“One night. I’ll reduce the bet to one night.”

Slowly she turned to face him, her expression haughty and scornful. “Pity, Rico? From you? I’m surprised. But I must refuse your gallant gesture. A bet is a bet. You demanded I be your mistress for a month, so your mistress for a month I will be. Not a day less. Not a day more.”

Her contrariness jolted him. Was this her pride still talking, or did she have some other secret agenda? Whatever the case, experience had taught Rico never to try to second-guess Renée, so he just shrugged.

“Fine by me.” Far be it from him to lessen her sentence. She’d made her bed now. Let her lie in it.

“You might think that tonight,” she replied. “You might think differently in a month’s time.”

“Is that a threat, Renée? Or a challenge?”

“It’s a promise”

Three Rich Men

Three Australian billionaires;

they can have anything and anyone…

except three beautiful women…

Meet Charles, Rico and Ali, three incredibly wealthy friends all living in Sydney. They meet every Friday night to play poker and exchange news about business and their pleasures—which include the pursuit of Sydney’s most beautiful women.

Up until now, no single woman has ever managed to pin down the elusive, exclusive and eminently eligible bachelors. But that’s all about to change…. But will these three rich men marry for love—or are they desired for their money?

Mistress for a Month—Rico’s story

#2361

Available only from Harlequin Presents®.

Mistress for a Month
Miranda Lee

Three Rich Men

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

RICO MANDRETTI jumped into his shiny red Ferrari and headed, not towards Randwick Racecourse, but straight for his parents’ place on the rural outskirts of Sydney. His plans had changed. Last night had changed them.

‘Not today,’ Rico muttered to himself as he sped out through Sydney’s sprawling western suburbs, oblivious of the second glances he received from most of the women in the cars he passed, and all of the women in the cars he was forced to idle next to when the lights turned red.

Only one woman occupied Rico’s mind these days. Only one woman did he crave to look at him as if he was a man worth looking at and not some prima-donna playboy with no substance at all.

For over five years he’d endured Renée Selinsky’s barbs over the card table every Friday night, as well as at the races on a Saturday afternoon.

Five years was a long time to tolerate such treatment. Too long.

Yet he had to confess that till last night he’d enjoyed their verbal sparring in a perverse fashion, despite the fact Renée usually got the better of him. When she’d temporarily subjected him to the cold-shoulder treatment a few months back, he’d hated it. Rico discovered during that difficult time that he’d rather have his buttons pressed than be ignored.

Still, Renée had pressed his buttons one too many times last night.

Be damned if he was going to be on the end of that woman’s caustic tongue again today at the races. Enough was enough!

The lights turned green and he floored the accelerator. The Ferrari leapt forward, tyres screeching slightly as he scorched up the road. But, given the speed limit on that section of highway, and the regular traffic lights, there was no solace for Rico’s frustration in speeding, and no escape for his thoughts.

Soon he was idling at the next set of red lights, practically grinding his teeth when his mind returned once more to his nemesis.

She’d be at the races by now, probably sitting at the bar in the members’ stand, sipping a glass of champagne and looking her usual cool and classy self, not caring a whit that he hadn’t turned up, whilst he was sitting here in his car, stewing away, already regretting his decision not to go. He loved the races. They were one of his passions in life. And one of hers, unfortunately.

That was how he’d met Renée in the first place, through their mutual love of horse racing. Just over five years ago she’d become the third partner in the syndicate he and his best friend, Charles, had formed with the help of Ward Jackman, one of Sydney’s up-and-coming young horse trainers.

Rico could still remember the first day he met the up-till-then mysterious Mrs Selinsky. The three co-owners had gathered at Randwick races to see their first horse race, a lovely chestnut filly named Flame of Gold.

Before that day, Rico had only known of his lady co-owner’s existence on paper. He’d no idea that she was also Renée, the owner of Renée’s modeling agency and the widow of Joseph Selinsky, a very wealthy banker who’d been almost forty years his second wife’s senior, and who’d passed away the previous year. He did know she was a rich widow, but he’d pictured an overweight, over-groomed madam in her sixties or seventies with more money than she could spend in the beauty salon, and a penchant for gambling.

Nothing had prepared Rico for the sleekly sophisticated, super-stylish and super-intelligent thirty-year-old which Mrs Selinsky had proved to be. And certainly nothing had prepared Rico for her instantly negative reaction to him. He was used to being fawned over by the opposite sex, not the exact opposite.

Looking back, he’d been attracted to her right from first sight, despite his having another woman on his arm that day. His fiancée, in fact. Jasmine. The bright, bubbly, beautifully blonde Jasmine. He’d thought himself in love with Jasmine, and he’d married her a month later.

It was a marriage which had been doomed from the start. God, if he’d only known then what he knew now.

But would that have changed anything? he pondered as he revved up the Ferrari’s engine in anticipation of these lights turning green. What if he’d realised Jasmine was an unfeeling fortune-hunter before their wedding? Or that his so-called love for her was the result of his being cleverly conned and constantly flattered? What if he’d broken up with his faking fiancée and pursued the enigmatic and striking Renée instead?

Renée’s reaction to him might have been very different if he’d been single and available five years ago, instead of engaged and supposedly besotted with his fiancée.

After all, he was Rico Mandretti, the producer and star of A Passion for Pasta, the most successful cooking show on television. The merry widow—as he’d soon nicknamed Renée—obviously knew the value of a dollar, given she’d already married once for money. Rico could not imagine a woman of her youth and beauty marrying a man in his sixties for love.

Whilst Rico hadn’t had as many dollars in the bank as Renée’s late husband at that stage, he’d still been well-heeled, with the potential for earning more in the years to come, which had since proven correct. His little cooking show—as Renée mockingly liked to call it—was now syndicated to over twenty countries and the money was rolling in, with more business ventures popping up each year, from cookbooks to product endorsements to his more recent idea of franchising A Passion for Pasta restaurants in every major city in Australia.

Aside from his earning potential, he’d also only been twenty-nine back then, brimming with macho confidence and testosterone. In his sexual prime, so to speak.

Rico liked to think Renée would have fallen into his arms, but he knew he was just kidding himself. He’d been split up from Jasmine for two years now, his divorce signed and sealed over a year ago, and Renée’s negative attitude to him hadn’t changed one bit. If anything, she’d grown more hostile to him whilst his desire for her had become unbearably acute.

It pained Rico to think that she found nothing attractive in him whatsoever. In fact, she obviously despised him. Why? What had he ever done to her to cause such antagonism? Was it his Italian background? She sometimes sounded off about his being a Latin-lover type, all hormones and no brains.

Rico knew there was more to himself than that. But not when he was around her these days, he accepted ruefully. Lately, whenever she turned those slanting green eyes on him and made one of her biting comments, he turned into the kind of mindless macho animal she obviously thought him. His ability to play poker suffered. Hell, his ability to do anything well suffered! The charm he was famous for disappeared, along with his capacity to think.

Aah, but he could still feel. Even as his blood boiled with the blackest of resentments, his body would burn with a white-hot need. That was why he was avoiding his nemesis this weekend. Because Rico suspected he was nearing spontaneous combustion where she was concerned. Who knew what he would do or say the next time she goaded him the way she had last night?

‘Now, if you’d married someone like Dominique, Rico,’ Renée had remarked after Charles announced his wife was expecting, ‘you’d have a baby or two of your own by now. If you’re really as keen on the idea of a traditional marriage and family as you claim, then for pity’s sake stop dilly-dallying with the Leannes of this world and find yourself a nice girl who’ll give you what you supposedly want.’

Rico had literally had to bite his tongue to stop himself from retorting that he took women like Leanne to bed in a vain attempt to burn out the frustration he experienced from not being able to have her.

Somehow, he’d managed an enigmatic little smile, and experienced some satisfaction in seeing her green eyes darken with a frustration of her own.

Mark one up for Rico for a change!

But for how long could he manage such iron self-control? Not too much longer, he suspected.

Charles and Ali wouldn’t know what hit them if and when he exploded. Rico might have been born and brought up here in Sydney, but he was Italian through and through, with an Italian’s volatile temperament.

A peasant, Renée had once labelled him. Which was quite true. He did come from peasant stock. And was proud of it!

Rico’s other two Friday-night poker-playing partners were blue-blood gentlemen by comparison. His best friend, Charles, was Charles Brandon, a few years older than Rico and the owner of Brandon Beer, Australia’s premier boutique brewery. Ali was Prince Ali of Dubar, the youngest son of an oil-rich sheikh, dispatched to Australia a decade before to run the royal Arab family’s thoroughbred interests down under.

Both men had been born into money, but neither was anything like the lazy, spoilt, silver-spoon variety of human being whom Rico despised.

Charles had spent years dragging his family firm back from the brink of bankruptcy after his profligate father died, leaving Brandon Beer in a right old mess.

That achievement had taken grit, determination and vision, all qualities Rico admired.

Ali didn’t act like some pampered prince, either. He worked very hard, running the thoroughbred stud which occupied over a thousand acres of prime horse land in the Hunter Valley. Rico had seen with his own eyes how hands-on Ali was with running and managing that complex and extremely large establishment.

It had been Ali, actually, who’d brought the four poker-players together. He was the breeder of Flame of Gold. After she’d won the Silver Slipper Stakes, the three ecstatic owners and one highly elated breeder had had a celebratory dinner together. Over a seafood banquet down at the quay, they’d discovered a mutual love, not just of racehorses but also of playing cards. Gambling of various kinds, it seemed, was in all their blood. They’d played their first game of poker together later that night and made a pact to play together every Friday night after that.

Being ill or overseas were the only excuses not to show up at the presidential suite at Sydney’s five-star Regency Hotel every Friday night at eight. That was where Ali stayed each weekend, flying in from his country property by helicopter late on a Friday and returning on the Sunday.

Rico smiled wryly when he thought of how, when he’d been hospitalised with an injured knee after a skiing mishap last year, he’d insisted that the others come to his hospital room for their Friday-night poker session. The evening had not been a great success, however, with Ali having a couple of security guards trailing along.

Looking back, he could see that his own insistence on playing that night, despite his handicapped condition, highlighted his rapidly growing obsession with the merry widow. He hadn’t been able to stand the thought of not seeing her that week. Now he wasn’t sure if he could stand seeing her again at all! He was fast reaching breaking point. Something was going to give. And soon.

Rico’s stress level lessened slightly once the more densely populated suburbs were behind him and his eyes could feast on more grass and trees. He breathed in deeply through his nostrils, smelling the cleaner air and smiling with fond memories as the city was finally left behind and he drove past familiar places. The small bush primary school he’d attended as a child. The creek where he’d gone swimming in the summer. The old community hall where he’d taken dancing lessons, much to his father’s disgust.

As far back as he could remember, Rico had been determined to one day be a star. By the time he turned twelve, he’d envisaged a career on the stage in the sort of singing, dancing, foot-stomping show he adored. But whilst his dancing technique was excellent, he’d grown too tall and too big to look as elegant and graceful as shorter, leaner dancers. On top of that, his singing left a lot to be desired. Once that career path was dashed, he’d focused his ambition on straight acting, seeing himself as an Australian John Travolta. People often said he looked like him.

His early acting career had been a hit-and-miss affair, especially after he’d failed to get into any of the élite and very restricted Australian acting academies. He did succeed in landing a few bit parts in soaps, plus a couple of television advertisements and one minor role in a TV movie, but at a lot of auditions he was told he was too big, and too Italian-looking.

Although not entirely convinced, Rico finally began looking more at a career behind the camera rather than in front of it. Producing and directing became his revised ambition, both on television and in the booming Australian film industry. He learned the ropes as a camera and sound man, working for Fortune productions, who were responsible for the most popular shows on TV back then. He watched and observed and learned till he decided he was ready to make his own show.

With backing from his large family—Rico had three indulgent older brothers and five doting older sisters—he started production on A Passion for Pasta, having noted that cooking and lifestyle programmes were really taking off. But the Australian-Italian chef he hired for the pilot episode turned out to be a bundle of nerves in front of the camera, with Rico constantly having to jump in and show him what to do, and how to do it.

Despite his not having any formal training as a chef, it soon became obvious that he was a natural in the part as the show’s host. Rico had finally found his niche. Suddenly, his size didn’t matter, his Italian looks were an asset and the Italian accent he could bung on without any trouble at all gave a touch of authenticity. It also helped that he really was a very good amateur cook, his mother having taught him. It was Signora Mandretti’s very real passion for pasta, and her creativeness with the product—feeding her large family on a tight budget required more than a little inventiveness—which had inspired the show’s title and content.

A Passion for Pasta was an instant success once Rico had found a buyer, and he hadn’t looked back.

Not that any of his successes ever impressed Renée. They had certainly impressed Jasmine, however. She’d known a good thing when she saw it.

Rico pulled a face at the memory of the gold-digger he’d married. He was still flabbergasted over how much the family law court judge had awarded her for the privilege of being a pampered princess for three years.

Still, it had been worth any price in the end to get Jasmine out of his life, although he’d deeply resented her demanding—and getting, mind you—both their Bondi Beach apartment and his favourite car, a one-off black Porsche which he’d had especially fitted out with black leather seats and thick black carpet on the floors.

Black had always been Rico’s favourite colour, both in clothes and cars. He’d bought the red Ferrari he was now driving on a mad impulse, telling himself that a change was as good as a holiday, an act which had rebounded on him when Renée had recently seen him getting into it in the car park at the races.

‘I should have known that the red Ferrari was your car,’ she’d said with a sniff of her delicately flaring nostrils. ‘What else would an Italian playboy drive?’

On that occasion—as was depressingly often the case these days—he hadn’t been able to think of a snappy comeback quick enough, and she’d driven off in her sedate and stylish BMW with a superior smirk on her face.

His mind returning to Renée once more brought a scowl to his. He’d promised himself earlier he wasn’t going to think about that witch today. He’d already given her enough thought to last a lifetime!

The sight of a very familiar roadside postbox coming up on his right soon wiped the scowl from his face.

His parents’ property wasn’t anything fancy. Just a few acres of market garden with a large but plain two-storeyed cream brick house perched on the small rise in the middle of the land. But Rico’s heart seemed to expand at the sight of it and he found himself smiling as he turned into the driveway.

There was nothing like coming home. Home to your roots, and to people who really knew you, and loved you all the same.

CHAPTER TWO

TERESA MANDRETTI was picking some herbs from her private vegetable and herb garden—the one she planted and personally tended—when a figure moved into the corner of her eye.

‘Enrico!’ she exclaimed on lifting her head and seeing her youngest child walking towards her. ‘You startled me. I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’

The first Sunday of the month was traditionally family day at the Mandretti household, with her youngest son always coming home to share lunch with his parents, plus as many of his siblings and their families that could make it.

‘Mum.’ He opened his arms and drew her into a wrap-around hug, his six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame totally enveloping her own short, plump one.

How he had come to be so big and tall, Teresa could only guess. His father, Frederico, was not a big man. When the family back in Italy had seen photos of Enrico at his twenty-first birthday, they said he had to be a throwback to Frederico’s father, who’d reputedly been a giant of a man. Teresa had never actually met her father-in-law. Frederico Senior had been killed in a fight with another man when he was only thirty-five, having flown into a jealous rage when this other fellow had paid what he called “improper” attention to his wife.

Teresa could well imagine that this was where Enrico got quite a few of his genes. Her youngest son had a temper on him, too.

‘Have you had lunch?’ she asked when her son finally let her come up for air. He was a hugger, was Enrico, like all the Mandrettis. Teresa was from more reserved stock. Which was why she’d found Frederico Mandretti so attractive. He’d taken no notice of her shyness and swept her off to his bed before she could say no. They’d been married a few weeks later with her first son already in her belly. They’d migrated to Australia a few months after that, just in time for Frederico the Third to be born in their new country.

‘No, but I’m not hungry,’ came her son’s surprising reply.

Teresa’s eyes narrowed. Not hungry? Her Enrico, who could eat a horse even if he was dying! Something was not right here.

‘What’s wrong, Enrico?’ she asked with a mother’s worried eyes and voice.

‘Nothing’s wrong, Mum. Truly. I had a very large, very late breakfast, that’s all. Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s gone to the races. Not the horse races. The dog races. Down at Appin. Uncle Guiseppe has a couple of runners today.’

‘Dad should buy himself a greyhound or two. The walking would do him good. Get rid of that spare tyre he’s carrying around his middle. I think he’s been eating too much of your pasta.’

Teresa bridled. ‘Are you saying your papa is fat?’

‘Not fat, exactly. Just well fed.’

Teresa suspected Enrico was deliberately diverting the subject away from himself. She knew all her children well, but she knew Enrico even better than the others. He’d come along when she’d thought there would be no more bambinos. She’d already had eight children, one each year or so, three boys followed by five girls. After giving birth to Katrina, the doctor had told her she should not have any more babies. Her body was exhausted. So she’d gone on the Pill with her sensible priest’s permission, and for the next nine years, had not had the worry of being pregnant.

But the Pill was not perfect, it seemed, and another child had eventually been conceived. Although she was worried, a termination had not even been considered, and fortunately Teresa had been blessed with a trouble-free pregnancy that time and an amazingly easy birth. Enrico being a boy was an added bonus after having had five girls in a row.

Of course, he’d been very spoiled, by all of them, but especially his sisters. Still, despite the temper tantrums he threw when he didn’t get what he wanted, Enrico had been a loving child who had grown into a loving man. Everyone in the family adored him, not the least being herself. Teresa would never have admitted it openly, but Enrico held a special place in her heart, possibly because he was her youngest. With the ten-year age gap between Enrico and his closest sister, Teresa had been able to devote a lot of time to raising her last baby. Enrico had followed her around like a little puppy, and mother and son were very close.

Enrico could never fool her. Aside from his suspicious lack of hunger today, she knew something had to be up to take him away from the races on a Saturday afternoon. With a mother’s intuition, she sensed it had something to do with a woman. Possibly with that Renée lady he often spoke about but whom she’d never met, the one he played poker with every Friday night and who was part of his racing syndicate. Teresa had sensed an odd note in his voice whenever he mentioned her.

And he mentioned her quite a bit.

Teresa would have liked to ask him about her but suspected that the direct approach would be a waste of time. At thirty-four, her youngest son was long past the age that he confided matters concerning his personal and private life to his mother. Which was a pity. If he’d consulted her before he’d become tangled up with that Jasmine creature, she could have saved her son a lot of heartache.

Now, there was a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. Clever, though. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth around the Mandrettis till the wedding, after which she’d gradually stopped coming to family functions, making poorer and poorer excuses till there weren’t any left to be made.

Fortunately, she was now past history. Though not generally believing in divorce, Teresa was a realist. Some divorces were like taking the Pill. A necessity. Still, Teresa didn’t want Enrico repeating his mistake by getting tangled up with another unsuitable woman.

‘Did you play cards last night?’ she asked as she bent to pull a few sprigs of mint.

‘Of course,’ came her son’s less than enlightening reply.

‘Charles well, is he?’ Charles was the only one of Enrico’s three poker-playing friends whom Teresa had actually met, despite her having invited the trio to several parties over the years. That Renée woman was a bit like Jasmine, always having some excuse not to come. The other man, the Arab sheikh, had also always declined, though his refusals Teresa understood.

Enrico had explained that Prince Ali kept very much to himself, because of his huge wealth and family connections. Apparently, the poor man could never go anywhere in public without having a bodyguard accompany him. Sometimes two.

What a terrible way to live!

Enrico had to cope with a degree of harassment from the Press and photographers himself, but he could still come and go as he pleased without feeling he was in any physical danger.

‘Charles is very well,’ her son answered. ‘He and his wife are going to have a baby. In about six months time, I gather.’

‘How lovely for them,’ Teresa enthused as she straightened, all the while wondering if that was what had upset Enrico. He’d always wanted children of his own. Most Italian men did. It was part of their culture, to father sons to proudly carry on their name, and daughters to dote upon.

Teresa had no doubt Enrico would make a wonderful father. He was marvellous with all his nephews and nieces. It pained Teresa sometimes to see how they always gravitated towards their uncle Rico, who was never too busy to play with them. He should be playing with children of his own.

If only she could say so.

Teresa suddenly decided that she was too old and too Italian for the tactful, indirect approach.

‘When are you going to stop being silly and get married again, Enrico?’

He laughed. ‘Please don’t hold back, Mum. Say it like you see it.’

‘I do not mean any disrespect, Enrico, but someone has to say something. You’re thirty-four years old and not getting any younger. You need a wife, one who will be more than happy to stay home and have your children. A man of your looks and success should have no trouble finding a suitable young lady. If you like, we could ask the family at home to look around for a nice Italian girl.’

That should spur him on to do the looking around for himself! Enrico might have Italian blood flowing in his veins but he was very Australian in many ways. Look at the way he always called her Mum and his father Dad, whereas his older brothers and sisters always called them Mama and Papa.

Naturally, arranged marriages were anathema to her youngest son. He believed in marrying for love, and, up to a point, so did Teresa.

But best not to tell him that.

Her son’s look of horror was very satisfying.

‘Don’t start that old-fashioned nonsense, Mum. When and if I marry again, it will be to a lady of my choosing. And it will be for love.’

‘That’s what you said the first time, and look where it got you!’

‘Hopefully, not every woman is like Jasmine.’

‘I still can’t understand what you saw in that girl.’

He laughed. ‘That’s because you’re not a man.’

Teresa shook her head at her son. Did he think she was so old that she had no memory of sex? She was only seventy-three, not a hundred and three.

‘She might have had a pretty face and a good body but she was vain and selfish,’ Teresa pronounced firmly. ‘You’d have to be a fool not to see that.’

‘Men in love are fools, Mum,’ he retorted with a self-mocking edge which Teresa immediately picked up on.

She stared up at Enrico but he wasn’t looking at her. He was off in another world. It came to her that he wasn’t thinking of Jasmine, but some other woman. Teresa’s heart lurched at the realisation that her youngest son, the apple of her eye, was in love with a new woman.

Dear God, she hoped and prayed that it wasn’t his card-playing friend. Despite never having met the lady, Teresa had gleaned quite a few facts about her from Enrico’s various comments. She was a widow for starters, a wealthy widow, whose late husband had been a much older man. An ex-model, she was also a highly astute businesswoman who ran a modelling agency in the city. To cap it all off, she was in her mid-thirties and had never had any children. Probably hadn’t wanted any. A lot of career women didn’t.

In other words, she was not good daughter-in-law material for Teresa Mandretti.

‘I won’t be coming home for lunch tomorrow, Mum,’ Enrico said abruptly. ‘I have somewhere else I have to go.’

‘Where?’

‘The man who trains our horses is having a special open day at his place for all his owners to celebrate the arrival of spring, and presumably get everyone in the right mood for the imminent spring racing carnivals.’

‘Like a party,’ his mother said.

‘Yes. I suppose you could call it that,’ Rico agreed.

Earlier this year, Ward’s very savvy personal assistant, a smart little piece called Lisa, had instigated the increasingly popular tradition amongst horse trainers of having an open day for the owners every Sunday where they could visit their horses, discuss their valuable charges’ prospects with the trainer or his stable foreman, then enjoy each other’s company afterwards over a buffet lunch. But tomorrow was going to be extra-special, with the best of champagne and food.

Rico hadn’t been going to attend, the same way he never attended any open day which fell on the first Sunday of the month, because it clashed with his monthly family get-together, an occasion which was far more important to him than socialising with the rich and famous, or having another clash with Renée.

But tomorrow was different. Tomorrow was D day. Desperation day.

‘I see,’ his mother said thoughtfully. ‘Will Charles be there?’

‘Probably not. He’s not as interested in the horses as he once was.’

‘That is understandable, Enrico. He has more to think about now that he has a wife and a little bambino on the way. What about your sheikh friend? He’s not married. Will he be there?’

‘No. You know Ali rarely goes to functions like that.’

Which left…the widow, Teresa deduced. Unless this horse trainer had a blonde girl jockey in his employ.

Enrico was partial to blondes. But tall, curvy ones, come to think of it, not teenie-weenie skinny ones. Which begged the question of what this Renée looked like.

She had to be tall, since she was an ex-model. And probably blonde, since her son was attracted. Maybe even busty, as Jasmine had been. Gone were the days when models had to be flat-chested.

‘What about your other card-playing friend?’ Teresa couldn’t resist asking. ‘The lady. Renée, isn’t it? Will she be there?’

He smiled. He actually smiled. But it wasn’t a happy smile. More a wryly resigned one.

‘Oh, yes. Sure to be.’

Which gave Teresa the answer she was looking for. Enrico was in love with this Renée, but the lady didn’t return his feelings.

Now Teresa didn’t know what to think, or to feel. That any woman could resist her Enrico annoyed her considerably. Her youngest son was irresistible, in her opinion. At the same time, the last woman she would want him getting tangled up with was another creature like that gold-digging Jasmine.

So perhaps it was just as well this Renée didn’t fancy him. But truly, she had to be some kind of blind fool. Enrico was a magnificent man. A man amongst men. What kind of stupid woman would not want him in her bed, and in her heart?

Teresa dropped the sprigs of mint she’d picked into the front pocket of her apron and linked arms with her handsome son. ‘Come, Enrico. I have another pasta recipe to show you. A brand-new one.’ And she drew him towards the back door, chattering away all the while, showering him with her love and approval.

Rico allowed himself to be cosseted and comforted, because he knew that, come tomorrow, he would be going into battle again with his nemesis. His decision just now to attend the open day showed how addicted he was to that witch’s company. He simply could not go a single weekend without seeing her. Avoiding her at the races this afternoon hadn’t worked at all.

It was a deplorable state of affairs. But what could he do about it? How could he change it? How could he change her?

He couldn’t. All he could do was change himself. But how, was the problem. How did you stop yourself craving what you’d become addicted to?

He’d tried the out-of-sight, out-of-mind method, and that hadn’t worked. Going cold turkey didn’t apply, as he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of having what he craved. There was counselling, he supposed, but he just couldn’t picture that working, either.

So tell me, Mr Mandretti, what is it about this lady that you like so much?

Let’s see, now, Doc, he could hear himself replying. First there are her eyes. The slanting green ones which gleam with contempt every time they look at me. And then there’s her gorgeous mouth, which cuts me to ribbons every time she opens it. But mostly there’s her long, tall, far-too-slender body, which I shouldn’t find incredibly sexy but I do!

He’d be diagnosed a masochist with obsessional compulsive disorder and sent home with a swag of antidepressants, an appointment for a therapy session every week into eternity and a bill you couldn’t climb over.

No, he wasn’t going to try counselling.

Which left what?

The answer really was quite simple…if you were prepared to embrace the joys of rejection. He could ask the merry widow out. On a date.

He had asked her out before, of course. Many times. But under the guise of a general invitation to one of his mother’s parties.

Renée had always refused. Oh, she’d been polite enough on those occasions, but the bottom line was always the same. Clearly, she didn’t want to spend any more time in his company than that which she presently endured.

To ask her out on a one-on-one basis was true masochism. But damn it all, what did he have to lose?

Tomorrow, he would jump right into the lion pit and put his head in the lioness’s mouth. What happened after that was anybody’s guess.

CHAPTER THREE

AROUND twelve-thirty the following day, a gut-tightened Rico left his new penthouse apartment—the one he’d snapped up from Charles when he relocated to the North Shore—and rode his private elevator down to the basement car park. There he strode quickly over to his Ferrari, jumped in behind the wheel, shoved in the key and started the engine.

He was running a bit late, considering the invitation stated from eleven onwards, but it wouldn’t take him long to get there. Fifteen minutes at most. That was one of the great things about Charles’ old place, aside from the views. Its location down near Circular Quay was so darned convenient.

Rico hadn’t exited the underground car park and driven more than a block before realising that having the top down on his car was downright uncomfortable. The day was not a picture-perfect spring day, unlike yesterday, which had been lovely and warm.

As he grudgingly zapped the top up on his car, Rico told himself that the grey skies were not an omen of the day ahead, just typical of Sydney in early September. He still marvelled how the Sydney Olympics—which had been held in that same month—had been blessed with such consistently magnificent weather. Most of the time you never knew what you were going to get in spring in Sydney till you stuck your head out of the window in the morning. Relying on the weather forecast the night before was as silly as thinking Renée was actually going to say yes to his asking her out today.

Rico still could not believe he was actually doing this. Talk about masochistic!

But all the self-lectures in the world were not going to change his mind. Rico had always believed in going after what he wanted, at least till it was irrevocably certain that he could not have what he wanted, such as a career on the stage. Then and only then did he move on from such a goal, putting his energies into something more attainable.

So till Renée looked him straight in the face and said no way, José to going out with him, Rico harboured some small hope that he might succeed in his mission improbable. He even managed to convince himself during the brief drive over to Randwick that he had a reasonable chance of success.

After all, the merry widow had no permanent partner. If she had, such a partner would surely have accompanied her to the races sometimes. Yet she always came alone. Added to that was the interesting fact that, except on the rare occasion she’d gone overseas on a business trip, she always showed up to play poker on a Friday night. What woman involved with, or living with, some man would be so consistent?

Not that Rico imagined for one moment Renée was leading a nun-like lifestyle. She had to have had men friends since becoming a widow. Lovers, in other words. It had been over five years after all, far too long a time for a woman like her to have spent every night alone.

For some reason—possibly self-protection—Rico hadn’t given much thought in the past to whom Renée actually slept with. Suddenly, this subject was the sole focus of his brain. After discarding all sorts of scenarios from secret affairs with married men to one-night stands with commitment-phobic divorcees, he decided she probably enjoyed strictly sexual flings with the toy-boy variety, selected from the huge stable of young male models who were contracted to her modelling agency.

Rico could easily see Renée in that kind of relationship. She would always want to be the boss, to always be on top.

The thought of her being on top of him did things to his body which hadn’t been done so swiftly or so savagely since he was a teenager. He winced then tried to rearrange the bulge in his trousers to ease his discomfort, but it was a lost cause. Nothing was going to solve his problem, nothing except full body contact with Renée.

As Rico turned into the Randwick street where Ward’s home and stables were located, he vowed to succeed in making Renée go out with him—and go to bed with him—even if he had to sell his soul to the devil to do so!

The sight of her blue BMW parked at the kerb right outside Ward’s front gate gave Rico’s black resolve a momentary jolt. She was there, waiting for him to make a fool of himself. No escape now, not unless he wimped out. And Rico was no wimp.

For a split-second the car-lined street almost gave him an excuse to drive on, to forget this insane mission. But then a gap presented itself in between a silver Jag and a dark blue Merc. Ward’s owners were not short of a dollar. With a resigned sigh, Rico expertly angled his Ferrari into the rather tight spot and cut off the engine.

After a glance at his watch—it was getting on for one—he dragged himself out from behind the wheel, slammed the door and zapped the immobiliser. Almost as an afterthought, he checked his appearance in the side-mirror, finger-combing his messy hair back from his face before frowning at the dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. He never shaved on the weekend—something Renée had no doubt noticed in the past—so he hadn’t wanted it to seem as if he’d been sprucing himself up specially for her.

Still, given he was planning to ask her out—view full sex at the end of the night—this now seemed a stupid train of thought. Totally…utterly…stupid! Which meant he was running true to form. Once Renée came into the equation in anything he did, off went his head and on went a pumpkin.

But faint heart never won fat turkey, Rico reminded himself doggedly. Or the hand of the fair lady. Not that he wanted to marry the merry widow. He wasn’t that crazy! All he wanted was a few nights in her bed, after which he was sure that this perverse sexual obsession he’d been suffering from these past five years would burn itself out.

He didn’t love her. Lord, no. No way! What was there to love? She was no better than Jasmine, really. Just another hard-nosed, hard-hearted, mercenary madam who specialised in making fools of men, namely him.

With that charming thought in mind, Rico slid his hands into the pockets of his black trousers and walked somewhat reluctantly back up the street to Ward’s establishment, throwing Renée’s BMW a testy look as he passed by. She must have been the first guest to arrive to get such a prize spot.

Rico stood for a moment at Ward’s front gate, staring blankly up at the trainer’s very stylish two-storey home and trying to get his brain into gear. All the owners would have finished visiting their horses by now. They’d all be inside, tucking into the champers and caviare. All except…Renée.

More than likely she’d still be at the stables, fussing over their syndicate’s most expensive purchase to date, a three-year-old black colt which they’d bought from Ali as a yearling but which had gone seriously shin-sore during his first preparation and been turned out to mature. He’d been back in training for a few weeks, and Ward’s PA had told Rico on the phone the other night—the notoriously taciturn trainer rarely spoke to owners in person over the phone—that Ebony Fire had come back a treat and was working the place down. No doubt Lisa had relayed the same news to Renée.

Although Rico knew surprisingly little about Renée on a personal basis, he knew how she felt about the horses she owned and part-owned. She loved them. Loved being around them. Loved touching them and talking to them. On the couple of occasions that he had come to an open Sunday prior to today, Renée had been difficult to pry away from the stables.

‘I don’t come here to eat,’ she’d snapped at him once when he’d suggested going inside for lunch. ‘I come here to visit with my horses.’

Rico smiled wryly at the memory. Oh, yes. She would not have gone inside yet. He was sure of it.

Which was a comfort. The prospect of propositioning the object of his desire in privacy was infinitely preferable to doing so in a roomful of people where others might hear her hysterical laughter. This way, he could keep his humiliation to himself.

Scooping in a deep and hopefully calming breath, he spun on his heels and headed for the side-path, which bypassed Ward’s house and led round to where the stables were located at the rear of the property. At the end of this path was a gate which was always manned by a security guard. Today’s man was called Jed, a big, beefy fellow who knew all of Ward’s owners by sight.

‘Afternoon, Mr Mandretti,’ Jed said as he opened the gate to let Rico in. ‘You’re running a bit late. All the others have gone in to lunch.’

Rico’s heart sank, till he realised Jed couldn’t possibly know that for a fact from where he was stationed. Ward’s stable complex was shaped in a square with an internal courtyard. Each side of the square housed six stalls along with feed and tack rooms at the ends of the rows, with staff quarters on the floor above.

Whilst Jed could peer through the gap at the nearest corner into the courtyard beyond, he couldn’t possibly see inside the stalls, which was where Renée always ventured. It was never enough for her to stroke her horses’ heads over the stall doors. If the horse was docile enough, she would be right in there, up close and personal.

‘No worries, Jed,’ Rico replied as he walked on in. ‘I haven’t come to eat today. See you.’

The courtyard was deserted except for one stable-hand, who was hosing away the last of the horsy deposits from the pavings, legacies of their having been walked around on show for their owners.

‘Working hard there, Neil, I see,’ Rico said as he approached.

The young lad glanced up with surprise and pleasure on his face.

‘Why, hello there, Mr Mandretti,’ Neil replied, swiftly turning off the hose so that their esteemed visitor could pass by without getting anything splattered on his very smart and expensive-looking black clothes. If there was one owner Neil liked almost as much as he liked Mrs Selinsky, it was Mr Mandretti. For one thing, he always remembered his name, not like a lot of the hoi polloi. You’d never know he was a famous TV star by the way he acted. He was so nice and friendly. Of course, no one was as nice as Mrs Selinsky. Now there was one genuine lady. Generous, too. Every time one of her horses won any prize money, she gave all the grooms a bonus.

But it wasn’t just her handing out cash which made everyone here warm to her. It was the way she was with the horses. She really cared about them. Even the boss liked Mrs Selinsky. You could tell because he actually talked to her. And the boss was not one for idle chit-chat.

‘You’ll be here to see your colt, I suppose,’ Neil said. ‘Mrs Selinsky’s still in there with him. I think she’d sleep in that stall if the boss’d let her.’

Rico decided then and there that if there was such a thing as reincarnation he wanted to come back as one of Renée’s racehorses.

‘What stall is Blackie in?’ Rico asked. Blackie was Ebony Fire’s stable name.

‘Number eighteen. The last on that row over there. I know it’s not for me to say, but if he runs as good as he looks this time in, you’ll have a class-one winner there for sure.’

‘Let’s hope so, Neil. But there’s many a slip twixt the training track and the winner’s circle.’

‘Aye. That there is. But then that’s the way of the racin’ game, isn’t it? It’s all a gamble. A bit like life.’

Rico nodded. Neil was right. Life was a gamble. Sometimes you won and sometimes you lost. Knowledge, however, increased your odds of winning. Suddenly, he wished he knew a lot more about Mrs Renée Selinsky. But it was too late to worry about that now. The time had come to take his chances. To gamble on winning the Maiden Stakes. Trouble was, he was a long shot and long shots didn’t win too often.

Despite his growing inner tension, he waved a jaunty goodbye to Neil before making his way straight for stall number eighteen.

Several of the horses whose heads were hanging over the doors whinnied to him as he strode past. Ebony Fire, however, was not one of them. At first glance, stall number eighteen seemed empty. But, once Rico’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside, he saw that the black colt was standing on a thick bed of straw in the far corner, having his flank stroked and being talked as if he were a much loved child.

‘You are such a beautiful boy,’ Renée crooned as her right hand continued its rhythmic petting. Her left arm was curled round the horse’s neck, with the side of her head resting against his glossy black mane. ‘Ward says there’s no sign of that shin soreness coming back and you’ll be ready for your first race soon. And he says you’ll win. I did tell him that you might be a little nervous to begin with and we shouldn’t expect too much too soon, but he said you didn’t have a nervous bone in your body. He said you were a born racehorse. A potential champion. Oh, I do so wish you were all mine, my darling. But I suppose one third of you is better than nothing.’

Rico didn’t know whether he felt jealous of the horse on the receiving end of Renée’s caresses. Or of Ward Jackman. It sounded as if the man said one hell of a lot more to Renée than he did to him, or anyone else for that matter. Could it be that Renée’s relationship with Jackman extended beyond trainer and owner?

Suddenly, Renée’s BMW being parked right outside Ward’s front gate took on a different and more ominous meaning. Maybe she hadn’t arrived first today. Maybe her car had been there all night…

Rico swallowed the bile which leap into his throat and tried to look at this appalling idea more rationally and without panic. There’d never been a hint of intimacy shown between them that he’d noticed. No telling glances, or untoward touching.

But their being lovers would certainly explain the uncharacteristic amount of chit-chat which obviously had been going on between them about Ebony Fire. Even the most taciturn men were prone to pillow talk.

The thought of Renée sleeping with the ruggedly handsome horse trainer stabbed deep into Rico’s heart. His fists curled over by his side, his nails digging into his palms. Theoretical lovers were a whole different ball game to an in-your-face, flesh-and-blood one. If what Rico suspected was true, then it was no wonder she never brought a boyfriend to the races. He was already there!

He stared at the way she was cuddling and petting the horse, but his brain didn’t see Ebony Fire as the recipient of her caresses any longer. His mind’s eye was picturing Ward Jackman, naked and aroused, beneath her hands.

A violent shudder ran down Rico’s spine.

The colt suddenly swung his head Rico’s way as he spotted him standing there at the stable door and neighed a welcome to his new visitor. Renée whirled, her eyes widening when she saw who that new visitor was.

For a few moments her usual composure seemed to desert her, her body language showing agitation as she hurried over to the stable door, the horse hot on her heels.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she snapped as she wrenched open the bottom half of the stable door and slipped out of the stall, quickly closing the door behind her before the colt could follow. ‘Don’t you usually go home to the family on the first Sunday of the month?’

The way she said the word, ‘family’, suggested he was a member of the Mafia, rather than the son of an honest, hard-working market gardener.

‘And hello to you too,’ Rico returned, impressed at how cool he sounded in the face of the jealousy and fury raging inside him. ‘The thing is, my dear Renée, I just couldn’t go another day without a dose of your charming company,’ he added in a mocking tone which masked the truth behind his words.

She totally ignored him as she concentrated on shoving the bolt home on the door before finally raising cool green eyes to his. ‘In that case, why weren’t you at the races yesterday?’

Rico smiled. ‘Aah, so you noticed I wasn’t there. I’m flattered.’

‘Don’t be. I had a very pleasant afternoon. I picked several winners as well.’

‘In that case, why are you so sour today? Or is that always your disposition around me?’

Rico could feel his tongue running away with him, along with any hope he had of Renée ever accepting an invitation to go out on a date.

Not that he was going to ask her now. Not until he discovered what was going on between her and Jackman. No man liked to make a total fool of himself, not even when that man was as desperate as he was.

His gaze swept over the object of that desperation, trying not to ogle the way the tight camel-coloured trousers she was wearing hugged every inch of her long, slender legs. Her neat white T-shirt was equally snug-fitting and showed more bust than he realised she had. Either that, or she was wearing a padded bra.

No, no padding, he realised on a second glance. Damn, no bra at all! Her nipples were starkly outlined against the thin white cotton, as long and hard as bullets.

Maybe their erect state was due to her being cold—the day still hadn’t warmed up much. Or maybe their condition was the result of her having spent all night in Jackman’s bed.

His stomach crunched down hard at the image of the other man sucking on Renée’s nipples. He could not bear it. He should leave. Right now, before he did or said something he would really regret.

But he couldn’t.

‘Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?’ he grated out, struggling not to sound the way he was feeling.

‘Would it stop you if I did?’ she flung back at him.

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘Are you and Ward lovers?’ he demanded to know, his eyes glued to hers.

There was no doubt her face registered shock, her finely arched brows arching even further over rapidly blinking eyes, her red-glossed mouth dropping slightly open.

Her recovery was swift, however, with her face resuming its characteristically self-contained, slightly superior expression. Ignoring him again for a few moments, she bent to pick up the black leather jacket and matching bag which he hadn’t noticed sitting on the ground next to the stable wall. The movement swung her smooth curtain of thick, shoulder-length brown hair across her high cheekbones, momentarily hiding her face from him. When she straightened it fell back into perfect place, a testament to the expertise of her hairdresser. Tilting up her chin slightly, she fixed her slanting green eyes on his own eyes, her gaze cool and steady.

‘Why do you ask? Has someone said something about us?’

‘No. But I heard you talking to Blackie here just now and it sounded like you were pretty chummy with Ward. Let’s face it, it’s hard to get two words out of that man at the best of times, but he seems to have told you plenty about the horse’s progress.’

‘So you jumped to the conclusion that he told me in bed.’

‘Well, did he?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she said quite coldly, and turned back to start stroking Blackie’s head once more.

‘I’m making it my business,’ he bit out.

‘Why?’ she said indifferently, not even bothering to glance his way. ‘What’s it to you who I sleep with?’

‘I don’t like you sleeping with Jackman,’ he ground out.

Now she did stop stroking the horse to look at him, her expression curious. ‘But why?’

What could he say? I don’t like you sleeping with any man. I want you in my bed and my bed only.

She would laugh in his face.

His pride simply could not stand that degree of humiliation.

‘He’s the syndicate’s trainer,’ he snapped instead. ‘I don’t like the idea of you getting inside information which should be shared with all the partners.’

She gave a small, dry laugh. ‘Typical. I should have known the reason would be something like that. For your information, I’m not sleeping with Ward. If you had any brains at all, or any powers of observation, you’d know that he and Lisa are madly in love. She’s even moved in with him. The only reason Ward talks to me more than you is because he knows I genuinely love my horses. I’m not just in racing for the status, or the socialising. Satisfied now?’

When she went to move away, he grabbed her arm. She stiffened and shot him a look which would have shriveled a lesser man. Rico’s fingers tightened.

‘Why do you dislike me so much?’ he demanded to know. ‘What have I ever done to you?’

She stared down at the hand circled on her arm till he let her go, at which point she actually shuddered.

Rico knew then that she would never go out with him, let alone go to bed with him. Not willingly. He repelled her for some reason.

It was the most appalling realisation of his life, worse than discovering Jasmine was a gold-digger. Much worse than anything he could imagine.

Now he was the one who shuddered. But not visibly. Inside. Deep, deep inside.

‘You don’t want me to answer those questions,’ she replied tartly. ‘Trust me on that.’

‘But I do,’ he ground out. ‘Trust me on that.’

Her green eyes frosted over further, if that was possible. ‘Very well. I’ll tell you. The reason I dislike you so much is because you represent everything I despise in the male sex. You’re selfish and self-centred and appallingly shallow. You say you want substance in your life but you continually choose shadows. You also make snap judgements about people without ever looking beneath the surface. When I think of how you nearly ruined Charles’s marriage…’

Her top lip curled up in contempt and Rico cringed. OK, so he’d made a terrible mistake in accusing Dominique of being the same kind of heartless gold-digger Jasmine had been. But the evidence had seemed damning at the time.

‘All because you couldn’t see past your own pathetic marital experience,’ Renée continued caustically. ‘Like I said, selfish and shallow. Of course, most really good-looking men are tarred with the same brush. You imagine that you’re so irresistible, just because you were born with a great body and loads of sex appeal. You think I don’t know that your arrogant Italian nose is put out of joint because I don’t swoon every time you come into the room? Or that you’re seriously irritated by the fact I can play poker better than you can? I might have more respect for you, Rico Mandretti, if just once you behaved with some depth and sensitivity. But no, you just keep on keeping on in your usual superficial playboy fashion, acting like a spoiled brat when you don’t get your way!’

By now her voice had risen slightly and Rico cast a desperate glance around, relieved to see that Neil had finished his hosing down and was nowhere in sight.

‘But most pathetic of all,’ Renée swept on, regardless, ‘is the way you go from one blonde bimbo to the next, then bemoan the fact you haven’t got what Charles has got. Grow up, Rico. Get a life, and a nice girl for a wife. Have that family you claim you want. Then maybe I might grow to like you. No, maybe not,’ she added scornfully. ‘Liking you is something I’ll never do. But at least I’d have some respect for you.’

At last, her tirade was finished. And so was Rico.

He had never been on the end of such a brutal character assassination in all his life. Not even Jasmine at her most venomous had managed to make him feel so utterly worthless.

He could have lashed back, he supposed. Could have torn strips off Renée’s own less than perfect past. But somehow, he had a feeling that might back-fire on him as well. Though goodness knew how. No one would ever convince him she’d married that old geezer for love. Still, possibly money hadn’t been her motive. Maybe his believing her a gold-digger was one of those snap judgements she’d referred to.

‘I did warn you,’ she stated brusquely when he just stood there, silent and shattered. ‘Don’t make me feel guilty for speaking the truth. Don’t you dare! It’s not as though you give a damn what I think, anyway. Men like you don’t give a damn about anyone but themselves.’

And with an angry toss of her hair she pushed past him and stalked off.

Well at least she thinks I’m good-looking, Rico thought bitterly as he watched her go. Clearly, she’s repelled more by my characterless character than my great body or my arrogant Italian nose. That was something, wasn’t it?

‘Yeah, right, Rico,’ he muttered bleakly and, sliding his hands deeply back into his trouser pockets, he trudged back across the still blessedly deserted courtyard, murmured a desolate goodbye to Jed at the gate then headed wearily for his car, and home.

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