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‘She knows that. She wants to know why she can’t have it. Now.’ Another rasping cough. ‘Says she needs furniture.’
Nicola bit her lip in frustration—because delayed gratification was as alien a concept to her mother as it was to her brother’s girlfriend. She thought about Stacey’s penchant for expensive make-up and handbags. Her love of eating out, which went hand in hand with an inability to cook anything more complicated than a piece of toast. ‘I know she does, but I’m scared she’ll fritter it away before the baby’s born,’ she confided huskily. ‘Look, I’ll go and visit her tomorrow and see what I can do. I’ll reassure her and try to talk some sense into her, but I’ve got to go now, Mum, or I’ll be late for work.’
She cut the connection and hurried across the shiny pavements which reflected the garish lights of the Soho streets, which were unusually quiet tonight—presumably because of the foul weather. At last she came to a halt in front of the Masquerade club—its pink neon lights flashing flamingo-bright alongside a giant photo of a canal and a gondola. A bouncer stood outside, mostly turning people away because this was the current hot ticket in town and the difficulty of gaining entry was one of the things which made it so attractive.
One of the doormen nodded as Nicola entered, slipping through a discreet interior door at the back and taking the stairs to the staff changing room in the basement, where she proceeded to get changed. It always took longer to put on her outfit than to remove the clothes she’d arrived in and there was a reason for that. Try as she could to break the habit, her movements were always reluctant because this costume was the last thing she would ever have chosen to wear. In fact, if she didn’t need the money so desperately she would never have taken a job like this. But it was relatively easy and, more importantly, the tips were excellent—and that was what had kept her here for the last five months, laboriously putting aside every penny she earned.
Pulling her blonde hair from its neat pleat and shaking it free, Nicola peered into the mirror. The club was supposed to be Venice-themed, which was why the menu was full ofcicchettiand bottles of expensive Valpolicella and barmen dressed in stripey tops with distinctive hats tipped at jaunty angles. While the waitresses, of which she was one...
She sighed. No way would her appearance offend anyone’s sense of decency. There was more substance to her costume than something you might see on the beach—it was just so ridiculouslytight.Her breasts felt as if they wanted to burst right out of the sequined bodice and her tiny skirt of black and purple feathers left far too much of her fishnet-covered thighs on show. And as for her shoes...
She glanced down at the killer stilettos. Her shoes were crazy-high. At least the traditional Venetian mask meant nobody would be able to recognise her, which had been another of the job’s enticements—not that she knew anyone who would be prepared to pay these kinds of over-inflated prices for glasses of mediocre wine.
Going back upstairs, she picked up her tray and her electronic ordering pad and, walking into the dimly lit interior of the club, looked around. It was the usual selection of guests and they were nearly all men. Out-of-town visitors. A smattering of celebrities. A clutch of premier league footballers with a bevy of beautiful blondes hanging onto their every word.
The light on her electronic pad was flashing, instructing her to go to table thirteen—somewhat ironically numbered since it was the most prestigious table in the VIP section of the club. Nicola pinned a wide smile to her lips and swayed her hips, the way the manageress had taught her to, though the skyscraper heels made the movement feel very exaggerated and secretly she wondered if it didn’t make her look rather ridiculous. But her smile froze the instant she saw the two men who were sitting on the raised dais. Or rather, when she clocked the one who was gazing rather moodily at the empty dance floor, his hard profile drawing the covert and not so covert attention of pretty much every woman in the place. Beneath her too-tight bodice, her heart squeezed out a painful beat and her skin grew clammy and cold.
It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t.
Fate would never be that cruel, would it?
Yet she of all people should know how cruel fate could be. Of course it was him. Who else would it be? Because if anyone was going to walk in and discover her secret job—wouldn’t it have to be the man she hated and fancied more than anyone in the world? Who just happened to be one of the best friends of her powerful boss...
Her heart began to race, because her boss, Sergio Cabrera, was in many ways a highly conservative man—it was one of the reasons he’d taken her on as Chief Assistant in his London art gallery in the first place. He approved of her prim, neat image and the fact that she never came to work with a hangover or allowed her love life—which was non-existent anyway—to impinge on work. Wouldn’t he hit the roof if he discovered that his loyal and supposedly very conventional assistant was spending her evenings draped in minuscule scraps of feathers and lace, selling overpriced glasses of champagne to wealthy punters?
He mustn’t find out. And the only way he could would be if Alessio recognised her and told him—so she must make sure that didn’t happen.
She needed to stay calm. The Italian billionaire wouldn’t look at her face. They never did. And even if he did—even if he did—she was wearing a mask, wasn’t she? An elaborate sequinned mask which had the ability to conceal most of her features. She even thought about slipping back into the rough South London accent of her youth, which she’d tried to leave behind—but something inside her baulked at that. She had come too far to ever go back—and wasn’t there a bit of her which felt that if she did, she would be swallowed up by the horrors of the past all over again?
Anyway, Alessio wouldn’t have a clue it was her. Why would he? She doubted he would have given her a second thought after leaving the gallery today—let alone remember her. Someone like her wouldn’t even register on his radar. She would take his order and deliver it as quickly as possible, averting her eyes all the time. Then ask one of the other waitresses if they wouldn’t mind swapping sections for the rest of her shift.
But her fingers were trembling and her heart was still pounding beneath her tight costume as she weaved her way through the tables towards the two men. And then, making sure she addressed the man who wasn’t Alessio, she said quietly, ‘What can I get for you, sir?’
Alessio wasn’t really concentrating as the blonde waitress took their order and neither was he particularly engaged when she returned to the table with a bottle of rosé champagne, even though he could remember his companion only asking for two glasses of the stuff.
But he frowned as he watched her tear pink foil from the neck of the bottle, his attention caught by the way her thumbs began to ease out the cork, thinking how long her fingers were and how incongruous her sensibly filed fingernails seemed in comparison to her flamboyant outfit. He wasn’t sure what made his eyes travel upwards, past the badge which said ‘Nicky’, past the creamy thrust of her cleavage to her long neck—his gaze stopping to alight on a tiny birthmark on her neck, shaped like a rose.
Something flickered in the depths of his memory.
Shaped like a rose.
She was focussing intently on the bottle, which she must have shaken because it had started to foam in a creamy cascade in a way which was exceedingly erotic. He could see her hand trembling as she splashed—yes, splashed—champagne into two tall goblets, but despite the mess she was making of the table, she was determinedly refusing to meet his gaze.
He could have let her go.
Maybe he should have let her go.
But his curiosity was stirred—which was rare—and so was something else. Something which felt like a fierce shaft of recognition and something else, too, something which felt uncomfortably like desire.
‘Nicola?’ he said softly. ‘Is that really you?’
She lifted her gaze at last, and the eyes which met his were not so cool now, her glacial gaze melting into one of apprehension.
‘Would there be any point in me denying it?’ she said, her tone not quite as clipped as usual.
For a moment Alessio was so taken aback that he didn’t answer. But it was less his shock at discovering her in such a bizarre setting which was responsible for his uncharacteristic hesitation, than the growing realisation that Nicola Bennett didn’t usually do herself justice.
