Hot Christmas Nights: Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding / His for Revenge / Mistletoe Not Required

Chapter Two

THERE must have been some kind of mistake.

For a moment Cassie froze as she stared up at the imposing white mansion. Yes, she’d guessed that Giancarlo was rich—very, very rich—but surely he couldn’t live somewhere like this? Not looking out over the lush gardens of Kensington Palace and slap bang next door to an embassy where a flag was fluttering in the cold December breeze.

Already the evening felt as if it were happening to someone else—and yet it had barely begun. She kept thinking that if she pinched herself hard enough she might wake up and find herself on the bus going home to Greenford instead of in the back of a chauffeur-driven car which had just stopped in front of one of the most prestigious crescents in London.

After finishing work, she had changed into a simple black dress and a pair of cheap, high-heeled shoes that she’d hastily run out and bought during her lunch hour. Adding a touch of lipstick, she had untied her hair and tried to quell her steadily rising nerves as she dragged a brush through it. It was only when it was hanging loose in a pale waterfall down her back that Lindy from the cosmetics department had walked in, to see Cassie looking at herself in the mirror.

‘Going somewhere?’

‘Um, out for dinner.’

‘Got a date?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’ She was dying to tell someone but she’d been asleep by the time her flatmates had arrived home last night—and Lindy had never been friendly towards her. Plus Lindy was a full-time member of staff—not someone who’d been drafted in for the Christmas period—and perhaps it wasn’t really appropriate to tell her that she was dating a customer. Not when the expression on her face as she looked Cassie up and down was as sour as a bowlful of lemons.

Instead, Cassie glanced at her watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? I’d better go or I’ll be late. See you tomorrow, Lindy.’ Carefully, she picked up the distinctive claret-and-gold-wrapped package and smiled.

Lindy’s sharp eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, just—just some candles. They belong to a…friend.’ Did she know Giancarlo well enough to call him a friend—and why was she blushing? Why hadn’t she just come out and said that a customer had left them behind? ‘He asked me to bring them over.’

Lindy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did he?’

‘Yes. Well, I’d better…I’d better go. Night, Lindy.’

Feeling ridiculously guilty—and not quite sure why—Cassie had left the building, relieved to find the promised car waiting for her at the Brompton Road entrance to the store. But the only person in the vast vehicle was the chauffeur and she found herself wishing that Giancarlo had come to collect her personally. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of man who sat waiting patiently for a woman—but it didn’t exactly do her ego much good.

And now she felt a bit like a door-to-door salesperson as she made her way up the flight of white stairs leading to the enormous front door, the candles in one hand, her fingers clutching tightly at her handbag with the other. What on earth was she going to talk to him about? But before she’d had the chance to ring the bell, the door opened and there was Giancarlo himself—a gleam flickering in the depths of his ebony eyes.

His black hair was gleaming and tousled—as if he’d run his fingers through it when he’d been fresh out of the shower—and he wore a fine white silk shirt which was unbuttoned at the neck. Dark trousers hugged his narrow hips and emphasised the muscular legs and he seemed much taller than she remembered. Despite the simplicity of his clothes, he looked rich and powerful and intimidatingly masculine and Cassie felt the sudden spiralling of nerves.

‘So here you are,’ he said softly.

‘Here I am.’ Glad to have something to distract her, she thrust the package into his hand. ‘Look, I’ve brought your candles.’

His lips curved into a smile as he took them from her. Candles were the very last thing on his mind. ‘Grazie. Now come inside and let me look at you.’ Giancarlo’s throat thickened as she stepped past him into the hallway on those killer heels, with a sway of her silken hair.

He let his gaze drift over her. Even when she’d been working behind the counter in her starchy uniform with her hair scraped back there had been some quality about her which had intrigued him. But in the short dress and high heels with that pale cascade of blonde hair running down her back, she looked utterly irresistible. Fresh, and young and firm. Suddenly, he wished he knew her well enough to skip dinner and take her straight to bed. Or at least to start kissing her. ‘You look amazing,’ he said softly as he put the package down on a table.

‘Do I?’

‘You know you do.’

But Cassie shrugged a little awkwardly. Like most women, she had little real confidence in the way she looked—even though she’d tried her best to fit in since arriving in London and discovering that her Cornish clothes weren’t really suitable for a city lifestyle. Sometimes it felt as if she’d taken on a different persona to match the new outfits she’d acquired—a glossy patina which concealed the real her. She’d certainly never have worn heels this high or a dress this short back home. But then, she’d never have been standing looking into the face of a man like this back home, would she?

Suddenly shy and wanting to divert herself from the gleam of appraisal in his black eyes, she glanced around the entrance hall, which was as big as a room itself with its high ceilings and pale grey walls hung with a series of muted charcoal drawings of a beautiful Japanese woman. Stained glass from the window light of the front door splashed reds and blues on the tiled black and white floor, and on a gleaming rosewood table stood a glass bowl of white roses and freesia which perfumed the air with their delicate scent. The airy dimensions and sense of space were awesome—it was like somewhere you might see in one of those glossy interior magazines you found at the dentist’s—and Cassie couldn’t imagine just one person living in a place this big.

She looked at Giancarlo expectantly, waiting for him to fetch his jacket. ‘Where are we going for dinner?’ she asked.

‘Well, actually, we’re not going anywhere.’ His voice was soft. ‘We’re eating right here.’

‘Here?’ Her heart began to thud and she wasn’t sure why. She had imagined a rooftop and a twinkling city view. Someone playing a white piano—and cocktail waitresses with flowers in their hair. The soft murmur of conversation and watching all the rich people out at play.

‘You have some sort of objection to that, mia bella?’ His eyes gleamed. ‘You don’t think the standard of food will be what you’re used to?’

Her cheeks grew pink at the mockery in his voice. ‘Well, I…’

‘Well, what, Cassandra?’ he questioned teasingly.

Nobody—nobody—ever called her Cassandra. And nobody had ever told her that an Italian voice could make a single word sound like a soft seduction. Surely it wasn’t decent behaviour for her to have dinner alone in a man’s house on their first date—and yet if she came out and told him so, then wouldn’t it make her sound awfully naïve? As if she’d just come up from the country and were some sort of hick. Maybe this was normal behaviour for London. And just because they were eating in didn’t mean he was going to leap on her, did it? Cassie cleared her throat. ‘I just thought—well, there are lots of lovely restaurants locally.’

‘So there are—but most of them are full of tourists and office parties at this time of the year.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘Come with me and let me see if I can change your mind.’

She let him take her hand and allowed him to lead her along an endless corridor hung with yet more pictures, past the faint sound of a radio and the clanking sound of something being whisked. The corridor led into an enormous, wooden-floored room dotted with several dramatic sculptures and large French windows which opened onto a beautiful conservatory, where a table had been set for dinner.

Stars gleamed through the clear ceiling, a bottle of champagne sat waiting in an ice-bucket and pots of jasmine scented the air. Aware that he was still holding her hand and that it now seemed a little too intimate, Cassie shook hers free and walked over to the glass doors, which overlooked an enormous garden.

Though the night was cold and dark, strategic lights had been placed around the huge grounds, illuminating bare trees and elegant shrubs so that the whole scene resembled a winter stage-set. It was the prettiest and most unexpected thing she had ever seen—as if the countryside had been transplanted into the centre of the busy city and given a theatrical twist.

‘Oh, my,’ she breathed. ‘All that garden—and right in the middle of London. Lucky you.’

Luck? Giancarlo walked over to stand beside her, looking at the tight high curve of her young bottom as he did so and the way the pale blonde hair fell almost to her waist. How people always looked at his life and thought he’d had it easy. He thought that luck didn’t feature as strongly as the capricious hand of fate and a corresponding determination to make something of himself. The senseless shock of a double betrayal. And the long, grim struggle to work his way up from the bottom. To prove to his brother and himself that he didn’t need an inheritance to elevate himself to the level of a wealthy man.

And he had done it. Exceeded even his own exacting standards and lofty expectations. Been single-minded enough to focus on his goal and to achieve the success he had set out to achieve. Which was why he could bring this beautiful young woman into his home—for a meal which would rival most award-winning restaurants in the capital.

‘So have you changed your mind about going out? Can you think of anywhere prettier to eat?’ he questioned, glancing at the waterfall of blonde hair which was rippling down her narrow back.

‘I guess I can’t. Not really. But who’s doing the cooking?’

‘Well, not me, that’s for sure!’ Walking back over to the table, he pulled the bottle of champagne from the bucket and removed the thick foil with his thumb. ‘Drink?’

‘Lovely,’ she said lightly, taking the flute of pale fizz from him and giving a little squeak as she sipped it.

‘Bubbles up your nose?’ he murmured.

‘Every time,’ she agreed sanguinely, as if she drank champagne every day of her life. ‘So who does do your cooking?’

‘I have staff.’ His tone was casual. ‘A cook. A housekeeper. A gardener.’

‘Gosh. How very indulgent.’

He flicked her a glance. Wealth did strange things. It opened up the world like an oyster—and closed off other parts of it for ever. It isolated and enclosed you in a rarefied and gilded existence. It meant that people sometimes looked at you with envy—or avarice. But that was the price you paid. And what would this little shop-girl know of his life unless he told her? ‘More a necessity than an indulgence. I travel a lot for work and my hours are long. So I don’t have time for all the maintenance stuff.’

‘And even if you did—maybe you still wouldn’t do it? I can’t really imagine you peeling potatoes or hammering a nail in a wall.’

‘The former is what I’d expect a woman to do,’ he said, with a faint glimmer of a smile. ‘The hammering part of the equation wouldn’t be a problem.’

Cassie nearly choked on the mouthful of champagne she was drinking. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘About the nail? Sure I am. I’m pretty good with a hammer.’

She blushed—because the soft mockery in his voice made it sound as though he was referring to something other than DIY skills. ‘I meant your remark about peeling potatoes being women’s work.’

‘Are you going to subject me to a lecture about sexual stereotypes, bella?’ he mocked. ‘Because let me save you the time. I know it off by heart.’

Cassie stared at him, her heart beating very fast. ‘Some people might describe that as arrogance, Giancarlo.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said silkily.

Cassie stared at him and their eyes clashed—fighting a sudden silent battle which had nothing to do with potatoes or sexual stereotypes. A battle which was completely alien to her—and yet one for which she was suddenly discovering an instinctive knowledge.

Yet another type of intuition was telling her that she was in danger—a subtle and insidious kind. The kind of danger which was making her want to behave with an abandon she wasn’t even aware she possessed. She knew exactly what she should do. Turn around and walk right out of there. Away from the temptation of an arrogant and heartbreakingly handsome man with his servants and his wealth and his crushing contempt for women.

But something stopped her. The same thing which had first made her heart leap with some kind of primitive recognition the first time she’d set eyes on him. An attraction which wasn’t based on intellect or reason or understanding—but on something much more fundamental.

Desire.

Shakily, she put her glass down on the table. ‘I don’t think I’d better have any more to drink on any empty stomach,’ she said.

Giancarlo had seen the darkening of her eyes, felt the unmistakable crackle of tension between them and known that there had been a moment when she had longed for him to take her in his arms and kiss her. The moment was lost—but almost certainly there would be another. ‘Then let’s eat. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving,’ she said, without much enthusiasm.

Cassie watched as he walked back over to the French windows and, reaching inside, rang some sort of bell. He’s ringing a bell to summon his servants! she thought. Once again, she could feel a slightly hysterical sense of being divorced from reality—as a dark-haired woman he introduced as Gina carried out a dish and laid it in the centre of the table, soon followed by a bowl of potatoes and platter of green beans.

‘Just something simple,’ he said softly as he pulled out a chair for Cassie. ‘Which will leave you plenty of room for dessert.’

Cassie didn’t know whether she was imagining sensual imagery at every corner and whether he was intending for that to happen. All she did know was that the woman called Gina was making her feel uncomfortable. Tall and slim, with a pair of trendy black-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, she was aged about forty and spoke briefly to Giancarlo in Italian.

So was it the language exclusion which made Cassie feel so out of place—or the fear that Gina might be judging her? Maybe it was her own guilty conscience making her feel awkward as she wondered just how many women had sat where she was sitting, dining with a wealthy Italian they’d only just met. Did any of them stay the night, she wondered—and did Gina serve coffee and breakfast in the morning as if nothing had happened?

‘Cassie?’ Giancarlo’s voice broke into the swirl of her thoughts.

‘Sorry?’ Biting her lip, she looked up at him to find his ebony gaze washing over her. What on earth was she doing—thinking about women staying the night here?

‘You were miles away.’

‘Was I?’ She helped herself to a portion of chicken from the dish he was holding towards her. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking…’

‘What were you thinking?’

Hastily, Cassie reassembled her thoughts, glad that the candlelight hid her sudden rise in colour. ‘That I’ve never met anyone who has staff before. Gina’s Italian, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘And what about the others that you mentioned—the cook and the gardener—are they all Italian?’

‘Do you want me to go through the CVs of my entire staff?’ he questioned softly, taking the bowl from her and placing it in the middle of the table. ‘Yes, they are all Italian. They’ve been with me a long time and know my tastes. Now relax, bella—and eat your dinner. I’m much more interested to hear about you and how you came to be working at the store.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Well, I live in Cornwall—I may have mentioned that.’

‘And what is it like, living in Cornwall?’ he murmured.

She shot him a shy look. ‘Oh, it’s gorgeous—with the most beautiful beaches and the biggest waves you’ve ever seen. It’s a surfers’ paradise and does the best cream teas in the world—have you never been there?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ His lips curved, because her enthusiasm was really very sweet. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I live close to the sea—in Trevone,’ she said.

‘On your own?’

‘No, with my mother. She runs a B&B—that’s bed and breakfast—though there are hardly any guests during the winter. My father…’ She swallowed. ‘Well, my father died a couple of years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ Cassie put her fork down. People always said that. I’m sorry. As if somehow they were responsible for the death of a stranger. She guessed it was just what people said when they didn’t really know what to say—though she couldn’t imagine that Giancarlo Vellutini was often stuck for words. She shot him a quick glance as he ate a mouthful of chicken and pushed a bit more food around on her own plate. ‘I suppose you’re shocked that a woman my age is still living at home?’

He shook his head and shrugged. It meant that there would be no liaisons in her home town—but so what? He wasn’t planning long-term.

‘I am from Italy,’ he said softly. ‘Where such a scenario is common. Living with your parents has many advantages—for both parties—although, naturally, it can curtail individual freedom.’

She couldn’t have put it better herself. ‘Exactly!’

‘Is that why you came to London, Cassandra? Because you wanted to be free?’

‘Yes, well—sort of,’ she said slowly—because only now had her mother come out of her frozen grief, and allowed Cassie to think that it was okay to leave her on her own. But it was more than that. Hadn’t her father’s death made her rethink everything? Hadn’t it brought home how frighteningly fragile life was and made her examine her own and find it wanting? Making her realise that it was whizzing by and she had done very little with it. ‘I wanted a break. Felt I was in a bit of a rut. You know.’

She paused to allow him to agree, but he didn’t—and when she thought about it, a jet-setting man like him was unlikely to get bored with the daily grind, was he?

‘You see, I’ve only ever lived in one place and felt it was time for a change,’ she continued. ‘I work in a shop in Padstow—a really pretty little gift shop which sells trinkets and craft kits and fancy food. Cornish clottedcream biscuits and crystals—that sort of thing. I’d like to get promoted to manageress—and the owner said that it might be a good idea if I got a bit of experience in London first. She knows one of the buyers at Hudson’s—and she arranged for me to get a temporary job there during the Christmas rush. And so, here I am.’

‘Here you are,’ he agreed, sitting back in his chair and looking at her. ‘With your eyes the colour of those little bunches of violets you sometimes see on city market stalls—all dewy fresh amid the dust and grime.’

She blushed and glanced down at her plate, feeling the sudden skitter of her heart. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.’

‘But surely men say that kind of thing to you all the time, especially if you blush so enchantingly in response.’

‘Not really.’

‘No? Oh, come on, Cassandra—I can’t believe there isn’t a long line of men beating a path to your door.’

Cassie supposed it would sound shaming to admit that few men of her acquaintance had offered little more in the way of flattery than a terse ‘not bad’ when she’d dressed up for a date. But then most of the men she met were those she’d grown up with who felt more like brothers—or married men who came into the shop accompanied by their wife and two toddlers. Tentatively, she raised her eyes to meet the mocking question in his. ‘I don’t think Englishmen are quite as…well, as…verbal as Italians.’

He smiled. ‘Ah, so now we’re talking national stereotypes, are we? You prefer the Italian male with his innate ability to charm women?’

‘That sounds more like boasting than charming to me!’

His eyes glittered. ‘And that sounds as if you’re laying down a challenge, my beauty.’

Cassie swallowed as he made that silky declaration—aware that the strangest sensations were washing over her and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do to stop them. She wanted him to kiss her—and they hadn’t even finished their main courses. And wasn’t there also another characteristic attributed to Italian men—that they didn’t respect women who gave into them too easily?

‘I think…I think that champagne is going to my head. May I have a glass of water, please?’ she questioned weakly, because why on earth was she leaping ahead of herself like this and thinking about ‘giving in’ to him? As if it would take any persuasion at all! Again, she could feel the heated prickling of her skin—and if Giancarlo Vellutini had the slightest inkling what was going on inside her head he would think her insane!

‘Of course.’ Reading the darkening of desire in her eyes, Giancarlo poured her a glass, approving of the fact that she wasn’t much of a drinker. He didn’t want alcohol blurring her reactions or influencing her judgement tonight—or any sense of false outrage in the morning. He wanted her and she wanted him—the only question was whether she was honest enough to admit it. ‘You haven’t eaten very much.’

‘No. I’m not really hungry. What a terrible dinner guest I am.’