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She stopped smiling and sipped her champagne. “Stop telling me to relax. It’s stressing me out.”
“Bronte!” She turned at the sound of her mother’s voice, her pulse going into overdrive. It was show time – now or never.
“Mum,” she took a step forward and Clara Hill wrapped her daughter in her arms, engulfing her in a cloud of floral-scented perfume and in a way that threatened to bring tears to Bronte’s eyes. Kindness tended to do that these days.
“Darling, you’re here, finally. We’ve been wondering. You look lovely – that’s the dress we bought at Selfridge’s last year, isn’t it? It suits you. I don’t think I’ve seen it on.”
“Thank you,” Bronte inclined her head. “You look beautiful, too.” It was true. Clara Hill was a svelte, elegant fifty four year old with silver blonde hair and calmly assessing eyes the colour of a field in the afternoon sun. “Where’s dad?”
“Oh, talking with the caterer about the perfect hollandaise sauce. You know your father.” She lifted her eyes heavenwards in an affectionate gesture.
“Still working towards that Michelin star?” Bronte joked.
“Any day now.”
Charles Hill had always been in finance and was as uncreative as it was possible for a human to be, but a health scare two years ago had forced him to scale back his hours and develop a hobby. He’d chosen cooking, and they’d all been along for the ride, from disastrous dinner parties at the start to a surprising ability once he learned his way around the kitchen.
Clara hooked her hand through Bronte’s arm and began to draw her deeper into the crowd, but Bronte pulled back, nerves fluttering through her tummy.
“Mum?” Now or never. Get it over with. She swallowed and turned, putting her spare hand out and brushing her fingertips over Luca’s upper arm. Biceps greeted her back. Her nerves went into overdrive. “This is –,” Oh, God. Was she really going to do this? To perpetuate this lie to her mum? How pathetic was she?
But a familiar movement caught her eye at that precise moment – a shift of the head that was so innately known to Bronte it might as well have been her own motion.
Ashton.
Her eyes shimmied over her mother’s shoulder, landing on his back, a lump forming in her throat even as her heart began to beat three times faster than normal. He was wearing a suit and a shirt she’d bought him, with the new and unapproved of accessory of some kind of supermodel glamazon on his arm.
“Mum, this is Luca,” she said with renewed resolve, her skin pale as she lifted her face to her boss.
Clara frowned. “Luca?”
“Remember I said I was bringing someone?”
“Yes, of course, I just didn’t – expect –,” Clara faltered. “You’re Luca Montebello.”
“Yes,” he agreed amiably, releasing Bronte so he could embrace Clara, kissing her on both cheeks, in the European style. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He returned quickly, drawing Bronte to his side and holding her there, as though it was where she belonged. She tried not to speculate on the fitness of his frame.
“Oh, I – when you said you’d met someone I presumed you met someone new. Not your boss.”
Bronte grimaced inwardly. This had been the worst idea she’d ever had.
“Not exactly her boss,” Luca said, his fingertips stroking her hip, relaxing her even as the intimacy of the touch fanned a flame in her chest that was making breathing difficult.
“No?” Clara queried.
“I’m based in Rome,” Luca continued. “I barely see Bronte in a professional sense.”
“I see.” Clara’s smile was belated but genuine. She reached forward and put a hand on Luca’s forearm. “I’m sorry if I seemed – I didn’t realise.”
“Of course,” he responded with a smile of his own. “Naturally we’ve been keeping it quiet, given Bronte’s job.”
“Naturally,” Clara nodded, then turned her focus back to Bronte. “You should have told me, darling.”
“It’s quite new,” she opted for that version of their story, because it would make it easier to explain a sudden ‘break up’ in a few weeks if people believed the relationship had just been a quick fling – a rebound romance with a hot, forbidden, Italian billionaire. Heat flushed her body.
“Yes, well,” Clara was quickly regaining her composure. “Welcome, Luca. It’s so lovely to have you here.”
“Grazie.” He squeezed Bronte’s side, so her eyes shifted to his. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
