Mary Lyons - The Italian Seduction

by The Italian Seduction (lit)

  ‘So—what’s the catch?’ she demanded.

  ‘There isn’t one,’ he assured her earnestly. ‘Believe me—it’s a doddle.’

  ‘Hmm!’ she murmured suspiciously. ‘The thing is, James, I can’t help wondering—if it’s really going to be as easy as you say-why you’ve bothered to contact me?’

  ‘Well ...the truth is...’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘You’re right. I did have Pete Davis lined up for the job. But the stupid man fell asleep at the wheel when driving home last night. And now he’s in hospital with all his limbs in plaster.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘So I can’t get hold of anyone else who’d be suitable for the job, at such short notice,’ James admitted bluntly. ‘The client isn’t the man you’d be guarding. It’s his insurance company. He isn’t taking the threats against his life seri­ously, but they are. Right? So, if the guy is to have close protection—apparently he’s Italian, and not at all keen on the idea of a bodyguard—it has to be someone who’s able to merge into his very up-market, social scene, and not stand out like a sore thumb. Which is where you come in. Because, from our enquiries so far, it seems that he’s a bit of a womaniser.’

  ‘Gee—thanks!’

  ‘Nothing you can’t handle,’ James told her quickly. ‘Just partial to the ladies ... lots of glamorous girlfriends ... you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, I do,’ she retorted grimly. ‘OK, let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the fee for the job?’

  When James mentioned a sum she gave a hoot of grim laughter. ‘Forget it!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Tony. Don’t give me a bad time.’

  ‘What “bad time”? I’m the one who’s going to have the hassle of dealing with a guy who, according to you, is “par­tial to the ladies”. Which, if my past experience is anything to go by, means nothing but trouble. So, if you want me, you’ll have to double that figure, make all the initial ar­rangements, and provide a specialist team for round-the-­clock-surveillance—or I’m simply not interested.’

  ‘You’re a hard woman!’ he groaned, before eventually and most reluctantly agreeing to her terms.

  Lorenzo gave a sigh of relief as he gazed around his spa­cious hotel suite. After so many intensive, if stimulating business meetings in Zurich and Bonn, he was now looking forward to spending a more relaxing time in London.

  Feeling hot and sticky, he slipped off the jacket of his dark suit, loosening his tie and stretching his long rangy body as he decided that, before having a shower, what he really needed was a stiff drink.

  Even when travelling first-class, air travel these days was becoming increasingly tedious. It was ridiculous to be forced to spend so many long, boring hours in various ter­minals—especially when the flights themselves took hardly any time at all. With his company’s business expanding so fast nowadays, maybe it was about time he acquired a pri­vate jet?

  Luckily, he had only one meeting scheduled here in London, with a large private merchant bank, mainly con­cerning the funding of a new factory in the north of England. Which meant that he would have plenty of time to see his friends, and also visit his young niece, currently attending a language school in Cambridge.

  But first of all, he reminded himself grimly, he was going to have to sort out this stupid business of being forced to put up with a bodyguard.

  In regular touch with his office in Milan, he’d been in­formed by his secretary that the insurance company seemed to have pulled out all the stops. Not only had they ap­pointed someone from a top security agency to look after him here in England, but they’d apparently sent his office a fax, demanding exhaustive details of his personal life.

  Admittedly, some of the requests—a photocopy of his passport; his blood group; his height and weight and the name and address of his doctor in Milan—could possibly be regarded as sensible. Especially if he was likely to be in any danger—which, of course, he wasn’t.

  However, he deeply resented some of the other ques­tions, such as: ‘Does he have any aliases?’ and ‘Is he on a known hit list? Or affiliated with any political group?’

  Who on earth did they think he was...James Bond?

  In fact, Lorenzo told himself, slowly sipping his whisky and staring moodily out of the large, floor-to-ceiling win­dows at the traffic swirling around Hyde Park Corner, the whole business was obviously becoming a total farce.

  And if this bodyguard ... what was his name? He turned to pick up the message from Worldwide Security Inc., which he’d been handed on his arrival at the hotel. If this man, Tony Simpson, thought that Lorenzo was prepared to meekly accept being closely shadowed day and night, he was very much mistaken!

  He’d had time, over the past few days, to give the matter some thought, and it looked as if his best solution to the problem would be to simply outbid the insurance company, by offering to double or even treble Mr Simpson’s salary­—provided he would leave Lorenzo alone. A decision, he told himself, which had the great virtue of both simplicity-and a way in which to satisfy the needs of everyone concerned.

  Some time later, after deciding to forgo a shower in fa­vour of a long, leisurely bath, Lorenzo found himself feel­ing a good deal more cheerful.

  He’d obviously been in danger of allowing himself to become far too obsessed about having to put up with a bodyguard, he told himself ruefully as his long, tanned fin­gers quickly knotted his black bow-tie.

  In fact, he’d do better to concentrate on the pleasure of renewing his acquaintance, this evening, with some old friends—who’d been kind enough to invite him to join them at the Albert Hall for a gala performance of excerpts from Verdi’s opera Otello.

  While he was smiling at the idea of an Italian travelling hundreds of miles to attend a performance of one of his own country’s famous composers, Lorenzo’s thoughts were sharply interrupted by the sound of a loud knock on the door of his suite.

  Walking over to open the door, and fully expecting to see a member of the hotel staff—or the chauffeur of the limousine which had been placed at his disposal during his visit to London—Lorenzo was surprised to find himself staring down into the cool grey eyes of a tall, slim young woman.

  ‘Signor Foscari?’

  ‘Si,’ he responded, before quickly realising that the fe­male standing in front of him was clearly English. ‘Yes ...yes, I am Lorenzo Foscari. Can I be of any assistance?’ he added politely.

  ‘Well ...I think that it’s probably the other way round,’ she said with a quick smile, before putting out her hand towards him. ‘I’m Antonia Simpson. I believe you are ex­pecting me.’

  Momentarily confused by the fact that she obviously knew his name, Lorenzo found himself automatically shak­ing the proffered hand, his puzzlement increasing as she gave him another brief smile, before moving swiftly past his tall figure and entering the large sitting room.

  ‘This is all very comfortable,’ she commented, quickly scanning the room with its deep sofas and large armchairs, whose pale cream upholstery matched the off-white raw silk curtains surrounding the tall windows. ‘And you’ve got a great view of both Aspley House and Hyde Park Corner, haven’t you?’ she added, moving over to gaze out of the tall windows.

  ‘Yes, it seems I have,’ he murmured, leaning casually against the architrave of the open doorway of the sitting room, and regarding his unknown visitor with some amuse­ment.

  Lorenzo had travelled widely around the world on busi­ness over the past few years. Which was why his first, instinctive reaction to the sudden appearance of a strange female at the door of his suite had been to immediately assume that she was up to no good. Mainly, of course, because loose women frequently plied their trade in the world’s top hotels—despite all attempts by respectable ho­teliers to keep them well away from their premises.

  However, after a long, searching glance at the slim, well-­dressed figure in front of him, he swiftly discarded that notion.

  With a mother and two much older sisters—not to men­tion
a considerable number of sophisticated girlfriends—he knew enough about women’s apparel to immediately re­cognise the hallmark design of a very expensive handbag, banging from her shoulder on its thin gold chain. Moreover, de scoop-necked, sleeveless black silk cocktail dress—ex­pertly cut to skim lightly over the curves of her tall, athletic body—clearly hadn’t come cheap, either.

  In fact, from the tips of her toes in those high-heeled shoes, up to the discreet sparkle of small diamond earrings, half hidden behind her shoulder-length blonde hair, this young woman was clearly a class act. So...what on earth was she doing here?

  Standing across the room and taking a good, hard look at her new client, Antonia found herself feeling both sur­prised and slightly taken aback. Not merely because this man seemed to have an almost perfect command of the English language, with only a slight accent betraying his country of origin. Or the fact that he was so tall—most Italians of her acquaintance being far shorter and more ro­tund.

  It was just...well ... there hadn’t been time for the agency to send her a photograph, of course. However, while she wouldn’t have described him as classically handsome—not with that long aquiline nose and those high cheekbones—­there was no doubt that Signor Foscari was a quite amaz­ingly attractive man.

  Maybe it was something to do with the hint of laughter glinting from beneath his heavy eyelids, thickly fringed with long black lashes? Or the warm, amused curve of his lips? But, even on the other side of this large room, she was almost physically aware of the highly potent, heady attraction of rampant sex appeal, which seemed to ooze from every pore of his tall, slim figure.

  Trust that idiot James Riley to have got hold of the wrong end of the stick! Because she hadn’t a moment’s doubt that if this Italian was ‘partial to the ladies’ it was because they’d undoubtedly been throwing themselves at him ever since he’d put on his first pair of long trousers!

  All the same...while few things fazed her nowadays, she definitely didn’t like the way this man was looking at her. Maybe James hadn’t been entirely off beam, Antonia told herself grimly, irritated to find herself feeling uneasy be­neath the highly intense, speculative gleam in the man’s clear blue eyes.

  ‘It is undoubtedly a great pleasure to meet you,’ Lorenzo drawled, his lips twitching with amusement as he gazed at the attractive young woman.

  Although she now appeared to be regarding him with a studiously closed, deadpan expression on her face, he’d been well aware, from the momentary tightening of her lips and the brief, fleeting glint of annoyance in those grey eyes, that she had no problem reading his mind.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued smoothly, ‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me why you’re here.’

  He was surprised by her reaction as she stared blankly at him for a moment, before giving a quick shake of her blonde head, clicking her teeth with annoyance as she crossed the room to hand him a small white card.

  ‘I’m sorry. It looks as if there’s been a bit of a slip-up, doesn’t it?’ She shrugged. ‘I’d assumed that the agency would have left full details confirming my appointment, to be collected by you on your arrival here, at this hotel.’

  ‘The agency?’

  ‘James Riley, who runs Worldwide Security, is normally very efficient,’ she quickly assured the man, who was frowning at her in some confusion. ‘However, there’s no need to worry,’ she continued, looking quickly down at the slim gold watch on her wrist. ‘I’ve personally seen to all the arrangements, and everything is now in place. So, if you’re ready...?’ She glanced over at his black dinner jacket, hanging over the back of a nearby chair. ‘The chauf­feur is waiting outside the back entrance, and...’

  ‘Just a minute!’ Lorenzo ground out, all trace of good humour swiftly vanishing from his face, as he gazed fixedly down at the white card in his hand. ‘There must be some mistake!’

  But, even as the baffled, incredulous note in his voice was still echoing loudly around the room, the truly awful, hideous truth was hitting him with all the force of a ten-­ton truck.

  ‘A mistake?’ Antonia frowned. ‘But the itinerary which I’ve been given of your engagements, here in London, plainly stated that you are due to attend the Albert Hall for a gala performance of...’

  ‘I know where I’m going!’ he snapped angrily. ‘It’s what you think you’re doing here which concerns me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Signor Foscari. There seems to have been a complete breakdown in communications between yourself and Worldwide Security,’ she told him quietly, hoping to take the heat out of what was looking like becoming a difficult situation. ‘However, I have been appointed to act as your bodyguard...’

  ‘What nonsense!’

  ‘And I will be looking after you during your stay here, in Britain, to the very best of my ability,’ she continued calmly, doing her best to ignore the man’s stiff, rigid figure, and the baffled fury etched on his tanned face.

  ‘But...but I was expecting a man! A Mr Tony Simpson,’ Lorenzo ground out. ‘Most definitely not a Miss Antonia Simpson. For heaven’s sake—this is utterly ridiculous!’ he added, his voice grating angrily around the room. ‘I can’t be expected to have a woman looking after me!’

  Here we go again! Antonia told herself with grim res­ignation. It was exactly this sort of stupid anti-feminist, blind prejudice which had led her to form her own com­pany, where she could call the shots, and not have to put up with such irritating male chauvinism.

  However, it was obvious that she was going to have to take an immediate, firm grip on the situation. Especially as they were now in danger of running late, and upsetting her arrangements.

  ‘How very clever of you to realise that I’m female,’ she told him with a bland smile, quickly picking up his dinner suit jacket, and holding it towards him. ‘Now, time is get­ting on. So, if you’ll just put this on...’

  ‘Don’t you dare to try and patronise me!’ he ground out through clenched teeth, before swearing violently under his breath. Mostly at himself—for automatically, without thought, taking the jacket from the woman and slipping it on over his broad shoulders.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ he continued angrily, ‘that I absolutely refuse...’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you do,’ she murmured soothingly, firmly propelling his tall figure out of the sitting room, and down the short hall towards the door. ‘But we really must hurry.’

  ‘Santo cielo...!’ he exploded, suddenly digging in his heels and spinning around to face her. ‘I am not going anywhere. And certainly not with you! Capisce?’

  Antonia gazed at him coolly. ‘Oh, sure. I understand all right—loud and clear!’

  Used to dealing with difficult clients, she was well aware that, just at the moment, she had the upper hand. However, this man was clearly turning out to be both difficult and unpredictable. So there was no point in taking a hard line. Maybe she ought to take a more subtle approach to the problem...?

  ‘To tell you the truth, Signor Foscari, I’m not a great opera buff,’ she confided, with a brief shrug of her slim shoulders. ‘So, if you don’t mind disappointing your friends, by not bothering to turn up at the Albert Hall, that’s OK by me. Quite frankly,’ she added calmly, ‘I’d be per­fectly content to spend a quiet evening here, in the hotel. It’s entirely up to you.’

  Glaring down at her in baffled rage, his body rigid and taut with fury, Lorenzo realised that the damn woman had him neatly boxed into a corner. Because of course he couldn’t let his friends down. Certainly not at the last mo­ment, and without any warning.

  ‘Very well...’ he growled. ‘It seems that I have no choice in the matter. But I can assure you that I will be sorting out this totally ridiculous situation with your supe­riors first thing in the morning!’

  ‘Very well,’ she murmured, struggling to keep a straight face as she slipped past his stiff, angry figure to open the door, nodding to the man whom she’d stationed outside the suite, on her arrival at the hotel.

  ‘You can te
ll the chauffeur that we’re on our way,’ she told him, waiting until she saw the guard issuing rapid in­structions into his black handset, before turning back and holding the door open for Lorenzo. ‘After you, Signor Foscari!’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Simpson,’ he grated through clenched teeth, throwing her a searing glance of pure, unadulterated loathing as he strode past her, and out into the corridor.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I’M SORRY. This isn’t exactly the smartest part of the hotel, but...’

  ‘You’re quite right—it most certainly is not!’ Lorenzo agreed in a harsh, grating tone of voice, his tall figure rigid with outrage as he stared with disgust at the overflowing dustbins edging the pavement outside the rear service en­trance.

  ‘Yes, well ...we’ll soon have you out of here,’ Antonia assured him quickly as the large black, chauffeur-driven limousine drew up beside them.

  Just wait until I get my hands on James Riley! she told herself grimly, walking forward to open the passenger door of the limo. In fact, she was definitely going to enjoy having a few choice words with that gentleman! Because not only had James landed her with someone who was clearly the client from hell—but it looked as if he’d also managed to completely screw up the arrangements.

  Even if he had informed Signor Foscari about the ap­pointment of a bodyguard, James had clearly failed to pro­vide the Italian with any other basic information regarding Close Protection. And why on earth he’d told the client that her name was Tony—a hangover from her childhood, which was only used nowadays amongst her family, and friends in the profession—she had no idea.

  ‘If you’d like to take your seat in the vehicle...?’ she murmured, holding the car door open and being careful not to make direct eye contact with Signor Foscari—who was clearly in a very tricky, nasty frame of mind.