by Various
‘I can’t leave him for a whole weekend to go abroad! Why, I’ve only ever even left him for a single night before. You know that.’
‘Si, I know that,’ he said, and his black gaze locked on hers with piercing thoughtfulness.
‘And maybe it is something you ought to think about.’
She certainly wasn’t imagining the reproachful note in his voice, or that faint flicker of censure in his eyes. ‘You make that sound like a criticism,’ she said shakily, knowing that she could stand almost anything but that. Because in a way her whole life was centred around Sam ’s needs—and any disapproval of that would surely throw into question her whole existence.
‘It was not intended to be quite that.’ He paused, spread his hands in that typically continental gesture he sometimes used. ‘But it might do you both good to have a break from each other.’
‘You’re saying we have a claustrophobic relationship?’ she demanded.
‘I can see I’ve touched a raw nerve,’ he said acidly.
‘Maybe you just can’t stand the fact that someone else’s needs might come before your wishes.’
She was clearly spoiling for a fight, and Raffaele almost gave a low, cynical laugh. Almost.
But he recognised that this wasn’t getting them anywhere. There was a reason why they were both so tetchy—and it was the same reason why sleep had refused to come last night. It was the needs of their hungry bodies, demanding to be fed—and so they would be.
‘It is pointless arguing about it, since I will need you with me,’ he stated tersely. ‘Arrange for Sam to go to a friend’s—it will be fun for him, and good for you to have a break. What about Serge—they get on well, don’t they?’
Natasha nodded. She hadn’t been aware that he’d noticed—but, as usual, he had a point. And Sam did love Serge. Natasha was sure the French boy’s parents would be only too pleased to have her son for a few nights.
But a weekend away in the company of others with the man she was pretending to be marrying threw up a whole new set of problems. She put the apple in her handbag. ‘Won’t we be expected to share a room?’ she said slowly.
He studied her. ‘Oh, Natasha —come on!’ he remonstrated softly. ‘What do you think?
Unless they’re having a Return to Chastity Weekend most modern engaged couples do have sex and do share rooms.’ His eyes fired her a challenge, but deep down he felt the aching insistence of desire.
‘And do not look so shocked, cara . Not to put too fine a point on it—you and I were well on the way to having sex in the back of the car last night!’
She stared at him, her heart thundering in her chest. ‘How dare you say something like that?’
she hissed.
He raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise but, oh, he was enjoying this. Whoever would have thought that Natasha kept such fire hidden beneath her mousy little exterior? ‘Keep your voice down—or don’t you mind Sam hearing you chastising me?’
She shook her head distractedly. What was he doing? He seemed to have her tied up in twists and knots and circles, and she should be hating him, resenting him—when all the time, she…she…
‘No,’ he murmured, as he watched her, ‘it would be the best solution, I agree, but, unfortunately, I can’t come over there and kiss you, Natasha—no matter how much you want me to.’
He met her indignant gaze and let his own travel with arrogant amusement over her flushed cheeks, and down farther still—to where her breasts peaked against the soft cashmere of her sweater. ‘Go on,’ he taunted. ‘I dare you to deny it with any conviction! You can’t, can you?’
‘I’m going to take Sam to school!’ she declared, and grabbed her bag.
‘Running away?’ he mocked.
‘Running to sanity!’ she retorted.
‘Well, make sure you’re free that weekend,’ he said softly.
It sounded more like an ultimatum than a request, and the accompanying look which he sent lancing towards her made little goosebumps ice their way all over her skin.
Natasha tried to concentrate on Sam ’s chatter as they searched the pavement for conkers, the way they always did, but all she could think about was Raffaele. Matters weren’t helped when she approached the wrought iron gates of the school and sensed, rather than saw, people turning to stare at her.
Usually she felt pretty much invisible—but there was no doubt that her makeover had turned her into a much more acceptable version of a woman. Blondes fared better than mouse—
Marilyn Monroe had discovered that decades ago.
This morning she had dressed down, and wasn’t looking radically different from usual, even though the jacket she wore was softly luxurious—but people were definitely noticing the ring. That’s why Raffaele bought it, she reminded herself, with a stab of something which felt unreasonably like disappointment.
She kissed Sam goodbye and watched him running across the playground. Then she saw one of the other mothers approaching, with an expression of grim determination on her face. This was a woman who had barely deigned to glance at her before today—a woman who was clearly very good friends with her plastic surgeon.
‘Hello— Natasha , isn’t it?’
Natasha nodded, and pulled her new jacket closer. ‘Hello. Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid I don’t know your—’
But the woman was in no mood for introductions. ‘Someone said that you and Raffaele de Feretti were…’ Her disbelieving tone faded away the moment her sharp eyes alighted on Natasha ’s hand, and she snatched it up as if she had every right to. ‘So it’s true!’
Her hostile and disbelieving tone made the lie easier—you’re doing this for Elisabetta, Natasha reminded herself. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ she agreed pleasantly. ‘It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind!’
‘But…’
Natasha raised her eyebrows in question. ‘Yes?’
‘Aren’t you his housekeeper?’
Natasha ’s heart was thudding like a piston, but somehow she kept her face calm. ‘Actually, I prefer to describe myself as his fiancée,’ she said, with a glow which felt dangerously like triumph.
But that was the wrong emotion to be feeling, she told herself as she hurried away in a sudden bluster of dark falling leaves. She had nothing to be triumphant about because none of this was real. She was simply playing a game, and even if her motives for doing it were sound she had to remember not to get sucked into the fairytale. Particularly when the fiction of being betrothed to a man you’d always secretly desired was so overwhelming. Yes, she wanted him—but what woman wouldn’t?
Raffaele wanted her, too—he had made that very plain. He had wanted her in the highly charged atmosphere of the car last night, but she had seen the gleam of desire in the seemingly innocent surroundings of the kitchen this morning, as well. And, in a way, that had been infinitely more dangerous. It was easy to yearn for someone when you’d been drinking champagne all evening and were all dressed up—but to feel the same way in the cold, clear light of day…Well, that could easily send out the wrong message to someone like her.
Because lust meant nothing—it was just a part of Raffaele’s restless and seeking nature. His power and his alpha-maleness would put sex high on his list of priorities—for him, it would come as naturally as breathing. And Natasha would get hurt if she wasn’t careful. Not just because she was a woman and she placed different values on sex, but because of the way she felt about him.
The little newsagents was tucked away just off the busy main road—it was such an old-fashioned shop that Natasha used to wonder how long it would be able to survive in the face of the supermarket giants who were sweeping small businesses away.
On tall shelves were jars of brightly coloured sweets, and from the ceiling bobbed a few bats, while chocolates, foil-wrapped to look like pumpkins, lay on the counter—for Halloween was fast approaching.
‘Getting blustery out there,’ said the owner, an old man who wore fingerless gloves and still liked to add up in his hea
d. ‘It’ll be winter soon.’
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ Natasha protested.
She bought stamps and two tabloids, but she didn’t open them until she was almost home.
But it’s not really your home, mocked a voice in her head as she let herself into the garden square. It’s Raffaele’s home, not yours. As the wind flapped the pages of the newspapers, she wondered if it was the ‘engagement’ which had suddenly made her start thinking like this, and a shiver ran over her skin as she realised that what she had agreed to had changed everything.
That nothing was ever going to be the same again. She leafed through the first paper and there it was—the shot taken when they’d arrived at the charity ball and first stepped onto the red carpet to face a battery of cameras.
Raffaele had cupped her elbow and bent his head close to hers, asking her if she was okay—
his look one of solicitude rather than passion. In a society of easy sex and quick kicks it was the image of caring which had convinced the hacks that Raffaele de Feretti ’s heart had finally melted.
They said that the camera never lied, but it wasn’t quite as simple as that. It picked up on what it saw—and then interpreted it to fit its own agenda. The image selected showed the one true emotion expressed in a whole evening of pretending. Raffaele’s concern for her had been genuine, the emotion had been genuine—and that was what had convinced the gossip columnists that this was, indeed, the real thing!
Natasha ’s fingers were trembling as she read it.
After dating some of the wealthiest and most beautiful heiresses in Europe , Italian billionaire playboy Raffaele de Feretti has astonished everyone by becoming engaged to his housekeeper, Natasha Phillips . Ms Phillips , 25, who is a single parent, was photographed showing off her ring—a giant two-carat solitaire—at a charity ball last night. If diamonds are a girl’s best friend, then lucky Natasha has one hell of a buddy!
How peculiar it was to read about yourself in the third person like this, she thought—and even more peculiar was the sight of her photo featured in a national newspaper. It didn’t look like her at all—with her coiled and elaborate hair and her shimmery silk-satin evening gown.
She looked like an expensive stranger.
Yet if she examined it more closely she could see her expression as she reassured Raffaele that she was okay. Would anyone else notice the soft look of adoration which was sparking from her eyes as she looked at him? If he gave the picture more than a cursory glance would he guess at her secret, or just think that she was a fine actress?
She walked home slowly, thinking of what Raffaele had said about her rarely being parted from her son. His words had implied that this was a failing rather than a strength, and for the first time Natasha began to wonder if perhaps she used Sam as an excuse not to go out there and live life properly. Did she? Was he one of those children doomed to be tied to his mother’s apron strings? And was she in danger of becoming the kind of woman who resented her child growing up and growing away?
Galvanised into action, she telephoned Serge’s parents and asked if Sam could go and stay the following weekend. They were delighted to oblige.
‘Mais, oui—bien sûr!’ Serge’s mother laughed. ‘You wish to have some time alone with your husband-to-be, oui?’
That rubbed at Natasha ’s conscience—but Elisabetta’s pinched and wan face swam into her memory. ‘If that’s okay?’ she said.
‘It is more than okay. Go and have a wonderful time,’ whispered Madame Bertrand .
Natasha didn’t even want to think about it and, instead, began to sort out the walk-in larder. It was deeply satisfying to create order out of chaos, and it also served as a kind of distraction therapy.
The ring felt odd and scratchy as she dipped it in and out of a bucket of hot and soapy water, so she slid on a pair of rubber gloves and smiled. If only the Daily View could see her now—
how different she looked to the image of herself which was plastered over page five of the paper! But she needed to do this. Because this is my reality, she reminded herself. After all this is over I’ll have to go back to a normal existence—where I won’t be whisked in chauffeur-driven cars to charity balls. Or kissed by black-eyed Italians who can make you feel as if you’ve found heaven in their arms.
The telephone rang, and she peeled the gloves off and went to answer it.
‘ Natasha ?’
The rich, accented voice spilled over her senses like honey. ‘Yes, Raffaele?’
There was a pause. ‘On your recent shopping trip, did you by any chance buy some swimwear?’
‘Sw-swimwear?’ Had he meant the word to sound X-rated, or was it simply what it implied—
heat and sun and partially clothed bodies? Natasha closed her eyes as she recalled the teeny bikini which the personal shopper had told her would be a sin not to buy. And the halter-neck one-piece in acid-green which made her body look as curvy as a coiled snake.
‘It’s a simple question,’ he said impatiently. ‘And I’m about to go into a meeting! Yes or no?’
‘I did.’ She swallowed. ‘Why?’
From the penthouse suite which housed his office, Raffaele looked out over the skyscrapers of the city and gave a grim smile of satisfaction.
‘Then you’d better pack it. You remember I told you to keep next weekend free?’ There was a pause. ‘We are going to Marrakech, cara .’
Chapter 9
‘You do realise—’ Raffaele paused deliberately as he watched her reach up, the silk of her robe brushing against her waist as she did so, and he found himself marvelling at how such a simple movement could be so damned provocative. He flicked his tongue over lips which were suddenly bone-dry. ‘That I need to know a few details about your life.’
Natasha turned round. She had been hanging up clothes in the sumptuous bedroom and trying not to act too dazed by the level of luxury she had been subjected to ever since their private jet had landed in Morocco. But it hadn’t been easy. This was opulence on a scale she hadn’t realised existed.
A car had been waiting to whisk them to the ancient city of Marrakech , surrounded by the famous rose-pink walls, its streets lined with fragrant orange trees, with old-fashioned pony and traps trotting along amid the spluttering cars.
It was hard for Natasha to believe that a place could be so gloriously hot in October and the sky such a clear, bright blue, and she breathed in the scented air with a kind of startled delight after the misty cool of autumnal England . She had never been abroad anywhere before—
something which Raffaele had found hard to believe—and this would have been a wonderful place to start if it hadn’t been for her worries about sharing a suite with him.
The opulent riad in which they were to stay was situated right in the very heart of Marrakech.
It was an oasis of comfort and luxury, with a massage room and sauna as well as large, opulent suites—pure, decadent comfort, and situated only minutes from the bustling Medina, with its narrow alleyways and exotic goods and general air of mystery.
It was also, as Raffaele had pointed out, accessible by car—both a luxury and a rarity in the region. Revelation seemed to follow on from revelation and he had saved the most astonishing fact until last—much to Natasha ’s amazement—they were to be the guests of a sheikh.
‘A real sheikh?’ she breathed.
‘I think that Zahid would be outraged to be described as a fake,’ came his laconic reply.
‘Would you mind telling me why we’re spending the weekend with a sheikh—how you even know one?’
Raffaele smiled. ‘He’s someone I do business with. Someone I happen to like. And he will expect me to bring a woman with me.’
Who would Raffaele have brought if he weren’t pretending to be in a relationship with me?
wondered Natasha , unprepared for the swift, sharp tang of jealousy—but somehow she kept it from showing on her face. She was getting rather good at concealing her emotions.
‘Doesn
’t he have a palace?’ she queried instead.
‘Of course he does. He has several, cara mia. But he, too, will be accompanied by a woman.
Like you, she is a Westerner—and that is frowned upon by his people. So he takes his consorts elsewhere.’
Natasha found herself wondering what this ‘consort’ thought of being hidden away like a guilty secret. But that was none of her business.
‘And, anyway,’ Raffaele murmured, ‘that is enough about Zahid. I told you—I want to learn about you, mia bella.’
Natasha shook her head in disbelief. ‘But I’ve been living in your house for over three years,’
she objected. ‘Surely, you know something about me?’
He could see the faint puzzlement and hurt which had momentarily crumpled her rose-petal lips, and he hardened his heart against it. It wasn’t her place to be offended—to look at him with those big blue eyes. Did she imagine that it was some kind of interest in her as a person which made him ask, instead of plain necessity?
The sight of the enormous bed seemed to tantalise him with its allure, and to make him examine his own motives—it had since they’d arrived. Was he going to seduce her? And if so—when? Perhaps that was the real reason behind his question—a kind of distraction while he made his mind up? To see whether she would be suitable to seduce—or whether she would be foolish enough to read more into it than was there.
‘On the contrary,’ he demurred. ‘I need a little of the kind of detail which a man in love would be expected to know.’
A man in love. It didn’t mean anything, but that didn’t stop her stupid heart reacting, even while she realised that this was simply Raffaele through and through. He excelled at everything he did—and he wanted to excel at being a fiancé! It would be intolerable for him to be found out—for other people to discover that the whole situation was a sham—and that was what had prompted him into asking her. Or did she imagine that a little heavy petting in the back of a limousine would be enough to win the affection of a sophisticated man-of-the-world like him?
‘What exactly do you want to know?’ she asked.