The Millionaire Tycoon's English Rose. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
wobbling! I could murder you for that alone.’
Celia chuckled. She owed Angela a lot, for it was she who’d taught her how to win the admiring glances that she knew followed her even without seeing them. Angela had decreed the colours that went with Celia’s red hair.
‘But what does it mean—red hair?’ Celia had asked.
‘It means you’ve got to be very careful what you wear with it. You’re lucky in your complexion, pale and delicate, the perfect English-rose style.’
‘What’s an English rose?’ Celia had asked at once.
‘Let’s just say men go for it. That’s what you’re hoping for, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly not. This is a business meeting to discuss strategy and forward planning.’
‘Boy, you really have got it bad.’
Celia laughed, but inwardly she could feel herself blushing. Her friend’s words were true. She had got it bad already.
When she opened the door to Francesco that evening she heard what she’d been hoping for—a brief hesitation that said he was taken aback by her appearance. She smiled at his wolf whistle and inclined her head in mock acceptance.
There was the tiniest hint of their future disagreements when he wanted her to leave Wicksy behind.
‘He goes with me everywhere,’ she said firmly
‘Surely he doesn’t have to? I’ll keep you safe.’
‘But I don’t want to be kept safe,’ she said, still smiling. ‘Wicksy treats me as an equal in ways that nobody else does.’
‘But you don’t need him if you’ve got me,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, restaurants don’t like dogs.’
‘There’s one two streets away that knows Wicksy and always welcomes him. Let’s not argue about it. Wicksy belongs with me and I belong with him.’
She kept her tone pleasant, but he must have sensed her determination because he yielded. She knew a twinge of disappointment. Understanding her need for independence was one of her silent ‘tests’ and he’d failed it. But there was time yet, and she was determined to enjoy her evening with him.
They walked the short distance to the restaurant, and settled down at their table to talk.
‘Did you have to bring that great folder in with you?’ he asked.
‘Of course. How else could I make my pitch? This is a working dinner, remember? I have several ideas that I think you’ll like.’
She talked for several minutes, illustrating her points by pushing various pages towards him. She’d earlier marked them with nail scissors, so that she could tell by feel which was which.
‘You seem to know everything about everything we’ve ever made,’ he said, awed.
‘I’ve been working hard.’
‘I can tell, but how on earth—’ he asked.
‘I accessed a lot of information about your firm on line this afternoon.’
‘And your computer delivers it vocally?’ he hazarded.
‘There is software that does that,’ she said vaguely.
In truth she’d got Sally to read it out to her, a method she sometimes used when she was short of time. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.
There were two conversations going on here, she realised. On the surface she sold her abilities, while he admired her work. It was pleasant, restrained, but beneath the surface they were sizing each other up.
Celia listened closely to every nuance of his voice. Without being deep, it had a resonance that excited her and made her want to touch him.
She’d chosen this restaurant and insisted on taking Wicksy because in that way she could keep some sort of control. The trouble was that she increasingly wanted to abandon control and hurl herself headlong into the unknown.
She sensed that he, too, was putting a brake on himself, but his caution was greater than hers. Francesco eased her away from the subject of work, and made her talk about herself.
‘How did your parents cope with you being blind?’ he asked.
‘Easily. They were both blind, too,’ she explained.
‘Mio Dio! How terrible!’ he said instinctively.
‘Not really. You’d be amazed how little you miss what you’ve never had. Since they couldn’t see, either, and I’m an only child, I had almost no point of comparison. The three of us formed a kind of secret society. It was us against the world because we thought everyone else was crazy. They thought we were crazy, too, because we wouldn’t conform to their ideas about how blind people ought to behave.
‘They met at university, where he was a young professor and she was one of his students. He writes books now, and she does his secretarial work. He says she’s more efficient than any sighted secretary because she knows what to watch out for. They used to say they fell in love because they understood things that nobody else did. So I grew up accepting the way we lived as normal, and I still do.’
There was a slight warning in her voice as she said the last words, but she didn’t make much of the point.
She managed to turn the conversation towards him. He told her about his family in Italy, his parents and his five brothers, the villa perched on the hill with the view over the Bay of Naples. Then he caught himself up, embarrassed.
‘It’s all right,’ she told him. ‘I don’t expect people to censor their speech because I’ve never seen the things they describe. If I did that I wouldn’t have any friends.’
‘And you’ve never seen anything of the world at all,’ he said in wonder. ‘That’s what I can’t get my head round.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is hard,’ she mused. ‘This morning my friend told me you had deep blue eyes, but I had to tell her I couldn’t picture them.’
In the brief silence she could sense him looking around, and strove not to smile.
‘Why—did she tell you that?’ he asked, almost nervously.
She assumed a wicked, breathy innocence. ‘You mean, it’s not true? Your eyes are really deep red?’
‘Only when I’ve had too much to drink.’
She laughed so much that Wicksy, dozing at her feet, pushed his snout against her, asking if all was well.
Something other than laughter was happening that evening. It was in the air between them. Another woman might have read it in his eyes. Celia sensed it with the whole of her being.
The talk drifted back to his family.
‘My mother’s English, but you’d never know it. At heart Signora Rinucci is a real Italian mamma, determined to marry all her sons off.’
‘Six sons? That’s quite an undertaking. How’s she doing?’
‘Four married, two left, But my brother Ruggiero has just got engaged. He’ll marry Polly fairly soon, and then Mamma will turn her firepower on me.’
So now he’d contrived to let her know that he wasn’t married, she thought, appreciating his tactics.
‘Don’t your parents do the same with you?’ he asked casually.
‘It’s the one thing they’ve never given me advice about,’ she said. ‘Except when Dad’s been at work in the kitchen Mum will say, “Never marry a man who cooks squid.” And she’s right.’
After a brief silence he said, ‘We have squid in the Bay of Naples. Best in the world, so the fishermen say.’
‘But you don’t cook