Hired For Romano's Pleasure
Chantelle Shaw
Orla’s to-do list:#1—resist my arrogant new boss!Working for cut-throat billionaire Torre Romano is shy Orla’s worst nightmare—she’s never forgotten the crushing blow of his cruel rejection. Unfortunately her traitorous body can’t forget the white-hot pleasure they found together! Travelling abroad with him and working late nights will be pure sensual torture—especially as Torre seems determined to tempt Orla to play with fire once again…
Orla’s to-do list:
#1 Resist my arrogant new boss!
Working for cutthroat billionaire Torre Romano is shy Orla’s worst nightmare—she’s never forgotten the crushing blow of his cruel rejection. Unfortunately, her traitorous body can’t forget the white-hot pleasure they found together! Traveling abroad with him, and working late nights, is pure sensual torture—especially as Torre seems determined to tempt Orla to play with fire once again...
CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast and thinks up her stories while walking on the beach. She has been married for over thirty years and has six children. Her love affair with reading and writing Mills & Boon stories began as a teenager, and her first book was published in 2006. She likes strong-willed, slightly unusual characters. Chantelle also loves gardening, walking and wine!
Also by Chantelle Shaw (#u97573420-de28-5396-a0d8-175eed5e690a)
Trapped by Vialli’s Vows
Acquired by Her Greek Boss
The Howard Sisters miniseries
Sheikh’s Forbidden Conquest
A Bride Worth Millions
Bought by the Brazilian miniseries
Mistress of His Revenge
Master of Her Innocence
The Saunderson Legacy miniseries
The Secret He Must ClaimThe Throne He Must Take
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Hired for Romano’s Pleasure
Chantelle Shaw
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07182-6
HIRED FOR ROMANO’S PLEASURE
© 2018 Chantelle Shaw
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#uab9bdad3-28e2-59a9-8c30-74dd3d008e0d)
Back Cover Text (#ub348b73c-3416-52a3-87fe-ae401c7de9e7)
About the Author (#u256eb224-ba75-5f75-8f63-f58e39a753eb)
Booklist (#u03ee2a4b-51c7-5bec-9e5a-ad64ce707e69)
Title Page (#ue5536a16-766a-5229-becf-da59db144ced)
Copyright (#u8a507103-86e0-5069-b707-d05191d7c9a5)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9fcd9dbb-6765-5fcb-80ff-5c9ab01f59b0)
CHAPTER TWO (#u42981a2c-748b-50ac-ac46-63206387f82f)
CHAPTER THREE (#ufb3fbaa2-935e-5f15-841f-6135df22f96f)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u97573420-de28-5396-a0d8-175eed5e690a)
‘I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you invited your ex-wife’s daughter to your birthday celebrations.’
Torre Romano could not hide his irritation as he turned away from the window at Villa Romano and looked across the study at his father. Moments ago he had been enjoying the stunning view of the Amalfi coastline—although he was of the opinion that the views from his own house in Ravello, higher up the cliffs, were better. But the bombshell his father had just dropped had re-awoken the complicated emotions that Orla Brogan evoked in him. Still.
‘I invited my stepson,’ Giuseppe said mildly. ‘Why wouldn’t I also invite my stepdaughter?’
‘It’s different with Jules. He came to live here with his mother when he was a young boy and you are the only father he has ever known.’ Torre looked away from Giuseppe’s astute gaze. ‘I barely remember Orla,’ he said, frustrated that it was not true. ‘The only time I met her was eight years ago when you married her mother. The marriage did not last for more than a handful of years,’ he reminded Giuseppe drily. ‘I know that Orla used to visit Kimberly here, but I must have been away on those occasions and I never saw her again.’
An unbidden memory flashed into Torre’s mind of Orla lying beneath him, her milky-pale skin a stark contrast to his dark tan and her hair spread like amber silk across the pillows. Unbelievably he felt his body stir. Dio! How could she still affect him all these years after he had spent just one night with her? he wondered grimly.
But the truth was that Orla was the only woman who had ever made him lose control. Eight years ago he’d taken one look at her and the promise he’d made to himself—that he would never be led by his libido, like his father—had been swept away on a riptide of lust. It had been shameful proof that he had inherited Giuseppe’s weakness for pretty women and sex.
Torre pulled his mind back to the present when he realised that his father was speaking again. ‘Orla has not been back here in the four years since her mother left me and hired a top divorce lawyer,’ Giuseppe said ruefully. ‘But I remain fond of her and I am pleased that both my stepchildren are coming to Amalfi to help me celebrate my seventieth birthday. I wonder if Jules will use the occasion to make an announcement?’
‘An announcement about what?’ Torre’s brows rose.
‘That he plans to marry Orla. Don’t look so surprised. I’m sure I mentioned that Jules had met up with her when he moved to London a few months ago to work at the English branch of ARC. Recently he has hinted that he has stronger feelings for her than simply friendship. Perhaps it is significant that Orla accepted an invitation to my birthday party and she is coming here with Jules,’ Giuseppe mused. ‘I would be delighted if my step-children from my last two marriages were themselves to marry. But what would please me most, Torre, is if you would choose a wife and provide an heir.’
Torre stifled his impatience and headed towards the door, keen to avoid a discussion with his father about the fact that at nearly thirty-four he was still unmarried. His single status was something he intended to continue for many more years. But he understood that a recent health scare had focused Giuseppe’s attention on the future of the family’s construction company Afonso Romano Construzione—known as ARC. Torre knew that his father was desperate for him to have an heir to secure the leadership of the company, and he supposed that one day he would have to do his duty and marry a woman who shared similar interests and values to him in order to have a family of his own. But, unlike his father, he had no intention of being led by his heart or his hormones.
Torre loved his father and respected his business acumen, which had helped to make ARC the biggest construction company in Italy, responsible for many of the country’s civil and infrastructure works. But outside the boardroom Giuseppe’s personal life had been less impressive. He had regularly been unfaithful to his second wife, Sandrine—Jules’s mother—and his inability to resist the countless young women who were attracted to his wealth in the way that predatory sharks were attracted to blood had made Giuseppe an object of ridicule in the press.
Eight years ago the paparazzi’s interest in Giuseppe’s private life had become frenzied when he had fallen for an English former glamour model and Z-List celebrity Kimberly Connaught. Within months of meeting her, Giuseppe had divorced Sandrine and married Kimberly. Not even Torre had been invited to his father’s secret wedding, and the first time he’d met his new stepmother had been at the party Giuseppe had thrown to celebrate the marriage.
It had been obvious to Torre that his father’s new wife was a gold-digger and he’d failed to understand how Giuseppe had been such a fool. But at the party that night he had met a red-haired witch in the guise of an angel and his arrogant belief that he was a better man than his father had come crashing down around him.
‘I’m surprised that you are pleased about the possibility of a match between Jules and Orla,’ he told Giuseppe. ‘When I was in England a month ago there was speculation in many of the newspapers that she had been awarded a huge divorce settlement from her ex-husband. Apparently her marriage to a well-known sports star lasted for less than a year before she dumped him. It would seem that Orla has inherited her mother’s gold-digger tendencies for marrying and divorcing rich men,’ Torre said sardonically. ‘If she has set her sights on Jules then God help him.’
‘I don’t believe much of what is printed in newspapers, and I certainly do not believe that Orla is interested in Jules’s money.’ Giuseppe looked closely at Torre when he gave a snort. ‘I have noticed before when I’ve spoken about Orla that you seem to have a low opinion of her, and yet you say that you hardly remember her. Did something happen between the two of you years ago? I recall that Orla rushed back to England the day after the wedding party, ostensibly because she was due to start at university.’
‘Of course nothing happened.’ Torre gave a laugh that sounded too loud to his ears. He avoided his father’s speculative gaze and shoved the image of Orla’s slender beauty to a far corner of his mind. It was a constant irritation that he had been unable to completely eradicate his memories of her. Other women regularly came and went in his life without making an impact on him and he did not understand the restless feeling that had gripped him since he’d learned that Orla was coming to Amalfi.
‘I’m merely concerned that Jules doesn’t make a fool of himself over her. You know what a dreamer he is,’ he said, striving for a casual tone. But as he strode out of the study he had the uncomfortable sense that Giuseppe’s shrewd grey eyes had seen more than Torre wanted him to.
Damn it, he thought savagely. Damn her—the red-haired sorceress who had cast a spell on him that night eight years ago. Thank God he had come to his senses the next morning. Right now he had enough to deal with since his father had decided to retire and hand over the role of Joint Chairman and CEO of the company to him. Torre had always known that it was his destiny and he was determined to run ARC as successfully as his father and grandfather, Afonso, had done. But he had a passion for engineering, and after he had qualified as a civil engineer he had carved out a niche role for himself as an expert advisor and troubleshooter, visiting ARC construction projects around the world.
He enjoyed his job and the freedom it gave him, and he did not relish the restraints that would inevitably come with leadership. He acknowledged that he had a few nerves, too, at the prospect of filling his father’s shoes. The last thing he needed was to meet Orla again and be reminded of the shameful lapse of judgement he had made eight years ago.
If his stepbrother had fallen for Orla’s charms then good luck to him, Torre told himself. But his inexplicable black mood lingered and he felt a sudden need to get out of the house. Muttering a curse, he grabbed his car keys from the table in the hall and strode outside to where the current love of his life was parked on the driveway.
* * *
Unusually for midsummer there was little traffic on the Amalfi Drive. The road on the iconic stretch of Italian coastline hugged the steep cliffs between Sorrento and Salerno and was famous for its hairpin bends. Orla was glad Jules had said he would drive so that she could enjoy the spectacular view of the turquoise Tyrrhenian Sea far below.
But the tranquillity was suddenly shattered by the loud roar of a car coming up behind them. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a red sports car gaining fast on the hire car they had collected at Naples airport. The engine screamed as the sports car overtook them on a steep bend. Orla held her breath, fearing it would crash through the railings at the side of the road and tumble over the edge of the cliff. In seconds the sports car had streaked past and was a flash of brash scarlet in the distance.
‘There goes my stepbrother in his new toy,’ Jules murmured. ‘The latest model is reputed to be the quickest and most expensive car on the planet. Torre’s twin passions in life are fast cars and women.’
Torre. Foreboding set like wet concrete in the pit of Orla’s stomach. She had caught a glimpse of the driver of the open-topped sports car but there hadn’t been enough time for her to recognise him. For a moment her nerve faltered and she was tempted to ask Jules to turn the car around and take her back to the airport. Take her anywhere as long as it was far away from Villa Romano and the man who had invaded her dreams for eight long years.
She firmed her jaw. Enough was enough, she told herself. She’d allowed a stupid mistake when she had spent one night with Torre to haunt her for too long. Everyone had regrets—and he was hers. But she was twenty-six, not the naïve eighteen-year-old who had scrambled back into her clothes and fled from his room with his mocking taunt that she was a gold-digger, like her mother, ringing in her ears.
In the intervening years she had survived an abusive marriage, and she would survive meeting Torre again and be stronger when she discovered—as she was confident she would—that all she had felt for him eight years ago had been an embarrassing teenage crush.
Ten minutes later, when they turned through the gates of Villa Romano the sports car was on the driveway but there was no sign of its owner, Orla noted thankfully. Jules parked the hire car and as Orla opened the passenger door the heat outside felt intense. She grabbed her wide-brimmed straw hat from the back seat, aware that her skin would burn—or, worse, freckle—if she spent any time in the sun. Her milky complexion and pale red hair were a legacy of her Irish heritage on her father’s side—although on those precious visits to Liam Brogan’s home on the wild, wet, west coast of Ireland when she’d been a child, sunburn had not been a problem, she remembered ruefully.
She gathered her long hair in one hand and piled it on top of her head before jamming the hat on. An evocative citrus scent from the lemon groves drifted on the slight breeze and mingled with the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle that grew over the walls of the villa. On her first visit to the Amalfi Coast a month before her nineteenth birthday, Orla had fallen in love with the stunning scenery and intensity of colour—the vivid pink of the bougainvillea, the dark green of the elegant cypress trees and the cerulean blue of the sea surrounding the rocky headland where Villa Romano had stood for two hundred years.
Eight years ago she had come to Amalfi when her mother had become the third wife of Giuseppe Romano, the billionaire head of Italy’s largest construction company. But the marriage—like most of Kimberley’s marriages—had been short-lived and Orla had not been back to Villa Romano since her mother had returned to London and set about spending her divorce settlement.
Initially when she had received an invitation to Giuseppe’s seventieth birthday party, she’d planned to invent an excuse for why she couldn’t attend—knowing that Torre was bound to be there. But she had grown fond of her stepfather while her mother had been married to him. He had made her feel welcome at Villa Romano whenever she’d visited—only after she’d ascertained that Torre would not be at his father’s home—and she had kept in touch with Giuseppe after he and her mother had divorced.
When Jules had suggested that she could travel to Amalfi with him, Orla had decided it was time she faced her nemesis. Meeting Torre again was something she needed to do so that she could put the past behind her and move on with her life.
A member of the villa’s staff came down the steps to greet them and Jules strolled over to speak to the man while Orla looked around at the beautiful formal gardens.
‘There seems to be some confusion over which rooms we have been allocated,’ Jules told her when he returned to her side. ‘Apparently some distant relatives of Giuseppe have arrived unexpectedly and Mario is not sure where to take our bags. I’ll go and talk to the housekeeper and find out what’s happening.’
‘I’ll join you inside in a minute. I want to stretch my legs after the journey.’
‘All right, but keep in the shade. You are not used to the heat of the Italian sun, chérie.’
Orla smiled as she watched Jules walk back to the house. French by birth, he had a gentle Gaelic charm, and he had always been kind to her when she had visited her mother at Villa Romano, even though Kimberly had been the reason that Giuseppe had divorced his mother. Jules had continued to have a good relationship with his stepfather and six months ago he had been appointed chief accountant at the English branch of the Romano family’s construction company. Orla lived in a studio flat not far from ARC UK’s offices after she’d been forced to sell her mother’s luxury apartment to pay off Kimberley’s debts. She had got into the habit of meeting Jules for dinner once or twice a week and he had proved to be a good friend while she had struggled to cope with her mother’s serious health problems.
At the same time Orla had been vilified in the tabloids for supposedly receiving a huge divorce settlement from her wealthy ex-husband. She had not asked for or received a penny from David, but that hadn’t stopped the lurid newspaper headlines speculating on how much money she had ‘earned’ for ten months of marriage.
No, she was not going to think about the past, she ordered herself. She was finally free from David, and in many ways her disastrous marriage had made her stronger. Never again would she allow a man to control her as her ex-husband had done.
She strolled across the drive, inexplicably drawn towards the sports car. For the first time she understood how a car could be described as sexy. The sleek lines and scarlet bodywork demanded attention and the black leather interior was rampantly masculine. The car promised excitement and danger, and no doubt its owner would promise the same. But she did not want excitement, Orla reminded herself as she ran her hand over the sensuous curves of the vehicle.
She had thought that her marriage to David would give her the security she had craved all her life, but she had felt vulnerable and sometimes even afraid for her safety when he had been at the red wine. His mood could change in an instant, and for a long time she had thought she’d done something wrong that had triggered his outbursts of temper.
A flash of pain crossed her face and she instinctively lifted her hand and traced her fingers over the slightly raised three-inch scar that ran from the edge of her eyebrow up to her hairline. She wore her hair parted on one side so that it covered the scar, and make-up disguised its redness. But it would always be there, an ugly reminder of why she dared not trust her own judgement and would never trust a man again.
She had never told anyone about the mental and physical abuse she had been subjected to during her short, unhappy marriage to an English professional cricket player. David Keegan was popular with fans and the media for his affable nature on the cricket pitch and during post-match interviews. Orla was sure no one would believe that David had a drink problem, or that alcohol turned him into an aggressive monster.
The press had accused her of callously breaking David’s heart and ruining his career when she had left him days before he had captained the England cricket team against Australia in the famous Ashes series. England had lost the series and David had lost his captaincy. In an interview he had blamed his heartbreak over his wife’s desertion for his dire performance on the cricket pitch.
It had been easy to blame herself for the problems in their relationship when David had constantly undermined her confidence and made her believe she was as useless as he told her she was. It had taken a physical assault by him to bring her to her senses. She’d stopped pretending that everything was all right in her marriage and acknowledged that David had killed her feelings for him. If she had stayed with him, she’d been scared that the next time he hit her, he might kill her.
Taking back control of her life had been a hard process but Orla had discovered that she possessed a strong will and a gritty determination to survive. Returning to Villa Romano when she knew that Torre would be here was another step away from the girl with a head full of romantic dreams she had once been to the independent woman she was now.
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
The voice from behind Orla was rich and dark like bitter-sweet chocolate laced with a hint of sardonic amusement that made her nerves jangle. She had heard the voice in her dreams countless times, but now it was real and her stomach lurched. She snatched her hand away from the car.
It was said that some men bought high-powered, piston-throbbing cars to compensate for their own inadequacies. The last time she had seen Torre he had been twenty-four or -five, but now he was in his early thirties, and he was probably losing his hair and gaining a paunch, she told herself.
Heartened by the thought, she spun round to face him and her heart slammed into her ribs as her eyes collided with his glittering grey gaze. She had an odd feeling that he had been staring at her rather than the car.
Eight years ago Torre had been impossibly handsome. With his perfectly symmetrical features and impeccably groomed image he could have been a male model in a glossy magazine. Now he was even more devastating than Orla’s memories of him and his raw masculinity and smouldering sensuality evoked an incandescent heat in her blood.
Too late she realised that she should have heeded her instincts on the journey to Villa Romano and asked Jules to turn the car around. But she was not the awestruck girl who had once believed in fairy-tales and seen Torre as her Prince Charming who would rescue her and keep her safe. She had learned the hard way that the only person who could protect her was herself and she was pleased that her voice sounded cool and crisp when she spoke.
‘Hello, Torre. Jules said it was you who overtook us on the Amalfi road, driving like a lunatic.’
He smiled, revealing a flash of white teeth in his darkly tanned face. Orla felt heat unfurl in the pit of her stomach and with a sense of shock she recognised the coiling sensation low in her pelvis as desire. It had been so long since she had felt the heady sensation of sexual attraction. She’d believed that David had destroyed those feelings in the same way he had destroyed her pride and self-respect. It was disconcerting to discover that her libido was alive and fully functioning, and a disaster that it was Torre who had set her pulse hammering.
Memories pushed into her mind of his mouth on hers. The wild sweetness of their first kiss was etched indelibly on her soul. Eight years ago he had taken everything that she had offered him with a naivety that—looking back—made her want to weep. He had taken her innocence and then he’d crushed her as if she were an insect that he had ground beneath his heel.
‘I admit I was driving fast but I know every twist and bend of the Amalfi road like the back of my hand,’ Torre drawled as he strolled towards her. ‘Besides, everyone needs a little danger to add spice to their life.’ His grey eyes gleamed like polished steel. He halted in front of her, so close that Orla was afraid he would notice the erratic thud of the pulse at the base of her throat, and she instinctively lifted her hand and played nervously with the gold chain she wore around her neck.
‘I don’t. I think it’s stupid to take unnecessary risks.’ She raised her chin so that she could look directly at his face and discovered that he was taller than she had remembered. Even though she was wearing three-inch heels, Torre towered over her. She wondered why she felt a need to challenge him when to do so was dangerous. It would be far more sensible to walk away from him. But she couldn’t seem to move. Her feet refused to follow the command sent by her brain and she was so utterly mesmerised by him that she froze when he stretched his hand towards her and took off her sunglasses.
‘Your eyes are the exact colour I remember them. Hazel, with flecks of olive-green,’ he murmured.
She heard the uneven sound of her shallow breaths and was sure he must hear the loud thunder of her heart. For the past month, since she had accepted the invitation to Giuseppe’s birthday party, Orla had prepared herself for the inevitable meeting with Torre. In her mind the scene had played out with her being cool and dismissive, while Torre was contrite and regretful that he had rejected her years ago.
But her body wasn’t following the script. She felt dizzy and light-headed—which could be a reaction to the heat, she hastened to assure herself. More difficult to explain was the heaviness in her breasts and the tingling sensation of her nipples tightening into hard peaks that she prayed were not visible beneath her dress.
‘Do you mind?’ She welcomed her flare of temper as she snatched her sunglasses from his hand and slipped them back on. She felt safer with her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. ‘I’m surprised you remember the colour of my eyes. I remember very little about you from eight years ago.’
To her annoyance he did not appear to be bothered by her sharp retort and his smile widened into a grin that made Orla catch her breath. ‘Then it is fortunate that we have this opportunity to become reacquainted,’ he murmured.
‘Why?’ she asked bluntly. ‘I do remember that you couldn’t wait to see the back of me after we had spent the night together.’
Torre did not seem to hear her, and the dark intensity of his stare caused the coiling sensation inside her to tug harder, sharper so that she wanted to give in to a crazy impulse to step closer to him and press her pelvis up against his.
She licked her dry lips and the darting movement of her tongue seemed to fascinate him. His smile faded and something almost feral sharpened his features. ‘You were lovely when you were eighteen,’ he said in a harsh tone. ‘But now... Dio—’ his voice thickened ‘—you are astonishingly beautiful.’
Orla stared right back at him, unable to move, barely able to breathe. He filled her vision and she was as blinded by him as if she had looked directly at the sun. He looked like a fallen angel or maybe the devil incarnate. Either way, he exuded a simmering sex appeal that made her tremble deep inside.
In the years since she had last seen Torre, his so-perfect-he-could-have-been-airbrushed features had become harder and more rugged. The sculpted angles and planes of his face were softened slightly by the sensual curve of his lips. Orla guessed that the dark stubble on his square jaw would feel abrasive beneath her fingertips, but his almost black hair would, she was sure, feel like silk if she ran her hands through its thickness.
Around them the air was hot and still, thick with a fierce tension that threatened Orla’s composure. She could not look away from Torre, from his mouth that was somehow much too close to hers, although she hadn’t noticed him move.
‘People can change,’ he muttered half under his breath.
‘What do you mean?’ She wondered if she had misheard him or misunderstood what he’d said. Her brain wasn’t functioning properly.
He stepped closer to her and her senses were immediately swamped by the heat that emanated from him. The spicy scent of his aftershave was evocatively familiar and she felt dizzy and strangely disconnected from reality.
‘Orla,’ Torre said in a low, urgent voice that rolled through her like thunder and created a storm inside her. Nothing had prepared her for the lightning bolt of sexual awareness that flared between them. She felt drawn to him as if there was an invisible cord around them that wound tighter and tighter, and her heart pounded as Torre angled his mouth over hers and his warm breath grazed her lips.
CHAPTER TWO (#u97573420-de28-5396-a0d8-175eed5e690a)
‘I THOUGHT YOU were going to meet me inside, Orla.’
The sound of Jules’s voice catapulted Orla back to her senses and with a gasp she jerked away from Torre. So much for her plan to act cool around him, she thought derisively. Within moments of meeting him again she had practically thrown herself at him. Thankfully Jules’s interruption had stopped her from making a fool of herself.
‘I couldn’t find the housekeeper to ask where we will be sleeping so I left our cases in the guest cloakroom for now,’ Jules said. ‘Hello, Torre.’ He shook hands with his stepbrother. ‘It’s good to see you.’
To Orla’s surprise, Jules draped his arm around her shoulders. She knew it was nothing more than a friendly gesture, yet there was something oddly possessive about the way he drew her close against his side. She glanced at Torre and saw that his eyes had narrowed and his mouth had flattened into a thin line. For a few seconds his expression was unguarded, but perhaps she imagined that he looked furious because he smiled at Jules.
‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Torre said evenly. ‘Cousin Claudio and his family have arrived on a surprise visit, and as the other guest rooms at Villa Romano are being used, I told Giuseppe that you and Orla can stay at my house in Ravello.’
‘No.’ Orla flushed when she realised that she had spoken out loud. ‘What I meant is thank you for your offer, but there won’t be room for both of us to stay at your little cottage. I’ll go to a local hotel.’
The idea of returning to the place where she had lost her virginity to Torre was unbearable. She did not want to be reminded of how he had undressed her in the moonlight before laying her down on his bed. The night she had spent in his arms had felt like a beautiful dream but the next morning it had turned into a nightmare.
In her mind she heard the icy condemnation in his voice as he had demanded to know why she hadn’t told him that she was the daughter of his father’s whore. ‘Were you hoping to persuade me to marry you, in the same way that Kimberly connived to get my father to take leave of his good sense and marry her? I can see the attraction of mother and daughter both getting their greedy hands on the Romano fortune.’ His cold contempt had sliced through Orla’s heart.
He had looked cynical when she’d frantically denied that she had deliberately kept her identity a secret from him. Her stumbling explanation that she had her father’s surname, Brogan, but Kimberly used the name of another of her ex-husbands had made Torre even more furious. He had ripped away the sheet that she had wrapped around her, and his eyes had blazed with fury as he’d stared at her naked body and the tell-tale red marks on her breasts and thighs caused by the rough stubble of his beard.
‘You sacrificed your innocence in vain, cara,’ he had told her. ‘My father has made himself a laughing stock by marrying an obvious gold-digger, but I have no intention of making the same mistake.’
Orla was jolted from her painful memories when Torre spoke again. ‘I demolished the old cottage a few years ago and built a much larger house in its place. There is plenty of room at Casa Elisabetta. I doubt you’ll find that any of the hotels on the Amalfi Coast have vacant rooms at the height of the summer season.’
‘That’s true,’ Jules said. ‘It’s always busy here at this time of year.’ He smiled at Orla. ‘You’ll like Ravello. It’s a pretty little town and the views over the bay are fantastic.’
There was nothing she could do but agree to the new sleeping arrangements with quiet dignity, even though she wanted to stamp her feet like a toddler having a tantrum and refuse to go within a million miles of Torre’s home. Even if she could find a hotel room, she would not be able to afford it, Orla acknowledged dismally. She was at the top of her overdraft limit and had maxed out her credit cards, paying for flights between London and Chicago to visit her mother.
‘Good, that’s settled.’ Torre lifted his wrist to look at his watch and Orla’s eyes were drawn to the black hairs that covered his muscular forearms. He was intensely masculine and so gorgeous that her stomach muscles clenched. She could not help wondering what would have happened if Jules had not interrupted them a few minutes ago. She was sure that Torre had been about to kiss her, and she tried to reassure herself that her common sense would have prevailed, and she would not have let him. Her eyes met his and she felt embarrassed that he had caught her staring at him. He gave her a mocking smile. ‘We should go and find Giuseppe. Lunch is being served on the terrace.’
He walked behind her and Jules as they made their way along the gravel path that curved around the side of the house. Orla felt Torre’s eyes burning into her back and she was suddenly conscious of how her dress clung to her bottom a little too lovingly. She had never noticed until now how the silky material felt sensuous against her thighs when she moved. Warmth curled through her and she was mortified when she felt a molten sensation between her legs.
She pulled away from Jules so that his arm fell from her shoulders. ‘I’m not used to this heat,’ she muttered as an excuse. ‘I’m burning up.’
The path led round to the rear of the villa where a wide terrace was roofed by a wooden pergola covered in vines. The leaves formed a green canopy that provided shade from the fierce heat of the midday sun, and the vines were covered with clusters of green grapes that were starting to turn purple in colour as they began to ripen.
Orla counted twelve people sitting at the long trestle table. Giuseppe stood up to greet her. ‘Benvenuto, Orla. Welcome to Villa Romano. It has been too long since you last visited,’ he said as he kissed her on both cheeks. He turned to Jules. ‘Why have you waited so long to bring Orla back to Amalfi?’
Giuseppe began to introduce Orla to the members of his extended family. She smiled politely as she shook hands with his various relatives, but she was puzzled by his comment. Why had he expected Jules to bring her to Villa Romano before now? Giuseppe knew that she and Jules were friends but she felt an inexplicable sense of disquiet as she recalled the strangely secretive look that had passed between the two men. It was as if a situation was unfolding that she knew nothing about and yet she was in some way involved.
Her new sunglasses were pinching the bridge of her nose and she took them off and slipped them into her handbag before pulling off her straw hat so that her hair tumbled down her back. From behind her she heard a muffled growl and when she turned her head, her glance crashed into Torre’s hard-as-steel gaze. Once again something tugged in the pit of her stomach. She felt dizzy. But this time she could not blame the bright intensity of the sun for the scalding heat that raced like molten lava through her veins.
She tore her eyes from him, but not before she’d seen his sardonic expression as he watched Jules put his hand on her waist to usher her over to two vacant seats at the table.
Forget Torre, Orla commanded herself. But it was impossible when he walked around to the other side of the table and sat down directly opposite her. A waiter offered her a choice of wine to drink with the meal but she opted for water instead. She had picked up an unpleasant vomiting virus a few days before coming to Amalfi and although the sickness had thankfully stopped, her stomach still felt delicate. In fact, she rarely drank alcohol but she ruefully acknowledged that the idea of slipping into a drunken stupor where she would not notice Torre, much less imagine his darkly tanned hands on her body, seemed infinitely preferable to staring at the tablecloth.
Memories from eight years ago crowded her mind. Her mother had acted like a newly crowned queen following her secret wedding to Giuseppe, Orla remembered. At the party the guest list had mainly comprised Giuseppe’s cosmopolitan friends from across Europe. Most people had spoken English, and Orla had overheard their mocking comments speculating that Kimberly had married one of the richest men in Italy for his money. She had felt embarrassed but thankfully no one had taken any notice of her or seemed aware that she was Kimberly Connaught’s daughter.
Kimberly had spent the evening clinging to her new husband and hadn’t bothered to introduce Orla to any of the other guests. Orla had been about to return to her room, knowing that no one would miss her presence at the party, certainly not her mother. But she’d felt an odd, prickling sensation between her shoulder-blades that had compelled her to turn her head and look across the room.
Her eyes had been riveted on the man who had taken her breath away earlier in the day when she had arrived at Villa Romano with some of her mother’s girlfriends from London. As she’d climbed out of the taxi her attention had been drawn to the swimming pool that could be seen from the driveway, and she had watched the gorgeous hunk who had stepped out of the pool and raked his hands through his wet hair. His honed, muscular body had not gone unnoticed by her mother’s friends, but Orla hadn’t admitted to them that she was sexually inexperienced and had not understood most of their lewd comments as they’d speculated on his prowess as a lover.
‘He’s Giuseppe’s son,’ Kimberly had explained when she’d sauntered down the steps of the villa and greeted her friends with a great deal of air-kissing before casting a critical glance at Orla’s jeans and tee shirt. ‘Torre is a sexy beast, but he’s so arrogant the way he looks down his nose at me as if I belong in the gutter. I guess he’s mad because now that I’m married to his father I’ll inherit all Giuseppe’s money when he dies.’
At the party that evening Orla had stared at Torre Romano and supposed that he was her stepbrother. But that thought along with every other had flown from her mind when Torre had trapped her gaze and she’d felt scalding heat inside her as if an electrical current had shot through her body. She’d watched him stride across the room towards her, and the feral expression on his hard-boned face had warned her to turn and run.
It was a pity she had not listened to her instincts that day, Orla thought grimly. She picked at her plate of ricotta ravioli that had been served for a first course but her appetite was still poor after her recent gastric upset—although she suspected that Torre’s brooding presence opposite her was responsible for the knot of tension in her stomach.
Around the table the conversation was mainly in Italian and Orla was heartened that she could follow most of what was said. She had learned Italian at school and had practised speaking it during her visits to Villa Romano while her mother had lived there. Now she hoped that being fluent in the language might help persuade Giuseppe to give her a job.
‘You’re very quiet, Orla.’ Torre’s deep-timbred voice jolted her from her thoughts and she looked up to find him watching her from beneath his heavy-lidded eyes. Now that she’d had time to get over the initial impact of seeing him again she was able to study him more objectively, but unfortunately he was no less devastating. His cream shirt was open at the throat, and the sight of his darkly tanned skin and a few black chest hairs made the knot in her stomach tighten. He looked relaxed—the exact opposite of how she felt—and when he’d laughed at something Giuseppe had said a few moments ago the sound had made Orla think of molten honey.
He was waiting for her to reply. She quickly glanced at Jules for moral support and saw that he was deep in conversation with Giuseppe. ‘I’m tired after the journey,’ she said diffidently.
Torre’s brows rose. ‘It is a two-and-a-half-hour flight from London to Naples. I can’t imagine you found the journey that arduous.’
His sarcasm stung. ‘I didn’t realise that I’m supposed to entertain you,’ she said tightly. ‘What do you want me to talk about?’
The gleam in his eyes told her that she had fallen straight into the trap he had set. Her temper fizzed and she felt a strong urge to fling the contents of the water jug at his smug face. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, she tried to rationalise her response to him.
It was a long time since she had felt angry. She had learned that the only way to deal with David’s explosive temper had been to remain calm and try to mollify him. On the one occasion when she had attempted to stick up for herself he had physically assaulted her. Unconsciously she lifted her hand and ran her fingers over the scar above her eyebrow where a ring that David had been wearing had cut deep into her skin when he’d hit her. The wound had bled heavily and had required her to visit the accident and emergency department at the local hospital so that it could be stitched. Across the table she saw Torre’s eyes follow the movement of her hand and she quickly lowered it to her lap.
‘Why don’t you start by telling me about yourself? Eight years ago I recall that we did not spend very much time talking,’ he drawled.
Orla silently cursed her fair skin when she felt heat spread across her cheeks. Images flashed into her mind, of Torre sprawled on a bed, his body a symphony of sleek golden skin and honed muscles. When he had pulled her down on top of him, she’d marvelled at how hard his body had felt against her soft, feminine curves. She had never seen a naked man before and the sight of his arousal had made her apprehensive at first, but then he had kissed her and her doubts had been swept away by the onslaught of his fierce passion.
She swallowed hard, determined not to respond to his taunts. ‘What do you want to know?’
He shrugged his wide shoulders but Orla wasn’t fooled by his casual air. His eyes were focused intently on her in the way that a panther might watch its prey before springing to make a kill. ‘What do you do for a living?’
Her heart sank as she wondered if Torre had read the stories that had appeared in some sections of the English press after she’d ended her marriage. She’d had to wait until she had lived apart from David for two years before the divorce proceedings had gone ahead. A month ago the decree absolute had been granted, but her relief that she was finally free from her abusive husband had turned to shocked dismay when the tabloids had labelled her a greedy gold-digger who had demanded and won a huge financial settlement. Public support had been very much for David, while comparisons had been drawn between Orla and her four-times-married mother, who had made a career out of marrying and divorcing rich men.
She stared at Torre and wished she could confound him by telling him that she had a successful career. It had been Giuseppe who had first inspired her interest in engineering, and eight years ago when she had started university she had switched from a maths degree to study civil engineering. She had found that designing and being involved in the construction process of roads, bridges and other vital infrastructure might not be a glamorous job but it allowed her to be creative and innovative with an opportunity to make real changes to people’s lives. A trip to Africa organised by her university to take part in the construction of a fresh water supply and sanitation facilities in a rural area of Sierra Leone had reinforced her decision to become an engineer.
But her greatest regret was that she had not finished her degree. She had met David Keegan halfway through her final year of studying, and part of the course had involved her being sent on placements to civil engineering projects to gain practical experience. David had disliked her working in a predominantly male environment. In hindsight she could see that he had revealed signs of his obsessive and jealous nature before their wedding in Las Vegas three months after they had met in a bar where she had worked as a waitress to supplement her student grant.
She’d been flattered by the attention from a good-looking sports star and her romance with David had been a whirlwind affair. After they had married he had persuaded her to drop out of university so that she could travel with him when he played international matches with the England cricket team.
Orla smiled at the waiter who had replaced her uneaten starter with a plate of seafood risotto. Unfortunately her appetite hadn’t improved and her thoughts were still on the past.
It had always been her intention to go back to university to finish her studies and qualify as a civil engineer but by the end of her marriage her self-confidence had been in tatters. She’d left with nothing but a few of her clothes, none of which had been bought with David’s money. Earning an income had been vital, but her only work experience was bar work or as an office assistant during her gap year after she’d left school.
The additional worry about her mother’s medical bills had prompted her to take an intensive secretarial course, after which she had been offered a job as a secretary with a construction company, Mayall’s. Her knowledge of civil engineering had proved useful and she had quickly been promoted to the role of PA to the company’s director. However, she had been fired from her job when she’d had to take an extended period of time off to rush to her mother’s hospital bedside in America. Since then she had been turned down for every job she’d applied for, and now her financial situation was at crisis point and her self-confidence had taken another battering.
Eight years ago Torre’s rejection had made her feel worthless. He was still waiting now for her to reply to his question. ‘I assume you do work,’ he drawled, ‘unless your living costs are funded by someone else.’
Orla looked across the table at him. He was so handsome that he made her heart clench, so arrogantly self-assured that her brief spurt of determination to stick up for herself withered and died. ‘I don’t have a job currently,’ she said flatly.
His eyes gleamed like cold steel. ‘And yet Giuseppe mentioned that you live in a highly sought-after area of London. How can you afford to live at an address in Chelsea when you do not work?’
‘It’s none of your business,’ she said coolly. She had not told Giuseppe that she’d sold the luxurious apartment he had given her mother as part of the divorce settlement so that she could pay off some of Kimberly’s debts.
Deep down, Orla was shaking at her temerity in answering Torre back, and she tensed, waiting for him to lose his temper as David had invariably done if she had ever disagreed with him. But he said nothing, and she could almost believe that she had seen a flicker of reluctant respect in his eyes.
The discovery that her mother had taken out a mortgage on the Chelsea apartment had been another blow. She had hoped to use the money from the sale to cover Kimberley’s medical expenses at a hospital in Chicago where she had been receiving treatment ever since she had suffered a stroke that had almost killed her. But there was no point explaining the situation to Torre. He had made it clear that he despised her mother and Orla knew he would not feel any sympathy.
Jules finished his conversation with Giuseppe and turned his head towards her. ‘You haven’t eaten much. Are you feeling unwell again? That was a nasty virus you contracted last week.’
Jules was such a good friend. Orla gave him a grateful smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Against her will, her eyes darted to Torre and his sardonic expression infuriated her. But Jules seemed oblivious to the simmering tension. He glanced across the table at Torre. ‘You and Orla must have a lot to catch up on after eight years.’
‘I was interested to know what job Orla does but she has informed me that she doesn’t work,’ Torre said drily.
‘I hope she explained that what happened with her previous employer was not her fault.’ Jules quickly sprang to her defence. He turned to Giuseppe. ‘Orla is a very good secretary and she is ideally suitable for the position of PA to the audit manager of ARC UK, but her application was rejected by the managing director, Richard Fraser. I am certain that Orla would be an asset to the company if you would give her a chance to prove her worth.’
Orla felt uncomfortable when Giuseppe gave her a shrewd look. ‘It is not a chairman’s role to interfere with decisions made by senior executives, except in rare circumstances,’ he murmured. ‘I like Richard Fraser and respect his judgement. That said, I would like to help you, Orla. You are my stepdaughter and I am delighted that you wish to work for the company. But I am no longer in charge of ARC. I intend to make a formal announcement and give a press statement at the company’s centenary party that I am stepping down from my role as joint Chairman and CEO in favour of my son. I began the legal process of handing the company over to Torre a few weeks ago while I was in hospital, suffering from pneumonia. My illness forced me to accept that I am getting older, and it is time for a younger man with more energy and new ideas to lead ARC into the future.’
Around the table everyone turned their heads to look at Giuseppe when he rose to his feet and picked up his wine glass. ‘I would like to propose a toast to Torre. I am certain that under his leadership ARC will continue to flourish and expand.’
There was a scrape of chairs on the stone terrace as everyone stood up and raised their glasses. Orla murmured her congratulations, but her heart had plummeted when Giuseppe had made his announcement. She had let herself believe that she would be able to persuade her stepfather to give her a job at ARC UK. But Giuseppe, who had only ever been kind to her, had handed the company over to his son and heir—and Torre was as friendly towards her as a rattlesnake.
When everyone had resumed their seats, Jules leaned across the table and spoke to Torre. ‘I’d appreciate it if you would intervene on Orla’s behalf and tell Richard Fraser to offer her the job she applied for. If you read her CV you will see that she has the right qualifications.’
‘I cannot promise anything. Recruitment is dealt with by HR,’ Torre said smoothly. ‘But I suppose I can spare five minutes to look at Orla’s CV.’
She wanted to tell him not to bother. It would save them both time because she was damned sure that Torre would not give her a job. She didn’t even want to be a PA. She did not enjoy office work but it was the only thing she was qualified to do. Even if she found the confidence to go back to university for the final year of her degree in civil engineering, she could not afford the fees or the lack of income while she studied. She had to have a job so that she could pay her mother’s medical expenses, and she couldn’t risk throwing away the tiny chance that Torre might employ her.
‘I assume you have your CV with you?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She fished in her handbag and took out the document. Torre reached across the table to take it from her and their hands brushed. It had only been a fleeting touch of his skin against hers, but Orla caught her breath.
His mouth curled in a cynical smile that made her feel suddenly furious. What right did he have to look at her as if she had crawled out from beneath a rock? Her only crime had been to sleep with him. She had naively mistaken lust for something deeper, but love was an illusion, she thought bleakly. Eight years ago Torre had only wanted her body, but she had been a foolish eighteen-year-old and for one magical night she had believed in love at first sight. A few years later she had thought she loved David but he had treated her badly.
Once again her eyes were drawn to Torre and she found him watching her with an indefinable expression in his steel-grey gaze that sent confused signals down to the molten core of her, right there between her legs, so that she pressed her trembling thighs together. He knew, damn him, she thought as shame swept in a hot tide across her cheeks. He knew that she was fighting her awareness of him. Something in his smouldering gaze made her think that he was remembering how he had almost kissed her when he had found her alone on the driveway.
‘Meet me in the library in twenty minutes to discuss your CV,’ he said abruptly as he rose to his feet. ‘If you can convince me that you have skills that would be useful to the company I will consider passing your folder over to HR.’
It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement but at least he hadn’t dismissed her outright. ‘Thank you.’ She tensed when Jules placed his hand over hers where it was lying on the tablecloth.
‘I promised you that everything would be all right, didn’t I, chérie?’
Orla was conscious that Torre’s eyes had narrowed and she flushed guiltily even though she had done nothing to feel guilty about. She wanted to snatch her hand back, certain that she hadn’t imagined a possessive note in Jules’s voice which left her feeling confused. It had been a mistake to come to Villa Romano, she thought as she watched Torre stride away. She had a sense of foreboding, a feeling that she was set on a dangerous path and there was no going back.
CHAPTER THREE (#u97573420-de28-5396-a0d8-175eed5e690a)
TORRE WAS AWARE of the moment Orla entered the library even though his back was facing the door and she made no sound. His skin tightened as he discerned the subtle scent of her perfume; a light, floral fragrance with notes of jasmine and something elusive that reminded him of a sultry, summer’s night a long time ago.
Once, when his father had still been married to Kimberly, he’d arrived at Villa Romano from a business trip and learned that he had missed Orla by an hour. She had been in Amalfi to visit her mother but had left to catch a flight back to England. Torre had assured himself that he had no desire to meet Orla again. But when he had walked into the library—where, according to his father, Orla had preferred to spend most of her time, instead of lying on a sunbed by the pool and flicking through gossip magazines, which invariably was how her mother had occupied herself—he had inhaled the faint, lingering scent of her perfume and his body had clenched hard.
Now, years after that incident, he was once again standing in the library and his senses were tantalised by Orla’s perfume. Thank God he hadn’t kissed her earlier, Torre thought grimly. He could not rationalise the crazy impulse he’d felt to bundle her into his car and whisk her away to his house in Ravello.
He had admitted to himself that he had been mildly curious to see her again after so many years. But when he had found her standing next to his car he’d been unprepared for the fierce hunger that had clawed like a wild beast inside him as she’d turned around, a slender figure in a muted green dress made of a silky material that had caressed her small, high breasts and the soft curves of her hips. Her wide-brimmed hat had shaded her face, and her eyes had been hidden behind her sunglasses. The overall effect had been one of understated elegance, and in the sultry heat of an Italian summer’s day she had looked as deliciously cool and refined as gin and tonic with ice, and as fragrant as an English rose.
Torre’s breath had been knocked from his body by the force of his heart slamming against his ribs. In that instant he had forgotten who she was, or rather what she was. But in reality he knew that Orla had had her own agenda when she’d slept with him years ago and he was certain that she had traded her virginity in the expectation that he had been as gullible as his father, who had married her parasite of a mother.
It was fortunate that Jules had walked down the drive. His timely appearance had saved Torre from repeating the mistake he’d made in the past, when passion had overruled his good sense. He frowned as he thought of his stepbrother. He liked Jules, even though their personalities were diametrically opposite. Jules was far kinder than Torre would ever be and had inherited his unassuming nature from his mother.
Sandrine had become Torre’s stepmother when he was ten, and she had to a large degree filled the gaping void inside him left by his mother’s death when he was six years old. He had been unable to comprehend why his father had replaced gentle and gracious Sandrine with the avaricious trollop that was Kimberly Connaught. So, when Orla had revealed after he had spent the night with her that she was Kimberly’s daughter, he had angrily accused her of duping him. He had been even more furious with himself because he’d fallen into the same honey trap as his father and allowed himself to be seduced by feminine wiles. Worst of all, Torre had felt a sense of guilt that he had in some way betrayed his stepmother’s kindness by sleeping in the enemy’s camp.
‘Torre.’
He jerked his mind back to the present. Orla had obviously grown tired of waiting for him to notice her and he heard a faint click as she closed the library door. Her voice was clear and soft like a mountain stream and Torre felt as though a velvet-gloved hand had wrapped around his body. All through that damned lunch he had been unable to take his eyes off her and his stomach had rebelled at the idea of food when he’d wanted to assuage a different kind of hunger.
But he was not a callow youth riding high on a surfeit of hormones, he reminded himself. He did not allow anyone to threaten his self-control, especially not a woman who, according to press reports, was as mercenary as her mother. Torre breathed deeply before he swung round from the window to face Orla and scowled. Her cool composure infuriated him and made him want to disturb her the way she disturbed him.
How did she manage to look so goddamned innocent when he had definitive proof that she was not? he thought bitterly. He was halfway across the room before he could help himself, and it occurred to him that it was unwise to get close to her when he felt crazily out of control. But now it was too late and he halted in front of her, close enough that he saw a flicker of wariness, and something else—a startled awareness—in her eyes before her long lashes swept down and hid her expression.
He remembered how in the throes of passion the green flecks in her hazel eyes had darkened to olive. Her long, straight hair streamed down her back like a curtain of silk. Torre knew he should not feel inordinately pleased that she hadn’t gone platinum blonde and her hair was its natural shade of rose-gold—the same colour as the sprinkling of tiny freckles on nose and cheeks that were noticeable against her porcelain skin. Quite simply he had never seen anything so lovely. She was a work of art, as fragile as a rare orchid and as exquisite as a precious jewel.
Thick, black anger clogged his throat as he acknowledged that he had never wanted any other woman as much as he wanted Orla. He hated himself for his inherent weakness that caused his blood to thunder through his veins and made him so hard it hurt.
‘Why are you here?’ he said harshly.
She looked genuinely puzzled. ‘You told me to meet you in the library to discuss my CV.’
‘I meant why have you come to Villa Romano?’
‘You know why. Giuseppe invited me to his birthday celebrations.’
‘He invited you to his last three birthdays. What made you accept an invitation to this one?’
‘Seventy is a landmark birthday.’ She shrugged. ‘When Jules suggested that we could travel to Amalfi together it seemed like a good idea.’
‘I bet it did.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean? Why did you say it in that sarcastic way? I don’t understand.’ Frustration edged into her voice and her eyes flashed with angry fire. Good, Torre thought. He wanted to ruffle her. Eight years ago she had been refreshingly unsophisticated—in fact, she’d been several years younger than he’d assumed, and he had been shocked when he’d learned that she had been eighteen. He had only discovered how inexperienced she’d been when she’d gasped and her body had gone rigid beneath him, but by then it had been too late for him to refuse the unasked-for gift of her virginity.
She must be twenty-six or -seven now, and he was surprised that appearance-wise she had not developed the sharp features and calculating expression of her mother. But she had lost her joyful spontaneity that had made her eyes sparkle, he thought with an irrational sense of loss. The grown-up Orla was reserved and aloof, a beautiful ice maiden with an untouchable air that could easily drive a man to distraction.
Torre strode back across the room and indicated to Orla to sit down on the chair in front of the desk. The obvious thing for him to do was to walk round and sit in the big leather chair facing her, but instead he leaned his hip against the desk and loomed over her so that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. ‘I’ve read you CV,’ he said, picking up the document lying on the desk. ‘You seem to have the relevant secretarial qualifications but I cannot see any evidence that you have experience of working in an accounts department.’
‘That’s because I haven’t worked in an accounts office before.’
‘Then why did you apply to be a PA to the audit manager at ARC UK?’
‘Secretarial duties are pretty much the same in any department,’ she said stiffly. ‘Jules told me about the vacancy in the accounts office where he works and suggested I apply for the job.’
It did not surprise Torre to hear that his stepbrother had tried to facilitate Orla being employed in the same department as him at ARC UK so that he could see her every day. ‘You assumed that Jules would be able to influence the MD at the London office and persuade him to offer you the job.’ Torre’s tone was deceptively mild and he was fascinated by the rosy colour that ran up under her skin.
‘I didn’t assume anything,’ she threw at him. But she quickly controlled her anger and the gleam of temper in her eyes dulled. Torre felt an urge to shake her, or kiss her; anything to shatter her serene expression, which irritated the hell out of him.
‘Two things puzzle me. Firstly, I’m wondering why you are looking for a job when it was widely reported in the English press that you received a substantial divorce settlement from your ex-husband.’
She flinched and once again hectic colour ran along her delicate cheekbones. But she did not rise to his baiting and said flatly, ‘A few totally untrue stories about my marriage break-up were printed in the tabloids. It’s your problem if you choose to believe the lies written about me.’
‘If the reports were untrue, why didn’t you seek a retraction or sue the publications for libel?’
Her bitter laugh tugged on something raw inside Torre. ‘I didn’t receive any money from David. I didn’t want anything from him. But ironically it meant that I couldn’t afford the legal costs of taking action against the newspapers.’
He must be a gullible fool because he found himself wanting to believe her. ‘So you applied for a job at ARC UK,’ he said curtly. ‘But the managing director turned you down. Does Jules know that you were sacked from your previous job at a company called Mayall’s because of the amount of time you took off as sick leave? I phoned Richard Fraser to ask him why he rejected your application,’ he said when she looked startled. ‘He told me that he had spoken to the manager at Mayall’s and discovered that you had been fired because of your appalling absence record.’
Orla stared resolutely down at her lap, and he felt a strong urge to capture her chin between his fingers and force her to look at him. ‘I was going through a difficult time and I was unable to work because of...’ her voice faltered—a clever piece of theatre, Torre thought cynically ‘...personal reasons that I’d rather not go into.’
‘I’m sure Jules was very sympathetic when you told him your sob story. It must be useful for you to have a faithful lap dog constantly at your beck and call.’
She jerked her gaze up to his face, temper making those green flecks in her hazel eyes gleam. Torre felt a surge of satisfaction that he had finally jolted Orla back to life and got a reaction from her. A voice inside him mocked that his behaviour was like that of a small child seeking attention. He wanted Orla to notice him.
‘That’s not a nice way to speak about Jules,’ she said huskily. ‘He and I are friends...’
‘He’s in love with you. Any fool can see that.’ Torre rested his eyes on her flushed face. ‘And you might be a lot of things, Orla, but you are not a fool.’
‘Jules is not in love with me. You are so wrong.’ She leapt to her feet, her breasts rising and falling jerkily. Now that she was standing, she was closer to Torre and trapped by the chair behind her knees. He watched the pulse hammering at the base of her throat and wanted to press his mouth to it, lick his way along her collarbone and taste her silken skin.
‘Jules and I are friends. He’s sweet and kind, but I don’t suppose you can understand that it is perfectly possible for a man and woman to have a platonic relationship. You’re so...macho.’ She made it sound like an insult, like she was too refined to bear the idea of hard, raw masculinity. ‘Not everything is about sex.’
‘My stepbrother is a man, like any other man,’ Torre said flatly. ‘He wants to have sex with you and it’s not hard to see why.’
He roamed his eyes over her, noting how her silk dress moulded the small, perfect mounds of her breasts with their jutting nipples. He could hear the harsh sound of his own breaths and the quickening of hers, and he saw the expression in her eyes change from anger to awareness that darkened those green flecks in her gaze to olive.
‘At lunch I watched Jules panting over you like a dog when it catches the scent of a bitch on heat. He’s besotted with you, and you give him just enough encouragement to keep him sniffing around you like a devoted puppy.’
The colour fled from her face, leaving her skin so pale it was almost translucent, and the fine blue lines of her veins were visible beneath the surface. ‘You’re disgusting.’ Her voice shook slightly. ‘What the hell gives you the right to talk to me like that?’
‘I like and respect my stepbrother and I’m not going to sit back and watch him make a fool of himself over you when it’s obvious what your game is.’
‘And what is my game?’ she snapped.
‘The same game that you tried with me eight years ago. But even though you played your trump card and lost your virginity to me—presumably in the hope that I would marry you—I recognised that you had the same mercenary tendencies as your mother when I found you trying to steal some jewellery that had belonged to my mother.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/chantelle-shaw/hired-for-romano-s-pleasure/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.