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‘That’s not supposed to be until the wedding day,’ he returned acidly. ‘There’s still two days to go.’
‘And what about the groom?’
‘The Duca is standing over by the woman wearing diamonds.’
‘Every woman is wearing diamonds.’
He laughed. ‘He’s by the fireplace, but don’t stare, Angie—it’s rude.’
Angie didn’t need to stare—one quick glance was enough to surprise her so much that she stared down into the fizzing bubbles in her drink in an attempt to compose herself. Surely Floriana couldn’t be marrying him! She took a sip of the wine. The Duca was elegant, yes—but he must have been almost fifty, judging from the harsh lines on his face. And wasn’t that the hint of baldness at the crown of his head? He looked ancient in comparison to the beautiful young Italian girl.
She lifted her eyes to find a sudden coldness in Riccardo’s—as if daring her to make the obvious comment. But why should she? As he had reminded her earlier—it was none of her business. ‘Floriana’s a lucky girl,’ she said dutifully.
‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely. ‘She is. Now come and meet my mother.’
Angie was aware of eyes following them as they made their way across the crowded room—before stopping in front of the matriarch of the family.
‘Mamma, I told you that I was bringing Angie with me? And I believe you have spoken on the phone many times.’
Despite her elegant high heels, Riccardo’s mother was surprisingly small and terrifyingly elegant. Her figure was as neat as a young girl’s and she was clad in very obvious couture—a gleaming burgundy gown of heavy silk with a string of large, lustrous pearls around her neck. The two women shook hands and her black eyes looked Angie up and down with interest.
‘So we meet at last,’ she said, in perfect English. ‘The woman who makes my son’s life run like clockwork, or so he tells me.’
Angie blinked, slightly taken aback to hear another compliment and glad that Riccardo had gone over to talk to his brother—even though the two men were standing dominating the room, like a pair of dark and formidable statues. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she joked.
‘No, I can imagine,’ came the dry rejoinder and then Signora Castellari smiled as she looked her up and down. ‘And you look wonderful. I had no idea that your taste in clothes was quite so exquisite, my dear.’
There was an awkward pause as Angie tried not to flinch. What did she say? That it was a Christmas present from her son? Wouldn’t that seem like much too intimate a gift from boss to secretary, and might it not make his mother raise her eyebrows—possibly in disapproval?
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly.
‘At least I know that Riccardo must be compensating you adequately, if you can afford to dress that well.’
Angie nodded and raised her drink to lips which suddenly felt like stone as the elegant woman moved away to greet another guest, hoping that her face didn’t betray the terrible sense of distress that her innocent remark had provoked. Because Signora Castellari had said nothing untoward; not really. She thought that she was simply meeting her son’s long-time secretary—she wasn’t to realise that the secretary in question was also his lover, which made innocent remarks about financial compensation acutely embarrassing.
At that moment, there was a stir of expectation from the guests and everyone looked up towards a second staircase to see Floriana slowly descending the staircase with a girl by her side whose pale skin and unruly red curls marked her out from the mainly Mediterranean gathering. That must be the bridesmaid, thought Angie.
Floriana’s black dress was stark and her own hair was piled up into an elaborate creation on top of her head, fixed with small diamond pins. Round her neck were more diamonds—a veritable waterfall of glittering icy stones. She looked, Angie realised with a shock, like a mannequin. As if she were composed of wax instead of flesh and blood.
But then they were being called into dinner and, to Angie’s relief, Riccardo came to accompany her to the table. ‘Surely you can’t seat this many people all at once?’ she whispered.
‘Wait and see.’
The dining room—well, it was more of a hall—was absolutely beautiful, lit by hundreds of tall candles and scented rather overpoweringly with lilies. A single long table was draped in snowy
linen and glittered with gold and crystal. Angie found herself seated next to a very sweet old man who had once spent a holiday in Brighton and who was eager to practise his English. On her other side was a teenage cousin of the groom who was clearly bored out of his mind and would rather have been somewhere else.
At the opposite end of the table and next to Riccardo’s mother she could see the Duca holding forth, with a morose-looking Floriana by his side. And on opposite sides sat the grim-faced Romano and the redhaired bridesmaid who seemed to spend the majority of the meal glaring at one another. What was their problem? Angie wondered as she lifted her napkin, thinking that this made her little sister’s pre-wedding party look like a match made in heaven.
Although delicious, the meal seemed to go on for ever, and if Angie was full up after the pasta course no one seemed to notice or to care whether she ate or not. She told herself she was glad Riccardo was sitting far away from her. Yet her feelings were at war with common sense—she ached for his touch, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that she was a stupid fool for wanting him.
Did she make those feelings apparent? Was that why when she looked up from her unwanted plate of sorbet to find herself caught in the crossfire of his gaze his black eyes seemed to mock her while his lips curved into a smile of sensual promise. Angie swallowed. He was so…so sure of himself, wasn’t he? So certain of her—that no matter what he said or did, she would still sink into his embrace whenever he snapped his fingers.
And you will, won’t you? Because despite all your little pep talks about no longer being a doormat, aren’t you secretly counting off the seconds until you can feel him in your arms again?
After dinner, there was dancing in a huge ballroom which had been decked out with garlands of scented blooms and shiny balloons in silver and gold. It seemed that every VIP and dignitary from miles around was attending and Angie told herself that of course Riccardo wouldn’t ask her to dance—and that even if he asked she would refuse. She would sweetly tell him to go and entertain his guests and not his employee. But she was wrong—on both counts. He did ask, and she didn’t refuse—because when it came to it, how could she? Not when her heart was racing with excitement and her skin tingling when he laid his hand on her bare arm.
‘Having a good time?’ he murmured as he pulled her against him, splaying his fingers over the buttery satin of her dress.
