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* * *
When Lara woke the next morning she was back in her own bed. She really hated it that Ciro did that. What was he afraid of? she grumbled to herself. Was he afraid he’d wake up and she’d have spun a web around his body, turning him into a prisoner?
The image gave her more than a little dart of satisfaction. The thought of Ciro being totally at her mercy...
She didn’t hear any sounds coming from his bedroom and checked the time, realising that Ciro would have gone to the office already.
After showering and dressing she went downstairs to find Dominique in the kitchen. The woman turned around and smiled widely, and it was only at that moment that Lara had a mortifying flashback and saw her shirt and bra neatly folded on a chair near the door.
She grabbed them, her face burning, gabbling an apology, but the older woman put up a hand.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s your home. I might have been married for twenty years, but I do remember what that first heady year was like.’
Lara smiled weakly, welcoming the change in subject when Dominique said, ‘The lasagne—did you cook it? It smells delicious. I’ve put it in the fridge but I can freeze it if you like.’
Lara had been taught a comprehensive and very effective lesson last night in not expecting to see Ciro sitting down to a home-cooked meal any time soon, so she said, ‘Actually, do you want to take it home with you this evening for you and your family? I thought we’d have a chance to eat it but we won’t.’
Dominique reached for something and handed a folded card to Lara. ‘That reminds me—Ciro left this for you. And, yes, I’d love to take the lasagne home if you’re sure that’s all right? It’ll save me cooking!’
Lara smiled and retreated from the kitchen. ‘Of course. I hope you enjoy it.’
She looked at the card once she was out of sight. The handwriting was strong and slashing.
Be ready to leave for a function at five this evening. Dress for black tie.
No, she could be under no illusions now as to where her role lay.
On her back and at Ciro’s side as his trophy wife.
* * *
Ciro’s driver came for Lara at five. She checked her appearance in the mirror of the hall one last time. The long sleeveless black dress had a lace bodice and a high collar. She’d pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and kept jewellery and make-up to a minimum.
The car made its way through the London traffic to one of the city?
?s most iconic museums. She saw Ciro before he saw her in the car. He was standing by the kerb, where cars were disgorging people in glittering finery.
For a moment Lara just drank him in, in his classic tuxedo. He must have changed at the office. He was utterly mesmerising. She could see other women doing double-takes.
Then he saw the car and she saw tension come into his form. She felt a pang. They might combust in bed, but he still resented her presence out of it. Even if he did need her.
The car drew to a stop and Lara gathered herself as Ciro opened the door and helped her out. Even her hand in his was enough to cause a seismic reaction in her body. But she felt shy after what had happened last night.
Ciro said, ‘You look beautiful.’
She glanced at him, embarrassed. ‘Thank you. You look very smart.’
A small smile tipped up his mouth. ‘Smart? I don’t think I’ve been called that before.’
Lara felt hot. No... Ciro’s lovers would have twined themselves around him and whispered into his ear that he was magnificent. Gorgeous. Sexy.
She felt gauche, but he was taking her elbow in his hand and leading her towards the throng of people entering the huge museum near Kensington Gardens, one of London’s most exclusive addresses.
It was only when they were seated that Lara realised it was a banquet dinner to honour three charities. One of which had Ciro Sant’Angelo’s name on it.
She read the blurb on the brochure.
The Face Forward Charity. Founded by Ciro Sant’Angelo after a kidnapping ordeal left him facially disfigured.
