Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary. Cathy WilliamsЧитать онлайн книгу.
would become intolerable. And Riccardo knew there was only one sure way to lose an appetite—and that was to feed it! So he would have her. Take her. Glory in her beautiful body as many times as he wanted her. Then she could walk away—and they could both get on with their lives.
‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘I’m not kidding. I want you to come to Tuscany with me.’
SHE did not want to go. She did not want to go. The words spun round and round in Angie’s head like a mantra. But words, no matter how fervently they were felt, didn’t change a thing. Not when you were up against the might and determination of Riccardo Castellari.
Angrily, Angie finished laying down the last neatly folded silk shirt and then slammed shut her suitcase, glancing down at her watch and realising with a fast-beating heart that Marco would be here with the car at any moment to take her to the airport. Her palms felt clammy and she felt slightly sick.
It was bribery.
Blackmail!
How dared Riccardo insist that she accompany him to Tuscany for his sister’s wedding? she had demanded to know, in that flushed and uncomfortable period after their passionate bout of office sex.
‘You will join me, ostensibly as my secretary,’ he had drawled. ‘But we both know that you’ll be fulfilling another role quite perfectly. As my mistress.’
‘But, Riccardo—’
‘No, say nothing more—for I will not countenance your objections. It is the perfect solution,’ he had mused. ‘My mother would not tolerate me bringing a lover into the house—but nobody need ever know that you are fulfilling a duel role so effectively, cara mia. You can provide me with sweet delight to distract me from all the stultifying details of the forthcoming wedding.’
‘But why, Riccardo?’ she had breathed. ‘I mean, why me?’
Almost impartially, he’d studied her and it was then that Angie had realised how cold a colour black could be—for his eyes had looked positively icy as they flicked over her distressed face.
‘Because you have unlocked a certain, inexplicable hunger in me, cara mia—and I see no reason not to feed that hunger until we are both satisfied. You have already decided to leave my employment, so lets make sure that when you do it is with no lasting regrets on either side.’
He had made it sound so impersonal—as if he were dealing with something rather than someone. Like a man who had just conducted an audacious boardroom coup. Defiance had reared its head. ‘And if I object?’
Arrogantly, he had pulled her towards him—brushing his lips over hers in an almost negligent kiss, which had soon had her shivering beneath it.
‘You won’t object,’ he had boasted softly. ‘You want me far too much to dare to object.’
She had tried. Oh, she had tried. Overriding her hungry body’s screaming protests, Angie had shaken her head and whispered no. And that was when clever Riccardo had played his trump card. If she agreed to the trip, he would let her leave his employment as soon as they returned to England.
‘But I don’t have a job to go to!’ she had objected.
‘What if I give you six months’ full salary—and we’ll call it a bonus for all your hard work?’
For a moment Angie had hesitated—some instinct making her feel uneasy about the deal. Was such an agreement wrong? And yet, wouldn’t she at least be able to preserve her sanity this way and didn’t she deserve some kind of bonus for all the hours she’d put in for him over the years? In the end, she had shrugged her shoulders and agreed and he had kissed her again, taunting her—telling her that her body could not deny how much she wanted him.
Picking up her suitcase, Angie stared in the mirror at her pale face and the set of her lips. It was true. She did want him—but her desire wasn’t straightforward, like his. Hers was complicated by feelings—intense feelings for him which wouldn’t seem to die, no matter how high-handed and hateful he could be. And surely she needed to work on herself—to try to cure herself of an unrequited love which could never have a happy ending.
In the end, it was that thought which convinced her to agree with Riccardo’s outrageous plan. She only knew the man she saw most days in the office—in his guise as highly successful businessman. She’d never seen him wearing anything other than a suit—or nothing at all. But surely if she was with him for a whole week—then she would see him for what he really was. An arrogant man with many flaws who was undeserving of her love.
She prayed that would be the case—because the alternative was terrifying. And what she couldn’t bear would be the thought that she might become one of those sad women who carried a torch for someone who didn’t care. The kind of woman who wasted her life, pining for someone who never even gave them another thought.
Her doorbell rang. Angie gave one last, nervous flick of her hair. That would be Marco. Riccardo had flown out to Tuscany yesterday afternoon—so at least she would be spared travelling with him. But she still had Marco to face. She hadn’t seen Riccardo’s driver since he had dropped his boss off after the Christmas party, when he must have sat outside her apartment for ages before deciding that his boss was there for the night. And she liked the driver—she didn’t want him thinking of her as some kind of loose woman.
‘How long does the journey take, Marco?’ she asked him, once her suitcase had been installed in the capacious boot and they were speeding towards the airport.
‘Should be there in just under the hour, signorina— the roads are quite clear,’ replied the Italian, his equable tone temporarily setting Angie’s mind at rest. It didn’t sound as if he was judging her, she thought cautiously.
Angie had never travelled first class before—in fact, her whole flying experience had been a couple of package holidays to Spain. But in the event, it was wasted on her. She poked uninterestedly at the deli-cious slices of rare roast beef which the stewardess carved for her; she even failed to be tempted by the chocolate mousse. Her stomach was too tied up in knots to face eating—though she did drink a glass of champagne which, for a while at least, gave her a little courage at the thought of facing Riccardo again.
But her nerve nearly failed her when she walked through and saw him standing at the far end of the arrivals hall, waiting for her. A Riccardo who wasn’t wearing his habitual, perfectly tailored suit. A much more casual and relaxed Riccardo and one she wasn’t quite sure she recognised.
As she approached her eyes couldn’t help drinking him in—even though she kept trying to tell herself that he was a cruel man to have insisted on her presence here as his mistress. After years of loyal service couldn’t he have just let her go with some dignity—and let her quietly fade into the background?
But his dazzling appearance eclipsed the troubled nature of her thoughts. He was wearing jeans—black jeans which clung to every lean sinew, emphasising the powerful thrust of his thighs and reminding her of things she would much rather forget. A dark sweater and soft leather jacket completed the buccaneer image—his black hair was ruffled and the olive skin glowed with life and health. But despite the outwardly relaxed appearance, nothing could disguise the hungry gleam which sparked his black eyes as she grew closer.
His gaze raked over her with predatory insolence and just for a moment Angie allowed herself to marvel at the fact that he really did seem to desire her very much indeed. He, Riccardo Castellari—billionaire tycoon—desired her—his plain little secretary. Hadn’t he told her that himself—even if he had tempered the words by shaking his dark hair in disbelief, as if such a thing was incredible.
But it was incredible, wasn’t it? Here she was, ordinary Angie Patterson—walking across the shiny floor of the arrivals lounge