The Italian's Virgin Bride. Trish MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
as she’d heard of Domenic’s visit to his southern-hemisphere interests. Maybe hidden amongst all these papers was the key she needed?
The pages slid apart at a glossy magazine page. There, under the heading ‘Five-Star Playboy’, were two photographs of Domenic, each photo featuring him with a different woman. Very blonde, very young women. If they were the kind of women Domenic Silvagni was interested in, then it was little wonder he’d fail to appreciate the buttoned-up talent sitting outside his office.
Her focus moved to the man each of them looked up at adoringly. Five-star playboy, indeed. The title fitted him just as perfectly as the tailored dinner suit of one photo, the silky black shirt of the other. He wore the doe-eyed women clinging to his arm like accessories.
Little wonder he could get away with it. Domenic Silvagni was one good-looking man. He stared out at her from the pictures, dark, sultry eyes outlined with the sort of thick lashes any woman in her right mind would kill for. His fringe, slightly longer than the rest of his short layered hair, was flicked to one side. Strong lips tweaked as if hinting at a secret, framed with a lean square jaw that spoke of power and influence.
Even without his money Domenic Silvagni would be a catch. With his money, well, there was no doubt a queue of willing hopefuls.
And good luck to them, she thought bitterly. You deserved whatever you got marrying a playboy. Her mother’s experience had taught her that much.
But whatever personal failings he had, she needed him. Or at least, she needed his money. And she needed it now.
Suddenly she wheeled around. ‘I’ll wait, if you don’t mind. He has to come out eventually.’
Ms Hancock’s eyes narrowed as her wrinkled lips formed a tight pucker. She looked from side to side, as if checking if anyone was in earshot. But there was no one to be seen along the wide corridor of carpet that led from the bank of brass-framed lifts to the outer office. There were no guest rooms on this fortieth floor, no visitors coming and going, no laundry hampers rolling along to interrupt proceedings.
Still, she leaned forward in her chair, and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I need to step out for five minutes, and Room Service will be bringing lunch up at any time. You wouldn’t go do anything silly, now, would you?’
Opal felt a genuine smile return to her lips. The first real smile she’d had since learning of the dire circumstances facing Clemengers three months ago. And that smile was directed right at Deirdre Hancock, former secretary to her father some twenty years ago.
She’d known it was a good omen as soon as she’d walked into the ante-office and recognised Deirdre sitting there. And Deirdre had jumped up immediately and thrown her arms around Opal for a mighty hug as if she hadn’t changed a bit, even though she’d long ago traded her six-year-old braids for a sleek shoulder-length style.
Whatever Deirdre was now doing at Silvers, Opal had no idea, but working for Domenic Silvagni was obviously no picnic. The man was downright rude from the exchange she’d heard, while Deirdre was a treasure. Sure, she might look like a dragon, in her severe navy suit and sensible court shoes, but from what she remembered her father saying, Deirdre had never been anything less than organised, efficient and polite. And she was doing her best to get her in to see him. Domenic didn’t deserve her.
She winked back. ‘Not a chance,’ she said.
Five minutes later, Deirdre bundled a bunch of papers together and Opal sensed the imminent arrival of the lunch trolley. Adrenaline kicked into her veins at the same time as the sudden realisation of what the PA was actually risking. ‘Look, Deirdre, I don’t want you to lose your job over this.’
Ms Hancock sniffed. ‘Who knows, dear?’ She leaned her tiny frame closer and squeezed her arm. ‘He might even thank me for it. Besides which, I’m retiring next week. What’s he going to do—sack me? Now, I’ve switched the phone through to the copy room, where I’ll be, so you won’t be interrupted.’ Opal barely had time to murmur her thanks before she was gone.
Less than a minute later Room Service rolled the silver-domed trolley alongside Ms Hancock’s desk. The fresh-faced young man looked around, his gaze finally settling on Opal. ‘Ms Hancock’s order,’ he half said, half asked.
‘She’ll be right back.’
He nodded and, apparently satisfied, headed back to the service lift, disappearing in a hum of lift motors and cushioned doors.
She took one more rapid-fire breath and pushed herself off her chair. This was it!
CHAPTER TWO
‘WHO are you?’
Opal made it no more than three paces into the expansive office before the man sitting behind the broad mahogany desk glanced up.
‘And where’s Ms Hancock?’
For a second Opal’s feet wouldn’t move. But she had to get more than a metre inside the door. She couldn’t make her case from here. Barely looking up, in case his face was darker than his words, she plastered on a bright smile totally at odds with her churning insides and pressed on, wheeling the trolley closer to the desk. ‘I’ve brought your lunch.’
Studiously avoiding his gaze, she was aware of his body swinging up in his seat and his elbows colliding with the table. ‘I can see that,’ he growled. ‘But how did you get in here?’
Opal busied herself with the trolley. She lifted the silver lid from one salver—pasta with artichokes and bacon. The other revealed veal escalopes with asparagus in a brandy cream sauce. ‘I think the pasta first,’ she said, transferring the first dish to a vacant spot on his desk.
He ignored her and strode to the door, flinging it open. ‘Ms Hancock!’ he shouted. ‘Ms Hancock!’
‘I think you’ll find she’s in the copy room. I didn’t want your lunch to get cold in the meantime.’
He turned then. Without looking up, Opal felt it like a blast from a furnace. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Fortified with a deep gulp of air, she finally lifted her eyes to face him and straight away wished she hadn’t. It was Domenic all right. Those dark eyes, the strong jaw. She should have been ready. And yet—the picture torn from a magazine was just a mere facsimile of the man who stood before her. Nothing in those photos revealed the power, the sheer presence of the man, the masculine physicality he projected.
The heat!
Under her silk suit her skin prickled and firmed. She swallowed involuntarily, tasted fear and kicked up her chin in defiance. She had a job to do. And he was just a man, after all. A playboy to boot—the very worst kind of man.
She battled to remind herself of that as she searched for the words that should have fallen off her tongue much more easily.
‘Opal Clemenger.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Thank you for finding the time to see me. I appreciate you’re very busy.’
He snorted and pulled the door open wide.
‘I’m not finding the time to see you. I said you could come back in two weeks. Better still, not at all.’ He gestured to the open door with his free hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘But I haven’t had a chance to tell you my proposal yet.’
‘Does it occur to you, Ms Clemenger, that may be because I’m not interested?’
She made no move towards the door and she could feel the anger rising in the man facing her. ‘Your pasta is getting cold.’
‘Then the sooner you remove yourself, the sooner I can eat.’
‘We can talk while you have lunch.’
‘I was going to work while I had lunch.’
‘That’s not healthy.’
‘Arguing with women who don’t know when they’ve