Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride
Sharon Kendrick
From mousy housekeeper… Italian billionaire Raffaele de Ferretti had many beautiful women at his beck and call. But when he needed a fiancee of convenience, the only woman for the job was his mousy, dowdy housekeeper!…to sexy siren! Natasha needed a makeover–and what a result!Raffaele had no idea such a beautiful, sexy woman had been right under his nose all this time! They had to pretend to be engaged, but neither of them had to fake the explosive attraction that sparked between them…
DEAR READER LETTER
By Sharon Kendrick
Dear Reader (#ulink_9e774619-7eba-5f2d-bf6e-f42516606705),
One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.
There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.
I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”
So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?
I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.
Love,
Sharon xxx
Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.
SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…
To Bryony Green, the best editor in the world!
Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride
Sharon Kendrick
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
Cover (#u3ef6eb32-9fe6-52fd-82b7-d5fbdc48ca86)
Dear Reader (#ulink_0fddfa03-6c6e-5cb9-8d5d-2bdbf9592bf1)
About the Author (#u869faadd-dc29-5236-be9c-291043fee60f)
Dedication (#u1d601a80-18e7-5f9b-b07d-ae4134b9d177)
Title Page (#ue3fb3516-7a06-5a4d-aa40-c4fd1b3c4ff2)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uad552004-2d82-568c-9d71-657dd51d5778)
NATASHA didn’t have to see his face to know something was wrong.
She could tell from the slamming of the door and the heavy footfalls in the hall. From the momentary hesitation which was not like Raffaele at all. The barely muffled curse; some Italian expletive, she thought. She listened while he hung his suit jacket up in the hall and heard him go into his study. Then silence—and something very much like fear stirred within her and she didn’t understand why.
He had been away to America—where he owned real-estate on both the east and west coast—and whenever he returned from a trip he always came to find her. To ask her how she’d been. How Sam was.
Sometimes, if he was flying by commercial rather than private jet, he would even remember to bring the child some soft toy or game that he’d bought at the airport. Once she had seen him remove a shiny gold box of perfume from his briefcase, and her heart had begun to thud with a ridiculous excitement. But she had never seen it again.
The scent had not been destined for Natasha. Presumably it had gone to the leggy supermodel he had been seeing at the time—the one who’d always used to leave a stocking or a scarf behind in the bathroom, like some territorial trophy, marking out her pitch.
The study was still ominously silent, and Natasha began making a pot of mega-strong coffee—just as Raffaele had taught her to when she’d first gone to work for him. Wasn’t it crazy how memories could stay stuck fast in your head, even though they meant nothing? Natasha could still remember the shiver she’d felt as he’d bent close to her, too close for her comfort—though, not, it had seemed, for his. He had been too intent on showing her what to do to notice the mousy-looking woman at his side.
His voice had dipped, like soft velvet underpinned with steel. ‘In Italy we say that the coffee should look like ink and taste like heaven. Very strong and very dark—like the best kind of man. You understand? Capisci?’ And the black eyes had glittered at her in mocking question, as if it amused him that a woman should need to be taught how to make coffee.
But she had. Oh, she had. Back then she had needed teaching about pretty much everything that someone like Raffaele took for granted. While he was used to only the very best, she’d always been the kind of person who usually spooned instant out of a jar—until the time had come when she’d had barely enough money to buy any. Just thinking about the mess she had found herself in still had the power to make her tremble with apprehension. She never wanted to go back there—to those days of hunger and uncertainty and real fear—to before Raffaele had stepped in to save her.
Was that why she’d put him on a pedestal ever since?
Natasha placed the coffee and cup on the tray, along with two of the small almond biscuits which were Raffaele’s favourites. She had learnt how to make those, too, from the Italian cookbook he had bought her one Christmas.
Then she checked her appearance in the kitchen mirror, just as any employee would do before going in to see their boss—even if they didn’t happen to live in the same house, as Natasha did.
She would do. Her pale brown hair was neat, her dress carefully ironed and her features unadorned by make-up. She looked efficient and unthreatening. The way she liked it.
Going bare-faced was a habit she’d gotten into when Sam was a baby, when she’d been terrified of being judged by other people more than she already had been. She had wanted to send out the message that being a struggling single mother didn’t mean she was sexually available.
Besides, Natasha had learnt that it was easier if you kept things simple. There were advantages to almost everything in life—it all boiled down to your attitude. No make-up meant more time in the morning—just as tying her hair back did. She looked just what she hoped she was—a respected and respectable member of Raffaele’s staff.
‘Natasha!’
She heard his peremptory summons couched in the distinctively accented voice as it carried down to the basement. Hastily, she picked up the tray and carried it upstairs to his study, but in the doorway she paused, her attention caught and arrested by the sight of him. Natasha frowned. Her instinct had been right—there was something wrong.
Raffaele de Feretti. Billionaire. Bachelor. Boss. And the man she had quietly loved from almost since the first time she’d set eyes on him. But who wouldn’t love him? Not loving him would have presented a greater challenge—despite his arrogance and that disdainful air he had sometimes, when he wasn’t really listening to what you said.
He hadn’t heard her now and was standing with his back to her, gazing out onto the drenched garden at the centre of the London square, where raindrops dripped down the trees like a woman’s tears.
Today the garden was deserted, but on fine days you could see nannies with their boisterous young charges running around the paths to the tiny playground section at the far end. Or mothers with prams, before they went back to work—as many of the mothers around this affluent part of the city seemed to do whether it was because they needed the variety or because they wanted the independence. Natasha could never quite work it out. She used to think that it would be bliss not to have to work, but that was probably because the option had never been open to her.
Natasha used to take Sam to the garden when he was younger—feeling very privileged to be able to do so, but slightly nervous, too, as if someone was about to move her on, to tell her she had no right to be there. Her son, of course, had been unaware of the exclusive location of his playground, but every time her beloved little boy had patted his bucket and squealed with delight as sand flew out, Natasha had thanked a benevolent fate for bringing Raffaele de Feretti into her life.
‘Raffaele?’ she said quietly.
But Raffaele didn’t look round. Not even when she put the tray down on his desk with a little clatter. His tall, lean body just remained there—as unmoving as a statue and as silent as a rock—and there was something so perturbing and so alien about his stance that Natasha cleared her throat.
‘Raffaele?’ she prompted again.
Her soft English accent filtered into his fractured thoughts and slowly Raffaele turned round, his eyes taking in her familiar face and the gentle concern in her eyes. He sighed. Natasha. As ever-present and unthreatening as the air he breathed. He frowned, brought back to the present with a jolt. He had been miles away. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve brought you your coffee,’
Coffee? Had he asked for any? Probably not—but he could certainly do with some. How like her to guess. He nodded, gesturing for her to pour some and then he sat down in the leather chair at his desk, running his fingertips along the dark rasp of his jaw, the way he always did when something was on his mind. It was usually a high-profile takeover of some big company, but today it happened to be something much bigger. His mouth hardened—because unlike corporate affairs, which he could practically deal with in his sleep, this particular problem was something he usually steered clear of. The personal.
‘Has anyone called this morning?’ he demanded.
‘Not a soul.’
‘No press?’
‘No.’ The tabloids had upped the ante ever since a reality-TV star had claimed that Raffaele had bedded her in a ‘Five Times a Night!’ romp, when he had barely met the woman. The matter was currently in the hands of his lawyers, and just the thought of it made Natasha feel quite sick, even though she knew it wasn’t true. She tried a joke, to try to help ease that terrible tension which was tightening the face she knew so well. ‘Well, no visible press—I guess, there could always be a couple of reporters hiding in the bushes. It’s happened before!’
But he didn’t laugh. ‘You’ve been in the whole time?’
Natasha nodded. ‘Except when I dropped Sam off at school, of course—but I was back by nine-thirty.’ Her mouth softened with concern. This close, she could see he looked somehow different. His brilliant black eyes were shadowed and the tiny lines which fanned outwards from them seemed somehow more pronounced. As if he had gone without sleep while he’d been away. ‘Why? Were you expecting someone?’
Not exactly expecting—because that might imply that he had invited someone, and there had categorically been no invitation issued. Raffaele gave a small shake of his head. He was a man who did not give his trust easily—his suspicions had been fuelled by a lifetime of mixing with people who wanted something from him. Sex or money or power—the magical trinity which he had in spades. With Natasha he had come pretty close to implicit trust—but he was still aware of the dangers of confiding in others except when absolutely necessary.
The more people you told, the weaker you became. Because knowledge was power—and, surely, this quiet Englishwoman already knew far too much about how he lived his life. For now, he had her loyalty, because she owed him a great debt—but what if greed reared its ugly head and persuaded her to sell out, as he had seen happen so many times in the past? What if she discovered that she could make enough to keep her in comfort for many years if she sold her story to the papers, who were always hungry to find out more about him?
‘No, Natasha—I wasn’t expecting anyone,’ he said, with blunt honesty.
‘You’re back from America early.’
‘I haven’t been in America. I flew to Italy, instead.’
‘Oh? Any special reason?’ She pushed the sugar towards him, knowing that she was being unusually persistent—but she had never seen him look quite so troubled before.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
But, because she loved him, Natasha chose to ignore the sudden dark, repressive tone of his voice. ‘Something’s wrong—isn’t it, Raffaele?’
Inexplicably, he felt the flicker of temptation for one brief moment, before his mouth curved with an aristocratic disdain he rarely used on her. ‘It is not your place to ask me such a question,’ he answered coolly. ‘You know that.’
Yes, she knew that—and mainly she accepted it. Just as she accepted so many other things about his life. Like the women who sometimes shared his bed, who would wander down to breakfast in the morning, all tousle-haired and pink-cheeked, long after he had left for the City. They would giggle as they demanded she make them French toast and orange juice and Natasha’s jealous heart would break into a thousand pieces.
It was true that there hadn’t been any of those interlopers for some time—in fact, he was probably gearing up for another any day now. Maybe that was what was bugging him? Was some woman giving him the run-around, for once—instead of the other way round? In which case, why didn’t he damned well tell her? At least, that way she would be able to steel her heart against the pain to come. Against the projected and mostly hidden fear that, this time, his affair might be serious.
But then Natasha felt ashamed at her self-seeking—for wasn’t there another part of Raffaele’s life which threatened to mar its near perfection? His beautiful half sister, who was nearly a whole generation younger than him. Could that be the reason behind his unscheduled trip to Italy?
She cleared her throat. ‘Elisabetta’s okay, isn’t she?’
Raffaele stilled, the coffee cup almost to his lips. He put it down with a clatter, untasted. ‘What makes you ask about my sister?’ he questioned, in a voice of dangerous stealth.
She could hardly say Because, in your charm-filled life, she seems to be the one area which causes you concern. That really would be stepping over the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. Natasha shrugged, remembering the anxious phone call he had taken from Elisabetta’s psychiatrist a couple of weeks ago, which had resulted in him sitting in his study until darkness had fallen. It had been left to Natasha to wander in unnoticed and gently wonder if he wanted to put the light on, to remind him that he had a dinner engagement that evening.
‘Just a hunch that all wasn’t well.’
‘Well, don’t have hunches!’ he flared. ‘I don’t pay you to have hunches!’
She stared at him, and his words felt as if they had lanced through her heart. ‘No, of course you don’t. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.’
But Raffaele saw the faint tremble of her lips, which she’d tried and failed to hide, and relented with a sigh. ‘No, I am the one who should be sorry, cara. I should not have spoken to you that way.’
But he had—and maybe he would continue to do so—and could she bear that? Natasha pinned her shoulders back as once more she felt the distant beat of apprehension—and this time it wasn’t about Raffaele, but about her.
Didn’t they say that familiarity bred contempt—was that why he thought he could talk to her any old way and she would just take it? Oh, yes, sometimes he called her cara—but that was more a term of endearment. He certainly didn’t mean it in the romantic ‘darling’ sense.
Was she blinding herself to the fact that her position here was slowly being eroded? Was she going to wait until it became untenable before she had the courage to walk away from him?
She was beginning to recognise that as Sam grew older he would begin to notice the things which made him different from his schoolfriends. That the sumptuous home in which he lived was not really his home, but belonged to his mother’s billionaire employer. How long before that started to matter and his friends started making fun of him for being different?
‘I’d better go and get on,’ she said stiffly. ‘I want to make a cake—Sam’s bringing a friend home for tea.’ And she turned away before he could see the stupid tears which were threatening to prick at the corners of her eyes.
But Raffaele saw the rigid set of her shoulders and, for once, he realised he had hurt her. He knew that whatever else happened, Natasha didn’t deserve that. Maybe it was time that he told someone other than his attorney. Troy saw things only in black-and-white, in the way that lawyers did. That was what they were paid to do—to deal with practicalities, not emotion.
But, even for a man who had spent his life running from emotion and all its messy consequences, sometimes, like now, facing it seemed unavoidable. And Natasha was a woman—they seemed to do emotion better than men. Certainly, better than this man. Wouldn’t a feminine perspective from an impartial party be useful? What possible harm could there be to run it past her?
Maybe it was true what they said—that if you spoke the words out loud it made you see them differently.
Raffaele had spent most of his thirty-four years pressing all the right buttons and had achieved huge international success, but what he liked best was the control that success gave him and the power which came with it. But these past weeks he had felt it slipping away from him—and the sensation made him uneasy.
‘Natasha?’
‘What?’ she answered, but she didn’t turn back; she was too busy blinking away the last of her tears.
Natasha would tell him the truth, even if he didn’t want to hear it. ‘Elisabetta’s in a clinic,’ he said bluntly. ‘She has been secretly flown to England, and I’m terrified the press are going to find her.’
CHAPTER TWO (#uad552004-2d82-568c-9d71-657dd51d5778)
NATASHA froze, her own fears crumbling to unimportant dust as she tried to take in what Raffaele had just told her—a lightning bolt from the blue. ‘What?’
‘My sister has been admitted to a private clinic in the south of England, with an acute anxiety attack,’ Raffaele said, as if he were reading from a charge sheet.
Natasha blinked away her thoughtlessly self-indulgent tears and turned round to face him, her hands automatically reaching out towards him in an instinctive gesture of comfort. But she saw him flinch and stare at them as if they were something untoward—which she guessed they were—and they dropped to her sides like stones.
‘We’ve been trying to keep it out of the papers,’ he said, still in that same, flat voice.
‘We?’
‘Me. Troy. The doctors in charge. They’re worried that it will add to her stress. If the papers get hold of it, then she’ll be harassed when they discharge her—and it’ll drag her right back down. The security at the clinic is tight, but there are always photographers loitering around in the hope of sniffing out a new story. And you know how everyone loves this particular modern fairytale—“the girl who has everything suddenly fighting for her sanity”.’
‘Oh, Raffaele,’ she breathed, her blue eyes growing worried as she heard the cynicism which made his voice sound so harsh. ‘Poor Elisabetta! What’s happened?’
He tried to make sense of it. He wanted to tell Natasha not to look at him like that, or to say his name in that sweet, soft way, that her sympathy was making him feel all kinds of stuff that he didn’t need to feel right now. Like he wanted to go straight into her arms and put his head against her pure pale skin and just hold her. But he shook the thought away with a corresponding shake of his head.
He was supposed to be taking control—not sleepwalking into disaster by looking vulnerable in front of his damned housekeeper! He forced his mind back to the unpalatable facts.
‘You know that she never had a particularly stable upbringing,’ he said, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth. ‘She was born when my mother was trying desperately hard to please her new husband. She knew that he wanted a child—and even though she was in her early forties by then she moved heaven and earth to get pregnant.’ Raffaele had been a teenager at the time, and he remembered feeling pushed aside by his mother’s new obsession. But he had been protective of the baby girl when she’d arrived—though, shortly after that, he had been relieved to leave for university.
His eyes narrowed as he remembered. ‘Elisabetta once told me that they were disappointed she wasn’t a boy. Her father wanted someone to take over the business, and this artistic, fey girl was the antithesis of what he’d needed. Maybe that attitude sowed the seeds for her anxiety—or maybe it would have happened anyway.’ He shrugged, and his face darkened—for analysis was not in his nature unless it concerned a column full of figures. ‘Who knows what caused it? All I know is that it exists.’
‘But has something happened?’ Natasha questioned quietly. ‘To bring matters to a head?’
Raffaele’s black eyes pierced through her like dark lasers. ‘How did you guess?’
Because that was the way of the world, thought Natasha. ‘Was it a man?’
‘How perceptive of you, Tasha,’ he said softly, and then his mouth hardened. That wasn’t the word she would use to describe him. ‘A relationship,’ he corrected acidly. ‘Someone Elisabetta thought had fallen in love with her—but, of course, it was her enormous wealth which had seduced him. Damn the money!’ he exclaimed bitterly. ‘Damn it!’
Natasha bit her lip. Sometimes working for a man as powerful as Raffaele meant telling him things that they didn’t really want to hear—because no one else dared to. Except maybe for Troy, Raffaele’s lawyer. He never shied away from the facts.
‘That isn’t really fair, is it, Raffaele? I mean, you’re enormously wealthy and it doesn’t impact negatively on your life, does it? You enjoy your money,’ she pointed out, softening the home-truth with a smile. ‘So you can’t always say that money is the root of all evil.’
Raffaele’s mouth tightened. So this was what happened when you took someone like her into your confidence! His simmering rage was directed at Natasha now, his eyes sparking ebony fire. ‘You think to criticise me?’ he demanded. ‘You dare to do that?’
‘No,’ she replied patiently, ‘I’m just trying to help you see it more clearly, that’s all.’
‘She should not have been mixing with such lowlife!’ he stormed.
‘She is a young woman, Raffaele. You haven’t always—’
‘Haven’t always, what?’ he prompted dangerously.
‘You haven’t always displayed the greatest judgement with some of your choices of women, have you?’
‘What?’
She met the look of smouldering disbelief in his eyes without blinking, but somehow the thought of his doe-eyed half sister breaking her heart over some gold-digger gave Natasha the courage to stand up to him. ‘I draw your attention to the woman you’re currently suing.’
‘Madonna mia!’ he exclaimed. ‘I met her twice—and there was no intimacy. Am I to be held responsible for some lying actress who wants to use my money and my reputation to boost her career? And Elisabetta is my sister,’ he continued stubbornly. ‘It is different.’
Natasha sighed. It was that age-old double standard again, which some men—particularly the old-fashioned macho breed, like Raffaele—applied to all women. That there were two types. Madonna and whore. She bit her lip. Which category would she fall into?
Her behaviour since she’d first entered the de Feretti household had been beyond reproach—but she was still a single mother, wasn’t she? And, surely, that would score negatively when measured by Raffaele’s exacting standards?
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?’ she said softly.
He shrugged his shoulders restlessly. Her voice was cajoling—it was like the warmth of the sun on a summer’s day—but, instinctively, he fought against its comfort. ‘What’s to tell? This scum bled her bank account until her attention was drawn to it—and then he ran.’ His face darkened. ‘But not before he had convinced her that she loved him and that she could love no other as much as him. She stopped eating. She stopped sleeping. Her skin is like paper and her arms—they are like this…’ He joined his forefinger and thumb together in a circle to illustrate Elisabetta’s emaciated limb, and another wave of pain etched its way across his features. ‘She’s sick, Tasha.’
His eyes narrowed as he saw the look of concern on her face. Thank God, this was only Natasha he was talking to, came one sane, fleeting thought. Nobody had ever seen Raffaele de Feretti even close to vulnerable before—and, surely, this came close. At least, Tasha didn’t count.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Natasha anxiously.
The image of Elisabetta came floating into his mind—with her huge eyes and the waterfall of black hair which fell in a heavy curtain to her waist. Clenching his fists together, he thought how much he would like to be able to protect his vulnerable half sister from the knocks that life had waiting in store. ‘I should have been able to protect her!’
Natasha opened her mouth to say that modern women were strong enough not to need protectors—but that wasn’t really true, was it? Hadn’t Raffaele done just that with her? Brought her in from the cold. And hadn’t he treated her son as…well, if not as his own, then certainly as some distant and fondly regarded relative?
Had she forgotten how despairing she had been when she had thrown herself onto him for mercy?
She had rung his bell one night in answer to an advertisement in the newspaper for a housekeeper, and he had opened the door himself. Some time in the hours between Natasha deciding that there was no way she could carry on living in a damp house and working like a slave, the heavens had opened and she had been soaked to the skin.
‘Yes?’ Raffaele had demanded, ‘What is it?’
Natasha had barely noticed the autocratic and irritated note in his voice—or that his black eyes had narrowed to something approaching astonishment as he took in the sodden mess she must have made.
‘I’ve come about the job,’ she’d said.
‘You’re too late.’
Her face’d crumpled. ‘You mean, it’s taken?’
He’d shaken his head impatiently. ‘I mean, that you’re too late. Literally. I’m not interviewing any more today. See the agency and I’ll try to fit you in tomorrow.’
But Natasha was desperate—and desperation could make you do funny things. It could fire you up with a determination you didn’t know you had until your back was against the wall. Particularly, if you were looking out for someone else.
‘No,’ she said firmly, and rushed on as she saw his expression of incredulity—because it was now or never.
‘No?’ he demanded. She dared to say no? To him?
She took a deep breath. ‘If I go away now, then you might appoint someone else before me, and no one will do the job as well as me. I can promise you that, Mr de Feretti.’
‘Signor de Feretti,’ he’d corrected flintily, but his interest had been awakened by her passion and determination and by the cold light of fear which lay at the back of her eyes.
He’d opened the door a fraction wider, so that a shaft of light had illuminated her, and Raffaele’d found himself thinking that she certainly wouldn’t provide much in the way of temptation—and maybe that was a good thing. Some of the younger applicants he’d seen that day had been pretty conturbante—sexy—and had made it clear that working for a single and very eligible bachelor was at the top of their wish-list for very obvious reasons. And the ones who’d been older had seemed itching to mother him. ‘So what makes you think you’d do the job better than anyone else?’ he’d demanded.
There was no possible answer to give other than the unvarnished truth, and Natasha had heard her voice wobble as she told him.
‘Because no one wants the job as much as I do. No one needs it as much as I do, either.’
He had seen she’d been shivering. Her teeth had been chattering and her eyes had a kind of wildness about them. He thought at the time that he might be offering house-room to someone who was very slightly unhinged, but sometimes Raffaele allowed himself to be swept along by a gut feeling that was stronger than logic or reason, and that had been one of those times.
‘You’d better come in,’ he’d said.
‘No! Wait!’
He frowned, scarcely able to believe his ears. ‘Wait?’
‘Can you give me a few minutes and I’ll be back?’
As Raffaele’d nodded his terse agreement he’d told himself he was being a fool—and he didn’t even have the fool’s usual excuse of having been blinded by a beautiful face and body. She was probably the head of some urban gang—the innocent-looking stool-pigeon who had arrived ahead of her accomplices who were even now bearing down on him.
But Raffaele was strong and fit and, deep down, he didn’t really think the woman was any such thing. Why, she was little more than a girl and her desperation sounded real enough, rather than the rehearsed emotion of some scam.
He’d tossed another log on the fire, which was blazing in his study, and poured himself a glass of rich, red wine. He’d almost given up on her coming back and thought that it was probably all for the best—though, his curiosity had somehow been whetted.
And then came the ringing on the door—only, this time it was even more insistent. His temper had threatened to fray as he’d wrenched it open.
‘You are not showing a very good example in interview technique!’ he’d grated, and then had seen that the woman was carrying a bundle—evident, even to his untutored eyes, as being a sleeping child—and there’d been a buggy on his front step. ‘What the hell is this?’
Without thinking, he’d pulled her inside out of the howling storm, swearing softly in Italian as he’d directed her in towards the fire, where she sank to her knees in front of the leaping flames, the child still in her arms, and let out a low, crooning sound of relief.
‘My friend’s been looking after my b-baby in the bus shelter while I came to see you.’
For a moment, he’d felt fury and pity in equal measures—but something else, too. He would help her, yes—but only if she proved she was worth helping. And, unless this mystery woman dried her eyes and pulled herself together, he would kick her back out on the street, where she belonged.
‘Hysterics won’t work in this case,’ he’d said coldly. ‘Not with me.’
Just in time, Natasha had recognised that he’d meant it and, sucking in a shuddering breath, she’d looked down at Sam. How did he manage to still be asleep? she’d asked herself with something close to wonder.
‘How old is he?’ Raffaele’d asked.
She’d lifted her face to his. It glowed in the firelight and had been wet with rain and tears, and he’d suddenly found himself thinking that her eyes were exceptionally fine—pale, like a summer sky.
‘How on earth d-did you know he was a boy?’ she’d questioned shakily.
He’d heard the strong and fierce note of maternal pride and, unexpectedly, he’d smiled. ‘He’s dressed entirely in blue,’ he’d said, almost gently.
Natasha had looked down and, sure enough, the hooded all-in-one and baby mitts had all been in variations on that shade. ‘Oh, yes!’ And, for the first time in a long, long time, she’d quivered him a smile. ‘He’s nearly eighteen months,’ she’d added.
Raffaele had hid the sinking feeling in his heart. Porca miseria! What he knew about children and babies could be written on his fingernail, but even he knew that children around that age were nothing but trouble.
‘But he’s really good,’ Natasha’d said.
It was perhaps unfortunate that Sam had chosen that precise moment to wake up. He’d taken one look at Raffaele and burst into an ear-splitting howl of rage.
There’d been a pause.
‘So I see,’ Raffaele’d said wryly.
‘Oh, he’s just tired,’ Natasha’d babbled, clamping him tightly to her chest and rocking him like a little boat. ‘And hungry. He’ll be fine tomorrow.’
He’d noticed her assumption that they would still be around the next day, but didn’t remark on it. ‘Why are you in this situation? Where have you been living?’
‘I’ve been working in a house—only, they keep asking me to do more and more, so that I hardly get a minute with Sam. And the house is damp, too—he’s only just finished a cold, and I’m terrified he’s going to get another. It’s not somewhere I want to bring a child up.’
His eyes had narrowed. ‘And what about his father? Is he going to turn up and want to stay the night with you here?’
‘We don’t see him,’ Natasha’d said, with an air of finality.
‘There isn’t going to be a scene? Angry doorstep rows at midnight?’
She shook her head. ‘No way.’
Raffaele’d looked curiously at the boy, who had been attempting to burrow into her shoulder, his thumb wobbling towards his mouth. He’d frowned. ‘Where’s he going to sleep?’
And with those words she’d known that she was in with a chance. That she’d had one foot in Mr—or rather—Signor de Feretti’s expensive door and she had to prove to this rugged, but rather cold-eyed, foreigner that she deserved to stay. They deserved to stay.
The child had spent his first night under the Italian’s roof in the same bed as his mother and when, the next morning, Raffaele’d caught Natasha trawling through the second-hand column of the local paper he’d overrode all her objections—which admittedly weren’t very strong when it came to her beloved boy—to order a top-of-the-range bed which was fashioned out of wood to look like a pirate ship.
And there mother and son had been ever since.
It suited all parties very well. Raffaele knew that it was far better his big house be lived in—especially as he was away a lot, not just in the States, but Europe, too, for the de Feretti empire spread far and wide. Once, Natasha had plucked up the courage to ask him why he bothered keeping on a house in England when presumably a hotel might have been more convenient.
But he had shaken his jet-dark head. ‘Because I hate them,’ he’d told her, with a surprising vehemence. Hadn’t he been in enough of them as a boy, following the death of his father, when he had been trailed from pillar to post by a mother determined to find herself a new rich husband? ‘Hotels have no soul. All the furniture is used by faceless hundreds. The pillows slept on by others and the mattresses made love on by countless couples. Yet, when you buy stuff of your own and put it down somewhere at least you can make any house a home.’
If she hadn’t been so busy trying not to bite her lip with embarrassment when he’d said that bit about making love then she might have disagreed with him—telling him that a home consisted of more than just furniture and belongings. It had to do with making it the place you most wanted to be at the end of the day. And, anyway, who was Natasha to disagree with him, when he had provided the only real home she and Sam had ever known?
When Sam had been old enough Raffaele had insisted on enrolling him to attend the nursery section of the highly acclaimed international school which was situated nearby.
‘Why not?’ he had queried, rather arrogantly, when she’d shaken her head.
‘It’s much too expensive,’ Natasha’d said defensively. ‘I can’t afford it.’
His voice had gentled in a the way it rarely did, but which was impossible to resist when he turned it on. ‘I know that. I wasn’t expecting you to pay. I will.’
‘I couldn’t possibly accept that,’ Natasha’d said, feeling as if she ought to refuse his generous offer even though her maternal heart leapt at the thought of Sam being given such a head start in life.
‘You can, and you will. It makes perfect sense,’ he’d drawled. ‘All the other schools are far enough away to eat into your time when you take him there, and ultimately my time. Listen, Natasha, why don’t you look at it as one of the perks of the job—rather than me giving you the use of a car, which so far you have refused to drive in London?’
Put like that, she’d found she could accept his offer gratefully, and she would never forget her joy, when Sam spoke his first few words in French and then Italian. After that Raffaele had taken to always speaking to the boy in his native tongue, and while Natasha had revelled with dazed pleasure at this evidence of her son the linguist, there had been a tiny part of her which had felt shut out. It had been enough to make her start taking Italian lessons, herself, though she kept quiet about it—in case it looked as if she was expecting something.
It hadn’t all been plain sailing, of course. There had been the time when Sam had fallen over the step into the back garden and sustained a nasty bump to his forehead. Natasha had rushed him to the emergency room and though Raffaele had been out of the country at the time, he had listened grimly on the other end of the line as she recounted how a social worker had been round the next day to check everything out.
‘Well, you should have damned well been watching him!’ he had flared.
It had been unjust and unfair, but Natasha had been too eaten up with guilt to tell him that her back had been turned for just a few seconds.
And the time when Sam had found a handbag belonging to one of Raffaele’s girlfriends and had decided to reinvent himself as his favourite character, Corky the Clown.
‘But that’s my best lipstick!’ the girlfriend had screeched, as she’d dodged Sam’s pink-glossed and podgy hand as he attempted to hand the decimated piece of make-up back to her.
Raffaele had laughed. ‘I’ll buy you another.’
The woman had pouted. ‘You can’t buy them over here—they’re exclusive to America!’ she spat. ‘What a horrible little brat!’
And Raffaele had looked at her and known that no amount of fantastic sex was worth having to look at a nasty, spiteful face which could make a little boy cry. ‘Tell you what,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll buy you a one-way air-ticket and you can go and get yourself a replacement.’
The girlfriend had flounced out, and Raffaele had told Natasha to make sure she kept her offspring under control next time. But that weekend he had purchased a huge, floppy clown for Sam as a kind of silent thank-you for doing him a favour he hadn’t realised he was in need of.
Of course, he never enquired about Sam’s father—it was none of his business, and he didn’t want to get involved in the bitter stuff which came after a couple split up.
Besides, he never really thought of Natasha in those terms. She was Sam’s mother and his housekeeper, and it seemed to suit them all….
‘Dio!’ he swore. What the hell was he doing, thinking about the past, when he had the biggest problem of his life on his hands right now—in the present? ‘What on earth am I going to do about Elisabetta, Natasha?’ he demanded.
‘You’re doing everything you can,’ she soothed. ‘Presumably, she’s in the best clinic that money can buy. You can support her by visiting her—’
‘She isn’t allowed visitors for the first four weeks,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s one of the rules.’
Natasha nodded. How would he find that? she wondered. He, who had made up his own rules in life as he went along. ‘Well, the other stuff, then. You know. Like keeping her safe.’ Her eyes shone. ‘You’re good at that.’
But he barely heard a word she was saying, because the sudden shrill ring of the doorbell pealed out with its own particular sense of urgency.
He strode off to answer it, checking first in the peephole that it wasn’t the dreaded press-pack. But it was Troy standing on the doorstep, and when Raffaele opened the door and the other man stepped inside the lawyer’s grim face confirmed his worst fears.
‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’
There was a pause. ‘The press have got hold of the story,’ Troy said. ‘They’ve found out where Elisabetta is.’
CHAPTER THREE (#uad552004-2d82-568c-9d71-657dd51d5778)
‘ARE you certain—absolutely certain?’ demanded Raffaele, feeling an overwhelming sense of rage run through him at the thought of his vulnerable little sister being at the mercy of the unscrupulous press hounds. Had Elisabetta really had her cover blown? His black eyes bore into his lawyer. ‘They’ve found out where she is?’
Troy nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just had a telephone call from one of our people. They’re outside the clinic now,’ he said.
Raffaele swore very softly and very quietly in the Sicilian dialect he had picked up one long, hot summer on the island, when he’d still been railing against the intrusion of his new stepfather. Few people could understand the language, but it had remained with him in times of anger ever since. But he recognised now that his fury was a nothing but redundant luxury and would not help solve the problem. Every problem had a solution—he knew that. Hadn’t he demonstrated it over the years, time and time again?
He thought quickly. ‘Come through to my study,’ he said, and then glanced at Natasha, who was standing there, looking as if she wanted to say something. He waved his hand at her impatiently. ‘Can you bring some coffee for Troy, Natasha? Have you eaten? I’m sure Natasha can make you something if you want.’
Troy shook his head. ‘No. Coffee will be fine. And maybe one of those biscuit things, if you have them?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Natasha, nodding with a brisk smile and turning away, telling herself that of course Raffaele was going to dismiss her like that—because what was happening with Elisabetta was nothing whatsoever to do with her.
She was an employee, for heaven’s sake, not Raffaele’s confidante—no matter how much she longed to be. And that was one of the drawbacks to the strange position she had in his life—she was part of it and, yet, nothing to do with it. Always hovering on the outskirts of it, like a tiny satellite star which relied on the mighty light of a huge planet, so that sometimes she felt she was consumed by him. But at times like this he would send her away to provide refreshments, just like the servant she really was.
After she’d gone, the two men walked through the long, arched hallway which led to his study, where they sat on either side of the desk.
‘Can we kill the story?’ Raffaele asked.
‘Only temporarily. The London News is threatening to run a piece in its gossip column tonight.’
‘Then slam out an injunction!’
‘I already have done,’ said Troy. ‘But the trouble is that they aren’t actually breaking any privacy code. It’s just a general piece, with a few old photos, about concerns for “party-loving heiress, Elisabetta de Feretti”.’
‘But this is intolerable!’ gritted Raffaele from between clenched teeth. ‘Doesn’t anyone give a damn about her well-being?’
‘Not if it sells more newspapers.’
Raffaele shook his dark head, his frustration accentuated by real concern. Had he failed his sister? Been too enmeshed in the world of business to notice that her life was disintegrating around her? ‘How the hell did they find out about it? Didn’t the clinic give me a thousand assurances that Elisabetta’s anonymity would be protected? Do we know the source of the story?’
‘We do now. It’s a member of staff, I’m afraid,’ said Troy slowly, sitting back in his chair as if putting distance between himself and the outburst about to follow.
For a moment Raffaele’s long olive fingers curved, so that they resembled the deadly talons of some bird of prey. ‘Madonna mia!’ he said, with soft venom resonating like liquid poison from his voice. ‘Do you know what we shall do, Troy? We shall hunt down and find the cheating Judas who betrayed my sister. And, much as I should like to inflict a Sicilian form of punishment that they will never forget, we will discipline them formally.’ He punched his fist over his heart. ‘And make sure that he or she never works in a position of trust or authority again!’
There was a pause. ‘You can do that,’ said Troy, with the smooth diplomacy of his profession. ‘But it will be a waste of your time and ultimately of your resources—and at a time when you can least afford to squander them.’
‘You are saying that this kind of behaviour should go unpunished?’ Raffaele demanded icily. ‘Is that the course of action you are recommending to me?’
Troy held his hands up in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger pose. ‘Of course I can see that to carry out such a threat would give you satisfaction—but it would be a short-lived achievement and it would detract from your real aim of making sure that Elisabetta gets the treatment she needs without anything making it more difficult for her. And, unfortunately, all the railing and lawsuits in the world won’t change human nature or the lure of big money—haven’t you said that yourself, Raffaele, more times than you can count?’
Raffaele was silent for a moment while he digested the other man’s words. He had known and admired Troy since both men had met at the Sorbonne in the concluding year of their international law degrees—and he had discovered Troy was that rare thing, an Englishman who spoke several languages. They had been educated as equals, had good-naturedly fought over women, and Troy had never been cowed by the black-eyed Italian who was held in so much awe wherever he went because of his presence and his unforgettable good-looks.
The fact that the Englishman had also been considered to be a bit of a sex god by the women of Paris had meant that there was no rivalry between the two men.
As well as Troy’s fluency in both Italian and French, he possessed the valuable impartiality which was so much a characteristic of his nationality, and all these factors had made him the perfect choice to be personal advocate for the powerful Raffaele de Feretti. There were not many men to whom Raffaele listened, but this was one of them—and he was listening now.
‘Si, Troy, mio amico—you are right, of course,’ Raffaele said heavily, still feeling that he had somehow failed his sister—even though logic told him otherwise. ‘So, what do we do?’
Troy placed the tips of his fingers together in an almost prayerlike gesture of careful thought. ‘We run a spoiler. We take attention away from Elisabetta by giving them a bigger story.’
Raffaele gave a sceptical laugh. ‘And how do you propose doing that?’
Troy leaned forward. ‘Elisabetta is newsworthy because, yes, she’s young, and beautiful, very rich and occasionally flawed—but ultimately she’s famous for being your sister.’
‘I think that you overestimate my interest value,’ demurred Raffaele—because he had sought no publicity for himself.
Troy gave a short laugh. ‘It’s true that in terms of your power and your money everything that can possibly have been written on the subject already has been. But don’t forget, Raffaele, that there is one area of a your life which has held a particular fascination for the press ever since you passed puberty.’
Raffaele stared at him, his black eyes narrowing. ‘Be a little more specific, Troy,’ he instructed softly.
‘They’ve been trying to marry you off for years!’
‘So?’
‘So the only story which could draw interest away from Elisabetta would be if you finally did it.’
‘Did what, precisely?’
‘Got yourself a wife,’ said Troy, just as there was a rap on the door and it began to open. ‘Maybe it’s time you married, Raffaele!’
Natasha entered the room just in time to hear Troy’s enthusiastic statement and, for a moment, she honestly thought that she might drop her tray. She felt the blood drain from her face and her knees grow weak and some terrible roaring sound deafened her ears—like the sound of an express train racing through her head.
‘Natasha?’ Raffaele was frowning at her. ‘Are you sick?’
‘I…’
‘Put the damned tray down,’ he instructed tersely, but he had risen from his chair and was taking it from her himself. He put it down on the desk and caught her by the arm. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’
But with a few deep breaths Natasha had quickly recovered her equilibrium and she shook him off, telling herself that it was very important she didn’t make a fool of herself.
Raffaele had been nothing but decent and fair to her over the years, and he had done more for Sam than could reasonably be expected of a boss. So she was not going to blow the whole thing by showing her distress at what was, after all, a long overdue piece of news. Or had she really expected a man like Raffaele to remain single for the rest of his life, just so that she could maintain her little fantasies about him?
‘You’re getting married?’ she exclaimed brightly, and then forced the next word out, even though it felt like a fishbone stuck in her throat. ‘Congratulations!’
Raffaele was staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘So this is how gossip begins!’ he objected moodily. ‘Something half overheard and then, before you know it, you are dealing with “fact”—only, it isn’t fact at all. Just some crazy conjecture!’
‘You mean, you’re not getting married?’ questioned Natasha cautiously, unable to prevent the wild leap of her heart, and thankful that he wouldn’t be able to detect it.
‘Of course I’m not getting married!’ he retorted.
‘I’m trying to persuade him to get married,’ said Troy.
‘Oh.’ Natasha forced a smile as she looked at Troy, hating—just hating—Raffaele’s smart-aleck lawyer at that moment. She cleared her throat as she began to pour their coffee. ‘Isn’t marriage an honourable institution that isn’t supposed to be entered into lightly?’ she asked, as casually as if she was enquiring whether they wanted milk or sugar. ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’
‘I’m not talking about a real marriage,’ said Troy. ‘I’m talking about a pretend one.’
‘A pretend one?’ said Raffaele and Natasha at exactly the same moment, and Natasha began to fiddle around unnecessarily with the sugar bowl.
Troy nodded. ‘You don’t have to actually go through with it—just make the gestures. You know—you buy a whopping engagement ring and then you pose with your fiancée for the papers and she gives them a few interviews telling them where the wedding will be, where she’s going to buy her dress. They love all that kind of stuff.’
‘You seem remarkably well informed on the subject,’ remarked Raffaele, with a sardonic elevation of his black brows.
‘I try,’ said Troy modestly.
‘And even if I were to entertain such a bizarre remedy, aren’t you forgetting one thing?’
‘Like what?’
Raffaele’s black eyes were like hard, cold jet. ‘That there isn’t a candidate.’
Did he hear Natasha’s pent-up sigh of relief? Was that why he turned his head and fixed her with an impenetrable stare. ‘Didn’t you say you had a cake to make?’
Natasha blinked. Of all the times to prove that he had actually been listening to something she had to say he had to choose this one! ‘Er…yes.’
‘Well, then, run along, cara,’ he said softly.
‘Right.’ Reluctantly, Natasha headed for the door, while they just carried on with their conversation as if she was invisible. Which I might as well be, she thought furiously.
‘You just need someone who is prepared to go along with it,’ Troy was saying.
‘Like who? Oh, I can see your reasoning. It’s a good idea, Troy—but there’s just one problem, and it’s the nightmare scenario.’ Raffaele’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Most women I know would be only to happy to go through with it—the difficulty would be getting them off my back afterwards.’
Troy laughed. ‘Which is why we choose someone who wouldn’t dare try to hang around.’
‘Again, I say—who?’
Fascinating as she found the subject, Natasha knew that she really couldn’t justify hanging around any longer, and she was almost out of the door when her eagle eye spotted a rogue little yellow plastic brick lying underneath one of the two wing chairs by the bookcase.
Now, how the hell had that gotten in here—especially when Sam wasn’t even supposed to go into Raffaele’s study? She was so fastidious about keeping all signs of young children carefully hidden away. Raffaele might be tolerant, and kinder to her son than his position warranted, but he certainly didn’t want to be tripping up over model soldiers every time he came home.
She made a little exclamation of annoyance as she leaned over to retrieve the brick, and as the sound diverted his attention Raffaele found his eyes drawn to her bent figure.
Nobody could accuse Natasha of vanity—indeed, the garments she wore for work wouldn’t have been out of place in a boot-camp and they’d never have been Raffaele’s choice for a woman—never in a million years. He’d often used to think that here was a woman who would never distract him as she went about her work.
Maybe it was something to do with the fact that his nerves were on edge, or that it had been a long time since he’d had someone in his bed. Or maybe it was just something as simple as the fact that the moment had caught her with the material of her dress stretched tight across her derrière. Raffaele swallowed. And a very attractive derrière it was, too.
He narrowed his eyes and became aware of Troy’s gaze following exactly the same path as his.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Troy softly. ‘Yes. That is perfect.’
Why was it that Raffaele found himself looking at his lawyer with cold distaste, wanting to tell him not to dare look at Natasha in that way—that she deserved his respect, not his predatory gaze? He shook himself. Predatory? Over Natasha?
She was straightening up now, with a piece of yellow plastic held between her fingers, and the fabric fell loose away from where it had been moulded to the tight, high curve of her buttocks. And all Raffaele could think was why the hell had he never noticed that before?
‘You wouldn’t have wanted to have stepped on that with bare feet!’ she said triumphantly, and put it in her pocket as she marched out without a backwards glance.
Raffaele watched as she shut the door behind her, and suddenly there was Troy, sitting with some dumb, expectant grin on his face, looking at him as if he had found the key to the universe.
‘Well? What do you think, Raffaele? Isn’t this the answer to our predicament? Wouldn’t Natasha do?’
CHAPTER FOUR (#uad552004-2d82-568c-9d71-657dd51d5778)
‘NO!’ RAFFAELE snapped back, in an icy voice. ‘Natasha would not do! She’s my housekeeper, for Dio’s sake!’
Outside the study door, the sound of her name halted Natasha right in her tracks and presented her with an age-old moral dilemma. Should she stay or should she go? Should she listen or not? But, surely, if they were talking about her didn’t she have every right to listen?
Heart thumping, and with misgivings which were making her forehead ice into a cold sweat, she put her head close to the door. Their voices were muffled, but she could make out certain words like unsuitable, inappropriate. And then something else, which ended with Raffaele saying, quite loudly and quite forcefully, ‘No one would ever believe it!’
And Troy’s response. ‘Why not ask her?’
She heard the sound of a chair being scraped back, and instinct made her move quickly away from her giveaway position. She hurried down to the kitchen, realising that time was tight if she wanted to have the cake made before she went out to collect Sam.
The radio was blaring as she changed her mind about lemon drizzle and instead made cupcakes, which she iced in lurid shades of green and blue, especially designed to appeal to small boys—and to hell with the additives!
Despite the apron she’d put on, she’d still managed to get splodges of cake mixture over her dress—and she was going to have to leave in a minute. She ran upstairs and changed into something warmer—because the autumn afternoons were beginning to bite.
She put on a pale blue sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes, and a pair of old jeans Then she brushed her hair and wove it into its habitual French plait. Her fingers hesitated over the little tub of lipgloss which had been on special offer at the chemist back in the summer, and which some impulse had made her buy. She’d only used it a couple of times, and it didn’t really seem to be her, so she’d put the top back on and had never used it again.
So what was it that made her pick it up today? Did it have something to do with the way the two men had looked at her in the study—or rather the way they’d not looked at her? As if she was some old piece of furniture—reliably comfortable, but not something you’d want to show off to a guest.
Defiantly, she opened it and stroked on some of the strawberry-scented gloss. Perhaps some of her reluctance to dress up had come from knowing that she could never compete with the other mothers, who arrived at the school looking as if they’d stepped out of the pages of a glossy magazine. Maybe that was why she was always being mistaken for one of the nannies—though she had to admit that most of them made more of an effort than she did.
Outside, the late-afternoon sky was a clear blue and the trees were etched against it in startling relief. All the leaves were turning rich shades of bronze and toffee and gold and, in the distance, she thought she could smell the faint drift of smoke, which was unusual in London, though this area was exclusive enough to have gardens big enough to cope with bonfires.
Natasha was suddenly overcome with the sense of nostalgia which autumn always provoked. The end of the summer and the start of winter and soon Sam beginning full-time school. During no other season was she quite so aware of the passing of time as this, when the leaves began their dizzy spiralling dance to the ground below.
There were luxury cars in abundance parked in the streets near the school—most people had to travel from all over the capital to get there—and Natasha never forgot to count her blessings that she lived close enough to walk there.
She watched as the children began to file out in their rather old-fashioned uniform of knee-length shorts for the little boys and kilts for the girls, along with thick sweaters which looked like home-knits, and sturdy shoes and dark socks. Sam was excitedly anticipating the time when he would graduate to long trousers—like the ‘big’ boys at the middle school—and Natasha began to wonder how long she could let things continue like this. With Sam getting more and more used to the luxurious lifestyle which Raffaele could afford to give him. Was it time for her to start getting real? To live within her means?
‘Maman!’ Sam called as he came running over, his little friend in tow. ‘You’re wearing lipstick!’
‘Hello, darling—was it a French day today?’
‘You’re wearing lipstick!’ accused her son again.
‘Yes, I am—do you like it?’ She smiled down at Sam’s best friend. ‘Hello, Serge. How are you?’
‘Très bien, merci!’ replied Serge, with the solemn confidence learnt from his French diplomat father.
‘Well, that’s good,’ she replied, as the three of them began to walk the route home, which took them past the area’s best conker tree. ‘I’ve made monster cakes!’
‘Monster cakes?’ Serge frowned as Sam began to scoop up the shiny brown nuts. ‘But what are monster cakes?’
‘It means you turn into a monster if you eat them!’ chanted Sam. ‘Will Raffaele be there?’
‘He’s probably busy, darling—we’ll see.’
‘Oh!’
The boys played with their conkers in the garden and then came inside for supper. Because it was Friday, there was no homework, so she left them playing a complicated game with battleships. She was just wondering whether Raffaele wanted her to make him supper when she almost collided with him.
‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ he said grimly.
It didn’t sound that way. And why was he looking at her like that, with an expression on his face she had never seen before? The black eyes were brilliant and piercing and they narrowed as they swept over her, as if they were assessing her for something—but what?
Some kind of sixth sense set off a distant clamour which seemed to make Natasha acutely aware of the pulsing of her blood—as if something had just sprung to life within her. Alarmingly, she felt the tips of her breasts begin to rub against the rough lace of her bra and the corresponding flood of colour to her cheeks.
‘Well, here I am,’ she said.
But Raffaele wasn’t listening. He was struck by the way her cheeks were looking uncharacteristically pink—like the wild roses of summer. And by the way…the way…Madre di Dio, but this could not be happening!
Irresistibly, he found his gaze locked onto the luscious curve of her breasts, and he started wondering whether this was because of what had happened earlier—an awakening which had been triggered by something as simple as a woman bending down to pick up a toy. The sudden realisation that behind the guise of her unerring efficiency Natasha was a woman. A real flesh-and-blood one at that. He found that he wanted to cup his palms over those buttocks and bring her right up close against him.
‘Any more news about Elisabetta?’
Her question was like an icy bath on his senses, and he discovered that he had been guilty of some very impure thoughts, indeed—and that wasn’t on his agenda at all. He hardened his voice. Elisabetta was the reason he was about to do all this—and the only reason, he reminded himself.
‘No,’ he said, staring at her mouth and thinking that there was something different about that, too. Was it all shiny and pink? Or was that just his imagination? He frowned. Was he out of his mind to go through with this crazy scheme? And yet hadn’t he been racking his brains all day and coming up with remarkably few solutions to this particular dilemma? For all his wealth and power and connections there were some things he couldn’t control, and the press was one of them. ‘Is Sam here?’
‘He’s downstairs with Serge. He’s got a new conker he wants to show you.’
For a moment the tension on his face eased, the faint smile nudging at the corners of his mouth completely transforming his rugged features.
‘I’ll go down and take a look.’ He raised his brows. ‘And later—will he be here then?’
She shook her head and frowned. ‘No, he’s going to stay over at Serge’s—it’s his turn this week. Is there a problem?’
‘Not really,’ he said smoothly. ‘I suggest that you and I eat together.’
Natasha shrugged. It wasn’t as if their eating together was unknown. She didn’t go out that often—and certainly not when Raffaele was around. She felt that being there was part of the fabulous deal he had made with her—she made the house warm and comfortable when he was home.
She wanted to ask him what was on his mind and, yet, there was something very censorious in his eyes which dared her to even try—a dark, warning light that made her very aware of his position over her. Because—despite all their familiarity and the usual ease with which they lived their lives—sometimes Raffaele unmistakably pulled rank, and he was doing it now. This wasn’t a casual suggestion that they might eat supper together, it was an order, and Natasha’s pulse began to race. ‘Sure. Would you like me to cook something special?’
‘No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll cook.’
Raffaele? Cook? ‘R-right.’
Her anxiety grew as she saw the boys off when Serge’s impossibly glamorous nanny came to collect them. Natasha could tell that she was dawdling unnecessarily in the hall.
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