Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary: The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress / The Secretary's Scandalous Secret / The Boss's Inexperienced Secretary. HELEN BROOKSЧитать онлайн книгу.
follow me?’
‘Of course. Thank you.’ But it was strange how feelings could suddenly switch. From dreading seeing Riccardo, Angie could now feel herself fervently wishing that he’d come to collect her himself as all her bravado slipped away. How could she walk into a room full of important people she didn’t know—all proper invited guests, apart from her—with even some members of the aristocracy thrown in? Would they look at her and judge her, and find her wanting?
She heard the murmur of voices and the chink of glasses as she descended the curving wooden staircase. Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she looked fine but inside she was trembling like a leaf. Pinning a smile to her shiny lips, she began to walk down towards the assembled guests—a rainbow display of finery contrasting with the dark suits worn by the men. A dazzling and glamorous assembly. Some of them looked up and some turned around.
But all she could see was the ebony spotlight of Riccardo’s eyes following her every movement.
‘WELL, well, well—I see that you have decided to dress like the siren for the party tonight, piccola.’
Riccardo’s words were silken-soft but the look which accompanied them was anything but. The coal-dark glitter of his eyes moved provocatively over her face, the quick flick of his tongue over his lips reminding Angie of how they’d just spent the afternoon. Bringing back with aching clarity the slow, almost drugging quality of their love-making.
Angie shook her head, trying to clear her head of the memory. ‘But you bought me this dress, Riccardo,’ she protested, taking a proffered glass of Prosecco from the passing waitress. ‘And surely the whole point was to wear it?’ She glanced around at the other women, reassured to see that some were in gowns which made hers look positively demure. ‘Unless you’re saying that it’s unsuitable for the occasion.’
There was a pause. The only thing about it which was unsuitable was the fact that it reminded him just what lay beneath it. A nerve flickered at his temple. ‘You know very well that it’s suitable. In fact, you look more beautiful than any other woman in the room,’ he countered.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Sì, cara,’ he said steadily. ‘I do. Now, you’d better come and meet my mother.’
‘I’d love to.’ But her cheeks pinkened at the unexpected compliment as she looked around. ‘Where’s the bride-to-be?’
With narrowed eyes, Riccardo checked out the room, his tone doing nothing to disguise his disapproval. ‘She still hasn’t shown.’
‘Oh, well—it’s the bride’s prerogative to be late.’
‘That’s not supposed to be until the wedding day,’ he returned acidly. ‘There’s still two days to go.’
‘And what about the groom?’
‘The Duca is standing over by the woman wearing diamonds.’
‘Every woman is wearing diamonds.’
He laughed. ‘He’s by the fireplace, but don’t stare, Angie—it’s rude.’
Angie didn’t need to stare—one quick glance was enough to surprise her so much that she stared down into the fizzing bubbles in her drink in an attempt to compose herself. Surely Floriana couldn’t be marrying him! She took a sip of the wine. The Duca was elegant, yes—but he must have been almost fifty, judging from the harsh lines on his face. And wasn’t that the hint of baldness at the crown of his head? He looked ancient in comparison to the beautiful young Italian girl.
She lifted her eyes to find a sudden coldness in Riccardo’s—as if daring her to make the obvious comment. But why should she? As he had reminded her earlier—it was none of her business. ‘Floriana’s a lucky girl,’ she said dutifully.
‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely. ‘She is. Now come and meet my mother.’
Angie was aware of eyes following them as they made their way across the crowded room—before stopping in front of the matriarch of the family.
‘Mamma, I told you that I was bringing Angie with me? And I believe you have spoken on the phone many times.’
Despite her elegant high heels, Riccardo’s mother was surprisingly small and terrifyingly elegant. Her figure was as neat as a young girl’s and she was clad in very obvious couture—a gleaming burgundy gown of heavy silk with a string of large, lustrous pearls around her neck. The two women shook hands and her black eyes looked Angie up and down with interest.
‘So we meet at last,’ she said, in perfect English. ‘The woman who makes my son’s life run like clockwork, or so he tells me.’
Angie blinked, slightly taken aback to hear another compliment and glad that Riccardo had gone over to talk to his brother—even though the two men were standing dominating the room, like a pair of dark and formidable statues. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she joked.
‘No, I can imagine,’ came the dry rejoinder and then Signora Castellari smiled as she looked her up and down. ‘And you look wonderful. I had no idea that your taste in clothes was quite so exquisite, my dear.’
There was an awkward pause as Angie tried not to flinch. What did she say? That it was a Christmas present from her son? Wouldn’t that seem like much too intimate a gift from boss to secretary, and might it not make his mother raise her eyebrows—possibly in disapproval?
‘Thank you,’ she said weakly.
‘At least I know that Riccardo must be compensating you adequately, if you can afford to dress that well.’
Angie nodded and raised her drink to lips which suddenly felt like stone as the elegant woman moved away to greet another guest, hoping that her face didn’t betray the terrible sense of distress that her innocent remark had provoked. Because Signora Castellari had said nothing untoward; not really. She thought that she was simply meeting her son’s long-time secretary—she wasn’t to realise that the secretary in question was also his lover, which made innocent remarks about financial compensation acutely embarrassing.
At that moment, there was a stir of expectation from the guests and everyone looked up towards a second staircase to see Floriana slowly descending the staircase with a girl by her side whose pale skin and unruly red curls marked her out from the mainly Mediterranean gathering. That must be the bridesmaid, thought Angie.
Floriana’s black dress was stark and her own hair was piled up into an elaborate creation on top of her head, fixed with small diamond pins. Round her neck were more diamonds—a veritable waterfall of glittering icy stones. She looked, Angie realised with a shock, like a mannequin. As if she were composed of wax instead of flesh and blood.
But then they were being called into dinner and, to Angie’s relief, Riccardo came to accompany her to the table. ‘Surely you can’t seat this many people all at once?’ she whispered.
‘Wait and see.’
The dining room—well, it was more of a hall—was absolutely beautiful, lit by hundreds of tall candles and scented rather overpoweringly with lilies. A single long table was draped in snowy linen and glittered with gold and crystal. Angie found herself seated next to a very sweet old man who had once spent a holiday in Brighton and who was eager to practise his English. On her other side was a teenage cousin of the groom who was clearly bored out of his mind and would rather have been somewhere else.
At the opposite end of the table and next to Riccardo’s mother she could see the Duca holding forth, with a morose-looking Floriana by his side. And on opposite sides sat the grim-faced Romano and the red-haired bridesmaid who seemed to spend the majority of the meal glaring at one another. What was their problem? Angie wondered as she lifted her napkin, thinking that this made her little