The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress

But not tonight.

Tonight, as the plate-glass doors of one of the city’s most upmarket restaurants slid open, she was aware of something very odd as she put one high-heeled shoe over the threshold. Silence. Complete and utter pin-drop silence, before the buzz of conversation resumed. Angie blinked. She was sure she hadn’t imagined it.

From nowhere, a waiter appeared at her side and stuck very close to it as she mentioned the name of the Castellari table, his smile very wide indeed as he gestured that she follow him. And Angie sensed that every eye was on her as she made her way through the room. Why were they all looking at her? she wondered in a panic. Surreptitiously, her hand slid round to her bottom, smoothing down her dress—because for one awful moment she had imagined that it was tucked into her tights. But no, all seemed well.

Until she spotted the long, large table containing most of the Castellari workforce and in particular Riccardo, who sat at the head of it—staring at her as she could never remember him staring at her before. And inside, Angie felt a terrible flutter of nerves. What if Riccardo didn’t like the dress? Or was embarrassed that he had ever purchased such a personal gift for his secretary?

She slanted him a shy smile which he didn’t return. On the contrary. He continued to stare at her with a look of pure astonishment on his face—a look which he didn’t bother to hide, even when he curled his finger to beckon her over. She walked across to stand directly in front of him and his eyes flicked over her as if she had suddenly sprouted wings, or horns.

‘Is…something wrong?’ she questioned hesitantly.

Wrong? Riccardo felt his mouth dry. He wouldn’t quite put it like that. It was just that up until this precise moment he’d had no idea that his secretary possessed a pair of the most pert and lush breasts he had ever seen, and the silky fabric was caressing them like a man’s tongue. He swallowed. Or that her waist should dip in like that. Or her hips swell out into slim curves, or that she had such a luscious bottom. Or indeed that her legs should be so long…long enough to…

‘Ma che ca…’ he began, and then halted, his face darkening as the waiter murmured something to him in Italian and Riccardo snapped something back so that the man looked taken aback. And all of a sudden Riccardo was pointing peremptorily to the empty space beside him and, not quite believing her luck, Angie slid in next to him. Usually there was a battle royal to sit next to the boss and usually he conferred an imperious nod to the lucky two who would flank him while Angie watched him from afar.

But tonight Riccardo wasn’t paying anyone any attention except her.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he demanded.

She blinked at him in confusion. His black eyes looked as she’d never seen them before. With distinctly unseasonable anger lurking in their ebony depths—and why the hell was he directing it at her? ‘What do you mean?’

‘You look…’ For once, words failed him.

‘You don’t like the dress, is that it?’

He shook his head. ‘No, that is not it,’ he bit out, trying and failing to avert his eyes from her creamy dеcolletage.

‘What, then?’

He pulled the napkin over his lap, glad to be able to conceal the lower half of his body. How could he possibly tell her that she didn’t look like Angie any more? That he felt relaxed and comfortable with the plain and frumpy Angie—not this sizzling sex-pot of a creature who was attracting the lecherous gaze of every hot-blooded male in the place. And that he was aroused, which was as inconvenient as it was unexpected.

He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t expecting…’

She had never known Riccardo Castellari tongue-tied before. Never. ‘Wasn’t expecting what?’ she challenged, but deep down she knew exactly what he meant, even though the realisation hurt her more than he would ever know. He hadn’t been expecting her to look good in it, that was it. Angie was not in the least bit vain—but neither was she stupid. And she’d seen enough of people’s reactions tonight—as well as her own reflection in the mirror—to realise that for once her appearance was transformed. And now he was in danger of spoiling her once-in-a-lifetime Cinderella experience with that dark and faintly dangerous expression on his face.

‘If you’re implying that the outfit is unsuitable for an occasion like this, then remember that you’re the one who told me to wear it and you’re the one who bought it for me,’ she said tartly.

At this his face darkened even more, and he seemed about to say something else—presumably another insult—but then he nodded, forcing out a lazy smile. ‘Forgive me for my lack of manners, Angie. You…you fill the dress very well,’ he added slowly, impatiently waving away the bread basket which was doing the rounds.

It was a curious way to put it—and it was a very continental way to put it. It thrilled her to have Riccardo say something like that to her and the last thing in the world she needed was to increase the thrill factor where her boss was concerned. Accepting the glass of champagne which the waiter was offering her, she took a big sip. ‘Do I?’

God, yes. Riccardo felt like a man who had just been given a spoonful of bitter medicine—only to discover that it was as sweet as nectar. He had given Angie the dress more as an idle and convenient gesture than anything else—and now she had completely surprised him.

And it was a long time since a woman had surprised him.

Forcing himself to remember that this was the woman who spent more time with him than anyone else, who made his coffee and sorted out the dry-cleaning of his shirts, Riccardo picked up his own glass of champagne rather thoughtfully. Remember too that this is the staff party, he told himself—and that after tonight you don’t have to see her until the new year when she’ll be back to looking like Angie and you can forget all about the sex-bomb image.

‘So what are you doing for Christmas?’ he questioned conversationally, willing his erection to subside as he forced himself to spear a large prawn and eat it.

‘Oh, you know.’ Angie drank some more champagne. It was delicious. ‘Family stuff.’

Riccardo put his fork down. He certainly did. Sometimes he thought he could write a textbook about families—especially dysfunctional Italian ones. But Angie’s would be very different…A wry smile quirked the corners of his lips. ‘You’ll see your parents, of course? What is it—let me guess—a cosy and very English Christmas around the tree?’

Angie’s face didn’t change, but she brought the glass up to her lips more as a distraction technique than because she particularly wanted to drink any more of the wine, because it was making her feel a little bit giddy. She forced a smile. ‘Well, not really, no. As I’m sure you know—my father is dead and my mother is worried sick because my sister’s getting a divorce.’

Riccardo’s eyes narrowed as he registered the subtle dig. Had he known that? Had she perhaps told him and it had slipped his mind? He looked at the honeyed spill of her hair and wondered why she didn’t wear it down more often. ‘S?, s?—of course.’ He shrugged—for he had wanted a polite, monosyllabic response from her, not to continue with a topic such as this one. But it was nearly Christmas and she deserved his civility. ‘And is that a…difficult situation?’

Angie knew her boss well enough to know when he was distracted, when he was asking a question because he felt it was expected of him rather than because he was particularly interested in the answer. And although it was usually in her nature to instinctively accede to Riccardo’s wishes, to cushion his life and make it as carefree as possible—tonight she wasn’t in a particularly cushioning or secretarial mood. Let him ask something about her for a change—for hadn’t she devoted enough of her life asking about him?

She thought about the actuality of the festival which was looming up. About the frantic phone calls she and her mother would receive from her sister. And their frustration at their powerlessness to do anything much to help because she was so far away. And she thought of Riccardo, who would be flying off to Tuscany—to his family’s amazing castle. Unlike her, his new year would be filled with lots of exciting things. New challenges. A new woman probably.

‘Actually, yes, it is difficult,’ she admitted. ‘Especially at Christmas time. Because, if you remember—my sister lives in Australia and we can’t be there for her.’

Riccardo leaned back to allow the half-eaten plate of prawns to be replaced with some sort of fish, and viewed it unenthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can imagine it can’t be easy.’

Angie doubted it. Riccardo had many, many characteristics which made him irresistible to women, but an ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes and to empathise wasn’t at the top of the list.

Angie leaned closer and peered into his face. ‘Can you really?’ she questioned pointedly.

Riccardo was so preoccupied with the tantalising glimpse of her cleavage when she leaned forward that he failed to register a word of what she was saying. Or what he had said to her. But she had clearly just asked him a question and so he tried the fail-safe approach which always worked and which women seemed to love.

‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he murmured.

Angie’s mouth opened into an astonished little ‘oh’ shape that Riccardo should have given her carte blanche to confide in him. He really was being attentive tonight, she thought. Understanding, even. Nobody else was even getting a look-in. And the awful thing was that, try as she might to quell it, she began to get a flicker of hope that he really might be thinking of her as a woman at last.

‘Well, my sister keeps ringing up in hysterics because it’s a really acrimonious divorce,’ she said.

Riccardo shrugged. ‘Ah, but surely that is the nature of divorce.’ He studied her, aware of the trace of some light perfume which was drifting towards his nostrils. Maybe she always wore perfume…but if that was the case, then why had he never noticed it before? Noticing that one of the waiters seemed to be as fascinated by her as he was, Riccardo glowered at him until he went away again. ‘Did they marry for love—your sister and her husband?’ he questioned, sitting back in his chair.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Angie defensively, though the question caught her off guard and she found herself grateful for the candlelight which shielded the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks provoked by Riccardo speaking about love.

He shrugged. ‘Well, there you have your reason for their break-up in a nutshell.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you? It’s quite simple. Never marry for love. Much too unreliable.’

Someone was enthusiastically poking her in the ribs and Angie turned to half-heartedly pull at a cracker, glad for the momentary disruption which gave her time to gather her thoughts. To formulate some kind of answer. To be sure he wouldn’t see her stupid and na?ve disappointment that clearly he thought so little of love.

‘You don’t really believe that, do you, Riccardo?’ she questioned, in a deliberately jocular way.

‘S?, piccola,’ he said softly. ‘Absolutely, I do. For it is unrealistic for a man and a woman to commit to a lifetime together based only the temporary excitement of chemistry and lust. And love is just the polite word we use to describe those things.’

‘What do you think they should do?’ she asked tremblingly. ‘Go to a marriage broker?’

He ate a little salad. ‘I think that a couple should find as many compatible areas in their lives as possible and work hard to keep the marriage going for the sake of the children. Something which is—alas—becoming increasingly rare in these days of easy divorce.’ Putting the glass down, he gave a slow smile. ‘And of course, you can maximise your chances of marital success.’

He thought he was making marriage sound like a game of cards now—but Angie continued to stare at him in fascination! ‘How?’