Her Italian Boss

by Lynne Graham

  ‘Now,’ Lesley said icily to Craig, who was sniggering at Poppy’s noisy exit, ‘while you’re wondering why Poppy’s friends aren’t rushing after her to offer support, watch Santino and learn…’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Upsetting Poppy is not a career-enhancing move in Aragone Systems. You see, if you were a woman and in touch with the real newsbreaking gossip in this building, you would already know that Santino fancies the socks off Poppy, too—’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Craig snapped. ‘He binned the card!’

  ‘Did you check the bin at the end of the day?’ someone enquired drily.

  ‘Santino doesn’t know what’s hit him yet,’ one of the other women commented with immense superiority. ‘He’s more at home with his keyboard than his emotions.’

  ‘But when a bloke like Santino, who likes everything done by the book, starts telling poor Desmond that pink graphs are fresh and creative, he’s in very deep,’ Lesley completed.

  In companionable and expectant silence, the three women then focused pointedly on Santino, who had stridden forward the instant that Poppy had sent the table flying. He swung round to speak to Jenna Delsen and not thirty seconds later left in the same direction as Poppy. Witnessing that demonstration, Craig turned the greyish colour of putty and groaned out loud.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN Poppy emerged from the function room at full tilt, several women were entering the cloakroom across the foyer and she wheeled away in the opposite direction.

  Finding herself by the lifts, she stabbed the call button with a frantic hand and gulped back a sob. She had to find a quiet corner to pull herself back together again. Selecting the marketing floor, she slumped back against the lift’s cold steel wall as the doors closed. Wrapping her arms round herself, she hugged herself tight. But it was no help, no comfort, because all she could think about was what a fool she had made of herself.

  When she saw the dark reception area on the marketing floor, it looked eerie and she hit the door button again in a hurry and tried another floor. Her eyes flooded with burning tears. Of course, Santino Aragone would have laughed when he was told who had sent that card. Everybody would be laughing! After all, she was just a junior member of staff, the plump little redhead Craig had nastily labelled, ‘Tinkerbell’ and hardly competition for the gorgeous women Santino specialised in. Why on earth hadn’t common sense intervened before she’d posted that stupid card to Santino at the office? Didn’t she have sense like other people? Her throat aching, she could no longer hold back the tears and a sob escaped her. How could she have exposed herself to that extent?

  In the foyer below, Santino was watching the lights that indicated which floor the lift was at. The light flicked through the levels in descent again, made several brief stops and then sank as low as the floor above before beginning to ascend again. When the lift finally reached the executive level, he waited in taut suspense to see if it moved on again.

  When the doors opened on the top floor, Poppy blinked in confusion for she had lost track. But low lights were burning and the floor was not in darkness like the others. Dimly recalling that Santino’s secretary had a private washroom, Poppy stumbled out. She needed to tidy herself up and fix her face before she could go home.

  But shock was still setting in hard on Poppy. Only when it was far too late to change things did she see her mistake. She should have toughed out Craig’s insinuations. Instead she had fallen right into his trap and confirmed his suspicions. He couldn’t have proved anything, yet she had virtually confessed by saying what she had and leaving the table.

  Taunting, wounding images were now bombarding her mind, increasing her distress. She had left the party with all the cool of a baby elephant let loose in a drawing room. She saw Craig’s self-satisfied smile, Santino laughing, the stiff, disapproving faces of the other women. Craig might as well have stripped her naked in public. Her trembling hands braced on the edge of the washroom vanity unit and, letting her head hang for she couldn’t stand to look at herself in the mirror when she hated herself so much for her own stupidity, she began to sob.

  Santino had never made it from the lift to his secretary’s office so fast. But then those heartbreaking sobs acted on him like a shriek alarm. He would usually have gone quite some distance to avoid a crying woman, but the curious automatic pilot now overruling his normal caution ensured that he strode right through the open door of the washroom and gathered Poppy straight into a comforting embrace.

  The sheer shock value of a pair of masculine arms closing round her when she had believed that she was alone provoked a startled cry from Poppy. Then she looked up and focused on Santino and even more shock froze her from head to toe. Bronze-coloured eyes set below lush black lashes were trained to hers, the lean, dark contours of his handsome features taut with concern.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he soothed in his gorgeous accented drawl.

  ‘Is it?’ Poppy’s voice emerged on the back of a breathless sob, for she could not have got oxygen into her lungs at that instant had her life depended on it. What was happening should have felt unreal but, in actuality, being in the circle of Santino’s arms felt very real and very right. Furthermore, it was something she had been dreaming of for so long that no power on earth could have sent her into retreat.

  ‘Course it is,’ Santino asserted, not really knowing what he was talking about, then deciding it was safer to confine himself to inconsequentials rather than risk reawakening her distress. Lifting a lean hand, he curved it round the back of her head to urge her face back into his shoulder where she had started out.

  Poppy’s tension evaporated and she subsided against him, feeling as boneless as a rag doll. The faint aroma of whatever shaving lotion he used assailed her and immediately became familiar to her: rather exotic, distinctively male. She sucked in a steadying breath, her fingers resting lightly against his broad shoulder, yet she could still feel the flex of his lean, powerful muscles beneath the expensive cloth of his jacket as he held her close. He could be so kind. How had she managed to forget how considerate he had been when she had hurt her finger and he had taken her to hospital? A little calmer, better able to think than she had been minutes earlier at the height of her distress, she saw how unlikely it was that Santino had been nastily indulging in a good laugh at her expense with his ladyfriend. He wasn’t like that.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Santino urged with a faint quiver of wry amusement edging his deep voice. ‘This is my secretary’s inner sanctum and I feel like an intruder.’

  In a jerky motion, she peeled herself from him again, her colour high, her eyes lowering, for she was sure she looked a total fright after giving way to all those tears. Her nose would be pink, her eyes swollen and her mascara might have run. Not that she felt that he would care either way, but she didn’t want him seeing her at her very worst. He pressed a light hand to her tense spine and turned her back into the office beyond and on into what had to be his own office.

  Abandoning her in the centre of the dark room, Santino strode over to the desk to switch on the light there and indicated a door to her left. ‘You can freshen up in there if you like.’

  Her eyes widened at the sight of the big luxurious office and then centred back on Santino where he was poised by his desk. The pool of illumination shed by the lamp shrank the large room to more cosy contours but simply emphasised his impact. He was so tall, so wonderfully dark and vibrant. Why was it that every time she looked at Santino he seemed more gorgeous than ever? As she encountered the onslaught of his mesmeric dark golden eyes her heartbeat thudded in what felt like the foot of her throat. She reddened, suddenly all too conscious of the emotions that had got her into such a mess in the first place. Dropping her head again, she went through the door he had indicated.

  Santino released his breath in a slow, sustained hiss. He would chat to her for a while just to smooth matters over and then tuck her into a taxi to go home. Concerned employer? He grimaced, picturing he
r standing there in that green dress that defined her lush curves, the fiery luxuriance of her glorious hair tumbling round her face, bright blue eyes full of strain. He wanted to see her usual sunny smile replace that hunted look. He just liked her, that was all. There was nothing wrong with that that he could see.

  Poppy winced when she saw her tousled reflection in the mirror on the wall of Santino’s opulent washroom. Breathing in deep because her head was swimming a little, she repaired her eye make-up but didn’t bother to refresh her lipstick, lest he think that she was getting tarted up for his benefit. Don’t think about that valentine card, she warned herself fiercely. What was done was done and, whether he knew she had penned that card or not, he was hardly likely to mention it. Having dried her hands, she emerged again.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Santino told her.

  ‘Don’t you have to get back to the party?’

  ‘No. I don’t usually stay to the bitter end. My presence tends to inhibit people,’ Santino advanced with a wry smile that lent his lean, dark face such innate charm that for several tense seconds she simply couldn’t take her eyes from him. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Just about everything,’ Santino informed her, deadpan. ‘Come and have a look…’

  Madly self-conscious of her own every move, but enervated by the novel sensation of being alone with him, Poppy moved closer, peered into the packed drinks cabinet and opted for what she hoped was the most sophisticated choice. She backed away with the glass until her legs brushed the low arm of one of the comfortable leather sofas that filled one corner. She sat down on the arm, too skittish to seat herself in the more normal way.

  She watched him pour a brandy from a cut-crystal decanter, light burnishing his black hair, accentuating his hard cheekbones and the very faint blue cast of stubble already shadowing his strong jawline. She hadn’t seen him when he needed a shave before and she decided that it gave him a very sexy, macho look. As he straightened he shot a glance at her and caught her staring.

  ‘So,’ Santino murmured on a casual note intended to put her at her ease. ‘Where did you work before you came here?’

  ‘I was a nanny…that’s what I trained for when I left school,’ Poppy advanced, her face flushed, her voice tense as she strove to match his relaxation.

  ‘A nanny.’ Santino was initially surprised and then he saw her in his mind’s eye surrounded by a bunch of children and it was like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle suddenly sliding into place for him. Kids would adore her, he thought. She would throw herself into their games, never mind when they got dirty, fuss over them and hug them when they got hurt. Thinking of the chilly, correct sourpuss of a nanny he had had to endure as a little boy, he felt positively deprived.

  ‘How come you ended up in Aragone Systems?’ Santino prompted.

  Poppy sighed. ‘My first placement was with a diplomat’s family and I was with them for two whole years…’

  ‘Did they make you work endless hours for a pittance?’ Santino enquired cynically.

  A brief smile blossomed on her lips at that idea. ‘No, they were a lovely family. They treated me very well. The problem was all mine. I got far too attached to the children and when they left England and I was no longer needed, I was just devastated,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘So I decided it wasn’t the job for me and signed up for an office skills course.’

  Within an ace of remarking that he considered that decision a wrong move on her part, Santino thought better of it when he registered that he could not imagine the marketing department without her.

  ‘The trouble is…the career change hasn’t worked out very well,’ Poppy commented rather gruffly.

  Santino’s ebony brows pleated. ‘Everyone makes an occasional mistake—’

  ‘I’ve managed to pick up two formal warnings in six months.’ Poppy shrugged a slight shoulder, cursing her own impulsive tongue, her habit of being too candid for other people’s comfort. All she had done was bring her own failings to his notice.

  Santino had to resist a strong but unprofessional urge to tell her that her head of department had been guilty of an overreaction when he’d made a complaint about her on the strength of an accident with a spilt drink. She had been unlucky. Desmond Lines was in his first week in the job, keen to make his mark and show his authority, but he had chosen the wrong event and the wrong person to clamp down on. In fact, Poppy might not know it, but that misjudged warning had even been discussed in the boardroom with varying degrees of levity and incredulity. One of Santino’s senior executives had looked in mock horror at the puddle of mineral water he had left on the table and had wondered out loud if HR were going to haul him over the coals, too.

  Poppy tilted her chin. ‘I didn’t make mistakes as a nanny.’

  ‘But people would miss you if you weren’t here.’

  Colliding with glittering dark golden eyes, Poppy felt dizzy. Did he mean he would miss her? For goodness’ sake, what was she thinking? What difference would it make to him if she went off in search of another job and moved on? She was one very humble cog in a big wheel. He was just being kind again.

  Quick to recognise when a subject ought to be changed, Santino asked, ‘Do you have any family living in London?’

  Poppy moistened her dry lips with her drink and sighed, ‘Not any more. My parents moved out to Australia about eighteen months back. My brother, Peter, and his wife, Karrie, live in Sydney.’

  ‘What’s the connection that took them all to the other side of the world?’ Santino enquired lazily, lounging back with indolent elegance against the edge of his desk.

  ‘Basically…Peter. He’s married to an Australian and he was offered a very prestigious teaching post at a university out there. He’s a brilliant mathematician. He was doing algebra as a toddler.’ A self-deprecating smile curved Poppy’s lips. ‘I was still struggling to do it at twelve years old.’

  ‘There are more important things,’ Santino quipped, opting for the sympathy vote and overlooking his own stratospheric success in the same subject. ‘So why didn’t you emigrate to Australia with your family?’

  ‘Well…I wasn’t asked,’ Poppy confided with a rueful grin of acknowledgement at that oversight. ‘Mum and Dad just worship the ground Peter walks on. They’ve bought a retirement home near where he and Karrie live. Mum now looks after their house and Dad keeps their garden blooming.’

  ‘Free labour…not bad if you can get it. Does your sister-in-law mind?’

  ‘Not at all. Karrie’s a doctor and works very long hours. She’s also now expecting their first child. As an arrangement, it suits them all very well.’

  ‘Do you have any other relatives left in the U.K.?’ Santino pressed with a frown.

  ‘An elderly great-aunt in Wales whom I visit for the odd weekend. What about you?’ Poppy questioned, emboldened by that dialogue.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I suppose that if you have any relatives they live in Italy,’ Poppy answered for herself. ‘When did your mother die?’

  Santino tensed, his jawline clenching. ‘She’s not dead. My parents were divorced.’

  Disconcerted, Poppy nodded, thinking that that was a little known fact in Aragone Systems for most people had assumed that Maximo Aragone had been a widower.

  Santino drained his glass and set it down. ‘I haven’t seen my mother since I was fifteen.’

  ‘How awful!’ Poppy exclaimed, her soft heart going out to him at the thought that he had been abandoned by some hard-hearted woman.

  Santino shot her a look of surprise and then added drily, ‘It was my choice to cut her out of my life.’

  At that explanation, Poppy surveyed him in sincere shock, and when he went on with complete cool to ask her if she wanted another drink, she said no. Although she suspected that what he had just confided was rather private, she could not rest without knowing more.

  ‘Was your mother cruel to you?’ Poppy asked baldly.

  ‘Of cours
e not. She loved me very much but she was not such a good wife to my father,’ Santino advanced on a forbidding note that would have warned the more cautious off the topic.

  ‘Oh…I see. You took your father’s side when they divorced.’ Poppy spoke that thought out loud without meaning to.

  Raw exasperation currented through Santino. As if it were that simple! As if it weren’t possible that he had reached such a decision on the strength of his own judgement!

  The silence seethed.

  Recognising that she had got too personal, Poppy turned pink with discomfiture. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just…you said she loved you and yet you’ve been so cruel to her.’ As she registered what she had said she actually clamped a sealing hand over her parted lips and surveyed Santino’s set features and flaring golden eyes in dismay and apology. ‘It’s time I tucked my big mouth up for the night,’ she muttered through her spread fingers.

  ‘No…I will defend myself against that charge first!’ Santino countered forcefully. ‘Let me tell you why I hate St Valentine’s Day…’

  ‘You…do?’ Her hand falling back to her lap, Poppy stared at him in a combination of surprise and confusion.

  ‘I adored my mother,’ Santino grated. ‘So did my father. He flew her over to Paris to her favourite hotel to celebrate St Valentine’s Day and do you know what she did?’

  In silence and very much wishing she had minded her own business, Poppy shook her curly head.

  ‘That’s the night she chose to tell him she’d been having an affair and that she was leaving him for her lover!’ Santino ground out like an Old Testament prophet reading out the Riot Act, raw censure in every hard male angle of his striking features.

  Poppy pondered that explanation. ‘She probably felt so guilty that she couldn’t help confessing…I bet she didn’t choose that night or those circumstances deliberately.’

  ‘Whatever…Maximo was shattered,’ Santino stressed on a note of decided finality.