Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride. Sharon Kendrick

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ he’d told her, with a surprising vehemence. Hadn’t he been in enough of them as a boy, following the death of his father, when he had been trailed from pillar to post by a mother determined to find herself a new rich husband? ‘Hotels have no soul. All the furniture is used by faceless hundreds. The pillows slept on by others and the mattresses made love on by countless couples. Yet, when you buy stuff of your own and put it down somewhere at least you can make any house a home.’

      If she hadn’t been so busy trying not to bite her lip with embarrassment when he’d said that bit about making love then she might have disagreed with him—telling him that a home consisted of more than just furniture and belongings. It had to do with making it the place you most wanted to be at the end of the day. And, anyway, who was Natasha to disagree with him, when he had provided the only real home she and Sam had ever known?

      When Sam had been old enough Raffaele had insisted on enrolling him to attend the nursery section of the highly acclaimed international school which was situated nearby.

      ‘Why not?’ he had queried, rather arrogantly, when she’d shaken her head.

      ‘It’s much too expensive,’ Natasha’d said defensively. ‘I can’t afford it.’

      His voice had gentled in a the way it rarely did, but which was impossible to resist when he turned it on. ‘I know that. I wasn’t expecting you to pay. I will.’

      ‘I couldn’t possibly accept that,’ Natasha’d said, feeling as if she ought to refuse his generous offer even though her maternal heart leapt at the thought of Sam being given such a head start in life.

      ‘You can, and you will. It makes perfect sense,’ he’d drawled. ‘All the other schools are far enough away to eat into your time when you take him there, and ultimately my time. Listen, Natasha, why don’t you look at it as one of the perks of the job—rather than me giving you the use of a car, which so far you have refused to drive in London?’

      Put like that, she’d found she could accept his offer gratefully, and she would never forget her joy, when Sam spoke his first few words in French and then Italian. After that Raffaele had taken to always speaking to the boy in his native tongue, and while Natasha had revelled with dazed pleasure at this evidence of her son the linguist, there had been a tiny part of her which had felt shut out. It had been enough to make her start taking Italian lessons, herself, though she kept quiet about it—in case it looked as if she was expecting something.

      It hadn’t all been plain sailing, of course. There had been the time when Sam had fallen over the step into the back garden and sustained a nasty bump to his forehead. Natasha had rushed him to the emergency room and though Raffaele had been out of the country at the time, he had listened grimly on the other end of the line as she recounted how a social worker had been round the next day to check everything out.

      ‘Well, you should have damned well been watching him!’ he had flared.

      It had been unjust and unfair, but Natasha had been too eaten up with guilt to tell him that her back had been turned for just a few seconds.

      And the time when Sam had found a handbag belonging to one of Raffaele’s girlfriends and had decided to reinvent himself as his favourite character, Corky the Clown.

      ‘But that’s my best lipstick!’ the girlfriend had screeched, as she’d dodged Sam’s pink-glossed and podgy hand as he attempted to hand the decimated piece of make-up back to her.

      Raffaele had laughed. ‘I’ll buy you another.’

      The woman had pouted. ‘You can’t buy them over here—they’re exclusive to America!’ she spat. ‘What a horrible little brat!’

      And Raffaele had looked at her and known that no amount of fantastic sex was worth having to look at a nasty, spiteful face which could make a little boy cry. ‘Tell you what,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll buy you a one-way air-ticket and you can go and get yourself a replacement.’

      The girlfriend had flounced out, and Raffaele had told Natasha to make sure she kept her offspring under control next time. But that weekend he had purchased a huge, floppy clown for Sam as a kind of silent thank-you for doing him a favour he hadn’t realised he was in need of.

      Of course, he never enquired about Sam’s father—it was none of his business, and he didn’t want to get involved in the bitter stuff which came after a couple split up.

      Besides, he never really thought of Natasha in those terms. She was Sam’s mother and his housekeeper, and it seemed to suit them all….

      ‘Dio!’ he swore. What the hell was he doing, thinking about the past, when he had the biggest problem of his life on his hands right now—in the present? ‘What on earth am I going to do about Elisabetta, Natasha?’ he demanded.

      ‘You’re doing everything you can,’ she soothed. ‘Presumably, she’s in the best clinic that money can buy. You can support her by visiting her—’

      ‘She isn’t allowed visitors for the first four weeks,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s one of the rules.’

      Natasha nodded. How would he find that? she wondered. He, who had made up his own rules in life as he went along. ‘Well, the other stuff, then. You know. Like keeping her safe.’ Her eyes shone. ‘You’re good at that.’

      But he barely heard a word she was saying, because the sudden shrill ring of the doorbell pealed out with its own particular sense of urgency.

      He strode off to answer it, checking first in the peephole that it wasn’t the dreaded press-pack. But it was Troy standing on the doorstep, and when Raffaele opened the door and the other man stepped inside the lawyer’s grim face confirmed his worst fears.

      ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

      There was a pause. ‘The press have got hold of the story,’ Troy said. ‘They’ve found out where Elisabetta is.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘ARE you certain—absolutely certain?’ demanded Raffaele, feeling an overwhelming sense of rage run through him at the thought of his vulnerable little sister being at the mercy of the unscrupulous press hounds. Had Elisabetta really had her cover blown? His black eyes bore into his lawyer. ‘They’ve found out where she is?’

      Troy nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just had a telephone call from one of our people. They’re outside the clinic now,’ he said.

      Raffaele swore very softly and very quietly in the Sicilian dialect he had picked up one long, hot summer on the island, when he’d still been railing against the intrusion of his new stepfather. Few people could understand the language, but it had remained with him in times of anger ever since. But he recognised now that his fury was a nothing but redundant luxury and would not help solve the problem. Every problem had a solution—he knew that. Hadn’t he demonstrated it over the years, time and time again?

      He thought quickly. ‘Come through to my study,’ he said, and then glanced at Natasha, who was standing there, looking as if she wanted to say something. He waved his hand at her impatiently. ‘Can you bring some coffee for Troy, Natasha? Have you eaten? I’m sure Natasha can make you something if you want.’

      Troy shook his head. СКАЧАТЬ