Christmas in Da Conti's Bed

She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Why not? Because even though Michela has always thought you a total control freak, she absolutely idolised you—and I knew you were the only family she had. It wasn’t for me to disillusion her by telling her that you’d been hitting on her best friend.’

‘Hitting on her best friend?’ He gave a cynical smile. ‘Oh, please. Unfortunately, I didn’t realise I was dealing with jailbait at the time. You kept that one crucial fact to yourself.’

‘Is that why you got me expelled?’ she said, without missing a beat.

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t mention your name when I withdrew Michela from the school.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you serious?’

He shrugged. ‘There was no need. I thought I was removing Michela from your bad example—what I didn’t realise was that you were going to continue the friendship behind my back.’

Alannah ran her fingertip down over her champagne glass, leaving behind a transparent stripe in the condensation. ‘But all that happened a long time ago,’ she said slowly.

‘I guess it did.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘And since your role seems to be non-negotiable, I guess I’m just going to have to be nice to you.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Me being nice?’ He watched the golden flicker of candlelight playing on her pale skin. ‘You don’t think so?’

‘Not really. I think it would be like someone hand-rearing a baby tiger and then expecting it to lap contentedly from a saucer of milk when it reaches adulthood. Naïve and unrealistic.’

‘And nobody could ever accuse you of that.’

‘Certainly not someone with as cutting a tongue as you, Niccolò.’

He laughed, his gaze drifting over fingers which he noticed were bare of rings. ‘So what has been happening to you in the last ten years? Bring me up to speed.’

Alannah didn’t answer for a moment. He didn’t want to know that her life had imploded like a dark star when her mother had died and that for a long time she had felt completely empty. Men like Niccolò weren’t interested in other people’s sadness or ambition. They asked polite questions at dinner parties because that was what they had been taught to do—and all they required was something fairly meaningless in response.

She shook her head at the waitress who was offering her a basket heaped with different breads. ‘I’m an interior designer these days.’

‘Oh?’ He waited while the pretty waitress stood close to him for slightly longer than was necessary, before reluctantly moving away. ‘How did that happen? Did you wake up one morning and decide you were an expert on soft furnishings?’

‘That’s a very patronising comment.’

‘I have experience of interior designers,’ he said wryly. ‘And of rich, bored women who decide to set themselves up as experts.’

‘Well, I’m neither rich, nor bored. And I think you’ll find there’s more to the job than that. I studied fashion at art school and was planning to make dresses, but the fashion world is notoriously tough—and it’s difficult to get funding.’ Especially when you had the kind of past which meant that people formed negative judgements about you.

‘So what did you do?’

‘I worked for a big fashion chain for a while,’ she continued, pushing her fork aimlessly around her plate. ‘Before I realised that what I was best at was putting together a “look”. I liked putting colours and fabrics together and creating interesting interiors. I spent a few years working for a large interiors company to gain experience and recently I took the plunge and set up on my own.’

‘And are you any good?’ he questioned. ‘How come I’ve never heard of you?’

‘I think I’m good—have a look at my website and decide for yourself,’ she said. ‘And the reason you haven’t heard of me is because there are a million other designers out there. I’m still waiting for my big break.’

‘And your topless modelling career?’ he questioned idly. ‘Did that fall by the wayside?’

Alannah tried not to flinch, terrified he would see how much his question had hurt. For a minute back then she’d actually thought they were sticking to their truce and talking to each other like two normal human beings. ‘This is you being “nice”, is it, Niccolò? Behaving as if I was something you’d found on the sole of your shoe?’

His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘All I’m doing is asking a perfectly legitimate question about your former career.’

‘Which you can’t seem to do without that expression of disgust on your face.’

‘Wouldn’t anyone be disgusted?’ he demanded hotly. ‘Isn’t the idea of a woman peddling her flesh to the highest bidder abhorrent to any man with a shred of decency in his bones? Although I suspect the end-product must have been spectacular.’ There was a pause before he spoke. ‘Alannah Collins shaking her booty.’

His last few words were murmured—and Alannah thought how unexpected the colloquialism sounded when spoken in that sexy Sicilian accent of his. But his words reminded her that what you saw wasn’t necessarily what you got. Despite his cosmopolitan appearance and lifestyle, Niccolò da Conti was as traditional as they came. His views and his morals came straight from another age. No wonder his sister had been so terrified of him. No wonder she’d gone off the rails when she had been freed from his claustrophobic presence and judgemental assessment.

‘Those photographs were stills,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I never shook anything.’

‘Ah, but surely you’re just splitting hairs.’ He gave a dangerous smile, his finger idly circling the rim of his untouched champagne glass. ‘Unless you’re trying to tell me that cupping your breasts and simulating sexual provocation for the camera while wearing a school uniform is a respectable job for a woman?’

Alannah managed to twist a sliver of smoked salmon onto the end of her fork, but the food never made it to her mouth. ‘Shall I tell you why I did that job?’

‘Easy money, I’m guessing.’

She put the fork back down. Oh, what was the point? she thought tiredly. He didn’t care what had motivated her. He had judged her—he was still judging her—on the person she appeared to be. Someone who had danced too intimately with a stranger at a party. Someone who had gone off the rails with his beloved sister. Someone who had discovered that the only way to keep hope alive had been by taking off her clothes…

Who could blame him for despising her—for not realising that she was so much more than that?

She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think polite interaction is going to be possible after all. There’s actually too much history between us.’

‘Or not enough?’ he challenged and suddenly his voice grew silky. ‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea to forge some new memories, Alannah? Something which might cancel out all the frustrations of the past?’

Alannah stiffened. Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Was he flirting with her? She swallowed. And if he were? If he were, she needed to nip it in the bud. To show him she respected herself and her body.

She slanted him a smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think we need to avoid each other as much as possible. We’ll support Michela all the way and try not to let our mutual animosity show, but nothing more than that. So why don’t you do me a favour and talk to the woman on your other side? She’s been trying to get your attention since you first sat down and she’s very beautiful.’ She picked up her wine glass and took a sip, her eyes surveying him coolly over the rim. ‘I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed that, Niccolò.’

CHAPTER THREE (#uf254b902-496b-597c-8017-34bdf8b76b69)

IT WAS THE worst night he’d had in a long time, or maybe it was just that Niccolò couldn’t remember ever losing sleep over a woman before. He lay tossing and turning in the king-size bed of his hotel room, trying to convince himself that Alannah had been right and the less time they spent together, the better. But every time he thought about distancing himself from those denim-blue eyes and that pouting, provocative mouth he felt an uncomfortable ache deep inside him.

What was the matter with him?

Kicking away the rumpled sheet, he told himself she wasn’t his kind of woman—that she represented everything he despised in a sometimes trashy and disposable society.

Abandoning all further attempts to sleep, he dealt with his emails and spoke to his assistant in London, who informed him that Alekto Sarantos was still unhappy with the interior of the penthouse suite. The Greek billionaire had let it be known that the apartment’s design was too ‘bland’ for his tastes and, despite a close association going back years, he was now considering pulling out of the deal and buying in Paris instead. Niccolò silently cursed his temperamental friend as he terminated the phone-call and wondered how soon he could decently leave after the wedding to return to work.

Pulling on his gym gear, he went for a run in Central Park, where the bare trees were etched dramatically against the winter sky. Despite his restless night and the fact that little was in bloom, his senses seemed unusually receptive to the beauty which surrounded him on this cold winter morning. There were ducks and gulls on the lakes and woodpeckers were tapping in the trees. Other runners were already out pounding the paths and an exquisite-looking blonde smiled hopefully at him, slowing down as he approached. But he didn’t even bother giving her a second look. Her eyes were glacial green, not denim blue—and it was that particular hue which had been haunting his sleep last night.