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the hairdresser’s with a defiant expression on her face and letting her sand-coloured hair spill all over her shoulders.
‘Can you just cut it off?’ she asked.
‘Anything particular in mind?’ asked the assistant.
‘Something really flattering,’ said Angie, colouring slightly. ‘But nothing too wild.’
It seemed to Angie that her new haircut and her new boots and belt became more about trying to update her image without losing her essential personality—but they also felt like a shield she could hide behind. And if she felt brittle on the inside as she travelled into work after the Christmas break—she knew that from the outside she looked newly bright and breezy.
The snow had melted into a thick grey slush but the man who owned the coffee shop next door lifted her spirits, telling her she was the best thing he’d seen all year.
‘Ah, but that’s because it’s only the second of January!’ She smiled, though if she’d been paying more attention she might have noticed the dark figure who had paused momentarily outside the plate-glass window.
But despite her determination not to slink into work as if she were ashamed of herself, Angie’s heart was still beating quickly as she walked into the office carrying her blueberry muffin. With a nervous repetition which bordered on hysteria, she silently told herself that since Riccardo didn’t have a meeting until lunch-time, he probably wouldn’t be in the office until later.
But he was.
Sitting at his desk, his chair pushed back and his long legs stretched out in front of him, he was flicking through a sheaf of papers and he glanced up as she walked in.
And frowned.
Angie hung her coat up as she met his gaze, praying that her own face held just the right amount of friendly interest which you might direct at your boss if the last time you’d seen him he had just been putting his clothes back on. But his face was looking distinctly stony and her heart sank.
‘Happy new year!’ she said, nervous words tumbling out of her mouth. ‘How was Tuscany? Busy, I expect. Not long now until the wedding.’
He completely ignored her question and her babbled statements, the black eyes flicking over her with an incredulous light in their ebony depths. And when he spoke, his voice was silky—a tone she’d never heard before and didn’t quite recognise. ‘Well, well, well. And what, pray, is this?’
Steadily, she regarded him—praying that her calm face didn’t betray a trace of the heart-thumping excitement she felt at being alone with him again. Because she didn’t want to feel heart-thumping excitement. She wanted nothing more than neutrality to get her through the days until she could slap her resignation letter on his desk and walk away without a backward glance.
‘What is what?’ she questioned brightly even though her heart was slamming against her ribcage.
Riccardo flicked her another cool glance. He had psyched himself up for a very different encounter. Had been expecting—and dreading—Angie to creep into the office with red-rimmed eyes. For her to sulk and pointedly give him the cold shoulder. For cups of coffee to be slammed down in front of him. And that the memories of that unbelievably erotic night would fade with every glance he cast over her drab figure. Except that she wasn’t looking in the slightest bit drab. He frowned again.
What the hell had changed? He was sure the plain woollen dress she wore wasn’t new and yet the garment seemed to have undergone a dramatic transformation. Was it the tight belt which was drawing his attention to the narrow curve of her waist and the tempting swell of her breasts? Or just the fact that he now knew what treasures the dress concealed? He felt his throat constrict. ‘You’ve…you’ve had your hair cut,’ he said suddenly.
He’d noticed! Angie felt a shaft of pleasure pierce her—until she forced herself to get real. Don’t be so pathetic. He’s noticed that at long last you’ve changed your hairstyle—big deal. Nevertheless, her fingertips touched the newly shorn locks.
‘That’s right. Do you…do you like it?’ The question came out before she could stop it—did it sound like the desperate query of a discarded lover keen to reappraise herself in the eyes of the man who had walked away?
Riccardo’s gaze flicked over her. Unfortunately, the question required him to continue looking at her, and looking at her was the last thing he wanted. Or rather, it was. It was just that looking at her made him remember the pink and cream softness of her body and the way she had cried out when he had entered her.
Today she didn’t look remotely pink. Or soft. She looked glossy, and sleek. Like some pampered little pussy-cat who was longing to be stroked.
With an effort, he forced his mind away from the pert thrust of her breasts and up to the shiny new haircut. Did he like it? It was difficult to judge because his head was now full of conflicting images which were jangling for his attention. Angie with her hair scraped back from her face in its usual stark, utilitarian style. Angie with her hair spread out all over the pillow. And now Angie with her hair all feathered around her chin and showcasing a remarkably long and slender neck. He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘It’s okay.’
Suddenly Angie understood the meaning of the expression being damned with faint praise. So stop seeking it, she told herself fiercely. Act like you’d normally act—the way you used to before you spent the night with him. The trouble was although she could remember how—she wasn’t sure whether she was going to be able to accomplish it. She had been in love with him for so long, but had become an expert at hiding her feelings for him behind the easy working relationship they’d forged. But now it felt all skewed. Odd.
Now she knew the reality of Riccardo as a lover and it was the memories of that which dominated her thoughts. For how could you possibly keep your mind on his latest financial acquisition when you kept being reminded of the way his lips had whispered with a featherlight touch across your bare belly?
Remember how callous he was the morning after you slept with him, she told herself. Remember how your stupid heart was welling up with love for him and he took those feelings and crushed them beneath the heel of his arrogant Italian shoe.
‘I’m just going to make some coffee,’ she said.
‘I don’t want a cup of coffee.’
‘Well, I do.’ Tearing her eyes away from his piercing black gaze, she clattered around with the sophisticated coffee machine he’d insisted on installing when he’d first arrived—which produced coffee to rival the stuff served in the shop next door. But it wasn’t until she’d completed the task and put the cup on her desk that she realised he was still looking at her. And that there was no way she was going to be able to munch her way through the skinny blueberry muffin she’d brought in for breakfast. But neither could she ignore the accusatory stare which was lancing through her.
‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’
‘I just wondered why you’d come to work looking as if you were going straight out to a party.’
Angie feigned outrage at the acid remark, though secretly she was pleased; more than pleased. So he’d noticed her clothes, had he? Good. And he disapproved of them, did he? Even better.
‘I don’t think that’s an accurate assessment of a simple woollen dress you’ve seen many times before, do you?’ she asked coolly.
Riccardo gave what sounded uncomfortably like a growl—though the sound wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the sudden heavy aching at his groin. He was overreacting and it was time to stop it. He should be grateful that she’d had the sense not to play up—or want to talk about what had happened after the Christmas party. His mouth hardened. Even though her reasons for sharpening up her wardrobe were quite clear. Women could be so transparent. She thought he’d go right over there and rip it off, didn’t she? Thought he’d be laying her over the desk, and pulling down her…
‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’
Uncomfortably,