by Mary Lyons
Only a few days ago, she’d have been prepared to bet a large sum of money on the fact that Lorenzo Foscari, that oh, so macho Italian, would have preferred to slit his throat rather than allow himself to be driven anywhere by a mere woman!
However, she’d been astounded when, after following his instructions to hire a comfortable sports car—‘There’s no point in attempting to drive through those narrow English roads in a huge great limousine!’—he’d casually tossed the keys to her, earlier this morning, before lowering himself into the passenger seat of the top-of-the-range Porsche.
‘Good Lord!’ She grinned at him. ‘This is a turn up for the books, isn’t it?’
He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘I see no reason why you should be so surprised,’ he murmured, casting an approving glance at his bodyguard’s cream linen trousers and matching jacket, over a pale sage-green silk shirt.
‘Well…’ She struggled to keep her face straight. ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Lorenzo, you don’t exactly strike me as a man who’d be prepared to accept a female chauffeur!’
He gave a brief snort of laughter. ‘You are quite right— I’m not. In fact, I can assure you that this is the first time, in my whole life, when I have permitted a woman to tell me what I can and cannot do.’
‘Good heavens!’ she murmured, rolling her eyes up in mock astonishment.
‘So, I decided—as you English would put it—to “go with the flow”,’ he continued, ignoring her sarcastic interjection. ‘Which is why I am now allowing you to drive me around, as well.’
‘Oh, wow!’ She gave a snort of wry amusement. ‘Lucky me!’
‘While I may be prepared to accept you as my temporary chauffeur, my dear Antonia, that does not mean that I welcome your weird sense of humour,’ he informed her sternly as she took her place behind the wheel.
‘I’m still not happy about dispensing with the guy who’s been driving us around over the past few days,’ she told him with a frown. ‘Yes…yes, I know—the basic situation has now altered. All the same, I’d prefer to have a back-up—just in case of any trouble.’
‘Please stop worrying,’ he said, settling himself more comfortably in his seat, and unfolding a map. ‘Frankly, I am becoming sick and tired of being smothered in cotton wool. So, if I am prepared to take what appears to be a negligible risk, I would appreciate it if you would kindly get on with your job.’
‘OK…OK, keep your hair on,’ she muttered under her breath, taking time to familiarise herself with the controls of the car.
‘Well…? What are we waiting for?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘Andiamo—Antonia! Subito…subito.’
And that was just typical of the man, Antonia told herself now as the car snaked up the road towards Cambridge.
‘Andiamo!’ and ‘Subito!’ seemed to be Lorenzo’s favourite words. She couldn’t recall ever having to put up with a client who demanded service at such a fast pace, she told herself with a grimace. ‘Go—go!’ and ‘At once—at once!’ were the words most constantly on his lips. In fact, she seemed to have spent the last few days running as fast as she could, just to keep up with both his demands and his hectic timetable.
There had been one or two lulls, of course. The shopping trip to the dreaded Bond Street hadn’t, after all, been quite the ordeal she’d imagined it would be.
Goodness knows what it was about Lorenzo, but whenever they entered a shop it seemed only moments before he was surrounded by a crowd of assistants, all eager and willing to do his bidding.
It must be something to do with that extraordinary charm of his, she told herself sourly. She knew just how difficult and demanding the man could be. And yet she was still apt to find herself weakly succumbing to the full force of one of his long, slow smiles. So it was no wonder that the poor shop assistants had fallen willing, helpless victims to his charm.
And it was the same wherever they went. Even when accompanying him to the offices of a large, prestigious City bank, she’d been astonished at how easily, and with such little effort, he’d managed to charm the socks off the hardboiled, hatchet-faced woman at the reception desk.
Maybe that’s his problem? she mused. Maybe the fairy godmothers at his christening had endowed him with so much personal attraction that he’d always swanned smoothly through life, with virtually every woman he encountered anxious to do all she could to assist him.
On the other hand, Antonia told herself, she wasn’t being entirely fair. Lorenzo’s male friends and acquaintances, from Giles Harding to the managing director of the large merchant bank, seemed equally happy to be in his company.
In fact, the only person with whom he’d definitely been less than charming—initially, at least—had been herself. Although last night, after telling her to book a table for dinner, ‘anywhere, just as long as it’s reasonably quiet,’ she’d definitely felt the full force of his attraction.
Gazing around at the pale walls and sparkling mirrors of the Mirabelle, Lorenzo had flashed her a quick smile. ‘It looks as though you have chosen well, my dear Antonia. I can only hope that the standard of cooking will match the decor.’
‘It will,’ she’d told him confidently, privately keeping her fingers crossed beneath the napkin on her lap because, let’s face it, this extremely demanding man had proved to be very difficult when having lunch, the day before, in a well-known Italian restaurant.
After sending back one dish, which he’d insisted had not been cooked properly, and complaining when presented with both a chipped plate—‘This should not be allowed’ and his choice of risotto Milanese—‘Disgusting—an utter travesty of a great national dish!’—he’d demanded to speak to the manager.
Listening to Lorenzo speaking rapidly in Italian, and obviously telling the man exactly what he thought of the food and service, Antonia had noticed the other diners putting down their knives and forks, staring with startled eyes and open-mouthed astonishment at the noisy row being conducted in their midst.
With both men waving their arms, and shouting at the top of their voices in a stream of voluble Italian, Antonia had feared the worst—bracing herself to intervene, and seriously fearing that the argument would descend to actual violence, any moment.
But then—to her complete astonishment—they had suddenly begun laughing, warmly clasping each other’s hands and swearing what appeared to be eternal friendship.
Not that he’d been wrong to complain, of course, Antonia had told herself quickly. In fact, if the British spent less time grumbling in private, and complained out loud about bad food and bad service, the standard of cuisine in this country would be a lot higher.
‘What was all that about?’ she murmured, when a stream of fresh, delicious food had emerged from the restaurant kitchen, and they’d quietly resumed their meal.
Lorenzo gave a casual shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘I was just taking him to task about the general level of service. And regretting that the English should think, quite mistakenly, that this was the sort of meal we are accustomed to eating in Italy. A country where we take such matters very seriously, of course.’
‘Of course,’ she murmured, careful to avoid catching the eyes of the other customers in the restaurant, who were clearly taking some time to recover from having witnessed such a dramatic scene.
He gave another shrug. ‘We discovered that both our families come from the same area in Tuscany.’
‘I thought you lived in Milan?’
‘Yes, so I do,’ he agreed. ‘But my mother—who is English, by the way—still spends every summer at the old family house in Vallombrosa, in the Pratomagno hills, about twenty miles south-east of Florence, where she looks forward to visits from her children and grandchildren.’
‘Is the fact that your mother is English the main reason why you’ve got such a good command of the English language?’ she queried, taking the opportunity to ask a question which had been puzzling her ever since taking on this assignment.
‘Yes and no,’ he grinned. ‘Yes,
we did occasionally speak English at home. But I could hardly make myself understood when I was sent over here to go to boarding-school, at the age of thirteen.’
‘That seems a bit young to leave home, doesn’t it?’
‘Possibly,’ he conceded. ‘But my English grandparents took great care of me, and I used to spend a lot of time at their home in the country, as well as going home to Italy for the holidays. Besides,’ he grinned, ‘I soon made many good friends at school, with whom I’m still in touch. Like Giles Harding, for instance.’
Unlike lunch, dinner last night at the Mirabelle had been an all-round success. He’d pronounced himself delighted with the food and wine, although she’d had to take his word on the quality of the latter, of course, since she never drank alcohol when on duty.
In fact, the friendly atmosphere had been entirely due to Lorenzo’s clear intention of making it a pleasant evening. And, when that determined man set his mind to anything, she was beginning to realise that he very seldom failed to achieve his ends.
Goodness knows how he’d managed it, but somewhere between the succulent lobster and the mouth-wateringly delicious passion fruit crème brûlé she’d found herself being soothed and charmed into total relaxation. She’d also, alas, been disgracefully indiscreet about the involvement of colleagues in her own profession in bringing several international criminals to justice.
‘I can understand that it is part of your job to be prepared to go anywhere in the world, at a moment’s notice,’ he commented at one point in the conversation. ‘But I must say that I find it quite extraordinary that, in order to protect your client, you see nothing strange in being prepared to risk your life—for a virtual stranger!’
Antonia shrugged. ‘Every good, highly professional bodyguard I’ve known would put themselves in the line of fire, if they had to. It’s just something that develops with the training. After all—that’s my job. To protect the client. And if that means taking a bullet for them…well, I guess that would just be an instinctive reaction to a dangerous situation.’
‘Dio…Dio…!’ he murmured, staring fixedly at her for a moment, before shaking his head in disbelief. ‘What a life!’
‘Relax!’ she laughed. ‘That sort of scenario is very rare. And besides, if I allowed myself to feel scared, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I mean…’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘OK. I’ll admit that I’ve had a few close shaves in the past. But you don’t think about it until it’s all over. And in any case,’ she added, ‘I’m generally so aware of everything going on around me that it’s rare to find myself involved in something I can’t handle.’
However, it was obvious that he found the basic facts of her profession very disturbing, and so she tried to change the subject. But Lorenzo seemed determined to obtain as much information as possible.
‘I could not fail to notice, my dear Antonia,’ he drawled, ‘that your delightful silvery grey silk dress not only cleverly echoes the lovely colour of your eyes, but is also clinging like a limpet to your really superb figure. In fact,’ he grinned, ‘I have been wondering for the past few minutes exactly where you can have hidden your revolver? Or do you carry a gun in your handbag?’
‘No, of course not!’ she snapped, bitterly aware of the dark flush spreading over her cheeks.
For heaven’s sake—pull yourself together! she told herself urgently. It was absolutely ridiculous to find herself blushing at his compliments—and at her age, too!
‘Other than for those who serve in the army, or the police force, it is totally against the law to carry a firearm here in Britain.
‘There are slightly different rules, for guarding members of the diplomatic corps, of course,’ she continued. ‘And there’s no point in pretending that there aren’t a considerable number of illegal weapons in circulation. But no reputable operative involved in close protection would ever take the chance of breaking that particular law.’
‘But surely…surely you must need to learn how to handle a gun? And what happens when you go abroad?’
She shrugged. ‘That’s a quite different matter. For those of us living in Europe, most of the small arms and automatic weapon training takes place in Cyprus and Turkey. And, of course, if I was working in a dangerous area abroad, I’d arrange to hire a suitable weapon from a local source. Getting “tooled up” in America, for instance, is a breeze!’ she grinned.
‘But the fact remains,’ she added seriously, ‘that anyone caught carrying an unregistered firearm in this country would find themselves in deep, deep trouble.’
‘And quite right too,’ he agreed as they rose from the table at the end of the meal. ‘Maybe, I’ve been seeing too many of those gangster films—because I’ve always assumed that people in your profession would be armed to the hilt.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth—although some of my colleagues wouldn’t necessarily agree with me—I actually happen to think that guns are a lot more trouble than they’re worth.’
He glanced at her in surprise as they walked out of the restaurant, where the chauffeur was waiting beside their limousine.
‘There are, after all, any number of methods of foiling the actions of a criminal,’ she explained. ‘And, short of meeting an armed assailant at point-blank range, I’d feel quite confident of being able to defend myself.’
‘Oh, really?’ he drawled sardonically, his eyes gleaming with unconcealed mockery as he took his seat in the rear of the vehicle.
You and your big mouth! Antonia told herself grimly.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have to be a clairvoyant to know that he was recalling the occasion, only two days ago, when she’d found herself in his arms. Definitely one time when she clearly hadn’t made a determined effort to defend herself!
As their limousine began moving slowly through the streets of Mayfair, on its way back to the hotel, she could almost feel the atmosphere within the dark, enclosed space at the rear of the vehicle slowly becoming tense and claustrophobic. The bright street lamps were throwing strange, flickering shadows over his austere, hawk-like profile, and she was very conscious of his close proximity.
The occasional touch of his warm, firmly muscled thigh brushing against hers, as their vehicle turned left and right through the narrow maze of streets leading to Park Lane, did nothing for her equilibrium.
Not having had a drop of alcohol, Antonia knew that her rapidly increasing heartbeat and the clammy, damp feeling in the palms of her hands were definitely not drink induced.
Oh, Lord! Don’t say that she was making the fatal mistake of falling under this man’s spell? No…no, of course she wasn’t! The whole idea was completely ridiculous! And, even if he had been subjecting her to a veritable battery of charm this evening, there was no reason on earth why she should become yet another victim of Lorenzo’s dangerous, deadly attraction.
Lorenzo was unusually taciturn and uncommunicative as she led him through the front portico of the hotel. ‘I believe in always varying one’s routine,’ she told him. ‘There seems no point in giving an opponent an easy ride.’
But he didn’t make any comment, nor did he utter a word as they entered the elevator. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d escorted him into his suite, to make sure all was in order before going to her own room, that he broke what had become an almost overwhelmingly oppressive silence.
‘Would you care for a drink?’ he asked.
‘No…no, thank you. I think I’ll have an early night,’ she muttered, disconcerted to find her way barred by his tall, dark figure, leaning casually against the architrave of the sitting-room doorway.
She couldn’t think of anything which she might have said or done to upset him. But it was disturbing to find herself feeling intimidated by this man, who’d so suddenly changed from a pleasant dinner companion into a coolly remote, austere figure. Only the glittering blue eyes, staring down at her so intently, seemed to be carrying some sort of obscure message.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t one she had time to deci
pher, as he gave a deep, heavy sigh.
‘Forgive me,’ he murmured, giving a quick shake of his dark head. Grimacing with self-annoyance, he clasped hold of her hand, before swiftly lifting it to his lips in what was obviously a polite, Continental gesture. ‘I have been behaving like a grouch. No?’
‘Well…’ She shrugged. What could she say? Because he had been acting in a thoroughly odd, grumpy manner.
Still, just as long as it hadn’t been caused by any action on her part, she had no need to worry. After all, he was the client. So, if he chose to be cantankerous or bad-tempered, that was his business.
All the same…she had the distinct feeling that the sooner she extricated herself from what could be a potentially tricky situation the better. The fact that he was still staring intently down at her, while maintaining his firm grip on her hand, wasn’t exactly an ideal scenario, either.
Turning slightly, she gave a very slight tug of her arm, intending it to appear as nothing more than a perfectly normal, casual indication that it was about time she made a move towards her own room.
But, from the brief flicker of wry amusement in his eyes and the almost imperceptible movement of his lips, twitching in silent humour, it was clearly evident that he had no intention of letting her go so easily.
‘I must tell you…’ He paused, as if searching for the right words. ‘The fact is that not only have I enjoyed your company over the past few days, but I now find myself placed in a distinctly awkward position.’
Oh—so that’s it! He’s decided to give me the sack, she told herself quickly, realising that he might find it difficult, after their very pleasant evening together, to actually put his decision into action.
‘It’s all right,’ she shrugged. Determined to ignore her immediate, instinctive reaction to his decision, which appeared to consist of a strange mixture of disappointment and loss, she gave him a bright, empty smile.
‘These things happen,’ she added as casually as she could. ‘I’ve thought, right from the beginning, that you really should have been given a male bodyguard. So, if you’ve decided to dispense with my services, I’ll quite understand why…’