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‘By having a bride who’s a generation younger than the groom.’
Angie’s mouthful of wine threatened to choke her and she could feel her cheeks growing flushed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
His black eyes mocked her. ‘You heard me perfectly well.’
‘I thought my ears must be playing tricks with me.’
‘But why are you so shocked?’ he questioned carelessly. ‘Italian men have done this successfully for centuries. My own parents had such a union and a very happy marriage until my father’s death. Because such a match ensures the very best combination between the sexes—an experienced man who can educate a young virgin. He will tutor her in the fine art of pleasure and she will give him many child-bearing years.’
Angie’s throat constricted. ‘You are…are…’
He leaned closer, enjoying her obvious rage, finding that it was turning him on far more than was wise—but suddenly he didn’t care. ‘Am what, piccola?’
‘Outrageous. Outdated. Shall I go on?’ she retorted, swallowing to try to dampen down the sudden leap of excitement which his proximity had provoked. But wasn’t the real reason for her anger not so much a noble championing of women’s rights—but the fact that Riccardo’s criteria for finding a bride had effectively ruled her out? That she was neither young, nor a virgin. And how pitiful was that? Surely she wasn’t imagining that plain Angie Patterson was in with a chance—because if that were the case then leaving his employment wasn’t just a half-hearted desire, but a necessity. ‘I can’t believe you subscribe to such an outdated point of view, Riccardo,’ she finished crossly.
But instead of looking chastened by her criticism, he merely smiled like a cat who had been given an entire vat of cream. ‘Ah, but I say what I believe—unfashionable or not. And I have never pretended to be any different, Angie,’ he murmured.
And that, she thought, just about summed him up. Riccardo had pleased himself all his life—and the combination of looks, brains and charisma had allowed him to do so. Didn’t matter that he expressed views which were deeply unfashionable and would be seen by many as out of date. He didn’t care because he didn’t have to. Rich, powerful and single—he blazed through life exactly as he wanted to and he wasn’t about to start changing now. Why should he?
So forget the fancy dress you’re wearing and try to forget your unwanted feelings for him, she told herself fiercely. Just be Angie—and set an example to the juniors by enjoying your staff party.
‘Who wants to pull another cracker?’ she questioned brightly.
Riccardo sat back in his chair and watched her as she fished a gaudy-looking bracelet from the tissue paper of a spent cracker, and good-naturedly put it onto her wrist. But then, she was pretty much always good-natured, he realised. She was one of those backroom kind of people—the unseen and unnoticed ones who quietly kept the wheels of enterprise turning, without seeking any attention or glory for themselves. He could talk to Angie in a way he couldn’t talk to other women. Where would the world be without people like her? His eyes narrowed as a disturbing thought popped into his mind without warning. Because God help him if she ever decided to leave.
Did he treat her properly? Did she get from him all the perks a secretary of her standing would expect to receive? His attention was caught by a pale flurry of snowflakes outside the window. Snow was unusual in London and it would be a cold night. His eyes flicked to the scarlet satin and a pulse began to work at his temple. A very cold night. Especially in a dress like that.
And just at that moment, he saw yet another waiter look at her with ill-concealed interest on his face. ‘How are you getting home?’ he questioned suddenly.
Angie stilled. ‘Home?’ she echoed stupidly, digging a spoon into her little dish of trifle.
‘I presume you have one,’ came the dry rejoinder. ‘Where do you live?’
The question hurt more than it should have done. She knew everything about him. She knew the size shirt he wore, the hotels he liked to stay in and the wine he liked best to drink. She knew the birthdays of his mother, his brother and his sister and always reminded him in plenty of time for him to buy them presents. That she inevitably ended up choosing those presents was neither here nor there—because that was what good secretaries did, wasn’t it?
She knew where he liked to ski in winter and where he occasionally basked in summer. She knew that he never ate pudding but occasionally would eat a square of dark, bitter chocolate with his coffee. She even knew which flowers he liked to send women when he was in pursuit—dark pink roses—and an appropriately generous consolation gift when he inevitably ended it—pearl and diamond cluster ear-studs from an international jeweler, and, oh, what pleasure Angie took in the purchase of those.
Yet after five years of her pandering to his every whim and making his life as easy as possible Riccardo Castellari didn’t even know where she lived!
‘Stanhope,’ she said, putting her spoon down.
‘And where’s that?’
‘It’s on the Piccadilly Line—towards Heathrow.’
‘But that’s miles out.’
‘That’s right, Riccardo. It is.’
‘And how are you getting there?’
How did he think? ‘By broomstick,’ she giggled.
He frowned. Angie giggling? Was she drunk? ‘I’m serious, Angie,’ he growled.
‘Oh, all right, then. By Tube.’ She tipped her head to one side, aware of the unaccustomed silky fall of hair over her shoulders. ‘Same way I always get home.’
He thought of the late-night underground network, chock-a-block with Christmas revelers, and the kind of reception she might expect to get. And his eyes flicked over her
