Married By Christmas Bundle: Anthology

by Carol Marinelli

  She had heard male voices likened to anything from gravel to bitter chocolate, but this one slammed straight into her senses. Italian, she guessed, and with just the hint of a sexy mid-Atlantic drawl. She pictured him scanning the cluttered space, hunting for her hiding place, and felt her whole being responding to some imperative and extremely erotic wake-up call.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she sang out, relieved she was hidden away. ‘I’m getting changed.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Weston,’ the voice replied evenly. ‘Please don’t hurry on my account.’

  Just the authority in the man’s voice made the hairs stand on the back of her neck. And there was a stillness about it that made her think of a jungle cat, lithe, impossibly strong—and deadly.

  It was in her nature to confront threats, not hide from them. So why was she skulking behind a screen? Emily asked herself impatiently. Could it be that the force of this man’s personality had taken possession of what, in Miranda’s absence, was her territory?

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said, struggling to see through a tiny crack in the woodwork.

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  There was supreme confidence and not a little amusement in the response, as well as the type of worldliness that had Emily mentally rocking back on her heels. It was almost as if the man had caught her out doing something wrong—as if she had no right to be looking at him.

  Drawing a few steadying breaths, she tried again. But all she could see through the crack in the screen was the broad sweep of shoulders clad in a black dinner jacket and a cream silk evening scarf slung casually around the neck of an impressively tall individual. A man whose luxuriant, dark wavy hair was immaculately groomed and glossy…the type of hair that made you want to run your fingers through it and then move on to caress—She pulled herself up short, closing her eyes to gather her senses…senses that were reacting in an extraordinary manner to nothing more than a man’s voice, Emily reminded herself. She spent her working life objective and detached…yet now, when it really mattered—when Miranda’s recording contract was at stake—she was allowing herself to be sideswiped off-beam by a few simple words. ‘I’m sorry, Mr…er—’

  ‘Bussoni,’ he supplied evenly.

  ‘Mr Bussoni,’ Emily said, her assurance growing behind the protection of the screen. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give the gentleman who works for you a very warm welcome—’

  ‘Really? He said nothing of it to me.’

  She was beginning to get a very clear picture of the man now. The image of a hunter sprang to mind…someone who was waiting and listening, using all his senses to evaluate his quarry. ‘I understand you’d like to discuss the possibility of signing the band?’ she said carefully.

  There was another long pause, during which Emily formed the impression that the man was scanning all her neatly arranged possessions, gathering evidence about her and soaking up information—drawing conclusions. And from his position in front of the mirror he could do all of that—and still keep a watch on her hiding place.

  Taking over last minute from Miranda meant she had been forced to come straight from work. There had been no time to find out about the event, let alone who might be in the audience. She had certainly not anticipated the need to be on her guard—to hide everything away. ‘You are from Prince Records?’ she prompted in a businesslike tone, hoping to bounce the man into some sort of admission.

  ‘Do you think you could possibly come out here and discuss this in person?’

  It was a reasonable enough suggestion. But Miranda was never seen without full war paint, and after liberal applications of cold cream Emily’s own face had returned to its customary naked state. If she hoped to impersonate her twin an appearance right now was out of the question.

  ‘I know this must sound rude, after you’ve taken the trouble to come backstage, but I’m rather tired this evening. Do you think we could talk tomorrow?’ she said, knowing Miranda should have recovered and taken her rightful place by then.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon, at three?’

  Emily’s hearing was acutely tuned to his every move. He was already turning to go, she realised. Suddenly she couldn’t even remember what she had on the following day, let alone specifically at three o’clock in the afternoon. The only thing she was capable of registering—apart from an over-active heartbeat—was that the recording contract for Miranda’s band was vital.

  ‘OK. That’s fine,’ she heard herself agreeing. ‘But not here.’

  ‘Anywhere you say.’

  Possibilities flooded Emily’s mind. She dismissed each one in turn…until the very last. ‘Could you come out to North London?’ Her mother and father had insisted that if Miranda’s cold had not improved by tomorrow she should be brought home to recuperate. Emily knew she could rely on her parents to fill in any awkward gaps…smooth over the cracks when she changed places with her twin.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘That’s if you’re still interested?’

  Interested? Alessandro thought, curbing his smile just in case Miss Weston decided to suddenly burst out from her hiding place. If he had been fascinated before, now he was positively gripped.

  He ran one supple, sun-bronzed finger down the slim leather-bound diary he so longed to open, and traced the length of the expensive fountain pen lying next to it before toying with a pair of cufflinks bearing some sort of crest.

  The handbag on the seat had quality written all over it, rather than some flashy logo. And the smart black suit teamed with a crisp white double-cuffed shirt hanging on a gown rail was Armani, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  His gaze swept the threadbare carpet that might once have been red to where a pair of slinky high-heeled court shoes stood next to a dark blue felt sack, ornamented with a thick tassel. Alongside that, a pull-along airline case—

  ‘Mr Bussoni?’

  His gaze switched back to the screen.

  ‘Mr Bussoni, are you still interested?’

  There was just a hint of anxiety in the voice now, Alessandro noted with satisfaction. This contract obviously meant a great deal to her. He cast a look at the discarded stage costume…Something jarred. No, he realised. Everything jarred.

  ‘Only on one condition,’ he said, adopting a stern tone as he assumed the mantle of time-starved recording executive.

  ‘And that is?’ Emily said cagily.

  ‘That you come to supper with me after our meeting.’ Alessandro was surprised when a curl of excitement wrapped around his chest as he waited for her answer. ‘You may have questions for me, and there’s sure to be a lot we have to discuss,’ he said truthfully, satisfied that he had kept every trace of irony out of his voice.

  Emily let the silence hang for a while. Miranda would definitely have to be better by then, she thought crossing her fingers reflexively. ‘That’s fine,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘I’ll let the rest of the band members know—’

  ‘No,’ the voice flashed back assertively. ‘It only needs one person to take in what I have to say…and I have chosen you, Miss Weston. Now, are you still interested in progressing with this matter, or not?’

  ‘Of course I’m interested,’ Emily confirmed, suddenly eager to be free of a presence that was becoming more disconcerting by the minute.

  ‘That’s settled, then. I’ll write my number down for you. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to get in touch first thing…leave the address for our meeting with my secretary?’

  ‘Of course.’ She felt rather than heard him prepare to leave.

  ‘Until tomorrow, Miss Weston.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, Mr Bussoni.’

  Emily held her breath and tried to soak up information as the door opened, then shut again silently. The man might have three humps and a tail, for all she could tell, but her body insisted on behaving as if some lusty Roman gladiator had just strolled out of the room after booking her for sex the next day.

  After he’d left it took her a good few minutes to recover her e
quilibrium. And when she moved out from behind the screen everything seemed shabbier than she remembered it, and emptier somehow, as if some indefinable force had left the room, leaving it all the poorer for the loss.

  By early afternoon the next day, Emily had cancelled all her appointments for the rest of the week and was ready to take her sister back to their parents’ house.

  Drawing up outside the front door on the short gravel drive, she switched off the engine and tried for the umpteenth time to coax her twin into facing reality.

  ‘This man is different to anyone I’ve ever encountered before. It would be a real mistake to underestimate him, Miranda.’

  ‘He made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?’ Miranda replied, slanting a glance at her twin.

  ‘I didn’t even see him properly,’ Emily replied defensively. ‘And don’t change the subject. It’s you we’re talking about, not me.’

  After assuming a low-profile role in an orchestra for a number of years, Miranda had attracted the attention of a leading Japanese violin teacher. In order to fund the lessons Emily’s twin had started a band—a band that in the beginning had taken up only the occasional weekend; a band that was now taking up more and more of her time…

  ‘I only need this recording contract for a year or so,’ she said now, as if trying to convince herself that the scheme would work. ‘Just long enough for me to launch my career as a solo violinist.’

  Emily frowned. She wanted to help, but only when she was confident Miranda understood what she was letting herself in for. ‘Are you sure Prince Records understands that? They would have grounds to sue if you let them down.’

  ‘They won’t have any trouble finding someone to replace me; the boys are great—’

  ‘I’m still not happy,’ Emily admitted frankly. ‘I just can’t see what you’ll gain going down this route.’

  ‘Money?’ Miranda said hopefully.

  Emily shook her head as she reasoned it through aloud. ‘You’re not going to be able to honour a recording contract drawn up by a man like Mr Bussoni and put in the practice hours necessary to study the violin with a top-flight teacher like Professor Iwamoto.’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ Miranda insisted stubbornly, unfolding her long limbs to have a noisy stretch. ‘I’ll cope.’

  Before Emily had a chance to argue Miranda was out of the smart black coupé and heading up the path.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Emily said, catching up with her sister at the front door. ‘The more successful the band, the less likely it is that this crazy idea of yours will work. I know the money would be great, but—’ The expression on her twin’s face made Emily stop to give her a hug. ‘I know you’re still pining over that violin we saw in Heidelberg.’

  ‘That was just a stupid dream—’

  ‘Well, I don’t know much about violins,’ Emily admitted, ‘but I do know what a sweet sound you produced on that lovely old instrument.’

  ‘Something like that would cost a king’s ransom anyway,’ Miranda sighed despondently. ‘And it’s sure to have been sold by now.’

  Emily made a vague sound to register sympathy while she was busy calculating how much money she could raise if she sold her central London apartment to the landlord who already owned most of the smart riverside block, and then rented it back from him. Miranda need never know. It was a desperate solution, but anything was preferable to seeing her sister’s opportunity lost. ‘If I can help you, I will,’ she promised.

  With a gust of frustration, Miranda hit the doorbell. ‘You do enough for everyone already. You won’t even let me pay rent—’

  ‘If I didn’t have you around, who else would keep the fridge stocked up with eye masks?’ Emily demanded wryly.

  Their banter was interrupted when the door swung open.

  ‘Girls—’

  Then another idea popped into Emily’s head. ‘I’ve got some investments—’

  ‘No!’ Miranda said, shaking her head vehemently. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘You’re not arguing,’ their mother said wearily, giving them both a reproving look.

  ‘Heated discussion, Mum,’ Emily said as she shut the door behind them. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘In his study, of course.’

  Of course. Emily stole a moment to inhale deeply, taking in the aroma of a freshly baked cake coming from the kitchen, along with the gurgle of boiling water ready for tea.

  ‘You look tired,’ her mother said softly, touching her arm. ‘And as for you, Miranda—’ Her voice sharpened as if her maternal engines had revved to a new pitch. ‘What you need is a good dose of my linctus, and a hot cup of tea—’

  ‘Did I hear the magic words?’

  ‘Dad!’ the girls cried in unison.

  After giving them both a bear hug, Mr Weston linked arms with his daughters and followed their mother into the kitchen.

  ‘It will be easy for you, Emily,’ her mother asserted confidently, after Miranda had outlined her plan to secure the recording contract. ‘You’re not emotionally involved like Miranda. And you’ll run rings around this record company man when it comes to securing the best terms for Miranda.’

  Emily was surprised by her reaction to this vote of confidence. It was unnerving to discover that her mother’s assessment of the situation could be so far off the mark. Intuition told her that running rings around Alessandro Bussoni was out of the question. But her main worry was the strange way her heart behaved just at the thought of him joining them in the tiny house. The man behind the voice would fill every inch of it with presence alone, never mind the unsettling possibility that she might brush up against him—

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right with this, Emily…? Emily?’

  Finally the concern in her father’s voice penetrated Emily’s dream-state, and her eyes cleared as she hurried to reassure him. ‘Of course, Dad. Leave it to me,’ she insisted brightly, ‘I can handle Signor Bussoni—’

  ‘Italian!’ her mother exclaimed, showing double the interest as she unconsciously checked out her neat halo of curls. ‘How exciting. And when did you say he was arriving?’

  ‘Right now, by the looks of it,’ Emily’s father said as he peered through the window.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘OH, NO!’ Miranda gasped, looking to her sister for guidance.

  ‘Stay upstairs until he’s gone,’ Emily suggested briskly. ‘I’ll come and get you when the coast’s clear. Mum. Dad. Act normal.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ her mother said breathlessly, exchanging an excited glance with her father.

  Don’t look so worried,’ Emily called after Miranda. ‘I promise not to turn anything down without your approval.’

  Exchanging quick smiles, the girls were just on the point of parting at the foot of the stairs when they stopped, looked at each other, and then swooped to the hall window.

  Standing well back from the glass, Emily ran a finger cautiously down the edge of the net curtain.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ she murmured, watching the tall, darkly clad figure unfold his impressive frame from the heavily shaded interior of a sleek black car.

  ‘You said Herman Munster,’ Miranda breathed accusingly.

  ‘I said he might have been Herman Munster for all I could see of him,’ Emily corrected tensely.

  ‘Looks like you were both wrong in this instance,’ their father commented dryly.

  Alessandro felt a frisson of anticipation as he double-checked the address his private secretary had passed on to him that morning.

  He wasn’t used to waiting, and eighteen hours was far too long in this case.

  But then he wasn’t used to speaking to someone hiding behind a screen either, or accepting anyone’s terms but his own—which was how he now found himself getting out of a rented Mercedes outside a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house in North London.

  He smiled a little in amused acceptance. He couldn’t recall a single instance of being turned down by a woman, let alone agreeing to a time of her c
hoosing for an audience as begrudging as this one. His sharp gaze took in the small rectangular lawn, freshly mowed, and then moved on to the splash of vivid colour provided by a pot of petunias to one side of the narrow front door. For someone who moved between palaces, embassies or the presidential suite in some luxury hotel when he was really slumming it, this chance to sample suburbia was a novelty…No. A welcome change, he decided as he swiped off his dark glasses.

  Behind a snowy drift of net, the Weston family watched Alessandro Bussoni’s progress towards the house in awe-struck silence.

  ‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Miranda murmured. Their distracted mother barely managed a weak gasp of, ‘Oh, my!’

  ‘Go, before he sees you,’ Emily suggested urgently, having already turned her back on the window.

  ‘But your make-up,’ Miranda said, hopping from foot to foot, torn between going and staying.

  Emily’s hand shot automatically to her face. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You’re not wearing any,’ Miranda exclaimed with concern.

  ‘Can’t be helped. He’ll still think I’m you. Why shouldn’t he? Anyway, you’re not wearing any make-up,’ Emily pointed out.

  ‘Only because I’m sick.’

  ‘Well, there’s no time for me to do anything about it now,’ Emily said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Sure?’ Miranda asked hopefully.

  ‘Sure,’ Emily said briskly, hoping no one had noticed that her hand was shaking as it hovered over the doorknob.

  ‘I’m going to change,’ Miranda shouted, on her way up the stairs. ‘Then I’m taking over from you.’

  ‘No!’ But even as Emily’s gaze raked the empty landing to call her sister back she knew it was too late. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she seized the doorknob tightly and began to turn…

  ‘You go and wait in the lounge, pet.’

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘Go and compose yourself,’ Mr Weston urged gently, refusing to let go of her arm until Emily allowed him to steer her away from the door. ‘You look like you could do with a few minutes. I’ll keep him busy until you’re ready.’