The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘Did I? Well, in view of your behaviour—I’ve changed my mind.’ He gave a grim kind of smile. ‘Such a verbal agreement between two lovers simply boils down to your word against mine. Next time I’d get something down in writing, if I were you.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALL the way during her miserable flight home to London, Angie told herself that she didn’t care. That Riccardo wouldn’t dare blackmail her into staying under what would now be intolerable working conditions. That he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  But it didn’t work out like that.

  She spoke to a lawyer—a friend-of-a-friend told her that her boss was completely within his rights. For one brief second Angie contemplated opening her mouth to ask whether the fact that they’d been lovers might have any bearing on the case, then quickly shut it again. Because that made her sound at best unprofessional, and at worst…Well, it made her sound completely lacking in morals. As if she were one of those awful women in the workplace who tried to further their career by less than scrupulous means.

  But she was worried about Floriana, too—and now wondering whether she’d done the wrong thing. If she’d told Riccardo late that night, then could her disappearance have been prevented?

  She was shivering as she caught the Tube into work, full of a cold which seemed to have hit her the moment she’d landed back in England. And full of dread too, because yesterday she had received a matter-of-fact email from Riccardo telling her that he was back from Italy and would be returning to the office this morning, prior to flying out to New York at the end of the week.

  Angie bit her lip. With a bit of luck, he might be abroad most of the time she was working out her notice—and with a bit more luck, she might find a decent job to go to in the interim. She’d actually managed to arrange a couple of interviews for the following week.

  She was banking on him strolling in at around ten, but fate was clearly conspiring against her because he entered the building at exactly the same time as her and, bizarrely, they met in the middle of the vast marble foyer, staring at one another like two strangers.

  ‘Hello, Angie,’ he said, in a cool kind of voice.

  The last time she’d seen him he had been yelling at her—so was the fact that this was a very public meeting place the reason why at least he sounded civil? She matched his tone with a cool, non-committal one of her own. ‘Good—good morning.’

  She was forced to share the lift with him and the presence of two women from the accounts department thankfully ruled out any attempt at conversation. But the silence pressed down on her like a lead weight and Angie could feel tiny beads of sweat springing from her forehead as she tried to look somewhere—anywhere—other than at that hard and handsome face, which still had the power to make her heart melt.

  Riccardo let his eyes drift over her. She was pale, he thought, and she looked as if she’d lost weight—was that possible in a matter of days? His mouth hardened. So she’d lost weight—why should he care? Hadn’t her stubbornness helped complicate an already complicated family situation?

  The lift doors slid open and he stood back to let her pass—aware of the faint, light scent she wore and the gleam of her hair as she moved. He followed her into the office, unable to keep his eyes from the sexy sway of her bottom—even though he had told himself countless times during the last few days that the affair was over, and that he would arrive back in London and wonder what the hell he’d ever seen in her.

  So what had gone wrong?

  Why did he find himself wanting to pull her into his arms again and seek comfort and passion in those soft, seeking lips of hers? He wasn’t quite sure—and, for a man to whom uncertainty was a stranger, Riccardo felt oddly unnerved by the sensation.

  After she’d hung her coat up and blown her nose for what seemed like the hundredth time, Angie looked at him. ‘How’s Floriana?’

  There was a pause as he looked at her, seeing the concern in her eyes and the faint tremble of her lips.

  ‘I should be angry with you,’ he said slowly. ‘For letting precious time elapse after she left the castle.’

  Angie seized on the one positive word in his statement. ‘Should be?’ she questioned.

  He gave a ragged sigh. ‘But I thought about what you’d said—about Floriana needing to make her own mistakes—and realised that Romano and I might have taken our roles as surrogate father just a little too far.’

  ‘You’ve found her?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes. She’s in England.’ His mouth quirked in an odd kind of smile. ‘She is getting married after all.’

  ‘Married? But…but…how?’ Angie frowned at him in confusion. ‘She told me she didn’t love Aldo—and I believed her.’

  ‘It isn’t Aldo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She is planning on marrying the Englishman—Max—the one she was involved with all those years ago. It seemed that back then he did what he thought was the decent thing by ending it, having decided they were both too young. But it seemed that the very possibility of her marrying another man was enough to bring him to his knees and back into her life—and for Floriana to realise what it was she really wanted.’

  Angie stared at him cautiously. ‘And how have your family taken it?’

  Riccardo shrugged. ‘The reaction, as you can imagine—has been mixed.’

  All he knew was that his sister was ecstatic, his brother and Aldo were livid and his mother was—oddly—quietly contented. She had pointedly told him and Romano that love was the only reason why a couple should marry! Something which had startled Riccardo out of his complacency zone. And here he had been—all these years—labouring under the illusion that, just because his own father had been two decades older, his parents had simply worked hard at a marriage of convenience. It seemed that he had been very wrong indeed.

  ‘I’m very pleased that it’s all worked out so well for her,’ said Angie.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes. No one should enter a marriage with that degree of dread,’ she said quietly, and then started coughing.

  Black eyes narrowed as they scanned her face and he noticed that her nose was red, in contrast to the almost translucent paleness of her skin. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m all right. I’ve just got a…a…ah-ah-shoo!’

  He frowned. ‘You shouldn’t be at work.’

  ‘It’s only a cold.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be at work,’ he repeated obdurately.

  Her eyes met his in a mocking challenge. ‘I thought that absenting myself from your office wasn’t an option, Riccardo. I thought I was to work out every second of my notice or risk legal action. I thought—’

  ‘Angie,’ he cut into her words roughly. ‘I said those things in anger and when I had time to think about them, I realised I shouldn’t have done. In fact, I realised a lot of things, the main one being that I don’t want you to leave.’

  Wasn’t it ironic how words you once would have taken to your heart and cherished could no longer have the power to thrill you when they were spoken too late? Life, thought Angie bitterly, was all a question of timing.

  ‘I was unreasonable,’ he continued, when still she didn’t speak.

  From somewhere Angie mustered up a smile. ‘So no change there.’

  ‘Can we forget it ever happened?’

  She looked at him. For a highly intelligent man he could be so dense. Or maybe it was just that innate arrogance of his, which he sensed would always carry him through. He just didn’t realise, did he? ‘We can try,’ she said gamely.

  Riccardo slanted her a slow smile. ‘So you’ll stay, after all?’

  There was a pause. Once she would have been unable to resist the power of that look. ‘Riccardo, I can’t do that.’

  Suddenly, the smile left him. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I can’t; not now. Not now we’ve been lovers—it can never get itself back onto the right kind of boss-secretary footing which we used to enjoy. And you’ll find another secr
etary.’

  He curled the fingers of his hand into a tight ball. ‘I don’t want another secretary.’

  ‘But you will—and it will all be fine. You just don’t like change, that’s all.’And oddly enough, she felt strong now—despite the slight woolliness in her knees which seemed to go hand in hand with the brass band which was currently playing a muffled symphony inside her head. ‘The row we had was irrelevant, I was planning to leave before we had it and I’d be planning to leave no matter what. I have to—surely you can see that?’

  ‘But why?’ he demanded.

  Tell him, Angie urged herself. Explain the feelings and some of the emotions behind your actions and you won’t be able to see him for dust. ‘Because sooner or later our…affair will finish—and it would be intolerable to go on working together after that.’

  Riccardo scowled, unused to having this kind of argument put to him, when he was the one usually calling the shots. ‘It isn’t an affair,’ he objected stubbornly. ‘Since neither of us are married.’

  But she noticed he hadn’t denied that it would finish. For how could he? ‘Then how would you define it?’

  He shrugged. ‘A relationship?’

  She heard the doubt in his voice and she might have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. ‘A working relationship, yes—but nothing more than that. Why, we’ve never even been out on a date together!’

  ‘Are you saying that’s what you want?’ he demanded. ‘To start dating?’

  She shook her head in frustration. ‘Not at all,’ she answered.

  ‘No? Can’t think of anything else you might want?’ he questioned silkily as he pulled her to her feet and into his arms, his lips moving over hers with a hunger he made no attempt to disguise. Through the mists which now seemed to be gathering force inside her head, Angie felt the answering tug of desire, but she pulled away from him while she still had the strength.

  ‘You’ll catch my cold,’ she objected and then, inexplicably, her teeth started chattering.

  Frowning, he put the back of his hand over her forehead. ‘You’re burning up! That is no cold,’ he ground out. ‘That feels more like fever.’ Exclaiming softly in Italian, he sat her back down on the sofa and quickly clicked out a number on his phone before beginning to speak in rapid Italian. ‘Sì, sì—subito.’ And then he picked up Angie’s coat and bag. ‘Come on, piccola,’ he said softly. ‘We’re going.’

  Blankly, she stared up at him. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m taking you home. You need to be in bed.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Please don’t argue with me, Angie. Not this time.’

  She allowed him to take her downstairs, vaguely aware of curious faces turned in their direction once they reached the reception area. And dimly, once she’d been clipped into the seat belt in the back of the limousine, it occurred to her that Marco was taking a very odd route to Stanhope.

  And it wasn’t until they had pulled up outside a very impressive old building and a doorman had sprung into action—doffing his cap at Riccardo and pressing the lift button—that Angie realised that he wasn’t taking her home at all. At least, not to her home.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she sniffed weakly as he held onto her elbow and the lift zoomed with the speed of a jet towards its lofty destination. ‘I thought you were taking me home.’

  ‘You think I’d leave you there, in that tiny, miserable little place? All alone,’ he added. ‘With nobody to look after you?’

  ‘I don’t need anybody to look after me,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  She gave up objecting then because Riccardo carried her—carried her!—into what was clearly the master bedroom and her head felt all whoozy as he put her down on a huge bed.

  Then he undressed her with a detached, almost ruthless efficiency—leaving her wearing just her bra and panties and pulling a sheet over her while he went to phone the doctor.

  ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ protested Angie, even though she was shivering quite badly now.

  The doctor arrived shortly afterwards and put a horrible cold stethoscope against her chest while he took her temperature. ‘Her temperature is sky-high,’ he announced.

  She tried to grab the duvet, but Riccardo prised it from her fingers.

  ‘You have a fever,’ he reprimanded sternly.

  ‘You must make sure that your girlfriend drinks plenty,’ said the doctor. ‘And takes regular analgesia. It’s a nasty dose of flu which is doing the rounds, but she should be better in a few days.’

  Angie wanted to protest that she wasn’t his girlfriend, but now someone had started a steam train chugging inside her head. Weakly, she lifted her head from the pillow. ‘I can’t stay here for ah-ah-shoo…’

  ‘Rest,’ said the doctor severely.

  ‘Oh, I’ll make sure she rests,’ said Riccardo grimly.

  And in truth, it was bliss—almost worth being ill for. Because Angie had never been cosseted like this before. Even when she was younger, it was Sally, her younger sister, who was always fussed over. Sally who had undisputedly been Daddy’s girl and so devastated by his death that she had demanded the focus of attention from their grieving mother. And Angie who had always helped provide comfort for both of them. Reliable Angie who just got on with things and never complained.

  For two whole nights and two long days, she drifted in and out of a sweat-filled sleep. Once—very blurrily—to find Riccardo with his sleeves rolled up, sponging down her naked body with tepid water. Feeble hands fluttered up in a half-hearted attempt to cover her modesty, but he removed them from her burning breasts with a grim-looking expression on his face.

  He wondered what she would say if she realised that last night she had deliriously been clinging to him and begging him not to leave her. And it had taken every bit of will power he possessed to cover her up with the thin cotton sheet instead of climbing in and taking her shivering body into his arms, as she had been demanding.

  But on the third day, Angie awoke to the smell of coffee and the sensation of someone having removed the cotton wool which had been padded inside her head. Blinking furiously, she looked around her in disbelief—her rapidly clearly mind taking in the colossal proportions of the bedroom she was in with something approaching disbelief.

  She was in Riccardo’s bedroom! Lying in his bed. Alone.

  She looked around. All the furniture was very old and gleamed like silk and on the walls hung exquisite Tuscan landscapes. A vase of pure white roses drifted out a subtle scent and giant windows overlooked the verdant sweep of Green Park. Against her skin, she could feel the buttery caress of some soft material and, lifting up the sheet, she saw that she was wearing some sleek sort of nightgown—its eau-de-nil silk falling demurely to her ankles. Where had that come from?

  Her legs felt so weak that getting out of bed took a little time, but after a few seconds she felt steady enough to move and made her way into the en-suite bathroom with the certainty of someone who had been there before, though not quite remembering when. Staring at herself in the mirror, she resigned herself for a shock—and a shock it certainly was.

  Her hair was all over the place and her cheeks looked quite hollow—she must have lost at least five pounds. But the colour was beginning to return to her cheeks and her eyes looked surprisingly bright. Finding an unused toothbrush and some soap, she freshened up—using one of Riccardo’s brushes to try to create some kind of order out of her ruffled hair.

  Back in the bedroom she could hear the sound of a radio and activity in another part of the apartment and she went to find the source of it. And there—in a streamlined kitchen, looking remarkably proficient—was Riccardo busying himself with a coffee pot. He was in a pair of dark trousers and a silk shirt, his feet were bare and his black hair was not yet dry from the shower.

  He must have heard her enter because he turned round and looked at her, his eyes running over her assessingly and, stupidly, Angie found herself blushing. It wasn’t so
much because she felt undressed—he’d seen her wearing a lot less than this. It was just that in a way this felt more intimate than anything which had gone before. But it isn’t, she reminded herself fiercely. It’s simply masquerading as intimacy.

  ‘You’re looking better,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘Much better.’

  ‘I feel much better. Riccardo—’ She wrapped her hands around her arms. ‘What’s been happening?’

  ‘You’ve been ill,’ he said softly. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Then you’ve been…been…’

  ‘Not now. Sit down. Please.’ Waving aside her stumbled words, he pointed to a squashy black leather chair which was littered with cushions, and she sat down on it gratefully, her legs still weaker than she realised.

  ‘Coffee?’ he questioned.

  She wondered if it occurred to him that their positions were suddenly reversed; that he was looking after her. Don’t get used to it, she thought. ‘Please.’

  ‘And something to eat, I imagine? You must be hungry?’

  ‘Starving.’

  ‘Eggs okay?’

  ‘Eggs would be perfect.’

  He found himself humming as he melted butter in a pan and ten minutes later they were sitting side by side at his breakfast bar, eating scrambled eggs and raisin bread and drinking strong, dark coffee.

  In between mouthfuls, Angie savoured the moment, even though she knew that it would be heartbreaking to relive it afterwards. They’d never done this kind of closeness before—though pretty much every other kind. And behind all the recent storms in their working relationship the bottom line was that they had always been a team. At least this way they would part on the good terms which their long partnership deserved.

  ‘Thank you, Riccardo,’ she said quietly. ‘For looking after me so superbly.’

  ‘I don’t want your thanks.’

  ‘Tough. You’re getting them.’ She saw him smile and she wanted to say to him: Stop smiling. Stop being impossible not to love—and just start being impossible again! But Angie knew she was fighting a losing battle—no matter how he behaved. For she had loved him when he had been impossible. Loved him in her bed. Loved him even through all the misunderstandings and the angry words. She would always love Riccardo Castellari, she realised—and that was the reason why she needed to leave him. ‘Anyway, after that delicious breakfast—or was it lunch?—I guess I’d better be getting out of your hair.’