Italian Tycoon, Secret Son

‘Me too. I’m Mandy Jenkins.’

They looked each other over approvingly.

‘I’ve just been in there to register,’ Joan said. ‘But it’s a madhouse. Pierre Foule, who was supposed to be leading us, is off sick, so someone else is standing in, and the girls are crowding round him, sighing. Not that he’s fending them off.’

‘Oh, heavens!’ Mandy said cynically. ‘One of them.’

‘Them?’

‘All easy charm and full of himself.’

As soon as they went inside she saw what Joan had meant. A female crowd was converging around a man she couldn’t see clearly. Then he turned and her blood froze.

‘It can’t be,’ she whispered.

But there was no mistaking that smile, that air of being on top of life and ready for anything. She breathed hard.

‘Hello, everyone,’ he said. ‘I’m Renzo Ruffini. I’m taking charge of this trip, but I’m still missing someone.’ His voice faded as Mandy appeared before him.

She had the pleasure of seeing him disconcerted, which she guessed didn’t happen very often.

‘You,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, me. I’m glad you remember me among the crowd.’

‘But of course I do. You saved my life.’

‘I think the least said about that the better, don’t you?’

‘Definitely.’ He pulled himself together. ‘How do you come to be here?’

‘I’m Mandy Jenkins.’

‘You?’ he queried. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, I’ve been Mandy Jenkins for twenty-seven years. If there was a mistake, I’m sure I’d have noticed by now.’

‘I only meant—you’re not quite what I expected.’ He surveyed her five foot two inches. ‘It’s a very demanding climb. I wonder if you’re strong enough.’

‘I’ve filled in the forms, answered all the health questions. I meet your requirements, otherwise I wouldn’t have been accepted by Pierre Foule.’

‘That’s true, but if Pierre had realized you were quite so delicate—’

‘Oi!’ she said. ‘Delicate, my left foot! I’m as tough as old boots.’

To prove it, she adopted a boxing stance, which he immediately copied, declaring, ‘Put ’em up.’ Then he ruined the effect by asking, ‘That is what they say, isn’t it?’

‘That’s what they say when they’re going to thump someone. I’ll thump you.’

‘No, no, ti prego, ti prego,’ he said in a comically placating tone. ‘You may not be delicate but I am.’

‘Will you please stop your nonsense?’

‘Anything you say,’ he vowed, giving her a delightful smile.

It was so obvious that this came from the manual of ‘how to deal with awkward customers’ that she nearly did thump him.

‘Look,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I don’t like this any more than you do, but we’re stuck with each other. I joined to go up the Alps, and that’s what I’m going to do.’ She glowered in what she hoped was a threatening manner, not easy as he was ten inches taller. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Signorina,’ he said solemnly, ‘I vow to you that if I was an Alp I’d be shaking in my shoes.’

‘Perhaps you should be,’ she warned him.

Then he murmured something in Italian, clearly not expecting her to understand. But she did. He’d said, ‘Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?’

She answered him in Italian. ‘Some people act like a magnet for trouble.’

She had the reward of seeing him embarrassed.

‘I shall have to beware of you, shan’t I?’ he said wryly.

‘Definitely. You have been warned.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, I must speak to the others.’

Renzo moved away hastily.

‘Cheeky devil,’ she murmured. ‘So certain that he’s got everything sussed. And I bet they all fall for it. Well, not me.’

Mandy had to admit that the charge of ‘delicate’ had some truth. She was daintily built and graceful of movement, which fooled many people into thinking her fragile. They were wrong.

Joan returned to her side, saying, ‘They say he’s in great demand.’

‘Because of his mountaineering skills, you mean?’ Mandy asked ironically.

‘I think it has more to with the Wow! factor,’ Joan mused, studying Renzo’s tall, athletic figure.

‘I can’t say I noticed it.’

Joan chuckled. ‘You would have done if you weren’t miffed with him.’

Mandy laughed and conceded the point. While she might not have taken to Renzo, honesty forced her to admit that he had the Wow! factor in spades.

If asked to describe his attractions, she would have shrugged and said, Par for the course, which would have been true without doing him complete justice.

He looked like a vibrant, healthy animal who’d spent his life in the open. Without being muscle-bound, he was powerful enough for the demands he obviously made on his lithe body. Even his dark hair and eyes fitted her picture of the conventional Italian male.

‘A professional Lothario,’ she said cynically, remembering the night before.