Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary: The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress / The Secretary's Scandalous Secret / The Boss's Inexperienced Secretary

Steadily, she regarded him—praying that her calm face didn’t betray a trace of the heart-thumping excitement she felt at being alone with him again. Because she didn’t want to feel heart-thumping excitement. She wanted nothing more than neutrality to get her through the days until she could slap her resignation letter on his desk and walk away without a backward glance.

‘What is what?’ she questioned brightly even though her heart was slamming against her ribcage.

Riccardo flicked her another cool glance. He had psyched himself up for a very different encounter. Had been expecting—and dreading—Angie to creep into the office with red-rimmed eyes. For her to sulk and pointedly give him the cold shoulder. For cups of coffee to be slammed down in front of him. And that the memories of that unbelievably erotic night would fade with every glance he cast over her drab figure. Except that she wasn’t looking in the slightest bit drab. He frowned again.

What the hell had changed? He was sure the plain woollen dress she wore wasn’t new and yet the garment seemed to have undergone a dramatic transformation. Was it the tight belt which was drawing his attention to the narrow curve of her waist and the tempting swell of her breasts? Or just the fact that he now knew what treasures the dress concealed? He felt his throat constrict. ‘You’ve…you’ve had your hair cut,’ he said suddenly.

He’d noticed! Angie felt a shaft of pleasure pierce her—until she forced herself to get real. Don’t be so pathetic. He’s noticed that at long last you’ve changed your hairstyle—big deal. Nevertheless, her fingertips touched the newly shorn locks.

‘That’s right. Do you…do you like it?’ The question came out before she could stop it—did it sound like the desperate query of a discarded lover keen to reappraise herself in the eyes of the man who had walked away?

Riccardo’s gaze flicked over her. Unfortunately, the question required him to continue looking at her, and looking at her was the last thing he wanted. Or rather, it was. It was just that looking at her made him remember the pink and cream softness of her body and the way she had cried out when he had entered her.

Today she didn’t look remotely pink. Or soft. She looked glossy, and sleek. Like some pampered little pussy-cat who was longing to be stroked.

With an effort, he forced his mind away from the pert thrust of her breasts and up to the shiny new haircut. Did he like it? It was difficult to judge because his head was now full of conflicting images which were jangling for his attention. Angie with her hair scraped back from her face in its usual stark, utilitarian style. Angie with her hair spread out all over the pillow. And now Angie with her hair all feathered around her chin and showcasing a remarkably long and slender neck. He gave a non-committal shrug. ‘It’s okay.’

Suddenly Angie understood the meaning of the expression being damned with faint praise. So stop seeking it, she told herself fiercely. Act like you’d normally act—the way you used to before you spent the night with him. The trouble was although she could remember how—she wasn’t sure whether she was going to be able to accomplish it. She had been in love with him for so long, but had become an expert at hiding her feelings for him behind the easy working relationship they’d forged. But now it felt all skewed. Odd.

Now she knew the reality of Riccardo as a lover and it was the memories of that which dominated her thoughts. For how could you possibly keep your mind on his latest financial acquisition when you kept being reminded of the way his lips had whispered with a featherlight touch across your bare belly?

Remember how callous he was the morning after you slept with him, she told herself. Remember how your stupid heart was welling up with love for him and he took those feelings and crushed them beneath the heel of his arrogant Italian shoe.

‘I’m just going to make some coffee,’ she said.

‘I don’t want a cup of coffee.’

‘Well, I do.’ Tearing her eyes away from his piercing black gaze, she clattered around with the sophisticated coffee machine he’d insisted on installing when he’d first arrived—which produced coffee to rival the stuff served in the shop next door. But it wasn’t until she’d completed the task and put the cup on her desk that she realised he was still looking at her. And that there was no way she was going to be able to munch her way through the skinny blueberry muffin she’d brought in for breakfast. But neither could she ignore the accusatory stare which was lancing through her.

‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’

‘I just wondered why you’d come to work looking as if you were going straight out to a party.’

Angie feigned outrage at the acid remark, though secretly she was pleased; more than pleased. So he’d noticed her clothes, had he? Good. And he disapproved of them, did he? Even better.

‘I don’t think that’s an accurate assessment of a simple woollen dress you’ve seen many times before, do you?’ she asked coolly.

Riccardo gave what sounded uncomfortably like a growl—though the sound wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as the sudden heavy aching at his groin. He was overreacting and it was time to stop it. He should be grateful that she’d had the sense not to play up—or want to talk about what had happened after the Christmas party. His mouth hardened. Even though her reasons for sharpening up her wardrobe were quite clear. Women could be so transparent. She thought he’d go right over there and rip it off, didn’t she? Thought he’d be laying her over the desk, and pulling down her…

‘Is something wrong, Riccardo?’

Uncomfortably, he snapped out of his erotic daydream. ‘Why?’

‘You’d just gone a rather peculiar colour, that’s all.’

His black eyes seared through her. Was she daring to taunt him? ‘Make me a coffee!’ he ordered.

‘But you just said—’

‘I don’t care what I said, Angie—just make me a coffee, will you—since that’s one of the things I pay you to do!’

Not for much longer, she thought furiously as she got up and walked over to the coffee machine.

She could feel his eyes burning into her as she clattered around and tried to stop her fingers from shaking. But when she placed the cup carefully in front of him, his hand snaked out to capture her wrist.

‘So are you enjoying a flirtation with that man?’ he demanded.

Pulse rocketing in instant response to his touch, she stared at him incredulously. As if she could even look at another man! ‘Which man?’

‘The one who owns the sandwich shop next door.’

For a moment she almost laughed until she realised that he was deadly serious. ‘Don’t be so absurd, Riccardo.’

His fingers tightened around her wrist. ‘But I saw you on my way into the office. Fluttering your eyelashes at him. Wiggling your hips in the way a woman does when she is aware of her own sexual power.’

And despite the ludicrous nature of his accusation, Angie could feel the urgent escalation of her heart and the now thready flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers. Could he feel it, too? she wondered. Was he as affected by her touch as she was by his? Quickly, she snatched her hand away—terrified at how quickly that brief, almost contemptuous contact could still make her melt with longing. ‘You’re being ridiculous!’

‘You think so? Yet I recognise all too well the signs of desire in a man.’ His gaze was steady, but inside he was angry. With himself, more than anyone—because she seemed to be showing a remarkable sangfroid he was far from feeling. He wanted to storm round to the other side of his desk and kiss her until she begged him to take her. He wanted to lose himself in her sweet softness one more time…Instead, he glared at her. ‘Who knows? Perhaps I am not the only recipient of your undeniably sweet favours.’

Angie stared at him in disbelief. And yet—could she blame him for making such an accusation? Hadn’t she just fallen into bed with him, with nothing in the way of real wooing? He wasn’t to know that there had only ever been one lover in her life, and that had been a bit of a disaster. ‘You…really…really think that, Riccardo?’

He didn’t know what to think; the rule-book seemed to have been torn up and flung out of the window during that inexplicably erotic night with her. And he was behaving in a way which was completely out of character. As if he cared what she did!

He shrugged. ‘It is none of my business what you do or who you associate with. You must have all the boyfriends you wish. You are a free agent.’ There was a pause. ‘As am I.’

And this hurt almost as much as anything else he had said—his precise words making it patently clear that their one night really had been one night. Well, she would not react. He would never know how much she cared for him. How much she had cared for him, she corrected herself silently.

‘I know that, Riccardo. And if you don’t mind—I’d prefer not to discuss what happened before Christmas. I thought we’d already decided that.’ Or rather, he had decided it. She gave him a thin smile. ‘It was unfortunate, yes—a mistake which should never be repeated—so the sooner it’s forgotten, the better. Don’t you agree?’

For a moment, he was completely taken aback. That was supposed to be his line. He was the one who erected boundaries in his relationships and other people were the ones who fell in with his wishes. And she was daring to call it a mistake? A mistake to have spent the night in the arms of Riccardo Castellari! For a moment he was tempted to go round there and take her in his arms and kiss her and then let her tell him it was a mistake. As if she could! But he did not need to prove his sexual power to anyone—least of all to himself. And wasn’t it easier this way? With Angie taking the whole episode in her stride—even if it was only an act and secretly she was longing for his kiss once more?

‘It’s forgotten. It is of no consequence,’ he drawled, with a careless shrug. ‘Now get me all the paperwork on the Posara account, would you? And after that I’d like you to organise a conference call with Zurich about the Close merger. Oh, and can you sort out a fitting for the suit I’m wearing to my sister’s wedding?’

‘My pleasure,’ she answered tightly as she walked over towards the filing cabinet.

For the rest of the day, they barely spoke—except when it was impossible not to—and Angie buried herself in her work, staying on late in the office after Riccardo had departed to get ready for some fancy black-tie dinner which was taking place at Somerset House, with its beautiful ice rink and views of the river.

Was he taking some other woman to it? she wondered jealously as sat poring over the job advertisements. Of course he was! As if a man like Riccardo Castellari would ever go to a do like that on his own.

She thought of the long journey home and the cold little apartment which awaited her. The day she’d just spent—trying her best to be professional but unable to ignore the tension which had been sizzling across the office between her and Riccardo, no matter how much they’d both kept their distance, circling round each other like two wary animals.

How could she bear to exist in that kind of atmosphere—while his imposing presence mocked her with the pleasures he had given her, which were destined never to be repeated? The simple answer was that she couldn’t.

Staring at the blank screen, Angie began composing a letter of application with a grim new determination.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_f3c38529-2577-5525-b6f7-6f190ff730c4)

‘WOULD you mind stepping into the office for a moment, Angie?’