The Italian Millionaire's Virgin Wife. Diana Hamilton

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      ‘Oh, wow!’ Carly screeched.

      Mercy snatched the mobile phone off her ear and shifted in one of the comfy armchairs in her private sitting room, only returning to the conversation when she judged she was in no further danger of having her eardrum split.

      ‘I didn’t take it in properly last evening—’ she came clean ‘—I’d had the best part of two huge glasses of wine and—’

      ‘You never!’ Carly groaned theatrically. ‘You know it goes straight to your head! Remember that Christmas when you got squiffy on one spoonful of rum sauce!’

      ‘Well, the wine was given to me with all good intentions and it seemed rude not to drink it,’ Mercy excused lamely then went on to recount what she’d thought had been said, editing out her crass stupidity in thinking for one moment that he had been about to kiss her. As if!

      ‘But he cleared it up this morning when I took him his breakfast.’ A warm smile lit her features. He’d looked really pained at first but he’d eaten every scrap of the kedgeree after she’d told him, very firmly—no messing—that fish was good brain food. ‘I’m to go to the studio next Monday and present myself to Make-up and Wardrobe. They’ll start filming my part some time after midday, depending on how the location shots go, apparently. And he’s paying mega bucks so I’ll really be able to make a huge difference for James. He can forget about taking out further student loans in the forseeable future.’

      Carly heaved a sigh. ‘I don’t believe this!’

      ‘No, neither do I,’ Mercy confided. ‘How anyone could think I’d be a perfect model for a TV ad—’

      ‘I mean I don’t believe you wouldn’t want to spend at least some of all that dosh on nice things for yourself,’ the other woman corrected tartly. ‘For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always put yourself and what you wanted last on your list of priorities! But I guess nagging won’t change you.’ Her tone lightened. ‘And I do believe you’d make great model material. Your brilliant boss must have taken one look at you and seen the potential. Haven’t I always told you you could be drop-dead-gorgeous if you took trouble with your appearance? Stopped buying the dreary stuff you call essentials from charity shops, had your hair done properly and let me do your make-up. He obviously looked at you and saw star material!’ she enthused as Mercy struggled not to hoot out loud at that unlikely scenario. ‘And how about inviting me over one evening? I bet his pad’s fabulous—I’m dying to see inside! And what will your ad be plugging?’

      ‘I’m not sure,’ Mercy confessed, feeling foolish. ‘He mentioned something about Coronet and something or other last night. And I didn’t like to ask him to repeat himself this morning. He would only have thought I hadn’t been listening to a word he’d said.’ Which she hadn’t. Only she couldn’t, for shame, further confess that she’d been too busy wondering if he was about to kiss her and coming over all silly and unnecessary!

      ‘Coronet,’ Carly mused. ‘I’d have heard, surely, if there was a new ultra-expensive brand of perfume or make-up about to hit the market. Whatever, it’s bound to be something eye-wateringly glamorous! Jewellery, perhaps? His agency’s famous for handling the top end of the glitz market—they don’t touch dreary stuff like washing powder and loo cleaners!’

      After listening to a lot more on the same lines—like her face would become a national byword for all that was glamorous and sophisticated, not to mention her fortune—and promising to ask Andreo if she had his permission to invite Carly over one evening, Mercy ended the call, curled up more comfortably and wallowed in what her friend had said.

      Could it really be possible that the super-charismatic, utterly gorgeous Italian legend had seen something that her mirror had staunchly withheld from her? That he had looked at her with desire? That he had been about to kiss her but had held back, afraid such an action might spoil their working relationship? The idea sent delicious tremors zipping down her spine.

      Then, coming to her senses, obliterating the schoolgirl fantasies, which up until now she had never been prey to, she posed another question.

      Could pigs fly?

      In any case, she wouldn’t want him to kiss her, would she? she told herself firmly, regaining her fabled common sense. No doubt he’d be very good at it, whirling a girl off to paradise with practised ease. But what girl with any self-respect and half a brain in her head would want to be romanced by a man with the morals of a feral tom-cat and the attention span of a toddler where the females in his life were concerned?