting his wrist to glance at his watch. He sat up, his face wreathed in anger. ‘Why the hell did you let me sleep?’

Dismayed, Angie stared at him. ‘Because you looked as if you needed to.’

Jumping out of bed, he grabbed his jeans and began to pull them on. ‘Madre di Dio!’ he exclaimed furiously. ‘You’ve certainly changed your tune! From worrying about what my brother might think of our behaviour—you switch to luring me into staying.’

‘I didn’t lure you!’

‘You covered me up with a duvet,’ he accused.

‘Is that such a heinous crime?’

It felt like a trap. A trap as seductive as those great big eyes of hers and her warm, soft body. He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to spend half the afternoon in your bedroom!’ he declared.

‘Then don’t! Nobody’s keeping you here. Go!’

‘Oh, I’m going all right.’ He pulled the dark sweater over his naked torso and turned his back on her while he zipped up his jeans—wanting to distract himself from the alluring sway of her naked breasts and the still rosy flush which darkened them. And only when he had mentally doused himself with the equivalent of a cold shower did he feel able to turn and face her again with his customary cool.

‘Right—you’d better know what’s happening,’ he clipped out. ‘There’s a formal dinner tonight here in the castle—you’ll need to wear something smart. And did you bring your laptop with you?’

His statement had started her mind start buzzing—wondering what to wear to the formal dinner—but the subsequent question threw her in her tracks. ‘Er, no. I didn’t think I had to.’

‘Really?’ he questioned coolly. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have one sent up here. I want you to chase up the Devonshire account for me. There are plenty of scenic locations around the estate where you can work.’ He walked over to the door, seeing the outraged expression on her face, and he paused. ‘What’s the matter, Angie—surely you were expecting to work? That, after all, is the reason you’re here. The sex is simply a perk.’

It was possibly the most hateful thing he could have said and presumably he meant it to be—but Angie didn’t react. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing how much his words could rip right through her. When would she ever learn that their agendas were completely different? ‘Of course,’ she answered, as if nothing would bring her greater pleasure. ‘And I might as well tidy up the Posara portfolio while I’m at it.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘If you must.’

And, oh, wasn’t it worth the act of pretending that his words hadn’t hurt—just to see that rare look of uncertainty which had crossed his arrogant face? ‘Close the door behind you, would you?’ she murmured. ‘I want to take a shower.’

But after he had left, she did not head for the bathroom—she didn’t think her shaky legs would carry her. Instead she sat down on the rumpled mess they’d made of the bed and wondered what she was doing here. Had she thought it would be easy?

Yes, in a way—perhaps she had. Which only went to prove how short-sighted she could be. She had always associated arrogance with Riccardo—but hadn’t she been guilty of an arrogance of her own? Thinking that she could handle her emotions both in and out of his arms. But she couldn’t. Women weren’t built like that—or, rather, she wasn’t.

When he was making love to her it was all too easy to imagine that it was for real. That her years of quiet devotion had finally borne fruit and that they were a proper couple. But it wasn’t real, and they weren’t. It was just amazing sex—something he happened to be extremely good at. And if she was being honest—wasn’t it likely that every woman he took to his bed felt the way she did? As if she wanted him to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her and couldn’t bear to live without her.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen—not in a million years. And deep down she knew all this—so when was she actually going to start believing it? Nothing was going to change unless she made it change—so maybe she needed to start being a bit tougher in order to protect herself.

For the first time, she allowed her eyes to drift around the room and to acknowledge how truly beautiful it was. Rich brocade drapes shimmered like precious liquid metal at the windows and similarly rich fabrics were used in the heap of cushions piled onto a sofa. There was a writing desk, too—antique and lovingly polished and very beautiful.

Angie unpacked her case and then headed off for the bathroom—which was as gleamingly modern as the castle itself was old. Rich soaps and shampoos were lined up and she washed away all traces of the journey and Riccardo’s love-making—before emerging pink and scented. Wrapping herself in a giant towelling robe, she walked back into the bedroom to see that a laptop had been placed on the desk in her absence, and she stopped in her tracks.

He certainly hadn’t wasted any time in driving home her real status! Flinging a load of mundane tasks at her even though they’d only just arrived. Angie picked up a brush and began to pull it through her wet hair. Well, the work could wait. She was through with being useful, doormat Angie. Angie who took just whatever Riccardo Castellari cared to chuck at her. Because she was slowly beginning to realise that Riccardo treated her the way he did because she let him!

And she wasn’t going to let him. Not any more.

The thought empowered her and, seeing that there were almost two hours until the formal dinner, Angie spent ages drying her hair, then settled down with a book. It was a very good book and she felt especially pleased that she had been able to push Riccardo out of her mind enough to really get into the story.

In fact, she was two thirds into it when she saw that there was only half an hour to go before dinner. Hastily, she put on some make-up and then opened the wardrobe—wondering if she had the courage to wear the only dress which would be suitable for a grand event in a place like this.

It gleamed provocatively at the back of the wardrobe—the red dress which she had been unable to resist bringing and which she had vowed she would never wear again. But it was strange how seductive a beauti-ful garment could be. And Angie wasn’t stupid—she recognised that it had a power all of its own. Beside it, her own conservative clothes looked boring and so safe—no matter how much she tarted them up with accessories. How could she not wear it?

Her hands were trembling as she slipped it on, because of course this was much more than a dress—it was imbued with significance. Riccardo had bought it for her. It was what she had been wearing the night he had taken her to bed. It was what had made him stop looking through her—and realise that she was a woman.

Was it too risqué an outfit in which to meet his mother? she wondered as she slowly circled in front of the mirror. No. The designer was world famous and Italian women were famously stylish. And Riccardo’s mother won’t care what I wear, she thought. To her—I am just someone he employs. She’ll barely notice me.

There was a knock at the door and Angie’s heart raced. Would Riccardo approve? Would he perhaps try to kiss her—to mollify her after his earlier display of anger? Well, this time she wouldn’t let him.

But it was not Riccardo who stood at the door. A young female stood there, looking rather diffident—her plain dark dress marking her out clearly as a servant.

Just like me, thought Angie with a pang—only I expect that this young girl doesn’t get any of the ‘perks’ which Riccardo pointed out earlier. ‘Buona sera,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Como si nama?’

The girl’s English was as hesitant as Angie’s Italian, but her smile was wide. ‘My name is Marietta. You…you follow me?’

‘Of course. Thank you.’ But it was strange how feelings could suddenly switch. From dreading seeing Riccardo, Angie could now feel herself fervently wishing that he’d come to collect her himself as all her bravado slipped away. How could she walk into a room full of important people she didn’t know—all proper invited guests, apart from her—with even some members of the aristocracy thrown in? Would they look at her and judge her, and find her wanting?

She heard the murmur of voices and the chink of glasses as she descended the curving wooden staircase. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she looked fine but inside she was trembling like a leaf. Pinning a smile to her shiny lips, she began to walk down towards the assembled guests—a rainbow display of finery contrasting with the dark suits worn by the men. A dazzling and glamorous assembly. Some of them looked up and some turned around.

But all she could see was the ebony spotlight of Riccardo’s eyes following her every movement.