The Italian Tycoon's Mistress

by Cathy Williams

  Amy groaned silently to herself while Rocco wore an expression of focused interest highly disproportionate to what the other man was actually saying. If one look could carry a wealth of sarcasm, she thought with hostility, then Rocco Losi had mastered such a look. She didn’t know whether to be happy or sad that Sam seemed oblivious to any undercurrent. She listened to him ramble on for a few minutes and lacked the energy to object when, at the end of what seemed an interminable length of time, he gently linked his fingers through hers.

  ‘Amy and I have a lot to discuss,’ he finished, smiling complacently at Rocco. ‘Hence her uncustomary disregard for work in this instance. Not a habit, I assure you!’

  ‘Right. I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’ Rocco thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled stiffly at them. He had drunk one glass of wine and he nodded curtly at the bottle. ‘Sample some of the devil’s drink,’ he said pointedly to Sam, hands clenched in his pockets. ‘You might find you like it.’

  ‘Might just do that.’

  Rocco strode off without a backward glance. Let the imbecile commit her folly, he thought, settling into the plush seat of his car and slamming the door behind him. She was young. She would have a good while to repent, and repent she would. He headed away from the city then, when the prospect of a clear journey out to the country awaited him, took the next turning and headed straight back in, to the same area where he and Amy had had dinner.

  It was obligingly busy, just what he needed, and even more obligingly full of bars, feet deep in people.

  He got himself a small whisky and found a bar stool at the corner, where he sat following his mind down dark, unexplored corners that he sure as hell hadn’t visited before. Or, at least, not for a very long time.

  His days of uncertainty as far as his relationship with his father was concerned were a thing of the past, an unpleasant memory relegated to adolescence, when private uncertainty had crystallised into a ferocious determination to move on, which he had done with admirable effectiveness. New York had been his salvation. So what was coming back here doing for him? he wondered, shoving one empty glass aside and ordering another.

  He had unearthed the scrapbook she had told him about, and had found himself stored in its pages. His history was all there, as his name in New York had grown in status. Events that he could scarcely remember, affairs when the press had been around, snapping pictures for gossip columns, had been chronicled and carefully stuck in the pages of an impressive hard-covered tome. He had seen himself at the age of seven, dressed in his little uniform, bags at his side, ready to face the big, bad world of boarding-school. God, he couldn’t even remember who had taken that one!

  He had barely communicated with his father since he’d been back in England. Just the bare bones of conversations, when practicalities had been discussed. More often than not, someone else had been present.

  By the time he had downed his third whisky, he realised that driving back was not going to be an option. He would have to leave his car in the car park overnight and have it delivered back to him in the morning.

  And the thought of going back to the house wasn’t too great a prospect either. He’d had enough of this particular little trip down memory lane. He needed company. Unfortunately, his social life appeared to have been temporarily left in America. If he had been there, there would have been innumerable people he could have called on, not to mention a number of women who would have been more than delighted to have scrambled to his summons and relieved him of the tedium of his thoughts.

  Here, though, his social life was a matter of necessity, functions that he had attended through duty and a distinct absence of the opposite sex.

  Between getting a taxi and contemplating an empty house waiting for him, the idea of paying a little visit to Amy came to him almost out of nowhere, then the more he thought about it, the better an idea it appeared to be.

  Why, he had no idea, but he didn’t stop to question that. His brain was not up to par at the moment. Asking it too many detailed questions didn’t seem such a good idea. He just gave the taxi driver her address, sat back and enjoyed the lack of scenery.

  Half an hour later, Amy heard the banging on her front door and emitted a long groan of despair.

  The past hour and a half had been the longest of her life.

  How had she ever imagined that Sam was the soul of placidity?

  As soon as Rocco had left the table, he had settled in with a satisfied smile, eager to hear what he felt certain had been coming, namely an acceptance of his marriage proposal.

  As she had quietly explained that she wasn’t going to get engaged, never mind get married, the smile had faded from his face to give way to an expression of disbelief.

  ‘But I-I don’t understand…’ he had stammered, which had made her feel terrible. ‘We get along so well. You would be the first to say how well we get along!’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  Her ‘yes, buts’ had increased with each objection he had raised. They understood each other’s fields of work…yes, but…they had similar aspirations in life, or so he had always imagined…yes, but…neither of them smoked or even really drank…yes, but…until, finally, she had been forced to be utterly uncompromising. She simply was not in love with him, at which point things had taken a definite turn downwards.

  Bewilderment had given way to self-righteous anger as, face mottled and thrust towards her, he had accused her of leading him on, of giving him false impressions, of taking advantage of his good nature. In stunned silence, she had listened to the ugly face of rejection and had eventually walked out of the restaurant when his accusations had spiralled into character assassination as he had informed her that she should be grateful for his offer of marriage, that she was in danger of becoming an old maid, harnessed to her job, no time for men. Every cancelled date had been paraded in front of her as evidence of her inability to have a successful relationship.

  If this was him banging on the door, pleading for a second chance, then she could be brutal too.

  Shame she just felt so wrung out and disillusioned. She had returned to her house, feeling soiled, had quickly got out of her clothes and piled them into the washing machine, as if a good clean would rid them of bad memories, and was now wearing faded grey track pants and a baggy teeshirt.

  She pulled open the door just as far as it would go with the chain still in place, which was sufficient for her to see that an apologetic Sam was not the man who had been banging on her door. Relief was very quickly replaced by suspicion.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Rocco, unable to come up with a reasonable answer to that, since he didn’t know himself, lounged indolently against the doorframe and stared down at her, all dark, brooding male.

  ‘Are you going to let me in? Why do you have a chain on your door, anyway? Dangerous out here, is it? Lots of people you might want to keep out?’

  ‘One or two,’ Amy said, meaningfully.

  ‘Well? Are you going to let me in? Or have I caught you in the middle of…something?’ His eyes swept over her, took in the change of clothes. ‘Unlikely outfit for seduction,’ he muttered, ‘but who am I to say what turns other people on?’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and edged his shoulder just a little bit closer so that she would literally have to bang the door on him if she wanted to shut him out, risking dislocating something in the process.

  ‘I’m not in the middle of anything,’ Amy snapped, releasing the chair and yanking open the door so that he could come in. ‘And don’t be disgusting.’

  She turned away and heard him call from behind, ‘Sex is never disgusting, even if you approach it in baggy sweats.’

  ‘What are you doing here? No, don’t tell me. You’ve come to fill me in on what was said at the meeting I should have attended, but was too frivolous to go to. Do you ever stop working?’ She had been heading for the kitchen, which seemed the most impersonal space in which to sit down and discuss business, and as she turned around
she realised that he was a little closer on her heels than she had thought. In fact, she very nearly bumped into him. And her question about whether he ever stopped working was not exactly one she wished she had posed, because the darkening in his eyes as he looked down at her was giving her a very giddy answer.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked hastily, picking up speed and heading for the kettle with a feeling of deep relief. ‘Have a seat at the table and you…you can tell me what was said. Although, I would have come to your office in the morning to be filled in.’ She busied herself with cups, acutely aware of him sitting there and following her every movement with those amazing eyes of his. He looked slightly dishevelled and all the more unnervingly attractive for it.

  ‘I thought you might have been here with the boyfriend,’ Rocco said, stretching out his long legs at an angle and linking his fingers loosely together on his lap.

  ‘So that you could have another go at him, you mean?’ At the mention of Sam, she could feel herself tense. She didn’t want to talk about him and could never confess what he had said to her, the insults he had dished out that had been too close to the mark for comfort. She didn’t want to acknowledge her failure as a woman just yet, not to herself and certainly not to this man sitting here in her kitchen, who had probably never suffered a sense of failure in his life before.

  She reminded herself that he wasn’t here because of her private life. He had come for a purpose. Business.

  ‘Was I doing that?’

  ‘You know you were,’ Amy answered sharply. ‘All that pretend interest in what he was saying. Mr Tycoon meets Mr Ordinary and puts on a show of being curious.’ She slammed the cup down on the kitchen table and muttered a belated apology.

  Rocco’s jaw hardened and he thought that perhaps this hadn’t been a very good idea at all. Listening to her defend her boyfriend was combining with the after effects of three glasses of whisky rapidly drunk in succession to give him a sickening headache.

  ‘Mind if we take this through to the sitting room?’ He turned his back on the half-formed protest and headed straight to the sitting room, where he proceeded to monopolise the long sofa, stretching out on it so that his feet edged off the bottom arm. ‘Slight headache,’ he informed her before she could launch an abortive attack.

  He didn’t look dishevelled, she thought restlessly, he looked worse for wear and the headache would explain it. Suddenly, seeing him stretched out like that, nursing a blinding headache, he looked stripped of his arrogance and oddly vulnerable.

  ‘Do you want…something for it? Some aspirin? I’ve got some in the kitchen…’

  ‘No, it’ll pass but no lights, please. Not just at the moment.’ Which just left the faint light from the hallway filtering in. The savage turmoil in his head seemed to be easing. Well, he thought dryly, he hadn’t really been lying about having a headache. Might not be quite what she thought, but, literally, his head had been aching from an unusual bout of discomforting thoughts and, strangely, here it seemed to be easing.

  ‘I found those cuttings.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Rocco inclined his head so that he was looking at her, liking the way she was leaning forward on the chair, leaning into what he was saying.

  ‘The scrapbook my father kept. I suppose you knew that I’d hunt it down.’

  Amy’s face cleared and she half smiled. ‘A little temptation…is good for the soul. Remember you said that? Do you want to talk about it?’ Suddenly discussing her future and the future of her colleagues no longer seemed very important. Right now, she wanted him to discuss himself and just recognising that was like leaning over a very high precipice. One that left her heart beating wildly and made her throat feel dry.

  ‘Why would I want to talk about it?’ Rocco grated, obeying a lifetime’s instinct of guarding his private life.

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘I hadn’t expected quite so many clippings,’ he said grudgingly, propping his arm under his head.

  ‘He took a great deal of interest in what you were doing.’

  ‘There were snapshots there as well,’ he informed her. ‘I have no idea why I’m telling you this.’

  And don’t start getting the wrong idea. Amy heard the subtext and wondered whether he was as aware of it as she was. Maybe it was just habit, a long ingrained habit of silence that had become a part of him, like a second skin.

  ‘We can discuss the meeting if you would rather,’ she said helpfully, sipping her coffee and unable to tear her eyes away from his supine form.

  ‘Photos of when I was a kid.’ Rocco laughed harshly. ‘I can’t even remember having them taken. Some were posed, but others…the old man must have been standing there, with his camera, taking the odd shot when I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Parents do that.’

  ‘Not mine. Mine sent me packing as soon as was legally possible. Anything to get rid of the kid who reminded him of his beloved wife who died in childbirth.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Clear, curious eyes met his without pity or judgement.

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your problem.’

  Rocco felt as if he were climbing out of his skin. Revelations of a personal nature were things other people did. Soft, self-indulgent people who lacked the strength to tackle their private problems without useless words of comfort from blithering do-gooders.

  ‘Which doesn’t explain why he would take pictures of you and keep them…if the only thing he wanted was to get rid of you…’

  ‘Beats me,’ Rocco heard himself say gruffly, and Amy gave another one of those little shrugs that made him somehow think that whatever she was saying, it wasn’t because she was being nosy.

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you ask him about the clippings and the scrapbook?’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Maybe you should. How else are you ever going to get your answers?’

  ‘He needs rest…besides, he’ll be on his way to Italy soon…’ Rocco pointed out. There was a time not very long ago when anyone even daring to pose such a question to him would have been treated to instant dismissal. There was a time, too, a little voice said, when the situation would never have arisen in which such a question could have been posed.

  ‘You could give him time to settle and then you could always fly over and see him face to face.’

  The silence that greeted this was telling. In it, she could guess at a wealth of insecurity at confronting the man from whom he had been estranged ever since he had been a child.

  She slipped from the chair and went to the sofa, squatting down right in front of him and horribly tempted to reach out and touch him. This semi-darkness was all very well for headaches, she thought with agitation, but it was wreaking havoc with her common sense. Rocco Losi needed her help about as much as a lion needed an ant. And now that she was here, inches away from him, her well-intentioned heart was hammering with a feeling that had nothing to do with comforting him out of his temporary vulnerability.

  She began edging a little backwards and was unprepared for his hand reaching out to cup the back of her neck.

  ‘No, stay. I like that. I like you right here.’

  Right here, within touching distance, he added to himself. With blinding clarity, he realised why he had come here. Never mind the whisky and the muddled thoughts. He had come here because he had had to make her see just how stupid she was being in accepting that man’s offer of marriage. Security was important, but it wasn’t worth sacrificing your life for.

  He gently stroked the back of her neck and her eyes widened.

  ‘You…wanted to talk about the meeting…’ she suggested breathlessly. Those long fingers were doing things to her body, just as his lips had done when he had kissed her that time, except now it seemed different, because this was happening so slowly.

  ‘In time,’ Rocco said softly. The hand left the nape of her neck so that it could stroke some hair away from her face and finally
settle on her jawline. ‘Do you feel sorry for me?’ he murmured.

  ‘I will if you want me to. I think perhaps you made a mistake somewhere along the line, and maybe your father did as well. Pride can kill a relationship, but, hey, we all make mistakes.’ She lowered her eyes, thinking of the one she had made and the even bigger one she had escaped from, because marriage to Sam would have been all wrong.

  Rocco, watching her lowered eyes, sensing the compassion, felt a fierce twist of anger that she couldn’t see the huge mistake she was on the point of making herself.

  His hand, gently stroking her jawline, pulled her towards him and his lips met hers with an intensity that had been building up for days. He urged open her mouth, wanting to explore every damn inch of her, starting from the top and working his way downwards. It was unprincipled. She was an engaged woman. Good God, she had probably set a date for the wedding! Rocco, who was deeply and fiercely territorial, had never contemplated a married woman, or any woman who was involved with another man, for that matter. But this woman was an exception. He told himself that he was saving her from herself. And whether she knew it or not, she wanted to be saved or else why would she be kissing him the way she was? Her body ripely surging towards him, eager to be touched?

  ‘I need you to lie right here beside me,’ he commanded hoarsely.

  ‘Rocco…’

  ‘Shh. Don’t talk. You want this. We both do.’

  Amy sighed. Every fibre in her body was trembling. This wasn’t the sort of man she had ever imagined herself being drawn to, not in her wildest dreams. She had spent her adult life knowing that security was the one thing she needed so badly. Most of her life had been wrapped in insecurity and love, she had always thought, was something safe, something that she could wrap around her like a blanket.

  Rocco Losi wasn’t secure and he didn’t follow the rules of the game as she knew it. He was a predator who saw what he wanted and took it and, once he had it, saw no reason not to discard the possession as soon as he tired of it.

  Every shred of self-preservation told her to run away as fast as she could, but when he touched her like this, and whispered in her ear, she felt faint with a craving that was like a monster that had been lurking, unseen, somewhere deep inside her.