Mistress at the Italian's Command. Melanie Milburne
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prised apart with giant mechanical jaws.
‘Um… would you like a drink?’ She said the first thing that popped into her mind.
His brows moved together and he cocked his head at a suspicious angle. ‘A drink?’
‘Yes,’ she said over-brightly, carefully back-stepping towards the kitchen, hoping he would take the hint and follow her. ‘I was just about to get one myself. It’s very hot for September, don’t you think?’
‘It is usually still quite hot at this time of year,’ he answered, still watching her closely. ‘It will not cool down for another week or two at the very least.’
Ally went to the meagre pantry and took out a container of long-life orange juice, trying to control the slight tremble of her hands as she did so. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have any ice,’ she said, turning to face him again. ‘I’ve just been cleaning out the fridge.’
His dark eyes were like twin drills as they bored into hers. ‘Are you going away somewhere?’
She pasted a tight smile on her face. ‘I’m just doing a bit of a spring clean—out with the old and in with the new, that sort of thing.’
Ally watched as his eyes swept over the small galley kitchen with its tired appliances. ‘Have you lived in this apartment long?’ he asked, bringing his gaze back to hers.
‘Er… a few weeks,’ she said, shifting her gaze to pour two glasses of juice. Some of it, in spite of her efforts to control the tremble of her hands, splashed onto the bench. ‘I’d like to move to something a little more convenient, but rents are high in the nicer areas.’ She handed him a glass of juice. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I think I can hear one of the taps dripping in the bathroom. It does that now and again.’
‘Would you like me to fix it for you?’
Ally stared at him in thinly disguised horror. Of all the things he could have said, that was the last she had expected. He was a billionaire. He probably wouldn’t recognise a spanner or a wrench if he was hit over the head with one. But then he wasn’t a plumber any more than she had a leaky tap, she reminded herself wryly. ‘Er… no, there’s really nothing wrong with it,’ she said, trying not to sound as flustered as she felt. ‘It’s just that I didn’t turn if off hard enough when I heard the doorbell. I won’t be a minute.’
Vittorio took a sip of the room-temperature reconstituted orange juice and grimaced. He thought longingly of his own orange groves on the hills behind his Positano holiday villa, where his housekeeper squeezed fresh fruit daily when he was in residence.
He put the glass down on the chipped counter and cast his gaze around once more. It was no wonder Alex Sharpe was looking for a meal ticket. Her flat was tiny and in desperate need of a makeover. The curtains at the kitchen window were faded and grease-splattered, and the linoleum on the floor was buckled and cracked in places. From what he had seen of the small sitting room the carpet was an out-of-date swirly pattern that would have been at home in the seventies. The furniture too was of a similar design and vintage.
But it was no wonder his weak and womanising brother-in-law had fallen under her spell, he thought. She was lethally attractive. Even dressed as she was in faded jeans, and with her silver-blonde hair in a haphazard knot on top of her head and no make-up on, she was temptation personified. She oozed sensuality. It was in every curve of her body: the long elegant limbs, the delightfully ripe globes of her breasts, the tiny waist and the sexy flare of her hips. Her mouth was blood-red, not from lipstick but from the inbuilt passion she exuded from every fragrant pore of her body. He had smelt the seductive musk and heady fragrance of jasmine clinging to her golden skin as soon as she had opened the door. It had not only filled his nostrils, it had filled his head, and upended his thoughts until he’d had trouble recalling his mission.
He smiled to himself as he thought of his plan to divert the press’s attention from Rocco in order to protect his sister Chiara. It was going to be much easier than he had expected. Mrs Alex Sharpe was just the sort of woman who would jump at the chance to improve her circumstances.
Besides, he wasn’t going to give her a choice.
Ally rushed through the rest of the flat and grabbed the few photos her sister had displayed and hid them in her suitcase under the bed. She took a couple of steadying breaths and made her way back out to the kitchen. Vittorio Vassallo turned when she came in, his dark gaze meshing with hers.
‘Mrs Sharpe—’ he began.
‘Ally,’ she said, mentally cringing at the thought of being addressed by the name of her sister’s violent ex-husband. ‘I prefer to be called Ally, if you don’t mind.’
‘My brother-in-law always referred to you as Alexandra or Alex,’ he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Ally wrestled with herself to hold his penetrating gaze. ‘You said your name is Vittorio,’ she countered. ‘That seems rather a mouthful. What do your friends and family call you?’
‘Vito,’ he answered. ‘But only very close friends and immediate family members call me that.’
‘So, Mr Vassallo,’ she said giving him a cool little smile, ‘how can I be of assistance to you?’
His expression was imperious, condescending almost, which infuriated Ally even further. ‘I am here about my car,’ he said.
Ally looked at him blankly, her heart starting to kick against her sternum in alarm. ‘Your c-car?’
His eyes burned into hers. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The car you scraped all over with a key or a nail file, causing several thousand euros worth of damage. It was not my brother-in-law’s, as you thought, but mine. I expect you to pay for it.’
Ally swallowed convulsively. ‘Um… look… I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not who you think I—’
He stepped closer, almost touching her in the small space of the tawdry kitchen. ‘Do you realise I can have you sent to prison for this alone, not to mention the issue of the money you stole?’ he asked in a biting tone.
Ally blinked at him. The money? What money? What did he mean…? She felt her insides turn to liquid as she suddenly remembered.
The money currently in her handbag.
Her knees began to knock together slightly. She dragged in a breath that felt as if it had a bramble attached as the scorch of his accusing gaze held her fast. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she said, her head spinning at his closeness. ‘I—I didn’t deface your car, and I… I don’t know anything about any money.’
He let out a vicious swear word in his mother tongue. Even though Ally only knew a few phrases of Italian she knew it was an expletive just by the sheer force of its delivery. ‘You think I do not have proof?’ he barked at her savagely.
Ally wanted to tell him who she really was, but knew if she did so he might press charges on Alex, in spite of her fragile mental state. He certainly looked angry and ruthless enough to do so, and until she knew what Alex was being accused of she had no choice but to continue with her artifice.
‘W-what sort of proof?’ she asked, backing away as far as the kitchen counter would allow, her spine feeling as if it was being sawn in half by the pressure of the counter digging into it from behind.
‘We will deal with the car issue first,’ he said in a flint-like tone. ‘You were photographed by a passerby on a camera phone.’ He reached inside his jacket pocket, took out a slim envelope and handed it to her.
Ally took it with fingers that felt as if the bones and ligaments had been taken out, making the task of opening the envelope almost impossible without betraying her trepidation. But somehow she finally managed to take out the three shots of her twin, which clearly showed her gouging the shiny red paintwork of a top-model Ferrari with what seemed to be a key. Ally had no idea what had made her sister act in such a destructive way, but if the look on her face was any indication Alex had been totally out