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‘The rest of your wardrobe should be here shortly.’
She frowned, searching for meaning. ‘But I left nothing at my mother’s.’
‘The signore has organised a delivery for you. I am expecting it at any time.’
A delivery? To replace one plain old bra that had seen better days? He needn’t have bothered, she thought, rummaging in her pack after the valet had departed. It wasn’t as if she travelled without a spare.
Half an hour later she emerged from the bathroom wearing a floral miniskirt that she loved for the way it flirted around her legs and a cool knitted top and found the delivery man had been. Or men, plural, because it must have taken an entire team to cart the lot filling the dressing room wardrobe.
A veritable boutique was waiting for her, dresses of all descriptions, from day dresses to cocktail dresses to ball gowns. She flicked through the rack, many of the items still in transparent protective sleeves, along with racks of shoes—one pair for every outfit, by the look of it—and the drawers filled with lingerie of every imaginable colour.
And not a T-shirt bra in sight.
So much for imagining Luca wanted to replace her bra. He wanted to replace her entire wardrobe. She almost laughed. Almost. Because it was ridiculous.
Not to mention unnecessary.
More than that. It was downright insulting.
She pulled open the bedroom door and called for the valet. Who the hell did Luca Barbarigo think he was?
* * *
She was writing an email to her father on her clunky old laptop, pounding at the space bar that only worked when it wanted to, when the double doors to the living room opened. She didn’t have to turn her head to know it was Luca. The way her heart jumped and her skin prickled was enough to tell her that. And the way heated memories of last night and a certain desk jumped to centre stage in her mind, she was grateful to have something to focus on so she didn’t have to look at him until she’d wiped all trace of those pictures from her eyes. She banged her thumb once again on the space bar, trying to appear unmoved, while feeling the weight of his gaze on her back.
‘What are you wearing?’
‘I’m trying to get this space bar to work. It sticks all the time.’ She pounded on the key again, hoping it covered the thump of her heart and this time it worked and she managed to rattle off another few words before she noticed her fingers were on the wrong keys and she’d written nonsense.
‘No. Not, what are you doing. What are you wearing?’
The correction took her by surprise. She forgot the email and looked down at her simple outfit and then around at him. She almost wished she hadn’t. The dark business suit and snowy white shirt made him look powerful. The five o’clock shadow darkening his olive skin turned that power into danger. Or was that just the way his eyes narrowed as they assessed her? She might just as well be a butterfly pinned in a display cabinet, being examined for the colour of its wings. Being found wanting.
‘Just a skirt and top.’ And she half wondered whether he was still seeing her in those jeans, as she edged them down over her hips. Had he been expecting to find her wearing them again? Had he been hoping for a repeat performance? She shivered in anticipation—suddenly half hoping... ‘Why do you ask?’
‘What happened to the clothes I ordered? Did they not arrive?’
Oh. She’d forgotten the clothes. She swivelled out of her chair and stood, keeping hold of the desk behind her, solid and strong. Sitting down he loomed too tall and imposing, but standing up wasn’t as easy as it looked. Not when it looked as if the Furies were about to descend upon her. ‘They came.’
‘Then why aren’t you wearing something from that collection?’
She hitched up her chin. ‘How do you know I’m not?’
He snorted. ‘Believe me, Valentina, it shows.’
‘So what’s wrong with what I’m wearing, anyway?’
‘Nothing, if you want to look like a backpacker. Go and get changed.’
‘Excuse me? Since when did you tell me what to wear?’
‘Ever since you agreed to this deal.’
‘I never—’
‘You made your conditions known last night, if I recall rightly. I remember nothing about choosing what you wear being one of them. In which case...’
‘You can’t make me—’
‘Can’t I? I have a dinner reservation in one hour. At one of the most exclusive restaurants in Venice. Do you expect to accompany me wearing those rags?’
