CONTENTS

       Cover

Dear Reader

       About the Author

       Dedication

       Title Page

      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

       EPILOGUE

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      NATASHA didn’t have to see his face to know something was wrong.

      She could tell from the slamming of the door and the heavy footfalls in the hall. From the momentary hesitation which was not like Raffaele at all. The barely muffled curse; some Italian expletive, she thought. She listened while he hung his suit jacket up in the hall and heard him go into his study. Then silence—and something very much like fear stirred within her and she didn’t understand why.

      He had been away to America—where he owned real-estate on both the east and west coast—and whenever he returned from a trip he always came to find her. To ask her how she’d been. How Sam was.

      Sometimes, if he was flying by commercial rather than private jet, he would even remember to bring the child some soft toy or game that he’d bought at the airport. Once she had seen him remove a shiny gold box of perfume from his briefcase, and her heart had begun to thud with a ridiculous excitement. But she had never seen it again.

      The scent had not been destined for Natasha. Presumably it had gone to the leggy supermodel he had been seeing at the time—the one who’d always used to leave a stocking or a scarf behind in the bathroom, like some territorial trophy, marking out her pitch.

      The study was still ominously silent, and Natasha began making a pot of mega-strong coffee—just as Raffaele had taught her to when she’d first gone to work for him. Wasn’t it crazy how memories could stay stuck fast in your head, even though they meant nothing? Natasha could still remember the shiver she’d felt as he’d bent close to her, too close for her comfort—though, not, it had seemed, for his. He had been too intent on showing her what to do to notice the mousy-looking woman at his side.

      His voice had dipped, like soft velvet underpinned with steel. ‘In Italy we say that the coffee should look like ink and taste like heaven. Very strong and very dark—like the best kind of man. You understand? Capisci?’ And the black eyes had glittered at her in mocking question, as if it amused him that a woman should need to be taught how to make coffee.

      But she had. Oh, she had. Back then she had needed teaching about pretty much everything that someone like Raffaele took for granted. While he was used to only the very best, she’d always been the kind of person who usually spooned instant out of a jar—until the time had come when she’d had barely enough money to buy any. Just thinking about the mess she had found herself in still had the power to make her tremble with apprehension. She never wanted to go back there—to those days of hunger and uncertainty and real fear—to before Raffaele had stepped in to save her.

      Was that why she’d put him on a pedestal ever since?

      Natasha placed the coffee and cup on the tray, along with two of the small almond biscuits which were Raffaele’s favourites. She had learnt how to make those, too, from the Italian cookbook he had bought her one Christmas.

      Then she checked her appearance in the kitchen mirror, just as any employee would do before going in to see their boss—even if they didn’t happen to live in the same house, as Natasha did.

      She