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Yes, in a way—perhaps she had. Which only went to prove how short-sighted she could be. She had always associated arrogance with Riccardo—but hadn’t she been guilty of an arrogance of her own? Thinking that she could handle her emotions both in and out of his arms. But she couldn’t. Women weren’t built like that—or, rather, she wasn’t.
When he was making love to her it was all too easy to imagine that it was for real. That her years of quiet devotion had finally borne fruit and that they were a proper couple. But it wasn’t real, and they weren’t. It was just amazing sex—something he happened to be extremely good at. And if she was being honest—wasn’t it likely that every woman he took to his bed felt the way she did? As if she wanted him to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her and couldn’t bear to live without her.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen—not in a million years. And deep down she knew all this—so when was she actually going to start believing it? Nothing was going to change unless she made it change—so maybe she needed to start being a bit tougher in order to protect herself.
For the first time, she allowed her eyes to drift around the room and to acknowledge how truly beautiful it was. Rich brocade drapes shimmered like precious liquid metal at the windows and similarly rich fabrics were used in the heap of cushions piled onto a sofa. There was a writing desk, too—antique and lovingly polished and very beautiful.
Angie unpacked her case and then headed off for the bathroom—which was as gleamingly modern as the castle itself was old. Rich soaps and shampoos were lined up and she washed away all traces of the journey and Riccardo’s love-making—before emerging pink and scented. Wrapping herself in a giant towelling robe, she walked back into the bedroom to see that a laptop had been placed on the desk in her absence, and she stopped in her tracks.
He certainly hadn’t wasted any time in driving home her real status! Flinging a load of mundane tasks at her even though they’d only just arrived. Angie picked up a brush and began to pull it through her wet hair. Well, the work could wait. She was through with being useful, doormat Angie. Angie who took just whatever Riccardo Castellari cared to chuck at her. Because she was slowly beginning to realise that Riccardo treated her the way he did because she let him!
And she wasn’t going to let him. Not any more.
The thought empowered her and, seeing that there were almost two hours until the formal dinner, Angie spent ages drying her hair, then settled down with a book. It was a very good book and she felt especially pleased that she had been able to push Riccardo out of her mind enough to really get into the story.
In fact, she was two thirds into it when she saw that there was only half an hour to go before dinner. Hastily, she put on some make-up and then opened the wardrobe—wondering if she had the courage to wear the only dress which would be suitable for a grand event in a place like this.
It gleamed provocatively at the back of the wardrobe—the red dress which she had been unable to resist bringing and which she had vowed she would never wear again. But it was strange how seductive a beautiful garment could be. And Angie wasn’t stupid—she recognised that it had a power all of its own. Beside it, her own conservative clothes looked boring and so safe—no matter how much she tarted them up with accessories. How could she not wear it?
Her hands were trembling as she slipped it on, because of course this was much more than a dress—it was imbued with significance. Riccardo had bought it for her. It was what
she had been wearing the night he had taken her to bed. It was what had made him stop looking through her—and realise that she was a woman.
Was it too risqué an outfit in which to meet his mother? she wondered as she slowly circled in front of the mirror. No. The designer was world famous and Italian women were famously stylish. And Riccardo’s mother won’t care what I wear, she thought. To her—I am just someone he employs. She’ll barely notice me.
There was a knock at the door and Angie’s heart raced. Would Riccardo approve? Would he perhaps try to kiss her—to mollify her after his earlier display of anger? Well, this time she wouldn’t let him.
But it was not Riccardo who stood at the door. A young female stood there, looking rather diffident—her plain dark dress marking her out clearly as a servant.
Just like me, thought Angie with a pang—only I expect that this young girl doesn’t get any of the ‘perks’ which Riccardo pointed out earlier. ‘Buona sera,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Como si nama?’
The girl’s English was as hesitant as Angie’s Italian, but her smile was wide. ‘My name is Marietta. You…you follow me?’
‘Of course. Thank you.’ But it was strange how feelings could suddenly switch. From dreading seeing Riccardo, Angie could now feel herself fervently wishing that he’d come to collect her himself as all her bravado slipped away. How could she walk into a room full of important people she didn’t know—all proper invited guests, apart from her—with even some members of the aristocracy thrown in? Would they look at her and judge her, and find her wanting?
She heard the murmur of voices and the chink of glasses as she descended the curving wooden staircase. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she looked fine but inside she was trembling like a leaf. Pinning a smile to her shiny lips, she began to walk down towards the assembled guests—a rainbow display of finery contrasting with the dark suits worn by the men. A dazzling and glamorous assembly. Some of them looked up and some turned around.
But all she could see was the ebony spotlight of Riccardo’s eyes following her every movement.
CHAPTER TEN
‘WELL, well, well—I see that you have decided to dress like the siren for the party tonight, piccola.’
Riccardo’s words were silken-soft but the look which accompanied them was anything but. The coal-dark glitter of his eyes moved provocatively over her face, the quick flick of his tongue over his lips reminding Angie of how they’d just spent the afternoon. Bringing back with aching clarity the slow, almost drugging quality of their love-making.
Angie shook her head, trying to clear her head of the memory. ‘But you bought me this dress, Riccardo,’ she protested, taking a proffered glass of Prosecco from the passing waitress. ‘And surely the whole point was to wear it?’ She glanced around at the other women, reassured to see that some were in gowns which made hers look positively demure. ‘Unless you’re saying that it’s unsuitable for the occasion.’
There was a pause. The only thing about it which was unsuitable was the fact that it reminded him just what lay beneath it. A nerve flickered at his temple. ‘You know very well that it’s suitable. In fact, you look more beautiful than any other woman in the room,’ he countered.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Sì, cara,’ he said steadily. ‘I do. Now, you’d better come and meet my mother.’
‘I’d love to.’ But her cheeks pinkened at the unexpected compliment as she looked around. ‘Where’s the bride-to-be?’
With narrowed eyes, Riccardo checked out the room, his tone doing nothing to disguise his disapproval. ‘She still hasn’t shown.’
‘Oh, well—it’s the bride’s prerogative to be late.’
