The Italian Prince's Proposal. Susan Stephens
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guard—to hide everything away. ‘You are from Prince Records?’ she prompted in a businesslike tone, hoping to bounce the man into some sort of admission.
‘Do you think you could possibly come out here and discuss this in person?’
It was a reasonable enough suggestion. But Miranda was never seen without full war paint, and after liberal applications of cold cream Emily’s own face had returned to its customary naked state. If she hoped to impersonate her twin an appearance right now was out of the question.
‘I know this must sound rude, after you’ve taken the trouble to come backstage, but I’m rather tired this evening. Do you think we could talk tomorrow?’ she said, knowing Miranda should have recovered and taken her rightful place by then.
‘Tomorrow afternoon, at three?’
Emily’s hearing was acutely tuned to his every move. He was already turning to go, she realised. Suddenly she couldn’t even remember what she had on the following day, let alone specifically at three o’clock in the afternoon. The only thing she was capable of registering—apart from an over-active heartbeat—was that the recording contract for Miranda’s band was vital.
‘OK. That’s fine,’ she heard herself agreeing. ‘But not here.’
‘Anywhere you say.’
Possibilities flooded Emily’s mind. She dismissed each one in turn…until the very last. ‘Could you come out to North London?’ Her mother and father had insisted that if Miranda’s cold had not improved by tomorrow she should be brought home to recuperate. Emily knew she could rely on her parents to fill in any awkward gaps…smooth over the cracks when she changed places with her twin.
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘That’s if you’re still interested?’
Interested? Alessandro thought, curbing his smile just in case Miss Weston decided to suddenly burst out from her hiding place. If he had been fascinated before, now he was positively gripped.
He ran one supple, sun-bronzed finger down the slim leather-bound diary he so longed to open, and traced the length of the expensive fountain pen lying next to it before toying with a pair of cufflinks bearing some sort of crest.
The handbag on the seat had quality written all over it, rather than some flashy logo. And the smart black suit teamed with a crisp white double-cuffed shirt hanging on a gown rail was Armani, if he wasn’t mistaken.
His gaze swept the threadbare carpet that might once have been red to where a pair of slinky high-heeled court shoes stood next to a dark blue felt sack, ornamented with a thick tassel. Alongside that, a pull-along airline case—
‘Mr Bussoni?’
His gaze switched back to the screen.
‘Mr Bussoni, are you still interested?’
There was just a hint of anxiety in the voice now, Alessandro noted with satisfaction. This contract obviously meant a great deal to her. He cast a look at the discarded stage costume…Something jarred. No, he realised. Everything jarred.
‘Only on one condition,’ he said, adopting a stern tone as he assumed the mantle of time-starved recording executive.
‘And that is?’ Emily said cagily.
‘That you come to supper with me after our meeting.’ Alessandro was surprised when a curl of excitement wrapped around his chest as he waited for her answer. ‘You may have questions for me, and there’s sure to be a lot we have to discuss,’ he said truthfully, satisfied that he had kept every trace of irony out of his voice.
Emily let the silence hang for a while. Miranda would definitely have to be better by then, she thought crossing her fingers reflexively. ‘That’s fine,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘I’ll let the rest of the band members know—’
‘No,’ the voice flashed back assertively. ‘It only needs one person to take in what I have to say…and I have chosen you, Miss Weston. Now, are you still interested in progressing with this matter, or not?’
‘Of course I’m interested,’ Emily confirmed, suddenly eager to be free of a presence that was becoming more disconcerting by the minute.
‘That’s settled, then. I’ll write my number down for you. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to get in touch first thing…leave the address for our meeting with my secretary?’
‘Of course.’ She felt rather than heard him prepare to leave.
‘Until tomorrow, Miss Weston.’
‘Until tomorrow, Mr Bussoni.’
Emily held her breath and tried to soak up information as the door opened, then shut again silently. The man might have three humps and a tail, for all she could tell, but her body insisted on behaving as if some lusty Roman gladiator had just strolled out of the room after booking her for sex the next day.
After he’d left it took her a good few minutes to recover her equilibrium. And when she moved out from behind the screen everything seemed shabbier than she remembered it, and emptier somehow, as if some indefinable force had left the room, leaving it all the poorer for the loss.
By early afternoon the next day, Emily had cancelled all her appointments for the rest of the week and was ready to take her sister back to their parents’ house.
Drawing up outside the front door on the short gravel drive, she switched off the engine and tried for the umpteenth time to coax her twin into facing reality.
‘This man is different to anyone I’ve ever encountered before. It would be a real mistake to underestimate him, Miranda.’
‘He made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?’ Miranda replied, slanting a glance at her twin.
‘I didn’t even see him properly,’ Emily replied defensively. ‘And don’t change the subject. It’s you we’re talking about, not me.’
After assuming a low-profile role in an orchestra for a number of years, Miranda had attracted the attention of a leading Japanese violin teacher. In order to fund the lessons Emily’s twin had started a band—a band that in the beginning had taken up only the occasional weekend; a band that was now taking up more and more of her time…
‘I only need this recording contract for a year or so,’ she said now, as if trying to convince herself that the scheme would work. ‘Just long enough for me to launch my career as a solo violinist.’
Emily frowned. She wanted to help, but only when she was confident Miranda understood what she was letting herself in for. ‘Are you sure Prince Records understands that? They would have grounds to sue if you let them down.’
‘They won’t have any trouble finding someone to replace me; the boys are great—’
‘I’m still not happy,’ Emily admitted frankly. ‘I just can’t see what you’ll gain going down this route.’
‘Money?’ Miranda said hopefully.
Emily shook her head as she reasoned it through aloud. ‘You’re not going to be able to honour a recording contract drawn up by a man like Mr Bussoni and put in the practice hours necessary to study the violin with a top-flight teacher like Professor Iwamoto.’
‘It won’t be for long,’ Miranda insisted stubbornly, unfolding her long limbs to have a noisy stretch. ‘I’ll cope.’
Before Emily had a chance to argue Miranda was out of the smart black coupé and heading up the path.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Emily said, catching up with her sister at the front door. ‘The more successful the band, the less likely it is that this crazy idea of yours will work. I know the money would be great, but—’ The expression on her twin’s face made Emily stop to give her a hug. ‘I know you’re still pining over that violin we saw in Heidelberg.’
‘That