Читать книгу Her First-Date Honeymoon - Katrina Cudmore - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTHE FOLLOWING DAY, mid-morning sunshine poured into Matteo’s office. He stood up from his desk and stretched his back, grimacing at the tightness at the bottom of his spine.
They said bad things came in threes. Well, he had just reached his quota. First, his exasperating but gifted designer had publicly insulted his most valued clients. Then his grandmother had invited a stranger into his home. And now his event co-ordinator for the Chinese clients’ trip had gone into early labour.
His designer was already in rehab.
He would have to put in extra hours to ensure the China trip ran perfectly...which meant even less sleep than usual.
And as for Signorina Fox... Well, he had news for her.
He walked down the corridor of the palazzo’s first floor, the piano nobile, his heels echoing on the heritage terrazzo flooring. He hadn’t seen or heard from Signorina Fox all morning. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was deliberately staying out of his way in the hope that he might let her stay.
The lounge balcony windows were open. Shouts of laughter and passionate calls tumbled into the room from outside. Stepping into the early springtime sunshine, he came to an abrupt halt.
Crouched over the balcony, her chin resting on her folded arms Emma was focused on the canal, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had risen up to give him an uninterrupted view of her legs. Legs encased in thick woollen tights that shouldn’t look sexy. But her legs were so long, so toned, that for a brief moment the ludicrous idea of allowing her to stay and act as a distraction from all his worries flitted through his brain.
He coughed noisily.
She popped up and twisted around to look at him. A hand tugged at her red skirt. Over the skirt she was wearing another polo-necked jumper, today in a light-knit navy blue. Her chestnut hair hung over one shoulder in a thick plait.
‘I hope you found my note?’
‘Thank you—yes...it was a lovely breakfast.’
The exhaustion of last night was gone from beneath her eyes. She gave him a can we try to act normal? smile and then gestured to the canal.
‘There’s the most incredible flotilla sailing up the canal—you must come and see.’ Her smile was transformed into a broad beam, matching the excitement in her eyes. She beckoned him over.
He should get back to work. But it seemed churlish to refuse to look. The canal was teeming with boats, and onlookers were crowding the fondamente—the canal pathways.
‘It’s the opening parade of the Carnival,’ he explained.
For a few minutes he forgot everything that was wrong in his life as he joined her in watching the parade of gondolas and ceremonial boats sail past. Most of the occupants, in flamboyant seventeenth-and eighteenth-century costume, waved and shouted greetings in response to Emma’s enthusiastic waves.
Seeing the contrast between her upbeat mood now and the sobs that had emanated from his bathroom last night twisted his stomach, along with the memory of his grandmother’s words this morning. He had called her with the intention of lambasting her, only to be pulled up short when he’d learned that she had gone home because one of the homeless men she helped had been involved in an accident, and that she had helped Emma because she had found her in a desperate state in a café yesterday.
He pushed away the guilt starting to gnaw a hole in his gut. He had enough problems of his own. Anyway, he didn’t do cohabitation. He had never shared his home with anyone. And he wasn’t about to start with an emotional runaway bride.
Below them, the regatta started to trail off.
‘I have found alternative accommodation for you in the Hotel Leopolda.’
Her smile dropped from her face like a stone sinking in water. ‘Hotel Leopolda? The five-star hotel close to St Mark’s Square?’
‘Yes.’
She stared back at the canal, a small grimace pulling on her mouth. ‘I can’t afford to stay there.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
She stepped away from him before meeting his eye. ‘I said it last night—I’m not taking your money.’
‘I can appreciate how you feel. If it makes you happier, you can repay me some time in the future.’
‘No.’ Those hazel eyes sucked him in, dumped a whole load of guilt on his soul and spat him back out again.
‘I’ll make some calls myself—check the internet again. I’ll find somewhere suitable,’ she said.
This woman was starting to drive him crazy. He had had to use all his influence to secure her a room. He doubted she would find anywhere by herself.
‘I want to resolve this now. My event co-ordinator for the Chinese trip has gone into early labour. I’ll be tied up with organising all the final details for the visit for the rest of the day.’
She stepped back towards him, her crossed arms dropping to her sides. Concern flooded her eyes. ‘I hope she’ll be okay. How many weeks pregnant is she?’
He had no idea. It had been a sizeable bump. Once he had even seen a tiny foot kick hard against the extended bump during a meeting. It had been one of the most incredible things he had ever seen.
That image had haunted him for days afterwards. Catching him unawares in meetings, distracting his concentration. Bringing a hollow sensation to his chest, a tightness to his belly, knowing he would never see the first miraculous stirrings of his own child. Knowing he would never be a father. Knowing he would choose the empty feeling that came with that knowledge over the certain pain of letting someone into his life, of risking his heart in a relationship.
‘I’m not sure...eight months?’
Did she have to look at him so critically? Suddenly he felt he had to defend himself. ‘I asked for flowers to be sent to her.’
‘I don’t think flowers are allowed in hospitals these days. Anyway, I reckon flowers are the last thing on her mind right now.’ She threw him another critical stare before adding, ‘I hope she and her baby will be okay.’
Why, all of a sudden, was he the villain in all of this? ‘Of course I do too. My employees’ welfare is of great importance to me. It’s why they all receive a comprehensive healthcare package.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Her tone didn’t match her words. Her tone implied he was a close relative of Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko.
‘About your accommodation...’
‘How long are your clients here for?’
Hadn’t she heard him? This conversation was supposed to be about her leaving. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Have you someone to take over from your event planner?’
A tight dart of pain prodded his lower back. He stretched with a quick movement, but it brought little relief. ‘No. My event management team are already stretched, co-ordinating the upcoming spring/summer shows. Most of the team are already in New York, getting ready for the shows there.’
She pulled her lips between her teeth as if in thought. When they popped back out they formed an even fuller pout, had turned a more sensual red than usual. Emphasising their cupid’s bow shape. She had a beautiful mouth...
A sudden urge to take her in his arms and taste those lips gripped him. Maybe he was more stressed than he’d realised?
* * *
Emma’s mind whirled. Could she drum up the courage to suggest she take over the event planner’s role? Work for Matteo Vieri? Without question it was what every ambitious marketing assistant dreamt of. She should be genuflecting right now in front of this business legend; this marketing genius, instead of deliberately trying to antagonise him. What was that about?
A niggling thought told her that not only was she trying in vain to ignore how attracted she was to him—especially when he openly stared at her with interest, as he was doing right now, with particular attention focused on her mouth—but that it would hurt to have another person reject her. Which, rationally, she knew was crazy. They barely knew each other. But even after so many rejections it still hurt when others turned her away.
Working for him would be the kick-start her career needed. Even a week of working with him would open doors for her.
But she was a mess.
She had come to Venice to heal and to get her game plan together. She felt hollow and abused. She was in no position to deliver the best performance of her career.
A mocking voice echoed in her head. You said you were going to toughen up. Time for action and a lot less talk.
And having a purpose, being busy, might stop the stream of guilt and sadness that was constantly threatening to break through her defences—defences of shock and numbness, of a determination to tough it out. Being in control, having a structure to her days, was what she needed.
She spoke before she had time to talk herself out of it. ‘I’ll do it.’
His gaze moved from her lips to her eyes. Very slowly. So slowly that time seemed to stand still while her cheeks spontaneously combusted.
‘You?’
Did he have to sound so appalled by her proposal?
‘In my role at the fashion college I often helped pull events together—from the graduation show to organising the visits of academics and sponsors. Last year I co-ordinated the visit of some members of a faculty from a Chinese fashion college. I’m in need of a place to stay...you need an event co-ordinator.’
‘But you’re on holiday.’
‘My career is more important. I’ll be frank: having the Vieri name on my CV will be priceless.’
He seemed to be considering her proposal. For a moment hope danced before her eyes. But then he cut that hope off at the legs with a single determined shake of that movie-star-meets-roman-emperor head.
‘It’s not a good idea.’
‘Why?’
‘This trip is of critical importance to my companies. The delegation is coming to negotiate contracts which would see the large-scale expansion of our product placements in China’s most prestigious department stores. Nothing can go wrong.’
For a moment she considered backing down, admitting that she was probably the wrong person for the job. But she had to believe in herself.
‘You can brief me on it this morning, and then I’ll liaise with the travel agents and hotels involved. I’ll also double-check that all the protocols involved with hosting Chinese guests are followed. If there are any issues I will notify you immediately.’
He leaned one hip against the balcony and folded his arms. ‘It’s not a nine-to-five position. You would need to attend all the scheduled events with me.’
‘That’s no problem.’
Those brown eyes darkened. ‘We will be working closely together.’
‘That’s fine.’
Liar! Why is your belly dancing with giddiness if that is the case?
‘Please understand I never mix business with pleasure.’
Why was he telling her that? Was her attraction to him so obvious?
‘Of course. Exactly my sentiments.’ She took a deep swallow and forced herself to ask, ‘So, can I have the job?’
‘Tell me why I should give it to you.’
This would be so much easier if he wasn’t so gorgeous—if he wasn’t so self-assured, so ice-cool.
‘I will work myself to the bone for you because I have so much to prove. To you—but especially to myself.’
He stared at her as though she was a discount store garment made of polyester. It looked as if she would be packing soon. A heavy sensation sat on her chest—embarrassment, disappointment.
‘As I’m stuck, I’ll let you take on the position—but any mishaps and you’re gone.’
His scowl told her he wasn’t joking. Her ankle and heart began to throb in unison.
He came a little closer. Studied her for far too long for her comfort.
‘You will need to stay here...’
For a moment he paused, and a heavy boom of attraction detonated between them. She fell into the brown sultry depths of his eyes. An empty ache coiled through her. Heat licked against her skin. She pulled the neck of her jumper down, suddenly overheating.
Matteo stepped back, tugged at his cuffs and cleared his throat. ‘I will require frequent briefings from you, so you will need to stay here. I’m hosting a reception in the ballroom on Thursday night, which I will want you to co-ordinate and host alongside me.’ He flicked his hand towards the palazzo. ‘If you come with me to my office I’ll brief you on the event schedule and then pass you the files.’
Emma walked alongside him, her enflamed skin welcoming the shade of the palazzo. But her mind continued to race, asking her what on earth she had just done.
Could she keep her promise that nothing would go wrong? What if she slipped up and he saw even a glimpse of how attracted she was to him? An attraction that was embarrassingly wrong. Humiliatingly wrong. Shamefully wrong. She had been about to marry another man yesterday. What was the matter with her?
They walked side by side into the deeper shadows of the palazzo, and she felt guilt and sadness closing over her heart.
* * *
Later that afternoon, his phone to his ear, Matteo walked into the temporary office Emma had set up for herself in the palazzo’s dining room.
Sheets of paper were scattered across the table. He tidied the paper into a bundle. A long navy silk crêpe de Chine scarf dotted with bright red gerbera daisy flowers was tossed across the back of a chair, the ends touching against the terrazzo flooring. A bright exclamation against the dark wood. He folded it quickly and hid it from view by placing it on the seat of the dining chair.
His call continued to ring unanswered.
Where was she?
He had told her to be back at the palazzo by four so that he could take her to see his stores on Calle Larga XXII Marzo. She needed to be familiar with his companies and their products before her interactions with the clients.
Before lunch they had spent two hours running through the visit’s itinerary. Two hours during which he had questioned his judgement in agreeing to her taking over the event co-ordinator role.
With her every exclamation of delight over the events planned, with every accidental touch as they worked through the files, with every movement that caused her jumper to pull on her breasts he had become more and more fixated with watching her.
And throughout the morning she had progressively impressed and surprised him with her attention to detail. Impressed him because she had picked up on some timing problems he hadn’t spotted. Surprised him because, tidiness-wise, the woman was a disaster.
Obviously timekeeping wasn’t a strength either.
The Chinese delegation were arriving in Venice this evening. He had to be at Hotel Cipriani at eight to greet them on their arrival. Emma had travelled over there, at her suggestion, after lunch to meet with the hotel co-ordinator and the interpreter employed for the duration of the visit.
He hit the call button again.
After yet more infuriating rings, she eventually answered.
He didn’t wait for her to speak, ‘Dove sei? Where are you?’
‘I’m not sure.’ There was a hint of panic to her voice. ‘After my meetings in Hotel Cipriani I decided I would visit the restaurant booked for the clients later this week on Giudecca. I found the restaurant and spoke to the owner and the chef. But when I left I must have gone in the wrong direction, because I’m totally lost. I can’t find my way back to the vaporetto stop.’
Now he really was regretting his decision to employ her. ‘Can’t you ask someone to help you?’
‘I have! But each time I follow their directions I end up even more lost down another narrow alleyway.’
Dio! ‘Can you see a street name anywhere?’
‘Hold on...yes, I see one! Calle Ca Rizzo.’
‘Stay there. I’ll come and get you.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll—’
He hung up before she had time to start arguing with him. It was already past four.
* * *
Emma placed her phone back into her padded jacket’s pocket, her already racing heart now acting as if it was taking part in the international finals of the one hundred metre sprint. The day had been going so well until she had gone and got lost in this warren of laneways or, as they were called locally, calli that made up Giudecca, an island suburb of Venice.
Her meetings in the opulent surroundings of Hotel Cipriani had gone smoothly, all the little extras she’d requested had been accommodated, and she had then made her way to Ristorante Beccherie, excited at the stunning views across the water to St Mark’s Square, the Basilica di San Marco and the Campanile clearly visible under the clear blue sky.
After her meeting at the restaurant she hadn’t minded getting lost at first. She had been enchanted by the three-and four-storey medieval red-brick houses on deserted narrow alleyways, by the washing hanging between the houses like bunting, the endless footbridges crossing over the maze of canals. The lack of the sounds of the twenty-first century because of the absence of cars.
But as she’d grown increasingly disorientated, her uneasiness had increased. She’d ended up in dead-end alleyways, silent and beautiful courtyards with no obvious signage.
Matteo was annoyed with her. No—scratch that. He’d sounded ballistic. Would he fire her on her first day?
She walked over to the canal that ran diagonally to the start of Calle Ca Rizzo and moved down onto the canal steps. The temperature was dropping and the cold stone bit against her skin.
Matteo was like Venice. Utterly beautiful but completely frustrating. All morning she had tried to remain professional, but she had been constantly distracted.
Distracted by his deep, potent musky scent when he moved closer to her to point something out in the file sitting between them.
Distracted by the perfect fit of his grey trousers on his narrow hips when he stood.
Distracted by the sight of his large hand lying on the table beside her: golden skin, wide palm, smooth knuckles, long, strong fingers tapering off into pale pink nails, all perfectly clipped into smooth ovals. Several times she had lost her concentration to those hands, dreaming about them on her skin, removing her clothes...
She had been glad of an excuse to get away from the palazzo, needing some space to pull herself together.
She dropped her head into her hands. What was she doing? Why was she having these thoughts? She wasn’t interested in men. In any form of relationship. She had a job to do. And falling for the boss was not only out of the question it was beyond stupid. Well, she hoped she still had a job to do. Maybe not when he arrived...
Fifteen minutes later she saw him stop on a footbridge further down the canal and stare towards her. His hip-length black wool pea coat was topped with a dark grey woollen hat. The pull of attraction tugged on every cell in her body. His mouth was turned downwards in a you’re in big trouble scowl.
She jumped up and tried to match his stride in her direction, but her legs were too wobbly so she careened her way along the canal bank, probably looking as if she had recently consumed a considerable amount of Chianti.
When they met her words of apology became lost. His hat hugged his skull, emphasising the intensity of his golden-brown eyes framed by thick black eyelashes, the beauty of his honey-coloured skin, the proud straight nose, the no-nonsense mouth softened by the cleft in his chin.
That gorgeous mouth hardened. ‘We are late for our appointments.’
Did that mean he wasn’t going to fire her?
Without another word he walked away and she followed alongside him, over countless bridges and through a maze of calli. They passed few people, and in the tight confines of the laneways he seemed taller and more powerful than she remembered.
She gave a quick summary of her meetings, updating him on any changes. Hoping his mood might improve. He made no comment but gave an occasional nod. At least he was listening.
Eventually they arrived at the broad reach of Canale della Giudecca and he led her to a sleek, highly polished wooden motor boat moored at a landing stage.
After untying the two mooring ropes he held the stern tight against the wooden stage. He held out his hand to her. ‘You need to climb aboard.’
She hesitated for a moment, suddenly wary of touching him. But, with the boat swaying in the choppy waters, she decided she’d risk holding his hand over the chagrin of being crushed against the landing stage.
His hand encased hers, and his powerful strength guided her on board. For a crazy few seconds she was engulfed by the sensation that she would always be safe with him in her life.
With practised ease Matteo pulled the boat away from the stage and was soon heading across the canal towards St Mark’s Square.
‘I’m sorry I got lost. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.’
He gave that ubiquitous continental shrug that might mean he accepted her apology with some reservations or was so irritated by her that he couldn’t speak.
At first she thought he was going back up the Grand Canal to Ca’ Divina, but just west of St Mark’s Square he turned right and slowly motored up a smaller canal. The canal was busy with gondolas, the majority of their passengers embracing and kissing couples.
She plucked her phone out of her pocket and pressed some buttons mindlessly. She had thought she wouldn’t mind seeing couples together, enjoying this city of romance. Boy, had she been wrong.
A heavy pain constricted her chest.
She was supposed to be here with her husband. Not with a man who was clearly irritated with her. Not with a man who in truth she was more attracted to than she had ever been to her fiancé.
That truth was shaming.
That truth was bewildering.
* * *
‘As I explained this morning, five of my companies have a presence here on Calle Larga.’
Matteo came to a stop outside the type of store Emma would window shop at when walking along Bond Street in London but would never dare to enter, knowing her monthly salary wouldn’t even buy her a set of barely there but, oh, so gorgeous underwear.
He pointed along the bustling street. ‘Verde for handbags, Marco for shoes, Osare is the label for our younger urban clients... Gioiello stocks daywear, and...’ Gesturing to the store behind them, he added, ‘And VMV for the discerning.’
Was he aware of the constant looks of appreciation he received from passers-by? How within the VMV store a bevy of model-like assistants were flapping their arms in excitement at his imminent entrance?
‘I had hoped to take you into each store so that you could familiarise yourself with our product range.’ He threw her a reproachful frown. ‘But that will not be possible now. We only have time for your fittings.’
With that he turned, and the door of the store was magically opened by a stealthy doorman Emma hadn’t seen lurking behind the glass pane.
Matteo gestured for her to enter first.
She took a step closer to him and in a low voice asked, ‘What do you mean, “fittings”?’
‘You will need dresses and gowns for the various events you will be accompanying me to during the week.’
‘I have my own clothes.’
With a raised critical eyebrow he ran his gaze down over her body. Okay, so her black padded jacket and red skirt mightn’t be the most glamorous, but she did own some nice clothes.
‘I mean I have suitable dresses back at the palazzo.’
He stepped closer, his huge body dwarfing hers. His head dipped down and he glared into her eyes. ‘I don’t have time for this. Let me be clear. You are representing my companies this week. You have to wear clothing from the lines. It’s not negotiable. If you don’t like it then I’m happy for you to leave.’
Emma gave a quick nod and, with dread exploding in her stomach like fast-rising dough, stepped inside the store and sank into plush carpet. She opened up her padded jacket and yanked at the collar of her jumper. She was burning up. Not only from the heat of the store but from the unfriendly gazes being thrown in her direction by the models.
Matteo walked through the store, pointing out garments which were immediately whisked away to the rear of the store.
‘Bene. I’ve selected the gowns which I think will suit you.’ He exchanged some rapid words with the woman who had accompanied him in his selection of dresses. ‘Andreina will help you try them on.’
Emma smiled warily at the six foot ash blonde diva standing before her. In return she received a cool blue stare. Boy, was she glad she had been waxed to within an inch of her life in preparation for her wedding.
The fitting room was like nothing she had ever seen. A bottle of Prosecco on ice sat on an antique side table, with velvet grey chairs at either side. The floor was tiled in marble, and giant gilt-edged mirrors filled three walls.
She looked at the row of dresses awaiting her. And then at Andreina, who was staring down at her ankle boots, her forehead pinched in obvious disbelief at the water stains on the suede. Yeah, well, maybe Andreina should try walking from Camden Police Station to Highgate in icy slush.
Her stomach lurched. She felt like a gauche fourteen-year-old again, facing her mother’s critical stare. Forced to wear only what her mother approved of.
Time for Operation Toughen Up again.
She propelled Andreina by the elbow towards the door. ‘I’ll call you if I need any help.’ She closed the door on a stream of Italian protest, adrenaline pumping.
She approached the dresses warily. She would get this over and done with as quickly as possible. She stripped off her clothes and grabbed the first dress to hand. Her stomach lurched again. She pulled the silk bodice over her head, felt layer upon layer of fine tulle falling from her waist down to the floor. She twisted her arms around to her back in an attempt to tie the bodice but it was hopeless. She needed help.
She fought against the tears stinging her eyes. She couldn’t bear the feel of the material on her skin.
A knock sounded on the door. She ignored it.
‘Emma, what are you doing?’
Matteo.
She called out, ‘None of them suit. I’ll just have to wear my own clothes.’
The door swung open.
‘For crying out loud, Matteo, I could have been undressed!’
He crossed the room towards her, his eyes darkening. ‘I see near-naked models backstage at fashion shows all the time.’
‘Well, I’m not a model, am I?’
His mouth pursed, and then he asked with irritation, ‘Why are you upset?’
‘I’m not.’
He threw her an exasperated look. ‘That dress is perfect for you—what do you mean, it doesn’t suit? Look in the mirror and see for yourself.’
She turned her back on the mirrors, refusing to look, unable to speak.
He came closer, and she gave a yelp when she felt his fingers on the back of the bodice, tying the tiny fastenings.
‘Please don’t.’
He ignored her protest and continued to work his way down the bodice. Her spine arched beneath his touch as startling desire mixed with the upset dragging at her throat.
At first his movements were fast, but then he slowed, as though he too was weakened by the tension in the room—the tension of bodies hot and bothered, wanting more, wanting satisfaction.
Finished, he settled one hand on her waist while the other touched the exposed skin of her back above the strapless bodice.
‘Cosa c’e’? What’s the matter?’
She couldn’t answer. She longed to pull on her skirt and jumper again. To cover every inch of herself. To not feel so exposed. So vulnerable. So aware of him.
‘Look into the mirror, Emma. See how beautiful you are. I wasn’t comparing you to models.’
She could not help but laugh. ‘God, it’s not that...it’s just.’
His hands twisted her around until she was staring at herself in the mirror.
Sumptuous silk on brittle bones.
She spun back to him, her eyes briefly meeting his before looking away. ‘I’m sorry...it’s just these dresses remind me of my wedding dress.’
