Читать книгу The Italian Prince's Proposal - Susan Stephens, Susan Stephens - Страница 9

‘OH, NO!’ Miranda gasped, looking to her sister for guidance.

‘Stay upstairs until he’s gone,’ Emily suggested briskly. ‘I’ll come and get you when the coast’s clear. Mum. Dad. Act normal.’

‘Yes, dear,’ her mother said breathlessly, exchanging an excited glance with her father.

Don’t look so worried,’ Emily called after Miranda. ‘I promise not to turn anything down without your approval.’

Exchanging quick smiles, the girls were just on the point of parting at the foot of the stairs when they stopped, looked at each other, and then swooped to the hall window.

Standing well back from the glass, Emily ran a finger cautiously down the edge of the net curtain.

‘Oh, boy,’ she murmured, watching the tall, darkly clad figure unfold his impressive frame from the heavily shaded interior of a sleek black car.

‘You said Herman Munster,’ Miranda breathed accusingly.

‘I said he might have been Herman Munster for all I could see of him,’ Emily corrected tensely.

‘Looks like you were both wrong in this instance,’ their father commented dryly.

Alessandro felt a frisson of anticipation as he double-checked the address his private secretary had passed on to him that morning.

He wasn’t used to waiting, and eighteen hours was far too long in this case.

But then he wasn’t used to speaking to someone hiding behind a screen either, or accepting anyone’s terms but his own—which was how he now found himself getting out of a rented Mercedes outside a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house in North London.

He smiled a little in amused acceptance. He couldn’t recall a single instance of being turned down by a woman, let alone agreeing to a time of her choosing for an audience as begrudging as this one. His sharp gaze took in the small rectangular lawn, freshly mowed, and then moved on to the splash of vivid colour provided by a pot of petunias to one side of the narrow front door. For someone who moved between palaces, embassies or the presidential suite in some luxury hotel when he was really slumming it, this chance to sample suburbia was a novelty…No. A welcome change, he decided as he swiped off his dark glasses.

Behind a snowy drift of net, the Weston family watched Alessandro Bussoni’s progress towards the house in awe-struck silence.

‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Miranda murmured. Their distracted mother barely managed a weak gasp of, ‘Oh, my!’

‘Go, before he sees you,’ Emily suggested urgently, having already turned her back on the window.

‘But your make-up,’ Miranda said, hopping from foot to foot, torn between going and staying.

Emily’s hand shot automatically to her face. ‘What about it?’

‘You’re not wearing any,’ Miranda exclaimed with concern.

‘Can’t be helped. He’ll still think I’m you. Why shouldn’t he? Anyway, you’re not wearing any make-up,’ Emily pointed out.

‘Only because I’m sick.’

‘Well, there’s no time for me to do anything about it now,’ Emily said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Sure?’ Miranda asked hopefully.

‘Sure,’ Emily said briskly, hoping no one had noticed that her hand was shaking as it hovered over the doorknob.

‘I’m going to change,’ Miranda shouted, on her way up the stairs. ‘Then I’m taking over from you.’

‘No!’ But even as Emily’s gaze raked the empty landing to call her sister back she knew it was too late. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she seized the doorknob tightly and began to turn…

‘You go and wait in the lounge, pet.’

‘Dad—’

‘Go and compose yourself,’ Mr Weston urged gently, refusing to let go of her arm until Emily allowed him to steer her away from the door. ‘You look like you could do with a few minutes. I’ll keep him busy until you’re ready.’

‘You’re an angel,’ Emily whispered, reaching up on tiptoe to give her father an affectionate peck on the cheek. But a moment alone was all it took her to realise that she couldn’t go ahead with the charade after all, and she rushed upstairs to find her sister.

The twins waited motionless, hardly daring to breathe as they stood just inside the door to Miranda’s bedroom. It felt as if the conversation downstairs had been going on for ever while their father satisfied himself as to their visitor’s identity and then invited him into the house, but at his signal they started down the stairs.

Emily was dressed in her customary relaxing-at-home-uniform of blue jeans and a simple grey marl tee shirt. Her well-buffed toenails, devoid of nail varnish, were shown off in a pair of flat brown leather sandals, while her long black hair was held up loosely on top of her head with a tortoise-shell clip.

In complete contrast, Miranda had somehow found enough time to coat the area around her large green eyes with copious amounts of silver glitter, add blusher to her cheeks and staggeringly high platform shoes to her seemingly endless legs.

Surely there could be no mistake, Emily thought, giving her twin the final once-over before they reached the sitting room door. Signor Bussoni would immediately presume it was Miranda he had seen on stage. ‘Relax,’ she whispered, taking hold of her twin’s wrist. ‘It’ll be all right.’

‘Then why are you shaking?’ Miranda remarked perceptively.

‘Girls? What’s keeping you? You’ve got a visitor.’

‘We’re coming now, Dad,’ Emily called back, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She had no idea what she was up against, and had nothing to go on but that disconcerting voice. For all she knew it might be Herman Munster hiding behind that impressive physique and those super-sleek clothes.

‘Come on, love. What’s the hold-up?’ Popping his head round the door, her father drew her into the room. ‘Your mother will have tea ready in about fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘You two know each other,’ he added, with an expectant smile.

Emily felt as if her powers of reason had vanished. Her mind’s eye wasn’t simply unreliable, it was positively defective, she decided, gazing up into a man’s face that was almost agonising in its perfection. Thick ebony-black hair, cut slightly longer than was customary in England, was swept back and still tousled from the wind. Conscious he would think her rude, she forced her gaze away, only to discover lips that were almost indecently well formed and the most expressive dark gold gaze she had ever encountered.

Restating his name with a slight bow, Alessandro viewed the two sisters standing one behind the other. ‘Miss Weston,’ he murmured.

Lurching forward in response to Emily’s none too subtle prompting, Miranda extended her hand politely. ‘Delighted to see you, Signor Bussoni,’ she said, letting out an audible sigh when Alessandro raised her hand to his lips.

‘And I you,’ he said in a voice as warm as the sunlight that had tinted his skin to bronze. ‘But, forgive me, it is the other Miss Weston I have come to see.’

‘The other Miss Weston?’ Miranda squeaked, looking helplessly behind her to where Emily was standing rigid, wishing the ground would swallow her up.

‘Indeed,’ Alessandro said in a voice laced with humour. ‘You did invite me, Miss Weston,’ he said, looking straight at Emily.

Shock rendered both sisters speechless, and for a moment no one moved or spoke. If their own parents couldn’t tell them apart, how could Signor Bussoni? Emily wondered tensely. She breathed a sigh of relief as her mother breezed into the room.

‘Ah, Signor Bussoni, what a pleasure it is to have you in our midst.’

‘The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,’ Alessandro said, inclining his head towards the older woman in an elegant show of respect.

‘I see you’ve met my girls.’ Looking from Emily to Miranda, she clearly couldn’t contain herself another moment. ‘Have you heard Miranda play yet?’ she said expectantly. ‘The violin,’ she prompted, when Alessandro stared at her blankly. ‘Her interpretation of the Brahms” Violin Concerto” is second to none, you know. She won a competition with that piece.’

Emily’s face flared hot as she realised that her mother was completely oblivious to the tension building around her.

‘The violin?’ Alessandro’s face betrayed nothing but polite enquiry, but beneath the surface his mind was working overtime. Had he been hoist by his own petard? His plan had seemed audacious enough, but this family appeared intent on embroiling him in something even more ambitious. He glanced again at the girl her mother had called Miranda. Her provocative clothing and extravagantly made up face marked her out as a showgirl…but apparently she was a classical violinist. And then his gaze switched to the fresh-faced beauty he had come to see…the angel with the faintly flushed cheeks and the incredible jade-green eyes who masqueraded as a showgirl by night…To say the contrast intrigued him was putting it mildly. But what the hell was he getting himself into? Taking another look at Emily, he found he could not look away. He would have carried right on staring, too, had it not been for her sister’s protestation providing him with a distraction.

‘Oh, Mother, really,’ Miranda said now, looking at Emily to back her up.’ Signor Bussoni doesn’t want to hear about all that—Emily, say something.’

Emily, Alessandro mused, running the name over and over in his mind and loving its undulating form, its perfect proportions, its old English charm…Emily, Emily—Her mother fractured his musings with terrier-like determination.

‘Emily won’t stop me telling Signor Ferara all about your wonderful talent, Miranda. If no one speaks of it, how will you ever play that violin you so loved in Heidelberg?’

‘Mother, please,’ Emily cut in gently. ‘I imagine Signor Bussoni’s time is very precious. He’s come here to talk about recording contracts for Miranda’s band. I’m sure there will be other occasions when he can hear her play the violin.’

‘Oh…’ Mrs Weston hesitated, looking from one to the other in frustration.

‘That would give me the greatest pleasure,’ Alessandro agreed. ‘But it was you I heard singing last night,’ he stated confidently, turning to Emily, his bold gaze drenching her in the sort of heat she had only read about in novels.

‘Emily took over for me because I caught a cold and lost my voice,’ Miranda confessed self-consciously. ‘As a rule, no one can tell us apart.’

‘I see,’ Alessandro said, nodding thoughtfully as he studied Emily’s face. He would have known her anywhere…even if there had been five more identical sisters lined up for his perusal.

Emily tried hard to meet his stare, but he disturbed her equilibrium in a profound and unsettling way.

‘Singing is just a hobby for me,’ she started to explain. ‘You would have signed up the band right away if Miranda had been onstage—’

‘Possibly,’ Alessandro murmured, confining himself to that single word while his eyes spoke volumes about his doubt. He couldn’t have cared less if Emily had a voice like a corncrake…and beauty was in the millimetre, he realised, as he filled his eyes, his mind and his soul with the face and form of a woman he desired like no other. Emily Weston was everything he wanted…everything he needed to set his plan in motion. No, much more than that, he realised, and only managed to drag his gaze away from her when the telephone shrilled and everyone but he made a beeline for the door.

‘Let me,’ Emily’s father insisted calmly, easing his way through the scrum.

‘Won’t you sit down, Signor Bussoni?’ Mrs Weston said awkwardly.’ Miranda, go and fetch the tea tray.’

‘Do you mind if I—?’ Swaying a little, Miranda stopped mid-sentence and passed a hand over her forehead.

‘You’ve still got a fever. You really should go to bed,’ Emily observed, taking hold of her twin’s arm. ‘You’ll never get better if you don’t rest. I’ll see her upstairs,’ she said, turning to her mother. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Signor Ferara?’ she added to Alessandro. ‘I’ll come down and serve the tea,’ she promised, ushering her sister out of the door. ‘Just as soon as I see Miranda settled.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Alessandro’s voice stopped Emily dead in her tracks.

‘You’re not going—’ she said quickly…far too quickly, she realised immediately, noting the spark of interest in his eyes. Her heart thundered as he shot her an amused, quizzical look. ‘Well, we haven’t discussed the contract yet,’ she said, attempting to make light of her eagerness for him to stay.

‘Emily,’ Miranda murmured weakly, ‘I really think I should…’

‘Of course,’ Emily said, welcoming the distraction as she looped an arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

‘Can I help?’ Alessandro offered.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Emily said, urging her sister forward.

‘Emily’s right, Signor Bussoni,’ Miranda murmured faintly. ‘I’ll feel better after a short rest. My sister has my full confidence. I am quite content for you to put your proposition to her.’

Alessandro answered with a brief dip of his head. ‘I feel equally confident that your sister will find my proposal irresistible, Miss Weston.’

‘I’m very grateful to you, Signor Bussoni,’ Miranda replied as she stood for a moment, framed by the door, her carefully made-up face illuminated by an oblique shaft of late-after-noon sunlight.

Beautiful, Alessandro thought dispassionately, and if you stripped away the paint and glitter almost a carbon copy of her sister. But there was no attraction there. None at all. Not for him, at least.

‘You will sort it out for me, won’t you, Emily?’ Miranda said anxiously as they left the room together.

‘When have I ever let you down?’ Emily teased gently as they started up the stairs.

‘Never,’ Miranda said softly, turning to give her sister a kiss.

Emily came back into the room to find Alessandro comfortably ensconced on the chintz-covered sofa, with her mother beside him chatting animatedly. But the moment she arrived his focus switched abruptly.

‘Do you handle all your sister’s business affairs?’

Emily prided herself on her ability to recognise exceptional adversaries on sight. And she was facing one right now, she warned herself. ‘Not all,’ she said carefully. She saw his eyes warm with amusement and knew he had her measure, too.

‘Just contracts?’ he pressed.

Emily’s heart gave a wild little flutter, like a bird trapped in an enclosed space.

‘We’re not here to talk about me, Signor Bussoni—’

‘Alessandro, please,’ he said, embellishing the instruction with a small shrug intended to disarm, Emily guessed, as she watched her mother’s eyes round in approval at what she clearly imagined was an enchanting display of Latin charm. But her mother had missed the shrewd calculation going on behind that stunning dark gold gaze, Emily thought, feeling her own body respond to the unmistakable masculine challenge.

‘I’m sure you’re very busy, Signor Bussoni,’ she said, struggling to sound matter-of-fact with a heart that insisted on performing cartwheels in her chest. ‘And it’s the contract for Miranda’s band you’ve come to discuss after all.’

‘Correct,’ he agreed.

His voice streamed over Emily’s senses like melted fudge. How could a voice affect you like that? she wondered. Surely the cosy little room with its neatly papered walls had never housed such a dangerous sound as Alessandro Bussoni’s deep, sexy drawl.

‘It seems you and I have rather a lot to discuss, Miss Weston,’ he said, reclaiming her attention. ‘Far more, I must confess, than I had at first envisaged. I’ll send my car for you at eight this evening.’

As he stood the room shrank around him.

‘But surely you will stay for tea, Signor Bussoni—?’

‘No—’ Emily almost shouted at her mother. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘But Signor Bussoni must have other appointments—’ was that a note of desperation creeping into her voice? She made a conscious effort to lower the pitch before adding, ‘It’s enough that he’s making time to discuss Miranda’s future tonight, Mother.’

He inclined his head to show his appreciation of her consideration.

‘Until this evening, Miss Weston.’

‘Signor Bussoni,’ Emily returned with matching formality.

‘Alessandro,’ he prompted softly.

Emily felt her gaze drawn to dark, knowing eyes that seemed to reach behind her own and uncover the very core of her being. She felt deliciously ravished by them and immediately on guard, all in one and the same confusing moment.

A thrill ran through her as he lifted her hand and raised it to his lips. The contact was brief, but it was enough for her logical brain to be set adrift and her veins to run with sweet sensation. Then her father returned from his telephone call and she was able to take refuge behind the bustle of departure, easing into the background as Alessandro strode back down the path to his car.

Was he psychic? Emily wondered, as the unmistakable figure emerged from the grand entrance and came down the hotel steps at the precise moment the limousine she was arriving in swept to a halt outside.

Nothing would have surprised her about Alessandro Bussoni, Emily realised as he beat both the doorman and the chauffeur he had sent to collect her to the car door. As it swung open her mouth dried, and her body felt as if it was contracting in on itself in a last-ditch attempt to conceal anything remotely capricious in her appearance, though she had taken the precaution of wearing an understated navy blue suit with a demure knee-length skirt.

‘Welcome, Miss Weston,’ he said, reaching into the limousine to help her out.

Or to stop her escaping? Emily thought in a moment of sheer panic when his fingers closed over her hand.

‘Please. Call me Emily,’ she managed pleasantly enough, while her thought processes stalled.

Precaution, my foot! She should have worn a full protective body suit…with ski gloves, she reasoned maniacally, as a flash of heat shot up her arm. What was she thinking? The first rule of business was to keep everything cordial but formal. And here she was, unbending already as if she was on a date! Gathering herself quickly, she removed her hand from his clasp at the first opportunity.

‘I must apologise for not coming to pick you up in person, Miss Weston,’ Alessandro said, standing back to allow her to precede him through the swing doors.

Emily made some small dismissive sound in reply, and was glad of the distraction provided by a doorman in a top hat who insisted on ushering her into the hotel. But she was so busy trying to keep a respectable distance from her host she almost missed his next statement.

‘I wanted to come myself, but there were some matters of State I was forced to attend to: matters that demanded my immediate attention—’

‘Matters of State?’ Emily repeated curiously. But it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when they were attracting so much interest.

When the first flashbulb flared she glanced round, imagining some celebrity was in view. But then she realised that the cameras were pointing their way, and a small posse of photographers seemed to be following them across the lobby.

She smiled uncertainly as she tried to keep up with Alessandro’s brisk strides. ‘It must be a quiet night for them,’ she suggested wryly.

‘What? Oh, the photographers,’ he said, seeming to notice their presence for the first time. ‘I’m sorry. You get so used to them you hardly know they’re around.’

Having seen a pack of photographers waiting around on the night of the charity event, snapping away at anything and everything, even the spectacularly ornate heels on one woman’s shoes, Emily took it for granted that hotels of this calibre attracted the attention of the world’s media as a matter of course.

‘I suppose they have to do something while they’re waiting for the main event to arrive.’

‘Main event?’ Alessandro quizzed as he broke step to look at her.

‘You know…personalities, showbiz people, that sort of thing.’

He pressed his lips together and he gave her an ironic smile, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘I guess you’re right. I’d never thought of that. It must get pretty boring for them…all the hanging around.’

But it wasn’t just the photographers, Emily thought. She couldn’t help noticing all the other people staring as Alessandro ushered her across the vast, brilliantly lit reception area.

Hardly surprising, she decided, shooting a covert glance at her companion. He was off the scale in the gorgeous male stakes. His dark suit was so uncomplicated, so beautifully cut, it could only have come from one of the very best tailors…yet somehow the precision tailoring only served to point up his rampant masculinity. His crisp, cotton shirt, in a shade of ice blue, was a perfect foil for his bronzed skin, and somehow managed to make eyes that were already incredible all the brighter, all the keener—

She looked away, knowing she would have to pull herself together if the evening was to fulfil its purpose as a business rather than a social occasion. ‘Matters of State?’ she repeated firmly, determined not to let him off the hook.

She was rewarded with a low, sexy laugh that revealed nothing except for the fact that she was fooling herself if she imagined that she would be able to overlook the power of his charm for one single moment.

At a small, private lift, tucked away out of sight from the main lobby, she watched as he keyed in a series of numbers. Heavy doors slid silently open and then sealed them inside a plush, mirrored interior. There was even a small upholstered seat in the corner should you require it, Emily noted with interest, and apart from the emergency intercom a telephone for those urgent calls between floors. The only users of this exclusive space would be pretty exclusive themselves, she deduced with a thoughtful stare at her companion.

‘You didn’t answer my question yet,’ she prompted.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a light supper to be delivered to us later.’

He might have said it pleasantly enough, but the effect was offset by a flinty stare that suggested that he alone would direct the course of their conversation.

Alessandro knew he was in for a rocky ride the moment he saw the defensive shields go up in Emily’s eyes. And no wonder she thought him harsh. He was struggling to reclaim control of a situation that was slipping away from him as fast and as comprehensively as sand through a sieve. Logically, all he had to do was bring her to the point where she would sign the contract drawn up by his lawyers, but she had turned everything on its head, this woman he felt such a crazy compulsion to woo.

‘Rather than go out to eat I thought it better that we devote ourselves entirely to the matter in hand,’ he said, hoping to placate her. The last thing he wanted was to explain what this was about in a lift!

‘You said something about matters of State earlier,’ Emily pressed doggedly, ‘and, if you remember, I asked—’

Words had always been the most effective weapon in her armoury, but where Alessandro Bussoni Ferara was concerned they seemed utterly ineffectual. Emily was starting to seethe with exasperation.

‘So, what’s this?’

In the split second between her lunge to grab his wrist and Alessandro’s reaction to it Emily knew she had made her biggest mistake. What on earth was she doing, assaulting a strange man in a lift, snatching hold of him, grabbing on tight to the gold signet ring on his little finger? And why was he allowing her to hang on to him, even though he was twice her size and could have moved away from her in an instant? Worse still, the flesh beneath her sensitive fingertips felt warm and smooth and supple—She blinked, and recovered herself fast, removing her hand self-consciously from his fist where it had somehow become entangled.

‘It’s my family crest,’ he volunteered evenly. ‘Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

No! Not nearly! ‘Your crest?’ she said curiously.

His whip-fast retaliation left Emily with no time to hide the cufflinks on her own white tailored shirtsleeves.

‘Shall we start with your explanation for these?’ he countered smoothly, bringing her wrist up.

The sheer power in his grip was impossible to resist. But Emily found she didn’t want to, and incredibly, was softening. ‘That’s my—’

‘Yes?’ he pressed remorselessly.

‘My cufflinks are engraved with the crest of my Inn of Court,’ she admitted, averting her face.

‘Ah,’ he murmured, as if pleased to hear his suspicions confirmed. ‘Barrister?’

Emily nodded tensely. ‘And you?’

Now it all made sense, Alessandro realised—the tasselled sack to hold her robes and wig, the pull-along airline case to transport her briefs, along with all the other papers she would have to carry around…the severe cut of the restrained outfit she wore to court beneath her gown hanging up in her dressing room at the hotel while she sang that night, the only nod to feminine sexuality displayed in the power heels of her plain black court shoes—

‘This is our floor,’ he said as the lift slowed.

Another evasion! Controlling herself with difficulty, Emily hunted for something…anything…to derail her mounting irritation—unfortunately, the first thing she hit upon was how well the light, floral perfume she had chosen to wear mingled with Alessandro’s much warmer scent of sandalwood and spice, and that didn’t help at all! As the lift doors opened she sprang to attention, noticing that he stood well back to let her pass. Now she registered disappointment. Disappointment that he didn’t yank her straight back inside the intimate lift space, close the doors and make it stop somewhere between floors…for a very long time indeed.

‘Emily? Did you hear me?’

Refocusing fast, she saw that he had already opened the arched mahogany double doors to his suite and was beckoning her inside.

‘I’m sorry—’

‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘would you care for a glass of champagne?’

‘Oh, no, thank you. Orange juice will be fine until we conclude our business.’

‘And then champagne?’

‘I didn’t say that, Signor Bussoni—’

‘Alessandro.’

‘Alessandro,’ Emily conceded. ‘And when our business is concluded I will be leaving.’

‘Whatever you like,’ he agreed evenly. ‘I’ve no wish to tangle with lawyers in my free time.’

The throwaway line ran a second bolt of disappointment through her. She would have to be under anaesthetic not to register the fact that Alessandro Bussoni was a hugely desirable male. It was time to tighten the bolts on her chastity belt, Emily told herself firmly, if she had a hope in hell of being ready for what promised to be a tough round of business negotiations.

And she would deal with the lazy appraisal he was giving her now how, exactly?

She only realised how tense she had become when Alessandro turned away to pour them both a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and each of her muscles unclenched in turn. Keep it cool, Emily warned herself silently. Cool and impersonal. It’s only business after all…