One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс
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you say that because your family shows so little concern for you?’
That hit her right below the belt. ‘My family care,’ she insisted.
‘Your uncle, maybe,’ Raffaelle conceded. ‘But even he made the quick getaway once he believed he had established that I was not your heartbreaker from Naples. I could have been lying to him. He did not hang around long enough to put me to the test.’
‘He’s a busy man.’ She shifted tensely on the seat next to him.
‘Like your half-sister and -brother are so busy they have not had time to check if I have chopped you into little pieces and dumped you in the Thames?’
‘Sh-shut up,’ she breathed.
They finished the rest of the journey in silence. As they travelled up in the lift to Rafaelle’s apartment, Rachel stared fixedly down at her feet and he—well, she didn’t know what he was looking at but she had an itchy feeling it could be her.
Once inside the apartment she headed for one of the spare bedrooms because there was just no way she was going to sleep with him tonight.
He didn’t try to stop her, which only stressed her out more. She slept restlessly beneath a navy-blue duvet wearing only her bra and panties, woke up early the next morning and remade the bed, then crept back into the other bedroom to get some fresh clothes before Rosa arrived.
The plum-covered bed was empty and, by the look of it, Raffaelle had enjoyed a restless night too. She glanced at the closed bathroom door to listen if the shower was running, hoping to goodness that he’d already got up and dressed and taken himself off to work and out of the firing line.
‘Discovered your sense of fair play, amore?’ a smooth voice murmured.
She spun around to find him standing in the dressing room doorway wearing only a towel slung low around his hips. It was like being hit by that high wattage charge again.
‘I—thought you would have left by now,’ she said without thinking.
He just smiled then began walking forward. Rachel started to back away.
‘Slept well?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Need any help tying that robe?’
She glanced down, then released a gasp when she saw the robe she had pinched from the other bathroom was hanging open revealingly. It was too big, a man’s full-length heavy towelling bathrobe that trailed the floor at her feet and engulfed her hands. She’d thought she’d tied the belt, but the stupid thing had slid undone.
‘Go away,’ she shook out, trying to fight with the sleeves so she could grab the two ends of the belt.
But Raffaelle Villani wasn’t going anywhere. He just kept coming until he was standing right in front of her. Then, while she mumbled out a protest, he pushed her fingers away and calmly cinched the belt around her waist. His fingers brushed the skin of her stomach as he did it. She breathed in sharply. He ignored the revealing breath, finished his task, then calmly turned away, dropping the towel from around his hips, and strode like the arrogant man he was back into the dressing room and closed the door.
It was the same as a slap in the face. She refused to sleep with him and he was showing her that it made little difference to him.
Rachel ran into the bathroom and wished she was dead, because her body was such a quivering mass of frustration that if he’d stripped the robe from her and thrown her to the bed, she would not have stopped him.
Her day was long and she was tired by the time she trailed into the apartment again. Rosa had gone home hours ago. Raffaelle was still out, which allowed her some time for herself to take a long bath behind a firmly locked bathroom door in an effort to relax some of the tension grinding at her every nerve and muscle.
She stayed in the bath longer than she’d meant to. By the time she let herself back into the bedroom she could sense more than hear that Raffaelle was home, though he was not in the bedroom, thank goodness, which gave her a chance to pull her jeans back on and a fresh T-shirt before she heaved in a breath and went looking for him.
He was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich, the jacket to his suit gone, white shirt-sleeves rolled up. He turned at the sound of her step. Her stomach dipped. She found herself running self conscious fingers through her curls.
‘Ciao,’ he said lightly. ‘You look—pink.’
‘I stayed in the bath too long,’ she explained as naturally as she could.
He turned back to what he was doing. ‘Want a sandwich?’
Her stomach gave a hungry growl. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Take your pick,’ he invited, pointing to the variety of salad things he had already sliced up. ‘There’s cheese in the fridge, some chicken and ham.’
Choosing the ham because she saw it first, she took over and handed it to him. Then surprised herself by staying there watching as he layered fresh bread with salad stuff.
‘Not going to offer to do it for me?’ He arched a look at her.
‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I might grow the produce but I can’t cook it,’ she confessed. ‘Ask me to make a sandwich like that and it will fall apart the moment you pick it up.’
‘No culinary skills at all, then.’
‘Not a single one.’
‘Any good with a coffee machine?’
‘Hit and miss.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m an instant coffee girl.’
‘Tragic,’ he murmured. ‘Give it a try anyway.’ He nodded to where the coffee machine stood. ‘It’s loaded and ready to hit the cup like the instant stuff does, only it tastes better.’
‘That’s an Italian opinion.’ She moved across to the machine and fed it a cup as she’d done two days before.
Two days, she then thought suddenly—they felt like years. How had that happened?
‘Tony tells me you have been treading the miles again,’ he murmured.
She turned to look at him curiously. ‘How often does he report in to you?’
The wide shoulders gave a shrug inside expensive white shirting that didn’t quite stop the gold of his skin from showing through. ‘Each time you stop somewhere.’
‘Do you think it’s necessary? I mean, I haven’t seen a glimpse of a reporter in the two days I’ve been out and about.’
‘Then you would make a lousy detective.’ Turning he pointed to the newspaper lying on the table.
Going over to it, Rachel saw a photo of herself sitting at a table in a top Knightsbridge restaurant drinking morning coffee with its famous chef owner. A flush arrived on her cheeks because, not only was she aware that she had not seen the lurking reporter but she’d now realised that the only reason why she had been sitting there at all was because the chef had recognised her and his curiosity had been piqued.
‘Where was Tony when this was taken?’ she demanded. It was his job after all to stop this from happening.
‘He did clear the reporter off, but not before he had managed to take this one photograph. Then the guy waited until you had left the restaurant and went back to quiz the chef.’
The chef had given an interview, getting a plug for his restaurant by happily telling the reporter what Rachel Carmichael did for a living. There was another photograph in a different paper showing Raffaelle kissing her cheek as he helped her on with her jacket.
‘What it is to be famous,’ she murmured cynically.
‘Well, your secret other life is now out,’ Raffaelle declared. ‘Which means you can stop hiding behind the mask of Elise