She wondered what the point of lessons was if you didn’t actually learn from them. Alessandro had dispatched her years ago, because he had been moving up and she wasn’t suitable to make the journey with him. She had spent a long time hating him, an even longer time trying to rid her system of his memory, and longer still allowing men to re-enter her life—men who were good for her, who boosted her confidence, who never implied, not once, that she wasn’t good enough.
The two guys she had gone out with had not been earth-shattering affairs, but they had been good for her. They had made her realise that there was life beyond the high-octane, high-intensity, high everything passion that had consumed her when she had been with Alessandro.
She had managed to reach a vantage point of inner strength. Or so she had imagined. One accidental meeting and here she was, back to emotional free fall.
It seemed ridiculous to still be wearing the small red dress, even though the high-heeled shoes had been dispatched to the black bin liner in the kitchen, along with the green tights. She had a quick shower, changed into track pants, and was doing a last-minute check to find anything that might be lurking behind doors, under sofas or wedged beneath cushions that might reasonably begin to smell unless immediately removed, when she spotted the jacket.
It had probably begun life on the coat hooks by the front door, but the situation with the coats had been a bit of a disaster. Too many of them and not enough hooks. Not enough space altogether by the front door, so some had been removed to one of the bedrooms upstairs, others to the little utility room at the back of the kitchen, and a few hung over the banister. This stray had obviously slipped through and ended up wedged behind the tall earthernware contraption which they used as an umbrella stand.
She shook it out, frowning. A man’s jacket, and an expensive one. She could tell immediately from how the fabric felt in her fingers, even with dust covering it. Charcoal-grey, with a deep navy silk lining.
Of course she knew who it belonged to. She knew even before she reached into an outside pocket and extracted one of the business cards with Alessandro’s name on it. His name, the name of his company and the various telephone numbers on which he could be reached.
Just looking at his name in elegant black print made her feel shaky.
At a little before ten in the evening there was a high chance that he would be at his fiancée’s house. She could, she supposed, always wait until morning, because not even a high-powered, self-motivated, money-making tycoon such as he was needed a jacket at ten in the evening, but she dreaded making the call and would have a sleepless night if she knew that it would be awaiting her in the morning.
She strolled into the sitting room with the business card in her hand, and before she could start convincing herself that she would be better off pretending never to have found the damned jacket, she dialled his mobile number and waited.
The man must have had his phone glued to his ear, because he answered on the second ring, his voice reaching her as though he was standing next to her in the room.
‘I have your jacket.’ Megan decided straight away that there was no point with pleasantries. ‘It’s Megan, by the way,’ she added.
‘I know who it is.’ Alessandro pushed back the chair in his office and extended his long legs to rest them on the desk.
He had had an enjoyable Christmas lunch. The food, as expected, had been superb, but the atmosphere had seemed limp after Megan’s drinks party. He had met Victoria’s mother once before, and she had been as charming as he remembered, but he had found it difficult to concentrate on her conversation, and matters hadn’t been helped by Dominic, who had insisted on listing all of the football coach’s outstanding qualities, which largely consisted of a willingness to spend limitless time explaining the rules of football to him. He had also offered to take him to a proper match, which apparently constituted reasons for immediate sainthood.
The signed football had even accompanied them to lunch, and had been placed reverently on the table next to Dominic, as though expecting to be served turkey with all the trimmings.
Every time Alessandro had looked at it, which had been often because it had been impossible to miss, he’d thought of the man kissing Megan. And every time he’d thought of that, he’d wondered whether she was considering taking him as her lover.
All in all, he had been relieved when, at six, he’d been able to make his excuses and leave.
Victoria had given him a wallet, and he had made all the right noises, but it now lay forgotten in his coat pocket. He would put it in his drawer in the morning, but doubted he would ever use it. He was attached to the one he used, which harked back to his university days. His Megan days.
He hadn’t remembered the jacket until now. He had worn his coat over the jacket, and had been in such a hurry to leave that the lack of the jacket hadn’t been noticed.
‘Where was it?’ The computer in front of him was reminding him of the report he had been in the middle of writing, and he swivelled it away from him.
‘It must have fallen. I’m afraid it’s a bit dirty, because it got stuck behind our umbrella stand.’
‘Have your guests all gone?’
‘Of course they have, Alessandro. Have you seen the time? Anyway, I won’t keep you from your Christmas Day. I just wanted to tell you that I have your jacket, and you can collect it whenever you want.’
‘Now might be an appropriate time.’
‘Now?’ What, Megan wondered, could be so important about a jacket that he would want it right at this very second?
‘I don’t like putting things off. You know that.’ He also knew that he had at least twenty other jackets hanging in his wardrobe, hand-tailored, silk-lined, mega-expensive and totally disposable. ‘My driver isn’t available at the moment, but I will send a taxi to pick you up. You and my jacket.’
‘No, Alessandro. For starters, I don’t see why I have to be the one to bring you your jacket. It’s your jacket; you can come and fetch it yourself—and anyway, it’s too late now. I’ve spent the past two hours clearing up this house and I’m tired. I want to go to bed.’
She fingered the business card, rolling her thumb over the indented letters of his printed name. She had told herself that she never wanted to lay eyes on him again, that she wouldn’t let him ruin her peace of mind, but now, hearing his voice, she was once again reduced to helplessness.
‘Fine. I’ll be over first thing in the morning to collect it—just in case you have plans for Boxing Day.’
Did she? Victoria would be going to her family in Gloucester for three days, an invitation which he had declined due to his workload. Naturally she had understood perfectly, because she, herself, could hardly spare the time for the short break, but her own absence, she had told him, would be unforgiveable. He had a selection of parties from which he could choose, but he didn’t relish any of them. Champagne cocktails, smoked salmon and lots of City talk. Just the kind of thing that Megan had scornfully told him he should have gone to today, instead of imposing his presence on her fun-loving crowd of friends.
No, he would fetch his jacket and then have a quiet day in the company of his computer.
Or rather he would send a taxi to bring Megan and his jacket to him. He found that that was a much more satisfying option.
‘No plans to speak of,’ Megan was now telling him slowly. ‘I shall probably go to the pub with Charlotte and her boyfriend for lunch.’ She yawned. ‘Anyway…’
Her voice trailed off and he took the hint. He said goodbye and hung up, but even though she had gritted her teeth and spoken to him on the phone, she still wasn’t rewarded with a peaceful night’s sleep.
She awoke the following morning with a groggy head and an urgent feeling that she had to get ready as quickly as possible, so that she would be ready and waiting at the door with the jacket.
Every time she saw Alessandro she could feel her peace of mind being chipped away—a gradual erosion that frightened her and made her hark bac
k to the days when all he’d had to do was snap his fingers to have her running to him. She would make sure that she was standing at the door when he arrived, with the jacket in one hand and the doorknob in the other, just so that he didn’t get any ideas of a pleasant cup of coffee and some more of his killer chit-chat before he headed off. It was a measure of how much he had forgotten her that he could look at her and talk to her and try to set her straight on the facts of life with the polite detachment of a well-meaning but essentially indifferent ex-boyfriend.
Alessandro. Indifference. Was there anything more hurtful than indifference? And was there anything more infuriating than trying to be indifferent and failing?
Megan bolted down a very quick breakfast of some leftover quiche washed down with a cup of tea, and was ready, as planned, when the doorbell went at a little after nine.
She strolled to the front door, opened it, and had a polite smile pinned to her face. She was wrong-footed to find a taxi driver grinning back at her.
‘Sorry.’ Megan dropped the polite smile and frowned. ‘I was expecting someone else.’
‘I’ve been asked to collect you and a jacket, I believe, miss?’
‘Here’s the jacket.’
‘My instructions were to bring you as well.’
‘Sorry. No can do.’
‘Can’t return without you, miss. But you can take as long as you like making your mind up ’cos the meter’s running. I would really appreciate it if you came, miss, as I’m promised a very generous tip—enough for me to get back home to my family and not be out here on Boxing Day trying to pull fares.’
Megan clicked her tongue in disgust. Alessandro was either too busy or too lazy to run this boring errand himself, and too suspicious to entrust his measly jacket to a taxi driver, even a black cab driver, a notoriously honest species. No, he would see nothing wrong in dragging her out of her house on Boxing Day, just so that she could chaperon a jacket to his fiancée’s house and save him the effort.
‘Give me ten minutes,’ she said in a seething voice.
She was still seething fifteen minutes later as she sat in the back of the cab with the precious jacket on her lap, bitterly regretting her decision to phone him when she should have just stuffed it back in its cubbyhole and waited for Charlotte to make the discovery. Which she would have. In due course. Possibly after a month or two.
London was a different place when the roads were clear and the pavements relatively free of pedestrians. In an hour or so when some of the big stores opened, people would once more venture out of their houses in search of early sales bargains, but at the moment it was possible to appreciate the graceful symmetry of the buildings as the taxi took her away from Shepherd’s Bush and towards Chelsea.
She had no idea where Victoria and Dominic lived, but she wasn’t surprised when the cab pulled up outside a tall, redbrick house with neat black railings outside. The value of the property could be guessed by the quality of the cars parked on the street outside, and the peaceful, oasis-like feel of the area. This might not be a rural idyll, but it was London life at its most elegant.
She followed the cab driver up to the regal black front door with its gleaming brass knocker and banged it twice. It was opened almost immediately—and not by Victoria.
‘Ah. You’ve brought my jacket.’
Megan looked at Alessandro and scowled.
‘You could have come and fetched it yourself,’ she told him, holding up the precious cargo.
He didn’t answer as he paid the taxi driver, and from the exchange of notes, Megan wasn’t at all surprised that the cab driver had been anxious for her to accompany him with the jacket. The tip looked sufficient to fund a two-week family holiday somewhere hot.
‘Here you are.’ She stuck her hand out. In return, Alessandro stood aside and motioned her in. Megan stayed put. ‘Thanks, but I have to go.’
‘How did I know that you would say that?’ He began walking inside, and knew she had followed him by the slam of the front door. ‘You’ve become very predictable,’ he threw over his shoulder.
‘Where’s Victoria?’ Megan demanded, stopping short by the door and looking past his retreating back for other signs of life.
The hallway was airy and gracious, with gleaming wooden flooring complementing the gleaming wooden banisters that led up the stairs. It was an old house that had obviously been renovated to the highest possible modern standard. Suspiciously, there was no sign of a Christmas tree anywhere. Nor were there any signs of toys, which she would have expected to have seen lying around in the wake of a small, overindulged boy on Boxing Day.
‘At her own house, I would imagine.’ Alessandro turned to look at where she was still hovering by the front door, clutching the jacket which, six months ago, had been so reverently handled by his tailor in the City.
‘Where am I?’
‘At my house, of course. Where else did you imagine I would be?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here.’
‘I thought I would be delivering this to Victoria’s house!’
‘Did you? Maybe I should explain.’ He walked towards her, reached out and relieved her of the jacket. ‘I don’t do nights at Victoria’s house. She’s of the opinion that Dominic wouldn’t understand the concept of a live-in lover.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’
It was a very good question, and one which Alessandro struggled to answer. Why would he choose to jeopardise his orderly life by courting conversation with a woman who had made it clear that she didn’t want to converse with him? Their recent meetings had been tense and unproductive, but it was as though something bigger than him was driving him on to see her.
He didn’t know whether it was because the guilt he had felt seven years ago when they had broken up had never really left him—was, in fact, resurfacing, forcing him to try and put things right between them—or whether, having once possessed her so fully that she would have jumped through hoops for him, he couldn’t deal with the fact that she now hated his guts. Maybe he needed to convince her that he wasn’t the bad guy she thought he was. Although he couldn’t work out why it should matter. When had he ever cared about anybody else’s opinions? Even an ex-girlfriend’s?
Victoria had no problems with him seeing Megan. In fact, she had been positively encouraging on the subject. But how long before she picked up on the strange electricity that still seemed to connect them? How long before that became a problem?
‘I don’t want you to have a problem with me,’ Alessandro told her bluntly. ‘Yes, I know you think I’m a bastard who dumped you, but, face it, there’ll be times when we bump into one another. You teach Dominic; I am involved with his mother. Therefore I will see you occasionally at school. Presumably.’
He frowned, and wondered why he was having trouble imagining any routine of domesticity with Victoria and her son. He had had no such problem when he had mooted his marriage proposal to her three months previously. At that time he had been comfortable with the notion of settling down with an undemanding, highly motivated wife who would complement his lifestyle, and allow it to carry on with seamless ease.
‘It is ridiculous that we clash every time we meet—and please don’t tell me that it is unavoidable. You’re choosing to make things difficult between us, and I want us to iron out the creases.’
Megan had figured out why he wanted to ‘iron out the creases’. A smooth relationship between them would mean, for him, an easy conscience—and he was right. They probably would bump into one another from time to time as he became absorbed into the routine of family life with Dominic and his mother. The school was very hot on parental involvement, and sooner or later their paths would cross. An atmosphere between them could create all kinds of gossip.
She could jack in her job and look for another one, but that thought lasted all of one second. There was no way she was going to alter her life because she couldn’t handle seeing him.
‘And that’s
why you dragged me over here? So that you could try and iron out creases?’
‘Stop fighting me!’
‘Is that an order? Have you become so accustomed to obedience, Alessandro, that you can’t stand the thought of anyone refusing to bow, and scrape, and do exactly as you say?’
‘You never obeyed me, Megan.’ He gave her a crooked smile, remembering the way she had been able to tease him out of studying, had laughed when he had frowned at some of her micro-mini skirts, and coaxed him into going to gigs with her even though he had hated most of the bands.
Megan wanted to ask him whether that was why he had seen no future in their relationship—because he hadn’t imagined her in the role of obedient wife. But then she thought that there had probably been a hundred reasons why he had seen no future in their relationship, and asking for a breakdown of them would just be taking yet another stupid step into a past that was best left behind.
In the end he was right when he said that she was fighting him. What he didn’t realise was that she was also fighting herself, for still having misplaced feelings towards him.
Right now, for instance, even though he had dragged her from the comfort of her own house at his bidding, she still felt achingly aware of the stark dynamism of his personality, the sexy, lean magnetism of his hard-boned face and muscular body. He was wearing a pair of black running pants and a black tee shirt. It had always been his uniform for relaxation, and he looked as much at ease wearing them now, in the expensive splendour of his Chelsea home, as he had in the squalor of his one-bedroom rented studio flat.
She wondered how long it would take him to realise that her prickly reaction to him was as much to do with her as it was to do with him. He had almost hit the bullseye when he had told her, mockingly, that maybe the memory of him had prevented her from finding a replacement, but he hadn’t pursued that line of thought.
The Multi-Millionaire's Virgin Mistress Page 8