He was waiting for her in the hall as she came down the stairs—wearing a dark suit that somehow emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, and a fine, white silk shirt that flattered the sun-bronzed features beneath the smooth sweep of thick, black hair. He smiled, the dark eyes openly appraising as she descended. 'It suits you,' was all he said—but the real compliment could be read in his expression rather than in the words he spoke.
Tanya felt a faint blush stain her cheeks. The dress did wonders for her, there was no doubt about that. Its elegant cut—softly draped over the bust, moulded to fit around the waist and hips—dramatically accentuated her naturally slim shapeliness, and the colour provided a perfect foil for her creamy complexion and golden hair. But Fausto Cabrini's approval was something she very definitely did not need. She raised her eyebrows haughtily and glanced down at him from the height advantage of the last few stairs. 'So glad you approve,' she murmured with a less than subtle twist of sarcasm in her voice.
His eyes swept downwards to her cream-slippered feet and paused in pointed scrutiny. 'No sticking plaster, I see.' The corners of his well shaped mouth lifted in an openly amused, sardonic little smile. 'I'm surprised you can walk after the punishment you inflicted on them this afternoon. You really should have taken my advice.' The black eyes seemed to challenge her.
That'll be the day! was her instantaneous response, but she refrained from expressing the sentiment out loud. Instead, she glided past him with all the disdain she could muster and retorted coolly, 'Signor Cabrini, I do assure you I really am perfectly capable of looking after myself—including my feet.' Which wasn't altogether accurate, she acknowledged ruefully to herself. After this afternoon's ordeal her feet were feeling decidedly tender in places. She would just have to keep her fingers crossed that she wouldn't be required to walk any great distances tonight.
'I'm glad to hear it,' he responded mockingly. 'As I've already told you, I've no desire to end up having to carry you.' Then he broke off and very deliberately held her eyes. 'My name is Fausto, by the way. Much less cumbersome than "Signor Cabrini", don't you think?' And he quickly walked past her to the door. 'Now I suggest that we be on our way. Our table is booked for half past eight and we really ought to arrive ahead of our guests.'
A sleek white Lamborghini was parked and waiting for them in the forecourt, the keys in the ignition, and Tanya wondered idly just how many cars Fausto Cabrini possessed. He pulled open the passenger door for her and she climbed inside. 'You may find it a bit low,' he observed as she sat down, straightening the skirt of her dress. 'It's not the easiest car in the world to get in and out of elegantly, but at least it's fast.'
And that, Tanya observed drily to herself as they were storming down the autostrada less than fifteen minutes later, must be the understatement of the year. He drove with the same cool confidence as he seemed to do everything else. The grip of the long, tanned fingers on the steering-wheel was light yet spoke of absolute authority, like the firm, sure touch of an experienced rider on the reins of his mount. And, like the experienced rider, Tanya felt instinctively, he knew precisely how to coax and control this powerful mechanical beast to do his bidding. He was its master. In spite of the hair-raising speed they were travelling at, she felt no fear, only an unexpected sense of exhilaration.
He slowed down as the traffic on the autostrada began to thicken a few kilometres outside Milan, and addressed her without taking his eyes from the road. 'You've spent some time in Milan. Perhaps you know the Ristorante La Traviata where we're going tonight.'
She shook her head. She had heard of it, of course—it was one of the most exclusive and expensive restaurants in Milan—but she had never actually eaten there. 'By reputation only, I'm afraid. I didn't stay in Milan as long as I would have liked. Only for about six months as it turned out—and there are a lot of places I would like to have seen that I never got round to visiting.'
'I would have thought the social sights would have been the first priority for a girl like you.'
Angrily she swivelled round to glare at him. 'My studies were my first priority.' Why was he always so quick to label her as shallow and frivolous? 'It was a great disappointment to me when I had to leave.'
'So what's to stop you picking up where you left off?'
If only she could! The interior design diploma from the Accademia in Milan would be a valuable qualification, she knew. But she had few hopes of returning to complete her final year in the foreseeable future, now that Devlin was so ill and likely to need her by his side. 'Maybe I shall one of these days,' she answered quietly.
They were coming up to the final toll station before turning off the autostrada and heading for the centre of Milan, and suddenly the dark interior of the car was flooded with light. Cabrini turned to look at her as they joined the line of cars at one of the half-dozen pay booths straddling the road and the black eyes beneath the strongly arched brows held a strange expression she had never seen in them before.
'I'm sorry if I was out of line back there,' he said. 'Renata told me how you gave up your studies when your mother died. I'd forgotten. I should never have brought the subject up.'
His apology took her totally by surprise. 'Don't worry,' she assured him quickly, dropping her eyes and turning away from the dark, penetrating gaze that was suddenly quite unsettling. 'I don't mind you mentioning it. It doesn't upset me to talk about my mother.' She sighed lightly as an image of the passionate and vital woman who had filled her childhood with so much love and happiness flitted across her mind. 'Of course, I miss her very much, but I have so many happy memories of her to treasure. In a way, she will always be alive for me.' She shook her head. 'The real tragedy when she died was for my father. They were devoted to one another. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever recover from her death.'
They passed through the toll and Cabrini headed for the sliproad that would take them to the centre of the city. For a minute or two he said nothing, then when he spoke there was an odd note of detachment in his voice, as though he were talking to himself as much as her. 'It's sad, of course, but in a way I envy your father. It must be a wonderful thing to have a marriage like that.' He paused. 'And you, Tanya, should consider yourself lucky, too. To grow up in a home where there is so much love is a very rare and special thing.'
A strange sensation tugged at Tanya as she glanced now at the hard features etched in darkness against the sodium lights. Could it be that she had just glimpsed a softer, more vulnerable side to the man? He had spoken then with an unguarded candour quite out of character with the arrogant self-possession with which he generally confronted the world. Could it be that the man had a heart, was prey to ordinary human feelings, after all? No, what she had glimpsed then was a mere momentary lapse of no significance, she decided, discounting out of hand the very possibility. It would be sheer whimsy on her part to suspect otherwise.
They reached the restaurant just a few minutes before their guests. Cabrini rose politely to his feet as the two middle-aged couples approached their table—the men sleek and prosperous-looking, their wives immaculately and expensively groomed—and Tanya felt a quick surge of gratitude that she was wearing Renata's aquamarine dress. In anything less elegant she would have felt completely out of place.
The four took their seats in a flurry of distinguished bonhomie and expensive French scent. Aperitifs were ordered, introductions made. Mario and Carla Alfonsi, it appeared to Tanya, were typical examples of the Italian alta borghesia, he with his trim moustache and Savile Row dinner-jacket, she with her faultless beauty-parlour complexion and discreet pearl choker glowing at her neck. The Banuccis appeared to have been cast from a slightly different mould. Giorgio, in spite of the hand-cut cashmere and silk he wore, had a rougher, earthier edge to him that Tanya somehow found reassuring, and Gabriella, though garbed and coiffed as elegantly as Carla, seemed less precariously poised on her dignity than the other woman.
And, in fact, it was Gabriella who made the first conversational overture to T
anya as they laid aside their menus and waited for the antipasti to arrive. 'Fausto tells me you really saved his bacon by stepping in at the last minute when his other secretary let him down. I'm sure a pretty girl like you had better things to do than slave away over a hot typewriter all summer long.'
Tanya was aware of dark eyes watching her from across the table as she made her response. 'Oh, not at all,' she answered brightly, wondering at her own enthusiasm. 'I was at a loose end, actually. I was quite delighted when Signor—eh, Fausto—invited me to fill in for a few months.'
With a look of defiance, she met the dark gaze. A flicker of amusement briefly curled the corners of his lips. 'Of course, Tanya is a good friend of Renata's,' he very pointedly informed the table at large. 'In fact, a good friend of the family, really, you could say. Isn't that right, Tanya?'
She was saved from having to perjure herself by an innocent exclamation from Gabriella. 'How lovely! So you're a friend of Renata's—I didn't realise. What a charming girl Renata is.'
On that point, at least, she could agree with total sincerity. And resisted the temptation to add, 'And so totally unlike her brother.'
'You must feel quite at home, then, at the Villa Cabrini,' Gabriella pursued enthusiastically. 'That's nice. It's so much more pleasant to be among friends in a foreign land.'
Tanya exchanged a brief, ironic glance with the dark-suited figure seated opposite and let the ill-judged observation pass. With friends like Fausto Cabrini, who needed enemies?
In time the conversation moved on to weightier matters of business, and for the most part Tanya found herself a mere observer, but, nevertheless, a fascinated one. The talk of base rates and MLR and Eurocurrency deposits passed largely uncomprehended over her head, but watching the five participants was an entertainment in itself.
There was never a moment of doubt about who the star of the show might be, but Tanya had to admit, albeit rather reluctantly, that Cabrini was a deft performer. He knew how to share the limelight, encouraging the others to play their parts. He knew when to step into the background and when to move forward on to centre stage. His timing was impeccable. And his four co-stars seemed as happily involved in the performance as he appeared to be.
It was perfectly obvious they all held their host in the greatest respect, and, grudgingly, Tanya found it not too difficult to appreciate why. He had the air of a man who knew what he was talking about, whose aura of profound authority and dominance was founded on more than just a deep sense of personal superiority—for that was part of his power, too. More important, though, he radiated expertise, a complete mastery of the business he dealt in. And, for that, Tanya felt a sneaking admiration. Even respect.
It was well into the evening when the woman with the bright blonde hair and purple silk catsuit suddenly appeared. Tanya saw her from across the room as she swept between the crowded tables on the arm of her escort, looking as though she owned the place. And for a brief moment the eyes of the two women met—though it was more of a clash than a meeting, Tanya acknowledged to herself in puzzlement. A moment later the woman was standing at Fausto Cabrini's elbow, her escort having conveniently melted into the crowd, and Tanya wasn't feeling puzzled any more.
She was obviously one of his women, Tanya surmised, observing the proprietary hand that gripped his arm as the blonde head bent to kiss him lingeringly on each cheek. 'Fausto, caro! Che piacere incontrarti. How lovely bumping into you.' She was in her mid-thirties, Tanya guessed. A bit on the loud side, but attractive enough if you happened to like that sort of thing.
Fausto Cabrini apparently did. He smiled and lightly encircled the purple silk waist with one arm as he responded, with easy, familiar charm, to the woman's overtures. And Tanya watched with mingled fascination and distaste as the fond creature fluttered and giggled, like a woman half her age, at every charming and witty thing he said. Whoever she was, she must have been born with about as much perception as a loaf of bread!
The woman was quite clearly already acquainted with the Alfonsis and the Banuccis, though she dispensed no more than a cursory nod to each of them. It was indubitably Fausto that she had crossed the restaurant to see—though Tanya was aware that she cast more than one glance in her own direction, a curiously cautionary expression in the wide green eyes. The presence of the young girl in the aquamarine dress at Cabrini's table was obviously troubling her. There was an element almost of belligerence in the way she so undisguisedly was wondering who Tanya was.
She was still wondering ten minutes later as she prepared to take her leave. Cabrini had not introduced the two of them—a deliberate omission, Tanya felt. The woman cast a bright smile round the table. 'So sorry to interrupt you, signore e signori,' she declared in an oddly condescending tone of voice. 'I'll leave you to get on with your dinner and your conversation now.'
'No need to apologise, contessa. A pleasure to see you.' This was accompanied by a gallant inclination of the head from Giorgio—for which he was rewarded with a dazzling smile.
So she was a countess. Evidently the Italian aristocracy was on the slide. Tanya eyed her with bitchy disapproval as she bent once more to embrace Cabrini. 'A presto, caro. I'll see you soon.'
He acknowledged her entreaty with another charming smile. 'A presto. Stai bene. Look after yourself.'
Then, plucking her hand almost reluctantly from Fausto Cabrini's sleeve, she started at last to move away, but not before pausing to deliver a final warning glance at Tanya. If looks could kill, Tanya found herself pondering with a quiet smile. The countess was definitely one friend that she hadn't made tonight.
And later, when the little dinner party finally broke up, she was aware of a pair of dark green eyes boring into the back of her skull as she followed Cabrini to the door—and with difficulty resisted the urge to turn around. If some silly woman of Fausto Cabrini's was suffering pangs of jealousy because of her, the last thing she wanted was to get involved. She had enough problems of her own, thank you. Let them keep their nasty little affair to themselves.
But, in spite of all that, she was feeling oddly elated as she settled back into the soft contours of the Lamborghini's passenger seat, and she even permitted herself a relaxed, almost contented sigh as Fausto climbed into the driver's seat beside her.
'I hope you didn't find all that too boring,' he said, gunning the engine and heading back in the direction of the autostrada.
'Not in the least,' Tanya informed him lazily as she leaned back and watched the city lights flash by. 'As a matter of fact, I found the whole thing rather illuminating.'
'Did you now?' The big car gave a throaty growl as he changed down the gears and headed up the slipway to the toll gates. 'And which particular aspects of the proceedings, Tanya, did you find of special note?'
Tanya straightened slightly in her seat, a fleeting irritation pursing her lips as she prepared to answer him. Did he never relax? Did he have to cross-examine her at every turn? 'It was interesting to see how you do business. To see how you manipulate your clients,' she added spitefully, reluctant to heap praise.
But he only turned and smiled at her under the bright arc-lights of the toll station. An amused smile, superior and confident. Like the man himself, she reflected drily, avoiding the dark eyes. He already knew how good he was. He certainly didn't need her to tell him. 'And how do I manipulate my clients, Tanya? Elaborate.'
'Most cleverly. I doubt they even realise they're being manipulated.'
He laughed out loud then. 'That goes without saying. Manipulation, to be effective, must be subtle. As a woman, that is something you must surely know.'
She decided to ignore that last, sexist remark. The evening had been pleasant and, for once, she was in no mood for a fight. Half closing her eyes, she relaxed back against the deep, soft leather of her seat, enjoying again the quick thrill of excitement as the big car surged away from the bright lights of the toll station, heading for the darkened fast lane of the autostrada.
It was a strange excitement, this
sensation of power. The power of the machine, fierce and fragile, that hurtled them with apparent effortlessness through the night. And the power of the man beside her that controlled it. For, above all, it was the power of the man she felt—unyielding, ruthlessly cruel and irresistible. It was a power that both drew and repelled her at the same time, that stirred some basic animal passion of her own deep within, that would hold her captive in its seductive thrall if she only dared give in to it. But she did not dare.
Abruptly, she snapped her eyes open. Was she taking leave of her senses?
'I thought you'd fallen asleep.'
She glanced quickly at the dark, aquiline profile, then, just as quickly, glanced away again. 'Just thinking.' But what thoughts!
'Weren't you going to enlighten me with your observations on the proceedings tonight?' His tone held that familiar, mocking ring.
'If you like.'
'I like. The intuitive female interpretation always interests me.'
Instinctively Tanya felt her hackles rise. From the lips of a man like Fausto Cabrini, intuitive could only be a slur. A male chauvinist euphemism for irrational. She squared her shoulders and stared straight ahead. 'Well, I think I've figured out why you like to meet your clients with their wives.'
'Do tell.'
She ignored the note of condescension in his voice and carried on. 'Well, apart from the fact that it undoubtedly flatters your male ego to have those wealthy Milanese matrons sighing at your every syllable, I can see that their presence serves a purpose of sorts. Not so much in the case of the Alfonsis, of course. Mario Alfonsi appears to be so smitten by your financial prowess that he would go along with virtually anything you said. And his wife couldn't care less how her husband's money is invested, just so long as the profits keep her in pearl chokers and face-lifts for the next thirty years. I suspect she's happy to tag along just to keep an eye on her husband as much as anything.'
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