Modern Romance November 2016 Books 1-4. Cathy WilliamsЧитать онлайн книгу.
of having it decided by other people. The woman who was going to live dangerously. She studied his rugged profile as he stared at the road ahead. ‘A few items of underwear wouldn’t usually be enough to get a man like you to take a complete stranger to a family wedding and pretend to be her boyfriend.’
‘Let’s get a couple of things straight, shall we, Willow? Firstly, I have no intention of discussing the contents of that bag with you,’ he said as he powered the car into the fast lane. ‘And secondly, I intend to play your lover—not your damned boyfriend—unless your looks are deceiving and you happen to be fifteen.’
‘I’m twenty-six,’ she said stiffly.
‘You look much younger.’
‘That’s what everyone says.’
There was a pause. ‘Is that a roundabout way of telling me I’m unoriginal?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, you know what they say...if the cap fits...’
A reluctant smile curved the edges of his lips. ‘You need to tell me something about yourself before we get there,’ he said. ‘If you’re hoping to convince people we’re an item.’
Willow stared out of the car window as they drove through the sun-dappled lanes, and as more and more trees appeared, she thought about how much she loved the English countryside. The hedgerows were thick with greenery and in the fields she could see yellow and white ox-eye daisies and the purple of snake’s head fritillary. And suddenly she found herself wishing that this was all for real and that Dante Di Sione was here because he wanted to be, not because she was holding him to ransom over some mystery package.
She wondered how much to tell him. She didn’t want him getting scared. She didn’t want him to start treating her as if she was made of glass. She was worried he’d suddenly start being kind to her if he learned the truth, and she couldn’t stand that. He was rude and arrogant and judgemental, but she rather liked that. He wasn’t bending over backwards to please her—or running as fast as he could in the opposite direction, which was the usual effect she had on people once they knew her history.
His words interrupted her silent reverie.
‘We could start with you explaining why you need an escort like me in the first place,’ he said. ‘You’re a pretty woman. Surely there must be other men who could have been your date? Men who know you better than I do and could have carried off a far more convincing performance.’
She shrugged, staring at the toenails which were peeping through her open-toed sandals—toenails which had been painted a hideous shade of peach to match the equally hideous bridesmaid dresses, because Clover had said that she wanted her sisters to look like ‘a team.’
‘Maybe I wanted to take someone who nobody else knew,’ she said.
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘Or you could—and I know this is controversial—you could always have chosen to attend the wedding on your own. Don’t they say that weddings are notoriously fertile places for meeting someone new? You might have got lucky. Or are you one of those women who believes she isn’t a complete person unless she has a man in tow?’
Willow couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Had she really thought his rudeness was charming? Well, scrub that. She found herself wishing she’d asked around at the magazine to see if anyone there could have been her guest. But most of the men she worked with were gay—and the place was a hotbed of gossip. It wouldn’t have done her image much good if she’d had to trawl around for a suitable escort, because the biggest sin you could commit in the fashion industry was to admit to being lonely.
She sneaked a glance at Dante. Whatever his shortcomings in the charm department he was certainly a very suitable escort—in every sense of the word. The formality of his pristine two-piece looked just as good against his glowing olive skin as the faded denim jeans had done. Perhaps even more so. The made-to-measure suit hugged his powerful body and emphasised its muscularity to perfection—making her shockingly aware of his broad shoulders and powerful thighs. The slightly too long black hair appeared more tamed than it had done the other day and suddenly she found herself longing to run her fingers through it and to muss it up.
She felt a rush of something molten tugging at the pit of her belly—something which was making her wriggle her bottom restlessly against the seat. Did she imagine the quick sideways glance he gave her, or the infuriatingly smug smile which followed—as if he was perfectly aware of the sudden aching deep inside her which was making it difficult for her to think straight.
She licked her lips. ‘I’m not really like my sisters,’ she began. ‘You remember I’m one of four?’
‘I remember.’
‘They’ve always had millions of boyfriends, and I haven’t.’
‘Why not?’
He shot the question at her and Willow wondered if now was the time for the big reveal. To tell him how ill she’d been as a child. To tell him that there had been times when nobody had been sure if she would make it. Or to mention that there were residual aspects of that illness which made her a bad long-term choice as a girlfriend.
But suddenly her attention was distracted by the powerful interplay of muscles as he tensed one taut thigh in order to change gear and her mouth dried with longing. No, she was not going to tell him. Why peddle stories of her various woes and make herself look like an inevitable victim in his eyes? Today she was going to be a different Willow. The kind of Willow she’d always wanted to be. She was going to embrace the way he was making her feel, and the way he was making her feel was...sexy.
Carelessly, she wriggled her shoulders. ‘I’ve been too wrapped up in my career. The fashion world can be very demanding—and competitive. I’ve been working at the magazine since I left uni, and they work you very hard. The swimwear shoot I was doing in the Caribbean was my first big break and everyone is very pleased with it. I guess that means I’ll have more time to spend on my social life from now on. Take the next turning on the right. We’re nearly there. Look. Only seven more miles.’ She pointed at a signpost. ‘So you’d better tell me a bit about you.’
Dante slowed the car down as he turned into a narrow lane and thought how differently he might have answered this question a few years back. The first thing he would have said was that he was a twin, because being a twin had felt like a fundamental part of his existence—like they were two parts of the same person. But not any more. He and Dario hadn’t spoken in years. Six years, to be precise—after an episode when anger and resentment had exploded into misunderstanding and turned into a cold and unforgiving rift. He’d discovered that it was easier to act like his brother no longer existed, rather than acknowledge the fact that they no longer communicated. And that it hurt. It hurt like hell.
‘But surely you must have looked me up on the internet,’ he murmured.
She quickly turned her head to look at him, and for the first time, she seemed uncertain. ‘Well, yes. I did.’
‘And didn’t that tell you everything you wanted to know?’
‘Not really. Bits of it were very vague.’
‘I pay people a lot of money to keep my profile vague.’
‘Why?’
‘To avoid the kind of questions you seem intent on asking.’
‘It’s just down that long drive. The entrance is just past that big tree on the right.’ She leaned forward to point her finger, before settling back against the leather car seat. ‘It said you had lots of siblings, and there was something about you having a twin brother and I was wondering what it was like to have a twin. If the two of you are psychic, like people say twins can be. And...’
‘And what?’ he shot out as her words trailed off.
She shrugged. ‘There wasn’t much information about your parents,’ she said quietly.
Dante’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he drew