Mistress Arrangements. Helen BianchinЧитать онлайн книгу.
looked at her for what seemed an age, his gaze dark and inscrutable. ‘Until now.’
‘Payback time, Stefano?’ She forced herself to study him, noting the almost indecently broad shoulders, the firm, sculptured features that embodied an inherent strength of will. ‘Are you implying I should slip into your bed and allow you to score the first instalment?’
‘With you playing the role of reluctant martyr?’ He paused, and his voice hardened slightly. ‘I think not, my little cat. I don’t feel inclined to give you that satisfaction.’
Her stomach lurched, then appeared to settle. It was only a game, a by-play of words designed to attack her composure. Well, she would prove she was a worthy opponent.
‘What a relief to know I don’t have to fake it,’ she told him sweetly. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before I hit the shower?’
There was lurking humour evident in those dark eyes, and a measure of respect. ‘Last week I extended an invitation to Charles and his wife to dine here this evening. They flew in from the States yesterday.’
The thought of having to act the part of gracious hostess in his home, while appearing capable and serene, was a hurdle she wasn’t sure she was ready to surmount—yet. However, Charles Winslow the Third was a valued colleague, who, the last time she’d dined in his presence, had been in the throes of divorcing one wife in favour of wedding another.
‘What time had you planned for them to arrive?’ she queried cautiously, unwilling to commit herself.
‘Eight. Sylvana will prepare and serve the meal.’
She had to ask. ‘Are they the only guests?’
‘Charles’s daughter, Georgeanne.’
Seven years ago Georgeanne had been a precocious teenager. Time could only have turned her into a stunning beauty. ‘Another conquest, Stefano?’ she queried with musing mockery.
‘I don’t consciously set out to charm every female I come into contact with,’ he drawled, and she gave a soundless laugh.
‘You don’t have to. Your potent brand of sexual chemistry does it for you.’
‘An admission, Carly?’
‘A statement from one who has sampled a dose and escaped unscathed,’ she corrected gravely, and glimpsed the faint edge of humour curve his generous mouth.
‘And tonight?’
She looked at him carefully. ‘What if I refuse?’
‘Out of sheer perversity, or a disinclination to mix and mingle socially?’
‘Oh, both,’ she disclaimed drily. ‘I just love the idea of being a subject of conjecture and gossip.’
‘Charles is a very good friend of long standing,’ Stefano reminded her.
‘In that case, I’ll endeavour to shine as your hostess,’ Carly conceded. ‘What of my friends?’ she pursued.
‘Sarah?’
‘Yes.’ And James. She would mention it when she phoned Sarah this afternoon.
‘Feel free to issue an invitation whenever you please.’
Stefano watched with indolent amusement as she slid from the bed, slipped her arms into a towelling wrap, then escaped to the adjoining en suite.
Breakfast was a shared meal eaten out on the terrace, after which Stefano withdrew upstairs only to re-emerge ten minutes later, immaculately attired in a dark business suit.
He looked every inch the directorial businessman that he was, and arrestingly physical in a way that set Carly’s pulse racing in an accelerated beat. She watched with detached interest as he crossed to the table and brushed gentle fingers to Ann-Marie’s cheek.
Somehow she managed to force her features into a stunning smile when his gaze assumed musing indolence as it rested on her mobile mouth.
‘Bye. Don’t work too hard.’ The words sounded light and faintly teasing, but there was nothing light in the glance she spared him beneath dark-fringed lashes.
Minutes later there was the muted sound of a car engine as the Mercedes traversed the long curving driveway.
Ann-Marie’s appointment with the neuro-surgeon was at ten, and afterwards Carly drove home in a state of suspended shock as she attempted to absorb Ann-Marie’s proposed admission into hospital the following day, with surgery scheduled for late Wednesday afternoon.
So soon, she agonised, in no doubt that Stefano’s influence had added sufficient weight to the surgeon’s decision to operate without delay.
It was impossible not to suffer through an entire gamut of emotions, not the least of which was very real fear. Even the neuro-surgeon’s assurance that the success-rate for such operations was high did little to alleviate her anxiety.
Stefano arrived home shortly after four, and half an hour later the breeder delivered Françoise—a small, intelligent bundle of black curls who proved to be love on four legs.
The delightful pup took an instant liking to the hulking Prince, who in turn was initially tolerant, then displayed an amusing mixture of bewitchment and bewilderment as Françoise divided her attention equally between him and her new mistress.
There was a new kennel, an inside sleeping-box, leads, a collar, a few soft toys, and feeding bowls.
Ann-Marie looked as if she’d been given the world, and Carly experienced reluctant gratitude for Stefano’s timing.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly as they emerged from their daughter’s bedroom, having settled an ecstatically happy little girl to sleep. Françoise was equally settled in her sleeping-box beside Ann-Marie’s bed.
His smile was warm, genuine, she perceived with a slight start of surprise, for there was no evidence of his usual mockery.
‘She has waited long enough to enjoy the company of a much wanted pet.’
Carly felt a pang of remorse for the years spent living in rented accommodation which had excluded the ownership of animals. It seemed another peg in the victory stakes for Stefano—a silent comparison of provision. His against hers.
‘We have fifteen minutes before Charles is due to arrive,’ Stefano intimated as they reached their suite. ‘Can you be ready in time?’
She was, with a few seconds to spare, looking attractive in a slim-fitting dress in vivid tones of peacock-green and -blue. Her hair was confined in a simple knot, her make-up understated with practised emphasis on her eyes…Eyes which met his and held them unflinchingly as she preceded him from the room.
CHARLES WINSLOW THE THIRD was a friendly, gregarious gentleman whose daughter was of a similar age to his second wife.
If appearances were anything to go by, each young woman had worked hard to outdo the other in the fashion stakes, for each wore a designer label that resembled creations by Dior and Ungaro.
Carly felt her own dress paled by comparison, for although the classic style was elegant it was hardly new.
Within seconds of entering the lounge Charles took hold of Carly’s hand and raised it, Southern-style, to his lips.
‘I’m delighted the two of you are together again,’ he intoned solemnly. ‘You’re too beautiful to remain unattached, and Stefano was a fool to let you escape.’
Carly caught Stefano’s faintly lifted eyebrow and was unable to prevent the slight quiver at the edge of her mouth. Without blinking an eyelid, she sent Charles her most dazzling smile. ‘Charles,’ she greeted with equal solemnity.