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‘So, you are Lazzaro’s new personal assistant—congratulations! No doubt we will be seeing quite a bit of each other.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Caitlyn dutifully answered.
‘May I say you look stunning? Every head turned when you walked in.’
In Lazzaro’s direction, Caitlyn wanted to point out. But instead she murmured her thanks.
‘This is my wife, Bonita…’ Alberto said cheerfully, sliding an arm around his wife’s tiny waist as she came over. ‘Looking stunning too—though so you should, darling,’ he teased good-naturedly, ‘with the amount of time you spent at the parlour today! Bonita, this is Caitlyn—Lazzaro’s new personal assistant!’ And from the tiny nervous dart in Bonita’s eye, from her polite response and the kiss on Caitlyn’s cheek, if any confirmation had been needed that Alberto knew nothing of his wife’s whereabouts that afternoon, then she had it.
As Alberto excused himself and wandered off to mingle with his guests, all pretence at politeness was dropped. Bonita reverted to Italian, taking Lazzaro by the arm and guiding him away, leaving Caitlyn awkward and alone and trying not to show it. She sipped on her drink and made occasional small talk, standing on heels that hurt with a smile that ached—and a heart that was literally breaking.
In a room of beautiful people, somehow Lazzaro topped them all.
He stood just that bit taller, that bit straighter than the rest—with beautiful women floating around him like humming birds, like butterflies…like angry bees, Caitlyn thought sometimes, watching through narrowed eyes as he danced with many—or merely stood as they fought for the beam of his smile, for a second dance with the master, for the chance of a night with him. Alberto Mancini joined him, chatting and laughing and utterly, utterly oblivious—and it made Caitlyn feel sick.
‘He’s an attractive man…’ Bonita was beside her as the painful night was thankfully drawing to a close, sipping on champagne and watching the proceedings. ‘Your boss.’
‘So is your husband,’ Caitlyn answered tightly, her back straightening as if it had a rod in it, her hand so tight on her glass she half expected the stem to snap.
‘He is…’
The affection in Bonita’s voice confused Caitlyn.
‘A lot of people, my family included, think it can only be about money…why would I look at him otherwise? They do not know how he makes me feel.’
‘How does he make you feel?’
‘Safe,’ Bonita answered. ‘When I am with Alberto, my world is safe.’
Then what the hell are you doing? Caitlyn wanted to scream at her. Only she didn’t—just stiffened more, if that were possible, as Lazzaro caught her eye. Her whole body was torn between want and loathing as he excused himself from the masses and made his way over.
‘We were just talking about you, Lazzaro.’ Bonita smiled.
‘All good, I hope?’ he drawled, but his face was grim. ‘I think Alberto has had enough.’
‘I agree.’ Bonita gave a tight smile. ‘Will you…?’
‘I have told him.’ Lazzaro nodded. ‘He is just saying his farewells—I will help him to his room.’ His eyes were thoughtful as he looked over at Caitlyn. ‘I’m sorry if I have left you to your own devices…’
‘I’m not your date, Lazzaro,’ Caitlyn answered tightly. ‘This is work.’
‘Then, when I return, it’s time I asked my assistant to dance.’
A heart that should be utterly unmoved by him somehow leapt when finally they danced.
Even as he held her, even as they danced, it was at arm’s length—the boss and his assistant—the duty dance. But even if his hands barely touched her dress, even if her body wasn’t against his, the energy was undeniable—the space between them thick with loathing and bitter attraction. Her hair occasionally tickled his cheek, her scent filled his nostrils, and the awkwardness between them was arousing somehow. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, to pull her soft, warm body to his hard one, but instead he spoke.
‘Thank you…’ His voice was low in her ear. ‘For not saying anything to Alberto about this afternoon.’
