‘They won’t care what you look like,’ he snapped insultingly.
‘I find that very hard to believe,’ she returned, enjoying the outrage on his face as she dared to stand up to him. ‘And even if they don’t care—then I most certainly will. I’m here as your secretary, remember? And there’s a certain standard to maintain—a decorum—which I don’t intend to compromise with a quick fumble in your car!’
‘A quick fumble?’ he echoed, outraged.
‘Well, what would you call it?’
‘You do not think that such an experience would be pleasurable?’
‘N-no.’ She was on less sure ground now. ‘I’m not saying that at all. You’re very good, as I’m sure enough people have told you. I’m just refusing to turn up to your house giving people ammunition to make negative judgements about me.’
Struggling to rein in his ragged breath and trying to ease the unbearable ache at his groin, Riccardo glared at her. This was no coy little game she was playing, he realised with dawning disbelief. She really meant it. Did she think that he would fall under her spell if she resisted him?
And yet he could not remember the last time a woman had spurned his sexual advances.
For a moment, an unwilling respect warred with his feelings of frustration—and then he moved away from her with an impatient click of his tongue and started up the car.
‘Riccardo—’
‘Don’t talk to me when I’m driving!’ he thundered.
‘But you’ve left the handbrake on.’
With a curse, he released it—wishing that his body could be freed from its tight, aching constriction with such ease. Then he forced himself to concentrate on a road which suddenly seemed unfamiliar—though he had driven along it many times since the age of seventeen. He would make her pay in his bed tonight, he thought angrily. And she would suffer such sweet torture for the frustration she had dared inflict on him.
In the simmering atmosphere of the car, they didn’t exchange another word until they had descended a winding mountain road and they came to a small village. Angie looked out of the window, captivated by all she could see. There were lots of little houses and a clutch of shops, which were shuttered up for the afternoon, as well as a small schoolhouse, and a beautiful grey-stone church. And through it all snaked a river—crystal-clear and fast-moving as it curved a silver line through the green pastures.
Up one of the steep adjoining side-roads Riccardo drove, until at last he reached his hilltop destination and then he stopped to allow her that first view—the view which always took people’s breath away, no matter how rich or how jaded their appetites.
‘The Castellari home,’ he said, with an unmistakable ring of pride to his voice. ‘La Rocca.’
Their stand-off forgotten, Angie stared at the family home which she’d heard him mention over the years. She had always known it was a castle—had even talked about it to her mother—but the reality of actually seeing for the first time took her breath away. It really was a castle!
The pale and ancient stone building rose up out of the stunning landscape, its castellated ancient walls and loophole windows overlooking gardens which were speared by the deep green arrows of cypress trees. Against a backdrop of mountains were orchards into whose trees had been hung beautiful lanterns—presumably to help light the bridal procession.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she breathed, turning to look at him—her eyes shining with wonder. ‘Absolutely the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’
And something in her genuine regard soothed his jangled nerves, made him nod his head in quiet agreement—acknowledging an enthusiasm which was sweet rather than avaricious. He had never brought a woman here before, he realised with a start—until he reminded himself why. Bringing a woman here was a big deal, which might have hinted at a permanence he did not intend. And not for a moment did he underestimate the powerful allure of this ancient place, which commanded all the land which surrounded it. It was a place which people—especially women—would covet, and that was why he kept them away.
But this situation which had arisen between him and Angie was different. He did not need to keep batting off hints that the relationship might become something more—or have to guard his tongue to ensure that nothing he said might give his lover the wrong idea. His relationship with his secretary was based on honesty and mutual desire—which was undistorted by false romanticism.
He drove in through wrought-iron gates and stopped in front of a huge wooden door. Inside, the entrance hall was vast, lined with aged wood and lit by a roaring fire. A sleeping cat briefly lifted its head, yawned—and then resumed its sleep.
‘Come and meet my family,’ he said as he slipped the coat from her shoulders and hung it up and then shrugged his way out of his own leather jacket. He glanced down at his watch. ‘They’ll probably just be finishing lunch.’
Angie followed him through a maze of corridors towards the sound of voices speaking in Italian—but not particularly congenial voices, she realised. A woman’s was raised in obvious protest and a man was clearly arguing with her.
She followed Riccardo into a formal dining room—not really having time to take in the splendour of the huge space—because there was something else which was much more noticeable than all the wealth and history contained within these walls. Angie frowned. A man and a woman sat at opposite ends of the table—but there was absolutely no laughter or mirth on their faces. They might as well have been at the reading of a will, judging from their expressions.
Their dark colouring and naturally sensual features immediately marked them out as brother and sister and she could see something of Riccardo in both of them. But more than anything else, Angie was drawn to the pale, pinched face of the bride-to-be and the haunted look in her eyes.
And the instinctive thought flashed through her mind that this didn’t look like a woman about to participate in one of the happiest days of her life. This looked like a woman who was fast-tracking her way towards doom.
‘YOU remember my sister, don’t you, Angie?’ questioned Riccardo as he led her into the room.
Angie nodded—hoping that her bright smile hid her shock at seeing Riccardo’s young sister again. Why, she looked positively gaunt—her high cheekbones like two high shadowed slashes arrowing down to her nose. Surely that amount of weight loss was due to something more than just pre-wedding nerves?
‘I certainly do. Hello, Floriana, nice to see you again—and congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.’
A faint frown criss-crossed the girl’s lovely face as she summoned up an answering smile. ‘Hello, Angie,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to see you again, too. We are…we are pleased to have you here. My mother sends her apologies for not being here to greet you herself. She’s dealing with caterers at the moment and she looks forward to seeing you at dinner. So does my brides-maid—she’s English, too.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting to mention someone, Floriana?’ drawled a silken voice from the opposite end of the table. ‘I’m sure that Riccardo’s guest is looking forward to meeting the Duca.’
Angie turned towards the dark-featured man who was reclining with indolent ease in one of the chairs, still wearing riding clothes.
‘But I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Romano?’ murmured Riccardo.
Angie shook her head. She’d certainly remember if she had. So this was Romano Castellari—another stalwart of the international gossip columns, as single, sexy Italian billionaires tended to be. In a way, the brothers looked remarkably