Mistress for a Month

Dear God, she hoped and prayed that it wasn’t his card-playing friend. Despite never having met the lady, Teresa had gleaned quite a few facts about her from Enrico’s various comments. She was a widow for starters, a wealthy widow, whose late husband had been a much older man. An ex-model, she was also a highly astute businesswoman who ran a modelling agency in the city. To cap it all off, she was in her mid-thirties and had never had any children. Probably hadn’t wanted any. A lot of career women didn’t.

In other words, she was not good daughter-in-law material for Teresa Mandretti.

‘I won’t be coming home for lunch tomorrow, Mum,’ Enrico said abruptly. ‘I have somewhere else I have to go.’

‘Where?’

‘The man who trains our horses is having a special open day at his place for all his owners to celebrate the arrival of spring, and presumably get everyone in the right mood for the imminent spring racing carnivals.’

‘Like a party,’ his mother said.

‘Yes. I suppose you could call it that,’ Rico agreed.

Earlier this year, Ward’s very savvy personal assistant, a smart little piece called Lisa, had instigated the increasingly popular tradition amongst horse trainers of having an open day for the owners every Sunday where they could visit their horses, discuss their valuable charges’ prospects with the trainer or his stable foreman, then enjoy each other’s company afterwards over a buffet lunch. But tomorrow was going to be extra-special, with the best of champagne and food.

Rico hadn’t been going to attend, the same way he never attended any open day which fell on the first Sunday of the month, because it clashed with his monthly family get-together, an occasion which was far more important to him than socialising with the rich and famous, or having another clash with Renée.

But tomorrow was different. Tomorrow was D day. Desperation day.

‘I see,’ his mother said thoughtfully. ‘Will Charles be there?’

‘Probably not. He’s not as interested in the horses as he once was.’

‘That is understandable, Enrico. He has more to think about now that he has a wife and a little bambino on the way. What about your sheikh friend? He’s not married. Will he be there?’

‘No. You know Ali rarely goes to functions like that.’

Which left…the widow, Teresa deduced. Unless this horse trainer had a blonde girl jockey in his employ.

Enrico was partial to blondes. But tall, curvy ones, come to think of it, not teenie-weenie skinny ones. Which begged the question of what this Renée looked like.

She had to be tall, since she was an ex-model. And probably blonde, since her son was attracted. Maybe even busty, as Jasmine had been. Gone were the days when models had to be flat-chested.

‘What about your other card-playing friend?’ Teresa couldn’t resist asking. ‘The lady. Renée, isn’t it? Will she be there?’

He smiled. He actually smiled. But it wasn’t a happy smile. More a wryly resigned one.

‘Oh, yes. Sure to be.’

Which gave Teresa the answer she was looking for. Enrico was in love with this Renée, but the lady didn’t return his feelings.

Now Teresa didn’t know what to think, or to feel. That any woman could resist her Enrico annoyed her considerably. Her youngest son was irresistible, in her opinion. At the same time, the last woman she would want him getting tangled up with was another creature like that gold-digging Jasmine.

So perhaps it was just as well this Renée didn’t fancy him. But truly, she had to be some kind of blind fool. Enrico was a magnificent man. A man amongst men. What kind of stupid woman would not want him in her bed, and in her heart?

Teresa dropped the sprigs of mint she’d picked into the front pocket of her apron and linked arms with her handsome son. ‘Come, Enrico. I have another pasta recipe to show you. A brand-new one.’ And she drew him towards the back door, chattering away all the while, showering him with her love and approval.

Rico allowed himself to be cosseted and comforted, because he knew that, come tomorrow, he would be going into battle again with his nemesis. His decision just now to attend the open day showed how addicted he was to that witch’s company. He simply could not go a single weekend without seeing her. Avoiding her at the races this afternoon hadn’t worked at all.

It was a deplorable state of affairs. But what could he do about it? How could he change it? How could he change her?

He couldn’t. All he could do was change himself. But how, was the problem. How did you stop yourself craving what you’d become addicted to?

He’d tried the out-of-sight, out-of-mind method, and that hadn’t worked. Going cold turkey didn’t apply, as he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of having what he craved. There was counselling, he supposed, but he just couldn’t picture that working, either.

So tell me, Mr Mandretti, what is it about this lady that you like so much?

Let’s see, now, Doc, he could hear himself replying. First there are her eyes. The slanting green ones which gleam with contempt every time they look at me. And then there’s her gorgeous mouth, which cuts me to ribbons every time she opens it. But mostly there’s her long, tall, far-too-slender body, which I shouldn’t find incredibly sexy but I do!

He’d be diagnosed a masochist with obsessional compulsive disorder and sent home with a swag of antidepressants, an appointment for a therapy session every week into eternity and a bill you couldn’t climb over.

No, he wasn’t going to try counselling.

Which left what?

The answer really was quite simple…if you were prepared to embrace the joys of rejection. He could ask the merry widow out. On a date.

He had asked her out before, of course. Many times. But under the guise of a general invitation to one of his mother’s parties.

Renée had always refused. Oh, she’d been polite enough on those occasions, but the bottom line was always the same. Clearly, she didn’t want to spend any more time in his company than that which she presently endured.

To ask her out on a one-on-one basis was true masochism. But damn it all, what did he have to lose?

Tomorrow, he would jump right into the lion pit and put his head in the lioness’s mouth. What happened after that was anybody’s guess.

CHAPTER THREE

AROUND twelve-thirty the following day, a gut-tightened Rico left his new penthouse apartment—the one he’d snapped up from Charles when he relocated to the North Shore—and rode his private elevator down to the basement car park. There he strode quickly over to his Ferrari, jumped in behind the wheel, shoved in the key and started the engine.

He was running a bit late, considering the invitation stated from eleven onwards, but it wouldn’t take him long to get there. Fifteen minutes at most. That was one of the great things about Charles’ old place, aside from the views. Its location down near Circular Quay was so darned convenient.

Rico hadn’t exited the underground car park and driven more than a block before realising that having the top down on his car was downright uncomfortable. The day was not a picture-perfect spring day, unlike yesterday, which had been lovely and warm.

As he grudgingly zapped the top up on his car, Rico told himself that the grey skies were not an omen of the day ahead, just typical of Sydney in early September. He still marvelled how the Sydney Olympics—which had been held in that same month—had been blessed with such consistently magnificent weather. Most of the time you never knew what you were going to get in spring in Sydney till you stuck your head out of the window in the morning. Relying on the weather forecast the night before was as silly as thinking Renée was actually going to say yes to his asking her out today.

Rico still could not believe he was actually doing this. Talk about masochistic!

But all the self-lectures in the world were not going to change his mind. Rico had always believed in going after what he wanted, at least till it was irrevocably certain that he could not have what he wanted, such as a career on the stage. Then and only then did he move on from such a goal, putting his energies into something more attainable.

So till Renée looked him straight in the face and said no way, José to going out with him, Rico harboured some small hope that he might succeed in his mission improbable. He even managed to convince himself during the brief drive over to Randwick that he had a reasonable chance of success.

After all, the merry widow had no permanent partner. If she had, such a partner would surely have accompanied her to the races sometimes. Yet she always came alone. Added to that was the interesting fact that, except on the rare occasion she’d gone overseas on a business trip, she always showed up to play poker on a Friday night. What woman involved with, or living with, some man would be so consistent?

Not that Rico imagined for one moment Renée was leading a nun-like lifestyle. She had to have had men friends since becoming a widow. Lovers, in other words. It had been over five years after all, far too long a time for a woman like her to have spent every night alone.

For some reason—possibly self-protection—Rico hadn’t given much thought in the past to whom Renée actually slept with. Suddenly, this subject was the sole focus of his brain. After discarding all sorts of scenarios from secret affairs with married men to one-night stands with commitment-phobic divorcees, he decided she probably enjoyed strictly sexual flings with the toy-boy variety, selected from the huge stable of young male models who were contracted to her modelling agency.

Rico could easily see Renée in that kind of relationship. She would always want to be the boss, to always be on top.