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‘How long does the journey take, Marco?’ she asked him, once her suitcase had been installed in the capacious boot and they were speeding towards the airport.
‘Should be there in just under the hour, signorina—the roads are quite clear,’ replied the Italian, his equable tone temporarily setting Angie’s mind at rest. It didn’t sound as if he was judging her, she thought cautiously.
Angie had never travelled first class before—in fact, her whole flying experience had been a couple of package holidays to Spain. But in the event, it was wasted on her. She poked uninterestedly at the delicious slices of rare roast beef which the stewardess carved for her; she even failed to be tempted by the chocolate mousse. Her stomach was too tied up in knots to face eating—though she did drink a glass of champagne which, for a while at least, gave her a little courage at the thought of facing Riccardo again.
But her nerve nearly failed her when she walked through and saw him standing at the far end of the arrivals hall, waiting for her. A Riccardo who wasn’t wearing his habitual, perfectly tailored suit. A much more casual and relaxed Riccardo and one she wasn’t quite sure she recognised.
As she approached her eyes couldn’t help drinking him in—even though she kept trying to tell herself that he was a cruel man to have insisted on her presence here as his mistress. After years of loyal service couldn’t he have just let her go with some dignity—and let her quietly fade into the background?
But his dazzling appearance eclipsed the troubled nature of her thoughts. He was wearing jeans—black jeans which clung to every lean sinew, emphasising the powerful thrust of his thighs and reminding her of things she would much rather forget. A dark sweater and soft leather jacket completed the buccaneer image—his black hair was ruffled and the olive skin glowed with life and health. But despite the outwardly relaxed appearance, nothing could disguise the hungry gleam which sparked his black eyes as she grew closer.
His gaze raked over her with predatory insolence and just for a moment Angie allowed herself to marvel at the fact that he really did seem to desire her very much indeed. He, Riccardo Castellari—billionaire tycoon—desired her—his plain little secretary. Hadn’t he told her that himself—even if he had tempered the words by shaking his dark hair in disbelief, as if such a thing was incredible.
But it was incredible, wasn’t it? Here she was, ordinary Angie Patterson—walking across the shiny floor of the arrivals lounge towards the man who was dominating the attention of just about every other person in the place. Shouldn’t she just try to enjoy it?
Lie back and enjoy it? mocked the voice of her conscience.
I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself fiercely. I’m a single woman and he’s a single man and we’re hurting no one. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and walked up to him in her new highheeled boots.
‘Hello, Angie,’ he murmured, and gave her a slow, lazy smile.
Angie’s heart leapt—until she told herself to read nothing special into the fact that his black eyes had momentarily softened. Of course they had. What man’s wouldn’t have felt a moment of fleeting affection for a woman when she’d had her legs wrapped round his back on the floor of his office yesterday? And that was the sole reason she was here today—so he could repeat the erotic exercise as often as possible. But that didn’t mean Riccardo had suddenly acquired a deeper, more significant way of looking at her. That was all in her head.
‘Hello, Riccardo,’ she said, her voice coolly polite.
He observed her demeanour with a mocking smile. ‘So you have brought a little of the English frost with you, is that it?’
‘What did you expect—that I’d be leaping for joy having been blackmailed out here?’
‘Don’t be melodramatic, piccola—you could have easily stayed at home.’
‘And turn down the chance of a pay-off and early exit from your life?’ she challenged hotly.
‘Why, Angie,’ he murmured. ‘And here was me thinking that you were here because you couldn’t resist my body.’
Glaring at him, she glanced around. ‘Shh! Somebody might hear!’
He shrugged as he took the suitcase from her unprotesting fingers. ‘We’re speaking English,’ he remonstrated silkily. ‘And we’re in Italy—where men and women tend to be less uptight about such matters.’
‘Oh, how you twist things round to suit yourself!’ she retorted crossly. ‘One minute you’re advocating harsh rules that virgin women should marry older men—and the next minute you’re telling me that Italy is liberal about lovers.’
‘Ah, but that’s the difference between lovers and prospective marriage partners,’ he murmured flippantly.
Reinforcing her lowly status, the careless remark hurt more than it should have done and Angie dropped her passport into her handbag and zipped it up, determined to change the subject. ‘What did your sister say when she knew I was coming?’
‘She’s delighted—if a little distracted—but I guess that’s the prerogative of brides-to-be. Shall we go?’
Angie had half expected to see another chauffeur-driven car—since that was usually Riccardo’s preferred mode of transport—hoping that a third person might dilute some of the undeniable tension between the two of them. But her wish was not to be granted since an airport valet brought round a sleek, scarlet statement of a car which she realised that Riccardo was planning on driving himself. She swallowed. Just her and him. Alone together in a confined space, while her nerve endings were screaming out their heated response to his proximity.
Her pulse skittered as he pulled away from the kerb and the powerful car began heading out towards a line of mountains. Determinedly, she stared out of the window—afraid that he mi
ght read some of the conflict of emotions in her face. Or worse, the naked desire in her eyes.
Yet despite her misgivings, she soon began to relax a little—lulled by the sheer beauty of the green countryside which flashed past and by the smooth progress of the car.
‘It’s amazing,’ she said softly.
‘My driving, you mean?’
