Читать книгу A Forbidden Seduction - SARA WOOD - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

DEBBIE felt the room whirling around. She clung to the desk, fighting for breath, and then Colleoni was forcing her head down with a none too gentle hand on her neck till she was bent over double and breathing stentoriously.

Conscious of the fact that she must present a rather provocative picture to the red-blooded Sicilian, she struggled to free herself and came up panting, her face puce with embarrassment and the effects of gravity.

‘That’s...’

She gulped, not from dizziness caused at the shock of discovering that her husband was linked with a wealthy financier, but from that same financier’s touch. The strong hand drifted over her shoulder as it withdrew, leaving her skin alive with the sensation. Struck dumb, she struggled for a reason and decided she must be suffering from confusion. No one had ever had that effect on her—not that strong, that intense.

‘Sit down.’ When she was slow to respond, still trying to work out her extraordinary reaction, Colleoni said irritably, Tor God’s sake, sit down, woman!’

‘Bully,’ she muttered, resentful of more than the command.

With a glint in his dark eyes, he put his firm hand on the centre of her back, unaware that he was sending more frantic signals to her brain. And, because she was dealing with the sexual messages and trying to deflect them, she offered no resistance.

So she found herself by one of the deep armchairs which faced the picture windows looking out to Tower Bridge and the River Thames. One of the most expensive views in London, she thought hazily. And this man had bought the bank as if he’d been buying a bar of chocolate.

‘Sit down,’ he repeated, a little more gently. ‘I’d prefer you not to faint if you can possibly avoid it,’ he added drily.

She sat. And felt a lot better. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised spiritedly, trying to gather her wits.

‘I hesitate to suggest that your dress ought to be eased. I don’t think either of us could cope with that, could we?’ he drawled.

‘No,’ she answered hoarsely; the thought of loosening anything in Colleoni’s presence was quite illogically unnerving. ‘Oh, my feet,’ she moaned, feeling them throb now that she’d sat down.

‘You ought to take those shoes off. They look tight too.’

More touching! Her eyes became huge grey pools of anxiety. ‘No! I’ll keep them on, thanks.’

‘Yes.’ And he confounded her by kneeling at her feet and carefully beginning to untie the ribbon, his head close to her bare shins. ‘For the sake of your comfort and your quick recovery—which I’m sure we both want,’ he murmured.

In the light from the window his hair gleamed with a depth of colour like those wonderful dark plums with that faint blue tinge—the kind of invitingly glossy, smooth texture that made you reach out and... She checked her fidgeting hand quickly.

What was it about this situation that was making her feel so vulnerable? Was it the powerful and charismatic man at her feet, gently—and surely rather slowly—removing something she was wearing?

She gasped. Colleoni’s fingers were lightly touching her ankle, nothing more, but a shudder had rippled through her body and he’d looked up, his eyes suddenly glowing with an indolent warmth.

‘Something wrong?’ he enquired silkily.

‘I’m ticklish,’ she croaked, and blushed because of the lie.

For a couple of seconds he studied her soberly while she wondered if he was reading the truth: that she found him intensely compelling; that she felt horrified that her long-denied sexual hunger was spilling out to a complete stranger.

‘Really?’ he drawled softly.

Miserably she watched him bend his head again and attend to the ribbons, knowing he’d recognised the signals being sent out by her body. Impatiently she waited, wondering why he was finding the laces so difficult to undo. But it gave her a chance to chill down her feelings.

She was married. Unhappily, perhaps, certainly close to divorce. But, for the moment, she was legally tied and therefore unavailable. Her body must know that, surely?

Curls of wicked, delicious pleasure wound up from her feet to her brain, touching every erogenous zone in between, and she realised that her body knew nothing of the sort and was telling her so in no uncertain fashion.

‘Please...’ she demurred huskily, finding it difficult to breathe.

In protest, she reached down to stop him. Their hands met, their fingers entwined. For a brief second or two they both stilled—she because of the extraordinary sensation that had shot into her chest and stomach and was now warming her thoroughly, crawling through her veins like an electric charge. It appalled her. And he—well, she didn’t know why he had paused, because when his long, dark lashes lifted his eyes were big and glistening and molten but quite without expression.

He seemed filled with a vital force and his energy had flowed into her like a bursting dam filling a channel. She’d heard the expression ‘a coiled spring’ before but had never understood it. Now she did. It was that—the tangible force—which had disturbed her and jolted her with a few hundred volts of electric power. Nothing sexual at all, she told herself, willing it to be true.

‘I’d be hard put to it to translate that plea,’ he drawled, and her lips parted in dismay because she couldn’t speak for the choking sensation in her throat.

His mocking, contemptuous eyes never left hers. He continued to untie the ribbons; she continued to feel disorientated and uncomfortable under the intense, mesmeric stare. With tantalising gentleness, he lifted her feet from the shoes just as her hair fell forward, brushing his face, and she felt its silken strands drifting across the flawless darkness of his skin.

And then, in a flash, he’d straightened and was standing again, leaving her flexing her released feet in relief. But she felt miserable and bemused and warily peered at his shadowed face and his husky body, which was outlined sharp and black against the glare of the sky.

But in the darkness of his face his eyes burned feverishly, causing floodgates to open within her, a terrible rush of flowing heat pouring through her veins. His energy was invading her and she was being drawn to him like a magnet and she was praying for him to have a power failure.

She had to get out. He was evil—one of those Svengali types. But she felt weak and confused, hardly able to understand what was happening to her. Because she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it was nothing to do with a mere sexual vacuum that had existed within her for longer than she could remember. This was something different. Something so threatening to her vaguely ordered life and her respect for herself that she must escape.

And yet ... there was the mystery of the photograph. Torn between flight and curiosity, she looked up at him helplessly, her enormous, soft eyes unknowingly begging him for help. And seeing his tense stillness, his potent and sinister stare, she grasped frantically for the banal.

‘Any chance of some tea?’ she asked tentatively.

A short laugh exploded from his lips as if that was the last thing he’d expected her to say. ‘Tea!’ The cynical mouth curled into something resembling a wry smile. ‘Of course. I should have remembered the English pick-me-up, the solution to all of life’s dramas,’ he said a little scathingly, as if, she thought wryly, she should be knocking back double whiskies like any self-respecting Sicilian.

When he went to the desk and ordered tea over the intercom, she allowed her gaze to focus on the photograph again. Still there. Still Gio. Someone else’s suit-madly elegant and expensive and so designer-labelled it would have been out of their realm—but she recognised the shirt...

She jumped. Colleoni had come up behind her so quietly that she hadn’t noticed, and put a hand on her shoulder. Which she flinched from and which he drew away. But not before his wretched energy field had made her stomach contract in alarm.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, coming around the chair and speaking with a huskiness that rolled through her in waves. Either she’d imagined it or be had caressed her neck with his maddeningly arousing fingers. Something had caused her skin to tingle.

Too many things were happening to her. She needed to deal with one at a time. With a shaking finger, she pointed to the photograph. ‘That’s...that’s my husband,’ she croaked.

Surprise wiped away all the sensuality, all the ruthlessness of his expression and he was briefly just plain handsome. Seeing that she was serious, he followed her pointing finger and then looked back at her in astonishment.

‘Impossible!’ he said emphatically. ‘That’s my brother—my elder brother.’

‘Gio,’ she persisted shakily, levering herself cautiously to her feet.

There was a pause. ‘Really?’

For a moment she thought Luciano had tensed but when she studied him carefully she saw that he was quite composed. She checked the photo again. It was Gio. Her legs wobbled and she caught hold of the arm of the chair as a million doubts began to wash through her mind.

‘He is my husband.’ Her bewildered eyes met his. ‘He’s called Gio Colleoni,’ she cried in agitation. ‘I’m Debbie Colleoni.’

And although he hadn’t moved she knew that Luciano had killed his sexual response to her stone-dead and replaced it with a wall of ice. ‘You’ve linked our names and jumped to a few conclusions. That can’t be your husband. I think you’re mistaken,’ he said coldly.

She wasn’t. Her heart was pumping hard. What did Gio get up to when he was away? Were her secret fears right—that Gio’s stories about his travels didn’t ring true, that his refusal to give her a contact number at work was highly suspicious?

‘Oh, God,’ she groaned softly, closing her eyes. ‘Please let there be a good reason for this.’

“There is.’ Luciano Colleoni stood between her and her view of the photograph. ‘You’ re mistaken. He must be... similar to your husband. The photo’s blurred and there’s a similarity in some faces that—’

‘No. That’s him,’ she whispered, opening her eyes again and staring blindly at the view. She didn’t need to look at the photo again; the image had been burned into her brain. ‘That’s the way he tilts his head.’ She looked up at Luciano helplessly, willing him to solve the mystery. ‘That’s the expensive watch he won in a rams.’

‘A raffle? No. My brother bought that in Venezia—Venice,’ said Luciano curtly.

‘I bought him that shirt!’ she cried, failing to keep her voice calm.

‘There must be a million like it,’ dismissed Luciano with a shrug.

‘That is my husband,’ she persisted in a wobbly voice. ‘Heavens, we have the same surname! There aren’t coincidences like that; you must be some relative!’

‘The name is common among my countrymen. If you were called Smith, would you claim kinship with any Smith who resembled your husband?’

‘If there was a photograph of them both together, yes!’ she declared hotly.

Colleoni strode over to his desk, studied the photograph and appeared to come to a decision. He picked it up and brought it over to her. ‘Do you recognise his wedding-ring?’ he asked abruptly.

She held the frame with trembling hands. It was evidently an expensive ring, a thick gold band with stones set in it. Not the cheap one she’d saved up for and which she’d exchanged with the thin band of gold he’d given her on their wedding-day.

Muddled, she looked up, her expression lost and forlorn. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘As I said,’ murmured Luciano soothingly, taking the photograph back and dropping it rather casualty on the bubble-wrap, as if it had no sentimental value to him, ‘he can’t be your husband. It’s out of the question.’

‘But... it’s so like him. I thought...’

‘Ah, tea,’ he said, sounding relieved, as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of the paranoid female making outlandish claims in his office. ‘Bring it here, Annie,’ he instructed coolly. ‘Milk?’ Debbie nodded glumly as he went through the ritual. ‘Sugar?’

‘Two.’

‘I’ll make that three.’ He hesitated and then said in stilted tones, ‘It must have been a shock to think that you might be related to me.’

‘Yes,’ she muttered, wondering if she was going crazy. But she couldn’t see the photo any more. Perhaps it had been her imagination. She could be wrong.

He handed her the thin porcelain cup edged in gold and watched while she stirred and sipped, his arms folded across his brawny chest.

When she put the cup down and lifted unhappy eyes to him again, his mouth compressed as if he was stifling a wince. ‘You do see that you’re mistaken, don’t you?’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I do know my brother. I know what he would have spent on that suit, for instance, and...’

She dashed the tears from her eyes. Either he believed what he was saying and she’d mistaken the identity of the man in the photograph, or he was hiding the truth. She needed to be sure.

‘It’s expensive,’ she said shortly. ‘I take your point.’

‘You’re not offended?’

Luciano proffered a royal blue silk handkerchief. She gave a good blow, hoping it would wake up a few brain cells. And then she screwed the silk into a small ball in her clenched fist, her lower lip trembling with uncertainty. Maybe Gio had kept the existence of his family from her because he was ashamed of her.

Debbie swallowed the hard, choking lump in her throat, her eyes filling again. He’d made his opinions clear quite soon after their wedding-day, when he’d discovered the easy, ordinary way they lived. Gio was too smooth, too classy, his manners too impeccable for him to be comfortable in their cramped flat. Sauce bottles on the table, butter from the packet, no napkins—napkins!—which he’d been horrified to hear her mother calling serviettes!

And now she might be facing his brother—the elegant, autocratic Luciano, who seemed equally determined to keep her at arm’s length.

‘I like honest people,’ she said pointedly. ‘I call a spade a spade. I know my husband couldn’t possibly afford to buy such an expensive suit but—’

‘You... you don’t have much money, then?’ asked Luciano carefully, unfolding his arms and passing her a bourbon biscuit from the dainty plate.

‘Not a lot,’ she said cautiously, biting into it gratefully. She was suddenly starving.

‘He’s unemployed, your husband?’

Her eyes flicked up. ‘No, he’s a salesman. He’s not home much. Hardly at all, lately...’

‘He keeps you short of money?’

Debbie frowned and indicated that she had a mouth full of biscuit. Something in his tone spoke of disapproval—no—anger. That didn’t make sense. But it was probably ignorance and he thought all men should make a fair settlement on their wives. What would a wealthy man know of budgeting? He probably gave his wife a huge allowance each month for underwear alone. If he was married.

She peered at the long, tanned fingers of his left hand which was holding out the plate again. A signet-ring on the ring-finger. But he was a Continental. She munched on the biscuit, her tongue absently lapping the thick sandwich of cream, and realised that when Luciano had pointed out his brother’s wedding-ring it had been on the right hand, Continental style. However, Luciano didn’t wear a ring on his right hand. So he could be married or he could be a bachelor.

‘We’re hard up,’ she said defensively, wondering why her thoughts had run on so. ‘Life’s tough out there,’ she informed him wryly.

‘Is he home at the moment?’ he asked casually.

Debbie shot him a quick look because there had been a thread of tension under the silk. His expression, however, was unreadable. ‘Not till tomorrow. He’s travelling back at the moment,’ she explained, her lashes moist with slowly oozing tears as she pictured herself asking Gio for a divorce. He’d threatened to take Steffy away with him if she ever thought of leaving him. She shuddered at the thought.

‘Does he call you when he’s away?’ asked Luciano, soft sympathy in his melting eyes.

‘No.’ She could explain that by saying that Gio had long since stopped bothering to call her, but didn’t want to share the problems of her marriage with Luciano. She bit her lip. ‘He’s working in Scotland and the Midlands at the moment,’ she confided. ‘He’s been away for three weeks...’

The dark eyes met hers with cool remoteness. ‘I see. My brother lives in Sicily. He’s been there for—’ there was a brief hesitation ‘—some time.’ The strong jaw clenched as though he was grinding his teeth in suppressed anger.

‘Oh. It seems that I jumped to the wrong conclusion. It... it did look like him,’ she said in a small voice.

‘How many more deliveries do you have?’ he suddenly asked.

‘None. I’ve finished,’ she answered listlessly, and gave a short laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I hadn’t.’

‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

‘No!’ she cried quickly. ‘I can’t afford one. And,’ she said as he opened his haughty mouth to speak, ‘you can forget any ideas about offering to pay for one. I don’t take charity. I’ve got my van down the road.’

‘You look very pale. I don’t think you should drive,’ he insisted sternly.

‘I’m perfectly all right.’ Flustered, she slipped her feet into the shoes, only to see him cross to his desk and punch the intercom button.

‘Get my driver to bring the limo to the front,’ he ordered abruptly.

It sounded wonderful, but her mother would have hysterics if she turned up in a limo with a chauffeur. ‘I’d rather he didn’t. Thanks for the tea,’ she said politely, roughly tying the ribbon laces. ‘I’m grateful—and sorry to have taken up your time.’

‘I’m seeing you home,’ he said firmly. ‘You can show my chauffeur where your van is and he’ll drive it for you. No arguments,’ he said, holding up his hand when she rose in protest. ‘My sense of honour would be wounded if I didn’t treat a lady in distress with Sicilian gallantry.’

‘You are Sicilian, then!’ she cried in astonishment. ‘So’s my husband.’

His mouth had tightened. ‘As I said, Colleoni is a common name there,’ he said stiffly.

Debbie passed a hand over her forehead, feeling she’d missed something vital. ‘I’m sorry. It seemed such a coincidence...’

‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ he said smoothly, taking her elbow. ‘Now, no arguing. Let’s get you home and then I can come back and eat my lunch in peace.’

‘You’ll like it,’ she said, allowing herself to be guided into the lift. ‘It’s awfully good.’

He seemed to fill the lift. The air squeezed in on her, making her breathe faster. He looked steadily at her but she studied her feet, feeling dreadfully conscious of his proximity. She squirmed irritably and heard his soft laugh.

Scowling at him from under her thick brows, she said boldly, ‘Give me another chance to do your catering. Your staff don’t want doughnuts and beefburgers, or plastic-tasting sandwiches. We can—’

‘Family comes first,’ he cut in with quiet decisiveness. ‘I have promised Pia, my sister-in-law, that her franchises can supply my banks.’

‘Banks? Plural banks?’ she asked, her eyes widening.

‘Plural banks,’ he confirmed in amusement.

‘Good grief, you must be as rich as Croesus! My statement’s always in the red.’

‘Things are bad, then?’ he enquired thoughtfully.

‘Awful,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not playing for the sympathy vote, but if there’s a chance...’

‘No. I might have to persuade my sister-in-law to reorganise her catering till it’s to my satisfaction, but I will keep the promise I made. I must—you must see that.’

Debbie nodded gloomily. Their business would be wiped out if City Lights improved its food drastically and used real, fresh produce. She visualised the final nails being hammered into her coffin. Fate was kicking them both into the gutter again; she dreaded going back to her mother with the news. Her stomach sank with the lift as the floors ticked themselves off on the display unit above, not only gravity sucking away her insides, but despair too.

‘Tell her to sort out her ethics as well as make improvements to the food,’ she muttered, and her baleful eyes clashed with his. ‘I expect no more dirty tricks from her! A fair fight—’

‘Surely it can’t be fair?’ he pointed out as they walked out into the foyer. ‘She can cut costs by buying in bulk—’

‘But we can work all the hours God sends us and cook home-made stuff that knocks spots off anything produced in quantity,’ she defended vigorously. ‘Look,’ she said, stopping in the middle of the marble floor and gazing earnestly up at him, ‘get her in line. That’s all I ask.’

‘You think I can?’ he murmured, his mouth twitching.

‘You can do anything you want,’ she said tartly. ‘You’ll always do anything you want. That’s how you are. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Possibly.’ The mobile mouth had softened into a smile.

‘OK, well, listen.’ Debbie was fighting for her livelihood now. And for her mother’s health. She didn’t care that people were stopping and staring, giggling, muttering behind their hands at the sight of the great Luciano talking to a gesticulating shepherdess straight out of a nursery rhyme.

She gave two back-from-lunch typists a haughty stare and returned to the matter in hand, a little surprised that Luciano was still standing there patiently, waiting for her to continue. But she had the impression that he was finding this amusing—at last. And so she’d play on that in order to get what she wanted. Justice.

‘City Lights has to stop working on other people’s patches,’ she said firmly. ‘I told you the kind of tricks they pull. My girls have turned up several times and found someone else has already delivered, hàving persuaded the customers that we’ve gone out of business. We’ve had staff nobbled outside our premises and offered better money. You think of a dirty trick, they’ve played it. It’s got to stop or I’ll implicate you.’

‘I agree,’ he said placidly.

She breathed a sigh of surprised relief. It wasn’t entirely what she’d wanted. It would have been better if she’d been given the chance to continue catering for his company. However, it would do. So she treated him to a shy smile which faltered after a moment.

Luciano was looking at her oddly. It could have been admiration. It could have been anything, because she wasn’t thinking straight any more. A strange, jelly-like consistency had taken up residence in her limbs, and she pressed down on her thighs in the hope that she could stop her legs trembling. He followed the movement of her hands, and then she watched in helpless fascination as his gaze made its way unhurriedly all the way up her body again till it reached her huge dove-grey eyes.

‘You must have caused traffic jams right across the city,’ he said softly.

Debbie floundered, lost for words. She was out of her depth with compliments like that—because, judging by the expression on his face, it was meant to be flattering. Was he about to make some kind of proposition? This was worrying, especially if they were going to spend time in the back of some limo.

Her aunt had said that Italians had funny morals and shocking libidos. Gio had been within earshot and had coldly reminded everyone that Italians weren’t the same as Sicilians at all. But, however he identified himself, Luciano was giving out interested vibes and therefore he must be indifferent to the fact that she was married. Since he had no idea that her marriage was dead and buried, that made him immoral.

Instinctively she dragged back her tumble of blonde hair and twisted it at the nape of her neck so that it reduced his impression of a game-for-anything woman.

‘I hated it,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I imagine my husband will be amused when he comes home tomorrow,’ she added, enunciating every word carefully so that he didn’t miss anything and emphasising the word ‘husband’. That would tell him where she stood. ‘He’ll be amused to think he has a double,’ she went on breezily. ‘What’s your brother’s name?’

Luciano’s eyes had narrowed. ‘I don’t think that matters now,’ he said quickly, and drew her firmly out to the waiting car. ‘And... I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell your husband about meeting me.’

Debbie flushed. ‘He won’t try to sting you for a loan on the basis of sharing a surname, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ she said, bristling at his stiff request. He neither confirmed nor denied her assumption, and she slipped a little huffily into the passenger seat of the elegant Bentley.

There was a silence on the way back. Wrapped in some beautiful orchestral music that was probably classical, she leaned back in the seat and enjoyed the ride. He drove with a heavy, preoccupied air that didn’t encourage idle chit-chat and she, for once, was relieved to be quiet. Occasionally she glanced at the brooding Luciano and wondered how she could ever have imagined that Gio might have been his brother.

The two men were so different. Luciano vibrated with power and that fascinating, disconcerting energy, whereas Gio was... She flushed, hating the truth. When he was home, he lounged around expecting her to fetch and carry for him, even though she was working from dawn to midnight.

If he were driving now, Gio would be lounging with one hand out of the window. He’d be more reckless, too, and he wouldn’t have stopped for that party of schoolchildren or waited so patiently for the old woman to teeter over the crossing. He certainly wouldn’t have jumped out of the car and helped her to pick up the potatoes that had spilled out of her basket.

It had been a very revealing action on Luciano’s part. She eyed his hands, now grubby from the soil on the potatoes, and knew that Gio would have cursed the old woman for being a nuisance, perhaps shouting a clever remark out of the window before driving on.

Her teeth dug into her lower lip, hating the way her thoughts were going but incapable of denying the truth.

‘Do you see your brother often?’ she ventured, hoping to banish all the uncharitable thoughts from her mind.

‘Not much,’ he said flatly, and she got the impression that it was no great loss. Perhaps that explained his casual treatment of the photograph—and his scowl. ‘He lives in the north-east of Sicily, I work in London.’ He switched the direction of the conversation smoothly. ‘Your premises are near Guy’s Hospital, you said?’

‘Yes.’ He seemed to know his way around London very well. ‘If your sister-in-law runs City Lights, she must spend a lot of time apart from your brother,’ she mused.

He gave her a quick, startled look. ‘Half running it,’ he corrected her. ‘She inherited the franchises from her father. He still controls the business on a day-to-day basis while she handles the marketing strategies and acts as a sort of ideas woman. So she does a lot of business via computer link from Sicily and spends a lot of time commuting between Palermo and London. Well, she’s been doing that for the last few months or so. I’m surprised at her interest. She never cared to work before—now she’s obsessed with it. Usually Gio comes to England with her and visits... friends.’

Debbie froze. ‘Gio. You said Gio!’ she cried, turning accusing eyes on him.

‘Did I?’ Luciano sounded a little too surprised and Debbie felt a cold hand clutching at her stomach. ‘How extraordinary,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘Must have been your saying the name so often.’

‘What is your brother’s name?’ she probed with quiet determination.

‘Valentino,’ he answered glibly. ‘Don’t pursue it any further,’ he advised tightly, his profile grim and forbidding. ‘Don’t pursue it,’ he repeated softly, like a litany, as they drew up outside her premises.

He peered at the shabby shop, once a newsagent’s, its window whitewashed to give them privacy inside while they cooked and dashed around preparing orders. ‘Is this it?’

Debbie wanted to explain that it was all they could afford, that there was living accommodation above, that the kitchens were sparklingly clean and they produced miracles inside. But she kept her mouth shut about those things.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The van, which had been following close behind all the way, drew up behind them and the chauffeur struggled with the bent door. Debbie went over and gave it a bang in the right place, grinned at the man as it flew open, and went to the back of the van to collect the empty baskets.

Luciano was standing at the pavement, frowning at the peeling paint on the shop-front as if it offended him. She was about to thank him again, when her mother appeared in the doorway.

‘Debs?’ she asked uncertainly, her eyes switching from the chauffeur to the elegant Luciano and his glorious mirror-polished car, all of which looked extremely incongruous in the run-down little street. ‘Nothing wrong?’

‘It’s a long story, Mum,’ she said with a reassuring smile.

‘Mrs...?’ Luciano held out his hand politely.

‘Baker. Stella Baker,’ said her mother, wiping her sudsy hands on her pinny.

‘Luciano...’ He smiled so engagingly that her mother lost her uncertainty and shook the proffered hand warmly. ‘Luciano,’ he said again, with a small flicker of his eyes in Debbie’s direction as he deliberately omitted his surname. ‘Your daughter felt a little unwell,’ he explained. ‘I believe she’d been working flat out without anything to eat. Since I was coming this way,’ he lied easily, ‘I said I’d drop her here.’

‘Well!’ Her mother beamed and patted his arm. ‘You’re all right, you are. Thanks a lot.’ To Debbie’s dismay, her mother leaned her sparrow-like frame closer to Luciano and muttered, ‘Debs works twice as hard as she ought to because she thinks I’m going to fall down dead if she doesn’t. I keep telling her I’m a tough old woman.’

‘Hardly old, I think, Mrs Baker,’ demurred Luciano. ‘Let’s see... your daughter must be in her late teens, so you are...’ he dropped his voice, as if her age were a state secret ‘...late thirties? Married young? Perhaps—’

‘Oh, please!’ Her mother blushed.

Debbie’s mouth opened in amazement. When Gio had tried similar flattery before they’d married, her mother had brushed him off impatiently and said he was too smooth by half. Luciano was a better flattierer; he actually sounded as if he believed what he said.

And she, in her late teens! She tried to keep back the giggle. He’d get a shock if he knew she was twenty-five!

‘We’ve got a lot of washing-up to do. Greasy pans. Sausages to make,’ she said prosaically. ‘Me and the youngster here,’ she added straight-faced, indicating her mother, who put her arm around Debbie’s waist and gave her a hug.

‘Thanks for bringing her home,’ Stella said to Luciano. She smiled affectionately at Debbie, whose eyes instantly glowed with the warmth of love. ‘She means the world to me.’

There was some emotion tugging at Luciano’s mouth and it seemed to Debbie that he didn’t know whether to smile or be sad. Puzzled, she gave her mother a quick hug back and watched him carefully.

‘There are people who would give the world to have what you have,’ he said gravely to them both.

‘Yes, we’re very lucky,’ Debbie acknowledged quietly.

He hesitated as if he wanted to tell her something and then frowned and lowered his thick fringe of black lashes. Debbie felt a little pang eating into her heart because he would go now and they’d never meet again. Perhaps it was just as well—he seemed a very dangerous man to know.

‘I hope your fortunes improve,’ he said with deep sincerity and then he turned, got back into the car and was driven away, his eyes rigidly fixed on the chauffeur’s head.

Debbie stood mutely on the pavement and then followed her mother in, knowing that she’d have to explain what had happened, and that she’d leave most of the important stuff out; otherwise her mother would read all the right things into the extraordinary attraction she’d felt for the worryingly magnetic Luciano.

She delayed answering her mother’s barrage of questions by protesting that she had to change out of the outfit first. In the privacy of the little back room she stared at herself, amazed to see that she didn’t look any different.

She felt different. Despite all her endeavours to remain indifferent to Luciano, she had secretly coveted him—a virtual stranger—and felt a stir of sexual energy so strong that she was fully aware that it had the potential to be more powerful than anything she’d ever known. It was frightening.

Today she’d met someone who’d shaken her world.

The next day, Gio didn’t come home at the expected time. When she found herself fretting at the fact that she couldn’t finish her farce of a marriage-yet feeling a sense of utter relief at her freedom from her husband’s oppressive demands—she knew that seeking a divorce was the right decision. There was no marriage any more. There hadn’t been anything between them for a long while and they both knew it. It was time to tell her mother the truth.