Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary: The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress / The Secretary's Scandalous Secret / The Boss's Inexperienced Secretary. HELEN BROOKS
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when she felt him stir next to her.
For a moment he felt as if he was in the most comfortable place on the planet. His knee was thrust between two soft thighs and he could hear the even sounds of a woman’s breath as it fanned against his shoulder. For a moment he sank into the feeling, revelling in the sensations which were whispering over his skin before he realised where he was—and then he swore softly in Italian.
‘Che ora e?’ he snapped, lifting his wrist to glance at his watch. He sat up, his face wreathed in anger. ‘Why the hell did you let me sleep?’
Dismayed, Angie stared at him. ‘Because you looked as if you needed to.’
Jumping out of bed, he grabbed his jeans and began to pull them on. ‘Madre di Dio!’ he exclaimed furiously. ‘You’ve certainly changed your tune! From worrying about what my brother might think of our behaviour—you switch to luring me into staying.’
‘I didn’t lure you!’
‘You covered me up with a duvet,’ he accused.
‘Is that such a heinous crime?’
It felt like a trap. A trap as seductive as those great big eyes of hers and her warm, soft body. He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to spend half the afternoon in your bedroom!’ he declared.
‘Then don’t! Nobody’s keeping you here. Go!’
‘Oh, I’m going all right.’ He pulled the dark sweater over his naked torso and turned his back on her while he zipped up his jeans—wanting to distract himself from the alluring sway of her naked breasts and the still rosy flush which darkened them. And only when he had mentally doused himself with the equivalent of a cold shower did he feel able to turn and face her again with his customary cool.
‘Right—you’d better know what’s happening,’ he clipped out. ‘There’s a formal dinner tonight here in the castle—you’ll need to wear something smart. And did you bring your laptop with you?’
His statement had started her mind start buzzing—wondering what to wear to the formal dinner—but the subsequent question threw her in her tracks. ‘Er, no. I didn’t think I had to.’
‘Really?’ he questioned coolly. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have one sent up here. I want you to chase up the Devonshire account for me. There are plenty of scenic locations around the estate where you can work.’ He walked over to the door, seeing the outraged expression on her face, and he paused. ‘What’s the matter, Angie—surely you were expecting to work? That, after all, is the reason you’re here. The sex is simply a perk.’
It was possibly the most hateful thing he could have said and presumably he meant it to be—but Angie didn’t react. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing how much his words could rip right through her. When would she ever learn that their agendas were completely different? ‘Of course,’ she answered, as if nothing would bring her greater pleasure. ‘And I might as well tidy up the Posara portfolio while I’m at it.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘If you must.’
And, oh, wasn’t it worth the act of pretending that his words hadn’t hurt—just to see that rare look of uncertainty which had crossed his arrogant face? ‘Close the door behind you, would you?’ she murmured. ‘I want to take a shower.’
But after he had left, she did not head for the bathroom—she didn’t think her shaky legs would carry her. Instead she sat down on the rumpled mess they’d made of the bed and wondered what she was doing here. Had she thought it would be easy?
Yes, in a way—perhaps she had. Which only went to prove how short-sighted she could be. She had always associated arrogance with Riccardo—but hadn’t she been guilty of an arrogance of her own? Thinking that she could handle her emotions both in and out of his arms. But she couldn’t. Women weren’t built like that—or, rather, she wasn’t.
When he was making love to her it was all too easy to imagine that it was for real. That her years of quiet devotion had finally borne fruit and that they were a proper couple. But it wasn’t real, and they weren’t. It was just amazing sex—something he happened to be extremely good at. And if she was being honest—wasn’t it likely that every woman he took to his bed felt the way she did? As if she wanted him to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her and couldn’t bear to live without her.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen—not in a million years. And deep down she knew all this—so when was she actually going to start believing it? Nothing was going to change unless she made it change—so maybe she needed to start being a bit tougher in order to protect herself.
For the first time, she allowed her eyes to drift around the room and to acknowledge how truly beautiful it was. Rich brocade drapes shimmered like precious liquid metal at the windows and similarly rich fabrics were used in the heap of cushions piled onto a sofa. There was a writing desk, too—antique and lovingly polished and very beautiful.
Angie unpacked her case and then headed off for the bathroom—which was as gleamingly modern as the castle itself was old. Rich soaps and shampoos were lined up and she washed away all traces of the journey and Riccardo’s love-making—before emerging pink and scented. Wrapping herself in a giant towelling robe, she walked back into the bedroom to see that a laptop had been placed on the desk in her absence, and she stopped in her tracks.
He certainly hadn’t wasted any time in driving home her real status! Flinging a load of mundane tasks at her even though they’d only just arrived. Angie picked up a brush and began to pull it through her wet hair. Well, the work could wait. She was through with being useful, doormat Angie. Angie who took just whatever Riccardo Castellari cared to chuck at her. Because she was slowly beginning to realise that Riccardo treated her the way he did because she let him!
And she wasn’t going to let him. Not any more.
The thought empowered her and, seeing that there were almost two hours until the formal dinner, Angie spent ages drying her hair, then settled down with a book. It was a very good book and she felt especially pleased that she had been able to push Riccardo out of her mind enough to really get into the story.
In fact, she was two thirds into it when she saw that there was only half an hour to go before dinner. Hastily, she put on some make-up and then opened the wardrobe—wondering if she had the courage to wear the only dress which would be suitable for a grand event in a place like this.
It gleamed provocatively at the back of the wardrobe—the red dress which she had been unable to resist bringing and which she had vowed she would never wear again. But it was strange how seductive a beauti-ful garment could be. And Angie wasn’t stupid—she recognised that it had a power all of its own. Beside it, her own conservative clothes looked boring and so safe—no matter how much she tarted them up with accessories. How could she not wear it?
Her hands were trembling as she slipped it on, because of course this was much more than a dress—it was imbued with significance. Riccardo had bought it for her. It was what she had been wearing the night he had taken her to bed. It was what had made him stop looking through her—and realise that she was a woman.
Was it too risqué an outfit in which to meet his mother? she wondered as she slowly circled in front of the mirror. No. The designer was world famous and Italian women were famously stylish. And Riccardo’s mother won’t care what I wear, she thought. To her—I am just someone he employs. She’ll barely notice me.
There was a knock at the door and Angie’s heart raced. Would Riccardo approve? Would he perhaps try to kiss her—to mollify her after his earlier display of anger? Well, this time she wouldn’t let him.
But it was not Riccardo who stood at the door. A young female stood there, looking rather diffident—her plain dark dress marking her out clearly as a servant.
Just like me, thought Angie with a pang—only I expect that this young girl doesn’t get any of the ‘perks’ which Riccardo