The Italians: Luca, Marco and Alessandro. Natalie AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
something ‘half decent’? Her pack was filled with lightweight trousers and skirts and old tee shirts. Her wardrobe hadn’t been the priority for some time—like, ever. It was Kate who’d had her hair done, who had the fashionable clothes—as the singer centre stage she’d needed to. Emily, the accompanist, had only needed a black top and trousers so she wouldn’t stick out.
She looked at Micaela, at the way the Italian was still chic and gorgeous despite having a belly the size of an award-winning watermelon. Emily needed her kind of help. ‘Can you recommend a shop that sells nice clothes that aren’t too expensive? One that might have something suitable to wear to a dinner party?’
Micaela, her self-possession fully restored, sent her a broad smile. She didn’t just give her the name of the place, she drew her a map.
Luca pushed back from his desk and took a turn around the room. Guilt licked his feet like the burning flames of a small fire that he’d accidentally stumbled on barefoot. Impatiently he moved, trying to stamp out the unpleasant sensation. Adding to that discomfort, irritation whipped at his back. He didn’t want to do dinner parties. He didn’t want to go out and be social. He just wanted to stay home and be with Emily. The only thing salving the annoyance was the fact that she’d admitted she couldn’t leave him yet. Good, because he couldn’t let her go.
He wasn’t angry because she’d made him think about Nikki, but because she’d so obviously thought the worst of him. But then, why shouldn’t she? He’d underlined the temporary, nothing-more-to-it-than-the-physical nature of their affair—of course she probably thought he did it all the time like some cheating stud out for cheap thrills… But her judgment hurt. What she thought of him mattered—and that was the real problem.
He paused at the corner of his office where the sheets of glass met, giving a spectacular view over the city. Pascal was the problem too. If it had been anyone else who had called, that argument wouldn’t have happened. But for Pascal and Emily to meet? Luca felt so uncomfortable about that.
But he had to host him—Pascal rarely came to London now. Part of him wanted to—but that part was small compared to the part that wanted another night with Emily all to himself. Guilt took another bite. The old man had done so much for him. He owed him. And even though Pascal had insisted that he wanted to see him settled, it wasn’t that black and white. He had been there when Nikki died. He was the one person who knew it all. They almost never spoke of it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
He walked home—cutting it fine time wise—stopped in the kitchen first off to check if Micaela was holding up OK. He’d had no idea she ironed his sheets—teased her about it and told her to stop. She smiled and waved him away. He breathed deep and savoured the aromas. Of course she’d have it in hand. Emily had that one so far wrong. He paid the couple more than three times the going rate, but only because they were worth it. They were loyal and hardworking and, yes, went the extra mile when he needed them to. Which wasn’t anywhere near as often as Emily might think—certainly not since Micaela had got pregnant.
He didn’t go in search of Emily, not concerned that she might have moved out after the row that morning. He’d instructed Micaela days ago to let him know if she made any sign of leaving for good. And some more breathing time after this morning wouldn’t go astray. He showered and dressed, tucking in his shirt as he walked back down to her room.
He knocked and went straight in. He took one look at her and was glad he’d taken those extra moments to breathe because there was no air getting to his lungs now. They’d shut down. So had everything else in his body, save one organ south of his belt. And then his heart started pounding.
It was just a black dress. Not even that revealing. But those arms and legs were on show, a slight hint of the deep cleavage, and a lot of back. That meant…he fought to focus…
‘You’re not wearing a bra.’
‘Hello to you too.’ She turned and gave him a cool look. ‘No, I’m not. Is that not decent enough for you?’
When he’d told her to wear something half decent, he hadn’t meant dressy. He’d meant something to cover her up. She was all bare arms and legs all the time and he didn’t want to be a total picture of distraction when Pascal was here. Like a dog salivating over a particularly juicy piece of meat.
It hadn’t come out right, but he’d been too rattled to rephrase. He’d seen the spark in her eye, known he’d scored a hit—not one he’d meant, but at the time he’d felt a gleam of misplaced satisfaction because it had felt as if she was knocking at him left, right and centre. And then he’d just felt wildly angry with her, with himself and with the whole damn uncontrolled mess. But clearly she’d taken it to heart because the woman before him now was the epitome of sultry sophistication.
She turned back to the mirror, lifted her strawberry-blonde hair and twisted it up. He was sorry; he loved the length of it, the depth of colour, wanted to run his fingers into it. Only now, as she secured it with a few clips, her cheekbones were displayed. And the odd strand feathered down, wisping around her ear, her neck, and he wanted to kiss the parts of her they pointed to.
He cleared his throat, looked away. Not tonight—at least, not now. He braced every muscle, determined to calm his raging hormones. He only had to get through a few hours. That was all. He could manage that, couldn’t he?
EMILY concentrated on applying her mascara, trying to apply a brake to the mad acceleration of her heart. Luca crossed the room and picked up the box she’d placed on the table—she hadn’t been sure what she’d wanted to do with it.
The diamonds caught the light as he lifted the bracelet out. He walked towards her, holding the chain out straight. ‘Wear it for me.’
She met his eyes; the fire burned in them, melting that hard chocolate.
‘OK.’ It wasn’t about the bracelet, it was about him. And she couldn’t say no.
He wound it round her wrist and did the clasp. The metal was cold at first but soon warmed against her skin. Glancing back in the mirror, she pushed another pin into her loose topknot and as she did the bracelet slid down her arm a little, catching the light again and sparkling brilliantly. It was beautiful. No other adornment would ever be necessary. It lifted her simple black dress into something stunning and it lifted her status into something nearer his—she couldn’t be confused with the waiting staff now. Part of her loved it—how could she not? And yet part of her hated it—and the soulless contract she felt it represented. Was he worried about tonight and how she was going to come across? Was he sprucing her up with an expensive piece of jewellery?
‘Am I decent now?’ she asked softly.
As she waited she saw his tension increasing, but it wasn’t a flush of desire growing; if anything he’d gone paler beneath his brown tan and his body was tense. ‘When I asked you to wear—’
‘Asked? It was more of an order, Luca.’
‘Whatever. I didn’t mean dressy. Your arms, your legs poke out from those tee shirts and they tempt me. And now…’ His jaw clamped, as if he was holding back more.
‘Now what?’
‘There’s your back. And there’s no bra. And you’re too beautiful.’
She squared her shoulders. ‘Do you want me to change?’
‘No.’
She tilted her chin and decided to play with that one advantage she did have.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Emily.’
‘Like what?’ OK, so in her mind she was removing his clothes, piece by piece.
‘Emily…’ He sounded half-strangled.
She ran her hands from his shoulders to his waist.