Stormy Possession

by Helen Bianchin

  The lean mouth twitched in silent humour. ‘I would not relish seeing those delectable curves reduced to skeletal emaciation,’ he drawled lazily. ‘What if I insist?’

  ‘This is a free country Mr Andretti—and yours isn’t by any means the first proposition I’ve had to fend off!’

  One eyebrow quirked slightly and his lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘Was that what I was doing? I distinctly remember asking you to dine—not join me in a game of seduction.’

  ‘With you, one would invariably lead to the other!’ Sally flung with marked asperity, and turning, she began walking towards the door. ‘Don’t bother to see me out.’

  It seem almost an anti-climax to step into the corridor, and she managed a slight smile in the general direction of his secretary as she hurried past the adjacent reception lounge.

  In the elevator she gave way to an unreasonable resentment, and crashed her gears more than once during the short drive to the catering firm where she worked.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ Claude greeted with relief as soon as Sally walked into the large kitchen. Saucepans stood simmering on several hotplates, and a delicious aroma permeated the air. Marie and Adèle were busily engrossed preparing vegetables at the work-bench, and Henri wielded a stainless-steel chopper as he dissected poultry.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, she apologised. ‘But it was unavoidable.’

  Claude waved a dismissing hand. ‘We are managing.’ He shrugged philosophically, then became businesslike. ‘You have a private dinner for two this evening.’

  Sally gave him her full attention. ‘What does she want the menu consist of?’

  ‘She’s a he, dear, and as to the menu, that’s left to your discretion,’ Claude told her with satisfaction. ‘Quite an honour. We’re often requested to offer suggestions, but rarely is the entire menu left open.’

  ‘One of our satisfied clients, no doubt,’ she declared with an impish smile, only to see Claude frown.

  ‘No. This is something of a coup for us. An Italian businessman who is held very much in regard among the social élite.’

  ‘An Italian menu?’ Sally suggested tentatively, and Claude indicated his approval.

  ‘You do a beautiful lasagne al forno, or perhaps cannelloni ripieni? with chicken cacciatore to follow?

  ‘And zabaglione,’ she enthused, ‘for dessert.’

  Claude’s Cordon Bleu dishes were priced à la carte, with the final preparations being completed by one of his assistant chefs and served to the guests in the client’s home. When catering for six or more, he insisted upon a waiter or waitress, whichever the client preferred, to serve at the table. His reputation was par excellence, and his charges precluded all but the wealthy.

  ‘Dinner is to be served at eight,’ Claude elaborated, adding, ‘The address is Vaucluse, and the client’s name is Andretti—Luciano Andretti.’

  It was too much of a coincidence for it not to be—‘I don’t believe it!’ Sally burst out incredulously, and Claude shot her a furious glance.

  ‘My dear, I have the order written down. It was phoned in only ten minutes ago, and as you were not specifically engaged for the evening, Christine confirmed the booking.’ He looked at her dubiously. ‘Am I to understand you are acquainted with Mr Andretti?’

  ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed forcefully, causing Claude to rise a querying eyebrow. ‘And I don’t like him at all!’

  ‘He’s a very influential man. To acquire his patronage is no mean accomplishment. You must go, of course.

  ‘I’d like very much to refuse,’ she declared balefully.

  ‘As an assistant chef, you are very good at your job. I can’t allow you to let personalities cloud your professional perspective,’ Claude stated decisively. ‘If I conducted my business by accepting bookings merely from clients who had my liking, I’d be a pauper!’

  Sally gave an expressive sigh. Claude was right, but she didn’t make the evening’s prospect any easier.

  ‘As the dinner is for two, you’ll handle it on your own,’ he informed her evenly, and she grimaced.

  Tonight was going to be an elaborate charade which she'd prefer to miss entirely. Damn Luciano Andretti! she cursed violently. He was doing this deliberately for some devious reason of his own.

  At precisely six-thirty, Sally drew the pale blue van with 'Claude's Catering' discreetly lettered in white on its doors to a halt on the brick-tiled driveway of an attractive architecturally-designed white-plastered mansion built on three levels to blend against the natural contour of the sloping ground. Exclusive and rather grand, she perceived wryly as she slipped out from behind the wheel and began unloading the stainless-steel trolley containing all manner of saucepans, partly-prepared food and utensils, from the rear of the van.

  Not even on her first solo assignment with 'Claude's' had she felt so nervous, and it was reflected anger that made her jab the doorbell with unnecessary force.

  The door opened almost immediately to reveal a short man of middle years with a polite smile of enquiry creasing his prominently-Roman features.

  'I'm from "Claude's",' Sally informed him, proffering the personalised card she carried, and at once the man's expression lightened in comprehension.

  'Ah, si. Please come in.' He moved aside and gestured that he would assist with the trolley. 'Signor Andretti is expecting you.'

  Is he indeed! She muttered beneath her breath. 'If you will show me where the kitchen is situated?' she queried aloud.

  'Of course, signorina. Please follow me.' He proceeded to lead the way across the marble-tiled entrance towards an imposing flight of stairs leading to an upper floor.

  There were expensive prints on the cream sculpture-plastered walls, an occasional inset containing valuable pieces of porcelain and Venetian glass, and as they reached the head of the staircase Sally had to concede that it was a beautifully-appointed home.

  From the long hallway she glimpsed a spacious, luxuriously-furnished lounge, and an elegant dining- room. Deep-piled sage-green carpet sank softly beneath her feet, and the kitchen when she reached it was modern with up-to-date electrical appliances—the latest design in wall-ovens, she noted, as the manservant began opening cupboards and drawers.

  'Everything you need is here,' he assured her. 'If you will come with me, I will show you where everything is kept for the setting of the table.'

  The dining-room was large, and along one wall and occupying its entire length was a vast mahogany sideboard, containing at first glance sufficient glassware, dinner services and cutlery to cater for a large number of guests. Drawers revealed table-linen and napkins aplenty. The table was rectangular in shape, and like the sideboard, mahogany.

  Back in the kitchen, Sally began taking utensils and saucepans from the trolley, checking each item off from the list she'd placed on top of the work-bench. How she wished she had had the courage to prepare an Indian curry so hot that the arrogant signore would positively gasp at the assault to his tastebuds!

  'Good, evening.'

  Talk of the devil! Sally swung round, startled, at the sound of the cynical drawl. He had entered the kitchen as silently as a cat and was standing a few feet distant, his eyes dark and sharply analytical as they surveyed her.

  'Good evening.' Her voice was a point above an arctic zero.

  The manservant began a conversation in rapid Italian, and lapsed into English several seconds later to bid them both goodnight

  'Curious?' her adversary queried sardonically. 'Carlo made the observation that if you cook as well as you look, he envies me the meal.'

  'If I were not representing "Claude's", the temptation to serve you toadstools in arsenic sauce would be almost too much to resist,' Sally declared with scathing sarcasm, and was stirred to unreasonable anger as he smiled with genuine amusement.

  'A Lucrezia Borgia? I doubt you could, Sally Bal- linger,' he mocked. 'You are all honey, with just sufficient spice to make things interesting.'

  'Save your breath, signore,' she directed witherin
gly. 'I'm only the hired help—you can practise your so-called charms on your unenviable dinner date. Quite frankly, I'm singularly unimpressed.'

  'Signore?' he queried with mocking emphasis. 'I much prefer Luke—the English equivalent of my given name, Luciano.'

  'I came here to work, not to make conversation,' she stated, blandly ignoring him as she deftly removed lids from containers. 'I'm sure you don't want dinner to be late.'

  His laugh was openly sardonic, and it only served to infuriate her further. She clenched her hands in silent enmity as the door closed behind him—how she'd like to burn each course to an unpalatable offering!

  Immersed with preparations, she was oblivious to any sounds outside the kitchen, and it was only when she entered the dining-room to set the table that she gave further thought to Luke Andretti's guest. Undoubtedly she—and it had to be a woman—was sipping excellent sherry in the lounge with her host and indulging in witty conversation.

  The dining-room table seemed rather long to seat the host and his guest at each end, and Sally chose the centre, placing an elegant silver candelabrum at either side of the table setting, with a single orchid beside each for decoration. She stood back to admire the setting, pleased with the way the candles in their silver stands balanced the length of the table. The dinner-service of bone china was quite plain, and was complemented by the silver cutlery gleaming beneath the subdued lighting. Delicately-stemmed crystal goblets sparkled with an almost diamond brilliance from their many-faceted patterns.

  At precisely five minutes to eight, Sally took two bottles of wine from the refrigerator and set them on the table. She put the finishing touches to the serving dishes, then checked her wristwatch. Eight o'clock, exactly. Should she ask if dinner should be held back? She was about to step forward with the intention of consulting the host, when the kitchen door opened.

  Luke Andretti looked vaguely piratical and dynamically masculine, having exchanged the sober business suit for casual dark trousers. A matching silk shirt of dark brown masked a firmly-muscled chest and broad shoulders, and his shirt-sleeves were turned back at the cuff. Half of the buttons down the front of his shirt had been left undone, revealing a deep vee of crisp dark hairs curling over darkly-tanned skin.

  'If your guest is late, I can delay things for up to twenty minutes,' Sally began, deliberately aiming her gaze two inches to the left of him.

  'My guest has been here for some time,' he informed her dryly, his dark eyes sweeping with slow indolence over her slim figure attired in its attractive pale blue uniform.

  'In that case, I shall serve the starter.'

  Luke Andretti nodded slowly, then turned and preceded her from the kitchen.

  On reaching the dining-room, she was startled to see that it was empty, and she glanced round clearly puzzled.

  'Take a seat, Sally Ballinger,' he bade mockingly, pulling out a chair, and at once she spluttered into indignant speech.

  'If this is your idea of a joke——' she placed the.

  dish on to the table—the temptation to throw it at him was very great. 'Why?' she questioned coldly. 'It must be patently obvious that I dislike you. Just what is it you want of me?' Her eyes sparked furiously alive. 'I can't believe it's merely my company for dinner—I'm not that gullible.'

  'Sit down,' he directed smoothly. 'It would be a shame to spoil the excellent meal you have prepared.'

  Sally felt the rage within her well up until it was ready to ignite. 'Eat it on your own, Mr Andretti. Nothing could persuade me to stay.'

  His eyes held hers, dark and incredibly dangerous as he moved towards her. 'Perhaps you would prefer it if I lodged a complaint with your employer?' His voice held the threat to do exactly that, and she suppressed a slight shiver.

  'You brought me here under false pretences,' she accused bleakly. 'I imagine you think you're very clever at having turned my refusal to dine with you into an obligatory acceptance. Forgive me if I decry your devious method!'

  'If you do not sit down,' Luke Andretti told her ominously, 'I will surely lose what little patience I have left.'

  Defeated, Sally subsided into the chair he held out for her, and she eyed him warily as he moved round the table and began uncorking the wine. He filled her glass, then his own, before raising it to his lips.

  'Salute,' he bade mockingly, and she deliberately left her glass untouched.

  Conversationwise, the meal was a disaster. From the start Sally had been determined to treat Luke Andretti with an icy silence, but he forestalled any satisfaction she might have derived from such an exercise by not uttering so much as a word. Consequendy, she felt close to boiling point by the time she retired to the kitchen to serve coffee, and while it was percolating she loaded the automatic dishwasher and set it in motion. With the ease of long practice she placed all of 'Claude's' saucepans and utensils back into the trolley in readiness for the moment when she could depart, cleaned down the work-bench, then set a tray with cups and saucers, sugar bowl, milk and cream.

  When the coffee was ready, she poured it into two cups and carried the tray through to the dining-room,

  'We will have it in the lounge,' Luke Andretti said smoothly, taking the tray from her nerveless hands.

  She followed his broad back down the hallway, and entered the large, spacious lounge with a feeling of distinct unease.

  The lighting was subdued, there were faint melodic strains emitting from concealed speakers, and it fairly screamed of a setting for seduction—hers! The strange air of foreboding became almost a tangible thing, threatening her composure in a way that was inexplicable.

  Sally took the cup and saucer he handed her with hands that shook slightly, and she declined sugar and cream. Selecting a single armchair as far away from him as possible, she sipped the scalding liquid with more haste than care, and when the cup was empty she stood to her feet.

  'So anxious to be gone?'

  She drew a deep breath in an attempt to ignore the waves of panic creating havoc with her equilibrium. 'I've carried out my obligations for the evening,' she said evenly. 'There's no reason for me to stay.'

  'Not even if I provide one?'

  Blind anger prevailed at that thinly-veiled innuendo, and Sally erupted into incautious speech. 'What do you expect me to do? Offer myself in sexual gratification to plead my father's case?' Her eyes were alive with sparkling fury as she rounded on him. 'I wouldn't stoop that low—and especially not with you!' She lifted her chin defiantly, uncaring of the words she was about to utter. 'What will you do now—employ some devious Mafioso tactics to deprive my father of money he doesn't have? Rough him up a little—break a few bones? Even frighten him into an early grave?'

  Slowly he rose to his feet, and there was a glimpse of terrible anger in the depths of those dark eyes that sent shivers of apprehension down Sally's spine.

  'Dio ch' aiuti!' The oath was a husky growl. 'There is not a man alive I would permit to insult me in such a manner! You should thank every patron Saint ever consecrated that you were born a woman—otherwise I would thrash you to within an inch of your life!'

  'If you so much as touch me, I'll scream,' she determined fiercely, and he uttered a harsh laugh.

  'Who would hear you?'

  Sally felt a momentary clutch of fear, and eyed the objects on a nearby cabinet with the intention of discovering a suitable weapon should she need it, then calculated the distance to the door.

  'You would never make it,' he drawled, then swore savagely. 'Cristo! It does not pay to blindly accuse a man of associating with the Mafioso merely because of his Italian heritage.' His eyes hardened until his expression became something frightening to behold. 'How highly do you value your father's peace of mind, Sally Ballinger?'

  She swallowed painfully, for there was a lump in her throat that felt the size of an egg. 'What do you mean?'

  His eyes never left her face as he revealed in a voice that had become ominously quiet. 'I want a son. It is not feasible to have worked so hard and not leave
the fruits of my labours to the seed of my body.' He made a slow sweeping appraisal, roving from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes, and back again. 'You are a beautiful young woman, Sally Ballinger. I have an inclination to make you my wife. That is the price you must pay if you want me to put your father's financial affairs in order.'

  Sally met his gaze through a nightmarish shroud that threatened to engulf her. 'Wife?' she echoed with bitter emphasis. 'Marrying you would be akin to marrying the devil!'

  One eyebrow arched quizzically. 'You think so? That, however, does not give me an answer.'

  For a long moment she just looked at him, then she ventured slowly, 'How do I know that I can trust you to do as you say?'

  'Can you afford not to?'

  Innumerable seconds ticked soundlessly by, and it could have been a hundred, or even a thousand that passed before she gave a drawn-out sigh. 'I need time to think it over.'

  'You, have precisely five minutes.'

  'So generous!' she reiterated fiercely. 'I have to choose between two forms of torture, each equally abhorrent, and I'm expected to decide in five minutes? You're not only ruthless—you're inhuman!'

  Luke Andretti checked the dial of his wristwatch. 'Four minutes and twenty seconds.'

  'What possible satisfaction can you hope to achieve from a marriage doomed in hell?' Her voice held an anguish that was very real.

  'But I am il diavolo—the devil himself—am I not? You hinted as much—and as such, I cannot be but comfortable in the fiery surroundings you regard to be my natural habitat.'

  'You'd consign me there, as well?'

  His smile was totally without humour. 'It may not be as hellish as you imagine.'

  'I hate you!' she flung violently, and he intoned with intended cynicism,

  'Better that than declare a love that is false.'

  'I'll fight you every inch of the way, Luke Andretti,' she vowed emphatically. 'It will be a stormy possession, I promise you.'

  His expression held mocking amusement as he glanced down at her. 'And be unnecessarily hurt, piccina? Such a folly would be unwise.'

  'But wisdom doesn't enter into it, does it?' she parried bitterly. 'And if you call me "little child" again, I shall hit you!'