When he still did not give one, she took a step closer, her too-blue eyes lighting up with appeal. ‘You see I have this—problem …’
She was going to touch him. His stupid hesitation had given her encouragement to believe that he was interested.
Raffaelle stiffened, each well toned muscle in his long lean framework abruptly tightening up.
‘No,’ he iced out.
Then turned on his heel and strode off.
Cold, rude, arrogant swine, Rachel mentally tossed after him in stinging frustration. Did the too-tall, dark and disgustingly handsome devil think he was so special that he didn’t need to be polite to a woman?
Well, you’re not my type, Mr Villani, she told the long length of his retreating figure. Especially if his type was the kind of women doing the rounds here tonight.
Rachel’s blue eyes turned bitter as she flicked them round the gathered assembly of the famously rich and beautiful—in that order, money being the biggest attraction here tonight. It was a trade fair for the beautiful people to ply their wares in front of London’s wealthiest, though it hid under the more respectable title of a Charity Fundraising Event.
She should not have come here. If Elise hadn’t convinced her it was the only way to get close to a man like Raffaelle Villani, she would not have been seen dead at a do like this.
‘He likes them blonde and slinky,’ Elise had said. ‘Notoriously can’t keep his hands off. You only have to read down the list of his last fifteen girlfriends to know the man has no control when he’s faced with blonde hair and a great pair of legs.’
Well, not in my case, Rachel thought heavily as she gave a grim tug at the hem of the dress Elise had made her wear. ‘You have to look the part,’ her half-sister had insisted. ‘When you pay the extortionate price for tickets like these it means you have to look as if you can afford to throw good money away.’
The silly price of the tickets was one thing, but a five figure sum dress only earned its price tag if it looked good on the wearer.
Rachel felt as if she looked like a very cheap tart.
‘Hello, beautiful …’ The unremarkable hit line arrived as a hand squeezed around her waist at the same time and a pair of lips arrived at one of the straps which held up the dress. ‘Having trouble with the dress? Can I help?’
His teeth nipped at the shoulder strap. Rachel heaved in a thick breath of disgust. ‘Take your hands and your teeth off me,’ she iced out, then broke free and walked off without giving the guy a single glance.
She’d taken about five steps before she realised she’d inadvertently walked in the same direction as Raffaelle Villani.
And there he was.
She stopped dead.
He was in the process of disentangling a lovely young thing wearing red from the possessive clutches of another man. The vision in red turned to pout a protest at him, then flung her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth.
So much for him preferring them blonde, Rachel thought cynically. The creature he’d just claimed and was now kissing was hot-lipped, glossy and black-haired.
Oh, God, she thought helplessly, what was she going to do if she did not manage to pull this off?
‘You’re drunk,’ Raffaelle informed Daniella.
‘Tiddly,’ his half-English stepsister insisted with a smile gauged to melt his irritation away.
It did not succeed. ‘Admit to being drunk, cara,’ he advised as he grabbed both of her hands and dragged them down from around his neck. ‘It is the only excuse Gino will accept for what you have just been doing.’
‘I haven’t been doing anything—!’ Eyes the colour of warm dark chocolate opened wide and tried their best to look innocent.
‘You were hitting on that guy,’ Raffaelle accused her.
‘We were flirting, that’s all! And what do you think you’re doing, Raffaelle?’ she protested when he took hold of her hand and turned towards the exit.
‘Taking you home,’ he clipped out. ‘I don’t know why I let you talk me into bringing you here in the first place.’
‘For some fun?’ Daniella offered up.
‘I don’t do this kind of fun.’
‘That’s your big problem, Raffaelle,’ she informed him as he trailed her behind him. ‘You don’t do anything these days other than work yourself into the ground.’
‘My choice.’
‘To be a grouch.’
A nerve ticked at the corner of his mouth because she was right: he was becoming grouch—a bitter and cynical grouch.
‘All because one woman managed to con you into believing she was pure sweetness and lights …’
‘As you try to do, you mean?’
‘I am all sweetness and light!’ Daniella insisted. ‘And that wasn’t very nice,’ she complained. ‘Nor do I lie or cheat.’
‘Tell that to Gino not to me,’ Raffaelle countered. ‘If he had seen the way you were preparing to wrap yourself around that guy, he would call the wedding off.’
‘But Gino isn’t here because he prefers to be halfway across the world playing the hot shot tycoon.’
‘However, the press is here—’
Raffaelle stopped walking as a sudden thought hit him. He swung round to pierce her with a hard stare.
‘Is that what this is about?’ he demanded. ‘Did you drag me out to this thing—which is nothing more than an overpriced knocking shop,’ he said with contempt, ‘so that you would be caught on camera playing the vamp with some other guy just to punish Gino, knowing that I would be on hand to haul you out of trouble before you got yourself in too deep?’
‘I hate him,’ Daniella announced. ‘I might even decide not to marry him. I’m supposed to be the love of his life yet I haven’t set eyes on him in two wh-whole weeks!’
The small break in her voice did it. Raffaelle heard the fight with tears and released a sigh. ‘Come here, you idiot.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘You know Gino worships the ground you walk upon but he is busy trying to free himself up for that long glorious honeymoon he has planned for you both.’
‘He even sounds like he would rather be doing something else when he rings me,’ she sniffed into his shirt front. ‘I’m not a doormat. I refuse to let him wipe his feet on me!’
Raffaelle shifted his stance.
‘You’re laughing at me!’ Daniella choked out.
‘No, I am not.’
What he was actually doing was staring over Daniella’s glossy dark head into the cynical blue eyes of the blonde who had approached him a few minutes ago. She was now standing about ten feet away being buffeted by the milling crowd but not noticing because she was too busy looking at him as if he was a snake.
A sting injected itself down the front of his body. The confusing signals she was giving off dressed—or undressed—like she was, while glaring at him like that, were setting his senses on edge.
Who the hell was she, anyway? Why had he not hung around long enough to find out?
Did he want to know?
His eyes cooled and hardened. No, he didn’t, he answered his own question. Expensive tarts in expensive dresses were ten-a-Euro to buy in this room. He did not need to buy his women.