The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘Well, my sister keeps ringing up in hysterics because it’s a really acrimonious divorce,’ she said.

  Riccardo shrugged. ‘Ah, but surely that is the nature of divorce.’ He studied her, aware of the trace of some light perfume which was drifting towards his nostrils. Maybe she always wore perfume…but if that was the case, then why had he never noticed it before? Noticing that one of the waiters seemed to be as fascinated by her as he was, Riccardo glowered at him until he went away again. ‘Did they marry for love—your sister and her husband?’ he questioned, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Angie defensively, though the question caught her off guard and she found herself grateful for the candlelight which shielded the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks provoked by Riccardo speaking about love.

  He shrugged. ‘Well, there you have your reason for their break-up in a nutshell.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you? It’s quite simple. Never marry for love. Much too unreliable.’

  Someone was enthusiastically poking her in the ribs and Angie turned to half-heartedly pull at a cracker, glad for the momentary disruption which gave her time to gather her thoughts. To formulate some kind of answer. To be sure he wouldn’t see her stupid and naïve disappointment that clearly he thought so little of love.

  ‘You don’t really believe that, do you, Riccardo?’ she questioned, in a deliberately jocular way.

  ‘Sì, piccola,’ he said softly. ‘Absolutely, I do. For it is unrealistic for a man and a woman to commit to a lifetime together based only the temporary excitement of chemistry and lust. And love is just the polite word we use to describe those things.’

  ‘What do you think they should do?’ she asked tremblingly. ‘Go to a marriage broker?’

  He ate a little salad. ‘I think that a couple should find as many compatible areas in their lives as possible and work hard to keep the marriage going for the sake of the children. Something which is—alas—becoming increasingly rare in these days of easy divorce.’ Putting the glass down, he gave a slow smile. ‘And of course, you can maximise your chances of marital success.’

  He thought he was making marriage sound like a game of cards now—but Angie continued to stare at him in fascination! ‘How?’

  ‘By having a bride who’s a generation younger than the groom.’

  Angie’s mouthful of wine threatened to choke her and she could feel her cheeks growing flushed. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  His black eyes mocked her. ‘You heard me perfectly well.’

  ‘I thought my ears must be playing tricks with me.’

  ‘But why are you so shocked?’ he questioned carelessly. ‘Italian men have done this successfully for centuries. My own parents had such a union and a very happy marriage until my father’s death. Because such a match ensures the very best combination between the sexes—an experienced man who can educate a young virgin. He will tutor her in the fine art of pleasure and she will give him many child-bearing years.’

  Angie’s throat constricted. ‘You are…are…’

  He leaned closer, enjoying her obvious rage, finding that it was turning him on far more than was wise—but suddenly he didn’t care. ‘Am what, piccola?’

  ‘Outrageous. Outdated. Shall I go on?’ she retorted, swallowing to try to dampen down the sudden leap of excitement which his proximity had provoked. But wasn’t the real reason for her anger not so much a noble championing of women’s rights—but the fact that Riccardo’s criteria for finding a bride had effectively ruled her out? That she was neither young, nor a virgin. And how pitiful was that? Surely she wasn’t imagining that plain Angie Patterson was in with a chance—because if that were the case then leaving his employment wasn’t just a half-hearted desire, but a necessity. ‘I can’t believe you subscribe to such an outdated point of view, Riccardo,’ she finished crossly.

  But instead of looking chastened by her criticism, he merely smiled like a cat who had been given an entire vat of cream. ‘Ah, but I say what I believe—unfashionable or not. And I have never pretended to be any different, Angie,’ he murmured.

  And that, she thought, just about summed him up. Riccardo had pleased himself all his life—and the combination of looks, brains and charisma had allowed him to do so. Didn’t matter that he expressed views which were deeply unfashionable and would be seen by many as out of date. He didn’t care because he didn’t have to. Rich, powerful and single—he blazed through life exactly as he wanted to and he wasn’t about to start changing now. Why should he?

  So forget the fancy dress you’re wearing and try to forget your unwanted feelings for him, she told herself fiercely. Just be Angie—and set an example to the juniors by enjoying your staff party.

  ‘Who wants to pull another cracker?’ she questioned brightly.

  Riccardo sat back in his chair and watched her as she fished a gaudy-looking bracelet from the tissue paper of a spent cracker, and good-naturedly put it onto her wrist. But then, she was pretty much always good-natured, he realised. She was one of those backroom kind of people—the unseen and unnoticed ones who quietly kept the wheels of enterprise turning, without seeking any attention or glory for themselves. He could talk to Angie in a way he couldn’t talk to other women. Where would the world be without people like her? His eyes narrowed as a disturbing thought popped into his mind without warning. Because God help him if she ever decided to leave.

  Did he treat her properly? Did she get from him all the perks a secretary of her standing would expect to receive? His attention was caught by a pale flurry of snowflakes outside the window. Snow was unusual in London and it would be a cold night. His eyes flicked to the scarlet satin and a pulse began to work at his temple. A very cold night. Especially in a dress like that.

  And just at that moment, he saw yet another waiter look at her with ill-concealed interest on his face. ‘How are you getting home?’ he questioned suddenly.

  Angie stilled. ‘Home?’ she echoed stupidly, digging a spoon into her little dish of trifle.

  ‘I presume you have one,’ came the dry rejoinder. ‘Where do you live?’

  The question hurt more than it should have done. She knew everything about him. She knew the size shirt he wore, the hotels he liked to stay in and the wine he liked best to drink. She knew the birthdays of his mother, his brother and his sister and always reminded him in plenty of time for him to buy them presents. That she inevitably ended up choosing those presents was neither here nor there—because that was what good secretaries did, wasn’t it?

  She knew where he liked to ski in winter and where he occasionally basked in summer. She knew that he never ate pudding but occasionally would eat a square of dark, bitter chocolate with his coffee. She even knew which flowers he liked to send women when he was in pursuit—dark pink roses—and an appropriately generous consolation gift when he inevitably ended it—pearl and diamond cluster ear-studs from an international jeweler, and, oh, what pleasure Angie took in the purchase of those.

  Yet after five years of her pandering to his every whim and making his life as easy as possible Riccardo Castellari didn’t even know where she lived!

  ‘Stanhope,’ she said, putting her spoon down.

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘It’s on the Piccadilly Line—towards Heathrow.’

  ‘But that’s miles out.’

  ‘That’s right, Riccardo. It is.’

  ‘And how are you getting there?’

  How did he think? ‘By broomstick,’ she giggled.

  He frowned. Angie giggling? Was she drunk? ‘I’m serious, Angie,’ he growled.

  ‘Oh, all right, then. By Tube.’ She tipped her head to one side, aware of the unaccustomed silky fall of hair over her shoulders. ‘Same way I always get home.’

  He thought of the late-night underground network, chock-a-block with Christmas revelers, and the kind of reception she might expect to get. And his eyes flicked over her
surprisingly slim waist, accentuated by a flimsy silk gown which he must have been insane to give her. At the way her breasts seemed to be defying gravity by failing to spill out of the damned dress altogether. No wonder the waiters had been circling her like a pack of wolves for most of the evening, until his icy glance had made it very clear that they were jeopardising their tip by doing so. Was he prepared to sit back and let her go alone into the night? Why, it would be like throwing a lamb before lions!

  ‘Come on—get your coat on,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘I’m taking you home.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  FOR a moment Angie stared at Riccardo in disbelief, her lips parting as she stared at him. ‘You’re…you’re taking me home?’

  His black eyes gleamed. ‘I am.’

  ‘You mean on the Tube?’ she questioned blankly, trying to imagine her billionaire boss accompanying her down the escalator.

  ‘No, not on the Tube.’ He repressed a shudder. ‘In my car.’

  ‘You can’t take me home in your car,’ she objected. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘I may have been drinking,’ he stated grimly, ‘but I can hold my drink—something I suspect you cannot. And believe me, there’s little that’s more unattractive than a woman who is exhibiting signs of being drunk.’

  ‘That’s a very chauvinist remark.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘But I am a very chauvinistic man, piccola—I thought we had already established that?’

  Angie swallowed. There was something very exciting about him when he was speaking to her like that. In that kind of half-challenging, half-threatening way. But piccola meant small, didn’t it? Her mouth turned down at the corners. That was hardly compliment of the year, was it? ‘Are you saying I’m drunk?’

  ‘No, but I’m saying you’ve had enough alcohol to make you behave in a way which is…uninhibited. I don’t think you should travel home alone—it’s not safe—and I’m not driving, as it happens. That’s what I employ Marco to do. Now take your handbag and let’s get going.’

  Suddenly, he sounded masterful. The way she’d heard him speak to the occasional model he’d dated and who had dropped in at the office on their way to dinner. Angie could see one of the women from the human resources department staring at them with a very peculiar expression on her face. ‘Won’t…won’t people talk—if we leave together?’

  He shot her a cool look. ‘Why on earth should they?’ he questioned indifferently. ‘I’m simply giving my secretary a lift home.’

  Well, that certainly put her in her place!

  Marco had the car waiting with the engine running and Angie slid onto the back seat—completely forgetting that she was wearing a hemline about half as short as usual.

  A glimpse of delicious thigh was revealed and Riccardo felt the sudden fizz to his blood. Quickly averting his gaze, he turned instead to stare out of the window as they drove westwards on a journey which seemed to take for ever. Lots and lots of tiny houses—all, it seemed, exactly the same, with cars parked nose to nose by the edges of all the narrow roads. The shops looked unexciting and some of them were boarded up for the night. A small gang of youths stood moodily on a street corner, smoking cigarettes.

  Riccardo frowned. Surely he didn’t pay her so little that she had to live somewhere like this?

  The car came to a smooth halt outside a tall house and he turned to see that she was reclining lazily against the seat. Was she asleep? Her head was leaning back against the soft leather head-rest and her lips were more relaxed than he’d ever seen them. As was the soft fall of hair which tumbled over her shoulders. Not quite the brisk and efficient secretary now, he thought, and gently shook her by the shoulder—suddenly aware of the softness of her flesh. And another tantalising glimpse of thigh as she uncrossed her legs.

  Angie started into wakefulness from the half-dream she’d been having, lulled into a sleepy state by the warmth of the car and its smooth passage through the streets. Except when she opened her eyes she found that the dream hadn’t ended. For there was Riccardo leaning over her. Riccardo with his hard face and all its shifting planes and shadows. His gleaming black eyes and those hard-soft lips which could shift so easily between contempt and sensuality. For a moment she lost herself in that ebony gaze and a strange ache tugged at the pit of her stomach as she allowed herself the recurring fantasy that Riccardo was about to kiss her.

  Except that there had been enough fantasies for one day. The dress. The chauffeur-driven car. But midnight was beckoning and the carriage was about to turn into a pumpkin.

  She blinked, struggling to sit up from the seductive comfort of the squashy leather seat—aware of her dry throat as she groped around on the floor of the car for her handbag. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  But he made no move to get out, and with her head clearing by the second, Angie suddenly remembered her manners. He’d come miles out of his way to bring her here. And she noticed that he’d eaten barely anything at dinner. Offer him coffee, she thought. He’s bound to refuse. Because this felt odd. Disorientating. Riccardo outside her home!

  ‘Um, would you like a cup of coffee?’

  Riccardo had been just about to tell Marco to let her out when something in her question made him pause and bite back his automatic refusal. What was it, he wondered—a desire to see how someone like Angie lived, in a world away from his own? Suddenly and inexplicably, he was intensely curious—like a tourist in a foreign city who had just found a dark and hidden labyrinth and wanted to discover where it led.

  ‘Why not?’ he questioned lazily, and leaned across to open the door for her.

  For a moment, Angie stilled. In all their years of working together, they had been close—but never this close. So close that some tantalising trace of sandalwood and warm masculinity stole over her like an irresistible thief. Her hands were trembling as she got out of the car, her heart racing as she inserted her key in the lock, trying desperately to remember what kind of state she’d left the place in that morning. Because, yes, she was a naturally tidy person—but she was only human. What if he wanted to use the loo when she knew there were three pairs of panties drying on a line over the bathtub?

  She showed him into her sitting room—trying her best to feel proud of her little home, but nothing could stop her from seeing it through his eyes. The tiny sitting room with the tired old furniture which she’d done her best to beautify by adding a few brightly coloured throws. But even though she’d applied several coats of paint to the walls nothing could disguise the ugly, embossed wallpaper underneath. Or the fact that the kitchen looked as if it had been frozen in time and transported there from the middle of the last century. Her only concession to the forthcoming holiday season was an armful of holly which she’d bought down at the market and then stuffed into an enamel jug. At least the dark green foliage and scarlet berries injected some living colour into the room.

  ‘I must, just—er—I’ll go and put the kettle on!’ she announced. She dashed off to do so and after that she performed a swift underwear sweep of the bathroom. Stuffing the clean panties into the airing cupboard, she was miserably aware of the tired bathtub and the ancient cistern. Please don’t let him want to use the bathroom, she prayed.

  She returned to the sitting room with a tray of coffee to find Riccardo standing looking out of the window and as he turned round she could do nothing to prevent the great leap of her heart. He had taken off his jacket and hung it over the edge of the sofa and Angie found herself hoping that he wouldn’t snag it there. Never had his Italian elegance been more in evidence than here where it contrasted against the humble setting of her home.

  Rather helplessly, she handed him a mug—aware that it was slightly faded and bore the legend of a long-ago national sporting triumph. Just as everything in her life was faded. Or was it just seeing Riccardo standing here—so vibrant and so full of colour and charisma—that made her self-doubt loom into the forefront of her consciousness, like a great dark sp
ectre? She waited for him to make some polite comment about her home, but he didn’t. He still had that faint air of distraction he’d had for weeks, she realised—a tension and tightness which added up to more than his usual alpha-male alertness.

  ‘Is everything…okay, Riccardo?’ she asked him uncertainly.

  He had been miles away and his eyes narrowed as his thoughts cleared and he found himself in her dingy little sitting room holding a large cup of coffee in his hand, which he didn’t particularly want.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Just that you seem a bit…oh, I don’t know. A bit uptight lately. More so than usual.’

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Was she prying? Stepping into areas which were nothing to do with her? Yet her face was soft with concern, the way it always was. And couldn’t he talk to her in a way that he couldn’t talk to other women—because the relationship between boss and secretary was uniquely close without being in any way intimate? With Angie he could unburden himself—could she wash away all his worries with her sweet common sense? Putting the untouched mug down on a faded table, he shrugged.

  ‘Just problems at home,’ he bit out.

  She knew that no matter how long he had lived in London—or anywhere else in the world for that matter—Italy would always be his home, and Tuscany in particular.

  ‘Something to do with your sister’s forthcoming wedding?’ she guessed.

  His eyes narrowed as he shot her a suspicious look. ‘How did you know that?’

  She ignored the accusatory tone. She knew how intensely private he was about family matters, but surely he realised that she was privy to many of his telephone conversations—especially when he lost his temper? Or did her general invisibility mean that he overlooked even that simple fact?