One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс
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to me.’
‘Call it what you want,’ he said. ‘But accept that you will not go out without someone with you,’ he instructed. ‘I will assign one of my own security people to escort you.’
It was only as he said it that Rachel realised she was stuck here in London, in his apartment with nothing to do. Elise was away. Even Mark was away. She didn’t know anyone else in the city! While it was very obvious by the way he was dressed that he was not going to hang around here if at all possible and keep her company.
‘So I’m to be a prisoner now as well as your …’ She severed the rest but they both knew what she had been about to say.
‘It cuts both ways, cara,’ Raffaelle said unsympathetically. ‘I had a life and relative freedom with which to live it until you threw yourself at me. Now I have you, a bed and no life to call my own.’
‘At least you get to go to work.’
‘It is what I do during the day.’
‘Well, lucky you.’ Rachel handed him back the newspaper, then she curled on her side and tugged the duvet up to her ears. ‘I might as well stay right here then, since it’s the only place I am useful.’
He laughed. ‘Hold that delightful thought until I return.’
Then he was gone. The door closed. He strode down the hallway and out of the apartment, then into the lift. It took him down to the basement where Dino and his limo awaited him. The moment he settled in the rear seat and opened his laptop his business cellphone began ringing and real life settled in. As he concluded his fourth complicated call of the journey, Dino was pulling the car to a stop outside the Villani building. He climbed out and strode in through the doors into familiar surroundings where that other excitement which came a very close second to sex waited to take him over.
Then it came.
‘Congratulations, Mr Villani!’
‘Congratulations, sir!’
Congratulations resounded from every corner. The curious smiles that accompanied them were due almost entirely to the photograph printed in this morning’s paper, he judged.
His smile was mocking but fixed. And even that was wearing thin by the time he hit the top floor of the building.
‘Congratulations, Raffaelle,’ his secretary greeted him and dumped a whole load of telephone message slips down on his desk.
‘What are those?’ he asked dubiously.
‘Congratulations and invitations, of course.’ She grinned. ‘I would hazard a guess that these are only the beginning. It looks as if you and Miss Carmichael will be dining out every night for months!’
He gave her them back. ‘You deal with them.’
‘Me?’
‘Filter out the rubbish and sort the rest into some kind of order,’ he instructed. ‘Then I will look at them.’
‘But wouldn’t it be more appropriate if Miss Carmichael did it?’
Recalling the woman he had just walked away from brought a gleam to his eyes. ‘No. She has better things to do,’ he murmured dryly.
Like playing his personal little sex nymph.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE SEX NYMPH WAS UP, showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt by the time Raffaelle entered his office building to a barrage of congratulations.
The sex nymph could not be more prim and polite when his housekeeper introduced herself as Rosa, the chauffeur’s wife; apparently both of them travelled everywhere that Raffaelle went.
And the sex nymph had no intention of being anywhere near the bedroom by the time he got back home again.
She had come up with a much more practical way to spend her time.
Over a light breakfast prepared by Rosa, Rachel planned her day with the concentration of a tourist determined to miss nothing out. Only her tour would not consist of historical sites in the city; she was going to trawl the restaurants and food wholesalers specialising in organic produce.
Her nice new security guard arrived conveniently as she was about to leave. His name was Tony and he had the use of a car, which meant far less footwork.
Still, by the time she had been delivered safely back to the apartment long hours later, she was almost dead on her feet.
Raffaelle was crossing the hall towards his study from the living room as she stepped in through the door. Pinstriped jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie knot hanging low at his throat and glass slotted between his fingers, he looked deliciously like the successful man just in from work and ready to wind down from his busy day.
Rachel paused, completely held by his sexual pull.
He paused too and looked at her, silky curls ruffled, face still chilled by the cold breeze blowing outside, woollen coat unbuttoned to reveal a white T-shirt with a neckline that scooped low at the front. He took his time taking in every detail with the slow—slow thoroughness of a seasoned connoisseur of beautiful women.
Knowing that she lacked the connoisseur’s high standards right now sent Rachel’s chin shooting up, blue eyes challenging him to say something derogatory.
‘Did you enjoy your day, mi amore?’ was the sarcastic comment that fell from his lips.
Defences heightened, she reluctantly supposed she should explain where she’d been. ‘I went …’
‘I know where you have been,’ he cut in. ‘Tony works for me, not for you.’
‘Then, yes—’ they could both play with polite sarcasm, she decided ‘—I had a very enjoyable day, thank you. And you?’
‘I had an … interesting day,’ he replied, watching her every step as she made herself walk forward. ‘I spent it giving polite replies to polite invitations for us to dine with polite people who cannot wait to get a better look at my future wife.’
Recalling the revealing photograph in this morning’s paper sent a rush of heat into her cool cheeks.
‘Of course you did the wise thing and politely declined those polite invitations?’
‘No, I accepted—most of them.’
Rachel pulled to a standstill. ‘I hope you’re just teasing.’
He took a sip of his drink, every inch of him vibrating with a kind of sardonic challenge that gave her his answer before he shook his dark head.
‘The show must go on.’
‘But I don’t want to meet your friends!’ she protested.
‘Scared they might see through us?’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Can’t we just want to—be alone together— as real engaged couples prefer to be?’
‘You’re mistaking a new betrothal with a new marriage,’ he countered. ‘Honeymooners want to—be alone together. Newly betrothed couples want to get out there and—show off.’
‘But I don’t want to show off!’
A satin black eyebrow arched in enquiry. ‘You don’t think I am good enough to show off?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ she snapped. What woman in her right mind would say he wasn’t fit to show off? ‘I just don’t think we are fit to be seen as an intimate couple within a group of your friends!’ Stuffing her hands into her coat pockets and hunching her shoulders in self-defence, she went on, ‘I presumed we would do—safer things like go out to quiet restaurants or something.’
‘A restaurant it is.’ He smiled. ‘Eight o’clock. We will be meeting my stepsister and several other close friends of mine.’