Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary

‘And turn down the chance of a pay-off and early exit from your life?’ she challenged hotly.

‘Why, Angie,’ he murmured. ‘And here was me thinking that you were here because you couldn’t resist my body.’

Glaring at him, she glanced around. ‘Shh! Somebody might hear!’

He shrugged as he took the suitcase from her unprotesting fingers. ‘We’re speaking English,’ he remonstrated silkily. ‘And we’re in Italy—where men and women tend to be less uptight about such matters.’

‘Oh, how you twist things round to suit yourself!’ she retorted crossly. ‘One minute you’re advocating harsh rules that virgin women should marry older men—and the next minute you’re telling me that Italy is liberal about lovers.’

‘Ah, but that’s the difference between lovers and prospective marriage partners,’ he murmured flippantly.

Reinforcing her lowly status, the careless remark hurt more than it should have done and Angie dropped her passport into her handbag and zipped it up, determined to change the subject. ‘What did your sister say when she knew I was coming?’

‘She’s delighted—if a little distracted—but I guess that’s the prerogative of brides-to-be. Shall we go?’

Angie had half expected to see another chauffeur-driven car—since that was usually Riccardo’s preferred mode of transport—hoping that a third person might dilute some of the undeniable tension between the two of them. But her wish was not to be granted since an airport valet brought round a sleek, scarlet statement of a car which she realised that Riccardo was planning on driving himself. She swallowed. Just her and him. Alone together in a confined space, while her nerve endings were screaming out their heated response to his proximity.

Her pulse skittered as he pulled away from the kerb and the powerful car began heading out towards a line of mountains. Determinedly, she stared out of the window—afraid that he might read some of the conflict of emotions in her face. Or worse, the naked desire in her eyes.

Yet despite her misgivings, she soon began to relax a little—lulled by the sheer beauty of the green countryside which flashed past and by the smooth progress of the car.

‘It’s amazing,’ she said softly.

‘My driving, you mean?’

‘No.’ She laughed, in spite of her nerves. ‘The countryside. The country itself.’

‘But of course. It is the most beautiful country in the world,’ he said. ‘We have sleek cities and ancient villages. Stunning beaches and rich agriculture. Look up there and see the pure white marble which streaks the mountains like virgin snow, Angie. That is the same marble which Michelangelo used to fashion his David—which is the greatest sculpture in the world.’

She heard the pride and fervour which had deepened his voice—a side of Riccardo she’d never seen before, and one which was oddly stirring. Had she been naïve in hoping that prolonged exposure to this man might remove her longings for him? What if the reverse were true—her passion for him growing while Riccardo grew bored with her?

Surely here was a lesson to be learned. That she must protect her emotions at all costs. She felt the car swing off the main road and then turned to him as they bumped their way up a lonely little track and came to a halt. ‘This isn’t where you live,’ she said slowly as she heard the engine die.

‘No.’

The confusion in her voice was genuine. ‘Then what are we doing in the middle of—?’

‘This.’ He pulled her into his arms and stared down at her—a fierce dark blaze in his eyes. ‘What I’ve been wanting to do since I first saw you walk towards me at the airport with that misleading butter-wouldn’t-melt look on your face. To kiss you, Angie.’

It occurred to her that he could have kissed her back then—but maybe that would have been too public a display of affection for a secret mistress. People he knew might have been watching them and started asking questions; demanding answers. She was here as his sec-retary and the sex would be furtive—as if he were somehow ashamed of what he was doing.

‘I—’

‘Shh.’

His lips silenced her and all her objections were banished in that first sweet touch. She heard the low growl of appreciation he made and for a moment she luxuriated in the pleasure of being in Riccardo’s arms again. Of being able to tangle her fingers in the rich silk of his ebony hair and for his raw, musky scent to invade her nostrils like a welcome marauder. Desire flashed over her skin like sheet lightning.

‘Riccardo,’ she breathed.

‘Angie,’ he murmured back, briefly removing his lips from the soft petals of hers to stare down at her. ‘You’ve been driving me crazy with wanting, you know. It’s insane but I just can’t stop thinking about yesterday. About how we…how we…’ His fingertip seemed to be activated by memory as he began to trail it down over her cashmere coat. All the way down the thick barrier until he reached the hem, which sat primly over her knees.

She held her breath as the finger tiptoed underneath before he began sliding his hand slowly up over her thigh. Let him, she thought greedily. Let him touch me just for a minute and then I’ll stop him. She closed her eyes as the direction of his hand became more purposeful. Now it was skating even further upwards—tracing light erotic circles over each inner thigh and causing her to expel a breathless little gasp.

She could feel the stealthy and inexorable heat building. The responsive prickle of her breasts. The clamouring of sexual hunger which hadn’t featured in her life for so long that she’d almost forgotten it—and yet which Riccardo had activated and which now burned with a fierce flame inside her.

‘Riccardo!’ She caught his face between her hands as his fingers skated over the hot and aching core of her—the barrier of panties and tights doing nothing to lessen the growing hunger within her. Her throat felt constricted, her cheeks on fire—and then she realised that he was now pulling at the belt of her coat.

He wanted her here—in his car—down some little Tuscan track! His furtive secretary lover.

Her body screaming its protest, Angie wrenched herself out of his arms. ‘Stop it,’ she whispered from between lips which felt swollen to twice their normal size. ‘Stop it right now.’

A nerve worked at his temple. ‘You don’t want me to stop it.’

Maybe her body didn’t—but her dignity demanded it. Or did he think he was just going to erode that too with his sexual mastery—the way he had chipped away at her heart?

‘Oh, yes, I do.’ Ineffectually, she pushed at the hard wall of his chest. ‘Do you really want me to turn up at your house and to meet your family with my cheeks all flushed and my hair awry—making it perfectly obvious what we’ve just been doing?’

‘They won’t care what you look like,’ he snapped insultingly.

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ she returned, enjoying the outrage on his face as she dared to stand up to him. ‘And even if they don’t care—then I most certainly will. I’m here as your secretary, remember? And there’s a certain standard to maintain—a decorum—which I don’t intend to compromise with a quick fumble in your car!’

‘A quick fumble?’ he echoed, outraged.

‘Well, what would you call it?’

‘You do not think that such an experience would be pleasurable?’

‘N-no.’ She was on less sure ground now. ‘I’m not saying that at all. You’re very good, as I’m sure enough people have told you. I’m just refusing to turn up to your house giving people ammunition to make negative judgements about me.’

Struggling to rein in his ragged breath and trying to ease the unbearable ache at his groin, Riccardo glared at her. This was no coy little game she was playing, he realised with dawning disbelief. She really meant it. Did she think that he would fall under her spell if she resisted him?

And yet he could not remember the last time a woman had spurned his sexual advances.

For a moment, an unwilling respect warred with his feelings of frustration—and then he moved away from her with an impatient click of his tongue and started up the car.

‘Riccardo—’

‘Don’t talk to me when I’m driving!’ he thundered.

‘But you’ve left the handbrake on.’

With a curse, he released it—wishing that his body could be freed from its tight, aching constriction with such ease. Then he forced himself to concentrate on a road which suddenly seemed unfamiliar—though he had driven along it many times since the age of seventeen. He would make her pay in his bed tonight, he thought angrily. And she would suffer such sweet torture for the frustration she had dared inflict on him.

In the simmering atmosphere of the car, they didn’t exchange another word until they had descended a winding mountain road and they came to a small village. Angie looked out of the window, captivated by all she could see. There were lots of little houses and a clutch of shops, which were shuttered up for the afternoon, as well as a small schoolhouse, and a beautiful grey-stone church. And through it all snaked a river—crystal-clear and fast-moving as it curved a silver line through the green pastures.

Up one of the steep adjoining side-roads Riccardo drove, until at last he reached his hilltop destination and then he stopped to allow her that first view—the view which always took people’s breath away, no matter how rich or how jaded their appetites.

‘The Castellari home,’ he said, with an unmistakable ring of pride to his voice. ‘La Rocca.’

Their stand-off forgotten, Angie stared at the family home which she’d heard him mention over the years. She had always known it was a castle—had even talked about it to her mother—but the reality of actually seeing for the first time took her breath away. It really was a castle!

The pale and ancient stone building rose up out of the stunning landscape, its castellated ancient walls and loophole windows overlooking gardens which were speared by the deep green arrows of cypress trees. Against a backdrop of mountains were orchards into whose trees had been hung beautiful lanterns—presumably to help light the bridal procession.

‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she breathed, turning to look at him—her eyes shining with wonder. ‘Absolutely the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’

And something in her genuine regard soothed his jangled nerves, made him nod his head in quiet agreement—acknowledging an enthusiasm which was sweet rather than avaricious. He had never brought a woman here before, he realised with a start—until he reminded himself why. Bringing a woman here was a big deal, which might have hinted at a permanence he did not intend. And not for a moment did he underestimate the powerful allure of this ancient place, which commanded all the land which surrounded it. It was a place which people—especially women—would covet, and that was why he kept them away.

But this situation which had arisen between him and Angie was different. He did not need to keep batting off hints that the relationship might become something more—or have to guard his tongue to ensure that nothing he said might give his lover the wrong idea. His relationship with his secretary was based on honesty and mutual desire—which was undistorted by false romanticism.

He drove in through wrought-iron gates and stopped in front of a huge wooden door. Inside, the entrance hall was vast, lined with aged wood and lit by a roaring fire. A sleeping cat briefly lifted its head, yawned—and then resumed its sleep.

‘Come and meet my family,’ he said as he slipped the coat from her shoulders and hung it up and then shrugged his way out of his own leather jacket. He glanced down at his watch. ‘They’ll probably just be finishing lunch.’

Angie followed him through a maze of corridors towards the sound of voices speaking in Italian—but not particularly congenial voices, she realised. A woman’s was raised in obvious protest and a man was clearly arguing with her.

She followed Riccardo into a formal dining room—not really having time to take in the splendour of the huge space—because there was something else which was much more noticeable than all the wealth and history contained within these walls. Angie frowned. A man and a woman sat at opposite ends of the table—but there was absolutely no laughter or mirth on their faces. They might as well have been at the reading of a will, judging from their expressions.

Their dark colouring and naturally sensual features immediately marked them out as brother and sister and she could see something of Riccardo in both of them. But more than anything else, Angie was drawn to the pale, pinched face of the bride-to-be and the haunted look in her eyes.

And the instinctive thought flashed through her mind that this didn’t look like a woman about to participate in one of the happiest days of her life. This looked like a woman who was fast-tracking her way towards doom.

CHAPTER NINE

‘YOU remember my sister, don’t you, Angie?’ questioned Riccardo as he led her into the room.

Angie nodded—hoping that her bright smile hid her shock at seeing Riccardo’s young sister again. Why, she looked positively gaunt—her high cheekbones like two high shadowed slashes arrowing down to her nose. Surely that amount of weight loss was due to something more than just pre-wedding nerves?

‘I certainly do. Hello, Floriana, nice to see you again—and congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.’

A faint frown criss-crossed the girl’s lovely face as she summoned up an answering smile. ‘Hello, Angie,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to see you again, too. We are…we are pleased to have you here. My mother sends her apologies for not being here to greet you herself. She’s dealing with caterers at the moment and she looks forward to seeing you at dinner. So does my brides-maid—she’s English, too.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting to mention someone, Floriana?’ drawled a silken voice from the opposite end of the table. ‘I’m sure that Riccardo’s guest is looking forward to meeting the Duca.’

Angie turned towards the dark-featured man who was reclining with indolent ease in one of the chairs, still wearing riding clothes.

‘But I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Romano?’ murmured Riccardo.

Angie shook her head. She’d certainly remember if she had. So this was Romano Castellari—another stalwart of the international gossip columns, as single, sexy Italian billionaires tended to be. In a way, the brothers looked remarkably alike—with their jet hair and imposing physiques. But this man’s features were, if anything, even harder than those of Riccardo and there was a coldly formidable air about him. She knew that he was the elder of the two and that he ran the vast Tuscan estates owned by the family. ‘No,’ she said, slightly nervously. ‘But I’ve heard lots about you.’

Romano gave a detached kind of smile as he rose with effortless grace to shake Angie’s hand, his black eyes flicking over her with cynical interest.

‘All good, no doubt?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly say—everything Riccardo says to me is in the strictest of confidence,’ answered Angie gamely, hoping to lighten the inexplicably dark mood which pervaded the room, but Floriana’s sombre look remained firmly in place.

‘It’s very good of you to bring your secretary,’ commented Romano, raising his black brows in arrogant question. ‘I do hope you aren’t planning on working all the while you’re here, Rico?’

‘I have a couple of important deals going through,’ murmured Riccardo. ‘And I decided that Angie deserved a little treat since she’s threatening to leave me.’

‘Really? What a pity—you must be sure to change her mind. Good secretaries are so hard to find. By the way, we’ve put her in the west wing—which, as you know, is at the opposite end of the house from where you’re sleeping. I do hope that won’t inconvenience you too much if you have to…work late.’ Romano’s black eyes flashed a mocking challenge at his brother and Angie suddenly went cold inside. He knows, she thought. He knows that the two of us are lovers—and he doesn’t approve.

‘You’ll meet my bridesmaid later,’ said Floriana. ‘She and a whole group of others are staying at a hotel in the village. Romano thinks it would be too distracting to have a lot of people here—though heaven only knows, there’s enough room.’

Angie felt a sudden flick of envy as her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. Oh, to be staying in the village—far away from this cold house with its strange atmosphere and its complicated menfolk. ‘Perhaps I could go and unpack now?’

‘Sure,’ said Riccardo. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

‘Have fun,’ murmured Romano. ‘I expect we’ll see you at dinner. Don’t work too hard.’

Angie didn’t say a word all the way back through the seemingly endless journey to her room, where her case had magically appeared—presumably placed there by some unseen servant. Uncaring of the huge bed or the magnificent picture-postcard view which could be seen from her window, she turned angrily on Riccardo.

‘Your brother knows!’ she accused.

‘Knows what?’

‘That…that…that we’re lovers!’

‘Are we?’ he murmured as he pulled her into his arms and pushed the hair away from her face. ‘You’ve kept me waiting for so long that I’d almost forgotten.’

Half-heartedly, she tried to pull away from his embrace but her body seemed to have other ideas. ‘He knows,’ she repeated.

‘He doesn’t know. He’s guessing—and so what, Angie?’ Tipping her chin up, he raked his gaze over her. ‘Are you ashamed?’

Was she? She was angry with herself for being here, yes—for allowing herself docilely to be led, like a lamb to the slaughter. And for accepting so little from him, when she wanted so much. But ashamed? She shook her head as she looked up into the soft, dark gleam of his eyes, feeling her heart begin to pound and the overwhelming urge to have him touch her. ‘No, I’m not ashamed,’ she whispered.

‘Then kiss me.’

‘No.’

‘Kiss me, Angie. If, as you say, my brother has guessed—then why should we endure all the innuendo without any of the pleasure?’

His arguments were beating down her objections and his lips were making resistance impossible—trailing fire where they touched. Her head fell back as they whispered along the curve of her jaw, the long line of her neck, and she shivered as he reached around her back. Unzipping her dress in one single, fluid movement, he eased her arms out of the garment with the skill of a man who had performed this particular task many times, until it pooled in a soft heap by her ankles.

‘Piccola,’ he murmured, unbearably turned on by the sight of her in that so plain underwear she wore. Despite the short notice, by agreeing to accompany him here—any other woman would have moved heaven and earth to acquire the flimsy wisps of underwear which would be expected of the mistress to a wealthy man. But she had not. And although he knew that her failing to do so was more in a spirit of defiance than anything else, there was still something ridiculously innocent about her functional bra and briefs, this miserable pair of tights. His lips drifted along the line of her collarbone. ‘You look…’

Not used to be being stripped naked in the middle of the day, Angie froze defensively. ‘What?’

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, realising to his surprise that he meant it.

Something in his voice stirred her just as much as the practised fingers which were reacquainting themselves with all her secret places—touching her softly and with unerring precision. Her senses began to sing, her blood heating her skin as he set her body alight. So why not just enjoy this? Take all the pleasure he was offering and stop wanting the impossible? To be his equal in the bedroom even if she was his subordinate outside it. Sliding her hands beneath his sweater, she began to run her fingers hungrily over the oiled silk of his back.

‘So are you,’ she whispered back.

Her urgency transferred itself to him and Riccardo momentarily moved her away while he peeled off his jeans and sweater, giving her one brief, provocative smile before tumbling them both down onto the bed. Their limbs tangled warmly as her lips sought his. Her arms wrapped him tightly to her, pulling him closer with an eagerness which made him give a low laugh of pleasure. For a moment their eyes met in a silent look as he straddled her, then drove into her with that first, longed-for thrust, which made her cry out until he kissed her quiet.

And Angie began to tremble. It felt as if she had entered another dimension of living. As if this melding together of flesh was what nature had intended her for. Even her orgasm seemed to happen in slow motion—almost miraculously at the same time as his. She heard the helpless cry he made, so that afterwards she found herself lying dazed in his arms, completely shaken by what had just happened. And for a while they just lay there, and that closeness was almost as good as what had preceded it.

‘Oh,’ she murmured eventually.

Absently, he stroked her tousled hair. ‘Good?’

‘A-amazing. Well, you know it was.’

He found himself asking a question he never asked women. ‘And how do I compare with your other lovers?’

She found the query intrusive, and yet wasn’t there a part of her which wanted him to know that she didn’t behave like this with other men? ‘I think you know that you’re a marvellous lover,’ she said quietly. ‘As for comparisons, I think they’re odious, but if you must know—I’ve had one lover before you, and it was a pretty disastrous experience.’

Riccardo felt the surface of his skin suddenly growing cold. How come she always told you more than you needed to know? So that the answer to a simple question suddenly seemed to carry a whole weight of significance. Wasn’t it easier to think of her as someone who’d been around a bit—rather than as someone who had briefly had her fingers burnt by a man? ‘What a pity,’ he murmured non-committally.

Angie turned onto her side to study the hard, perfect profile of his face. ‘There seemed to be a lot of…tension going on downstairs.’

He shrugged. ‘My sister is getting married the day after tomorrow. What do you expect?’

She hesitated. ‘There’s a difference between nerves and tension, Riccardo—and she seemed to have been having some sort of argument with your brother.’

‘That’s because she has insisted on having a woman as bridesmaid whom Romano thinks entirely unsuitable for the task.’

‘But surely it’s her decision, not his? Nothing to do with him?’

‘It’s certainly nothing to do with you,’ he returned softly. Rubbing a thumb over the rasp of his chin, he yawned. ‘I’d better go.’

But Angie couldn’t help noticing the exhaustion in his face; the dark shadows beneath his eyes—and, despite his prickly attitude, she felt her heart soften. Caring about Riccardo’s welfare was an impossible habit to break, it seemed. Gently, she began to stroke his black hair until she saw him relax and saw his eyelids shuttering—as if he were fighting the temptation to close them. Why not let him sleep—just for a little while? ‘Close your eyes,’ she whispered. ‘Just for a minute.’

Pulling the duvet over them both, she snuggled herself against his body, hearing his sigh and echoing it with one of her own as she heard his breathing steady into sleep.

Much later, she woke—feeling hungry and realising that they’d eaten no lunch—and she was just thinking about waking Riccardo when she felt him stir next to her.

For a moment he felt as if he was in the most comfortable place on the planet. His knee was thrust between two soft thighs and he could hear the even sounds of a woman’s breath as it fanned against his shoulder. For a moment he sank into the feeling, revelling in the sensations which were whispering over his skin before he realised where he was—and then he swore softly in Italian.

‘Che ora e?’ he snapped, lifting his wrist to glance at his watch. He sat up, his face wreathed in anger. ‘Why the hell did you let me sleep?’