The Italian's Trophy Mistress. Diana Hamilton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ how many times had she told herself that Cesare Andriotti was the kind of man she had most reason to despise?

      Countless.

      Wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, drop-dead handsome, with barrow-loads of Italian charisma and the almost indefinable touch of arrogance that sent delicious shivers down the spine of any female in his vicinity. The kind of men who had everything, who took mistresses, showered them with gifts, and felt they had the perfect right to drop them flat—very politely, with oodles of charm, of course—just when they felt like it.

      She had tried to keep him at arm’s length—at least, that was what she had told herself she’d been doing—but within a month of first meeting him she’d become his mistress. She simply hadn’t been able to help herself. He had overwhelmed her, ridden roughshod over each and every one of her objections—moral, practical and self-preserving.

      His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Her spine tingled. He’d been watching her ever since his sister had made that barbed comment about them having only a temporary affair.

      She refused to turn her head and look at him, meet those incredibly sexy, slate-grey moody eyes, let her own eyes linger on that passionate mouth or devour the lean and whippy lines of that elegantly clad, seemingly indolent body. To do so would mean she would be lost, the ever-hardening resolve to end their affair blown apart in her body’s consuming need for him.

      ‘Might I ask a favour, sir?’ Alan asked gruffly, reddening as he amended, ‘Cesare.’

      Alan Neill was Head of Accounts for the UK side of the huge financial empire, had fallen in love with Claudia Andriotti when she’d been visiting Cesare at his London apartment and had never quite come to terms with the fact that his boss was his brother-in-law.

      Bianca’s heart went out to him.

      At thirty-four years of age, heading up the Andriotti business empire since his father’s retirement four years ago, Cesare struck awe into the hearts and minds of everyone who met him. Alan was out of his depth. He was thoroughly nice, too stolid and loyal ever to even think of betraying his pretty, temperamental wife; Claudia would never have to worry about being traded in.

      At his wife’s pointed arch of one fine, dark brow Alan stumbled on, ‘Would it be possible for us to have the company jet in early August? It seems a bit much to ask but, the fact is, the twins would be a nightmare on a commercial flight. Won’t keep still, into everything, and you know how shrill three-year-old boys are when they get over-excited.’ He pushed his fingers through his thick sandy hair and made an abortive attempt at a lightly relaxed laugh. ‘I’d hate to inflict them on fare-paying passengers.’

      ‘Darling—’ Claudia placed a delicate, scarlet-tipped hand on her husband’s sleeve ‘—do stop rambling. Of course Cesare won’t mind.’ She smiled at her brother, her long lashes fluttering. ‘Mamma and Papa insist we take the boys out to Calabria for their wedding anniversary in August. And I’m quite sure you have your orders, too! So, if we may, we’ll join you on the flight out and back again? But if you can’t make it—’ she pouted prettily ‘—then please may we have the use of the Lear?’

      Bianca covered her wineglass with her long, tapering fingers as Cesare made a move to refill it, looking directly ahead, anywhere but at him, carefully keeping a slight smile on her face, her expression on the politely interested side of bland.

      But she wasn’t listening to a word of the affectionate family conversation. Claudia had probably been twisting her big brother round her tiny finger since she had first learned to walk!

      Any arrangements that were being made for the family reunion wouldn’t, of course, include her.

      Meeting up with his sister and brother-in-law on one or two social occasions had been unavoidable, hence her inclusion in this private birthday celebration. She was important to him for the nights they could spend together. For now. But not important enough to be included in a visit to his parents.

      She hadn’t met Cesare’s twin nephews, whose precocious misdemeanours were now being so fondly discussed. But she’d heard about them.

      Right at the start of their affair Cesare had told her, in response to her probably gauche comment that she wasn’t into long-term commitment, ‘Neither am I. Why should I marry? My sister has already done her duty and presented the family with twin boys.’

      His long fingers had been relaxed on the stem of his wineglass, the slight smile that had always both unnerved her and captivated her playing around his mouth as his eyes had slid lingeringly over her features. ‘Our arrangement suits me perfectly.’

      At least he was honest, she thought tiredly as she watched the waiter from the firm of caterers Cesare always used when he entertained at his London apartment glide towards them with a tray of coffee. As she knew to her cost, many men in his rarefied financial position married and divorced with monotonous regularity.

      That conversation had taken place back in the early days, she reminded herself as the waiter deferentially placed a gold-rimmed coffee cup in front of her. But things were changing. Cesare was beginning to want things she didn’t dare to give.

      And now was the time to make a clean and decisive break before she was left with a shattered heart, aching regrets and a desperate yearning for things that could never be, things she hadn’t wanted in the first place, shouldn’t even be thinking about wanting now.

      Placing her linen napkin on the table amongst the beautiful china, the Venetian glass, she murmured, ‘This has been delightful, but I really must go. Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Claudia.’

      A polite social smile on her face, Bianca rose to her feet. She was shaking inside with the enormity of what she now knew she had to do, but no one must know it.

      Claudia’s eyes were bright, almost chillingly knowing as she uttered with obviously false regret, ‘Darling, must you? Really? I would hate to think Alan and I had cramped your style!’

      ‘Not at all,’ Bianca made herself reply lightly and turned to Alan, who had risen awkwardly to his feet. ‘Please. Enjoy the rest of the evening,’ she said, before forcing herself to walk out of the elegantly appointed dining room with at least the outward appearance of unhurried grace.

      Cesare was following, as she had known he would. She heard the scrape of his chair as he rose from the table, the low murmur of his velvety voice as he made his excuses, and her stomach twisted sharply inside her.

      In the adjoining vast sitting room Bianca snatched her mobile from her slim evening bag and punched in the numbers of her usual minicab firm with shaking fingers. Her breath was coming in rapid, shallow gasps as she ended the call and Cesare, right beside her now, said, ‘Cara mia, what is wrong? You were to stay with me tonight. Don’t go. For three weeks I have ached for you.’

      He placed both hands on her shoulders and she felt her body go rigid. His low-pitched sexy drawl swamped her with longing, the possessive pressure of his fingers burned through the tawny-coloured silk that clothed her shoulders, reinforcing the mindlessly driven need to turn in his arms, loop her hands against the back of his beautifully shaped proud head, tangle her fingers in the thick, silky luxuriance of his jet-black hair and drown in the passion of his kiss.

      Fighting against the incredible danger, Bianca moved away, putting much-needed space between them, blinking fiercely to stop the prickle of tears becoming a flood. He’d asked her what was wrong. Everything was wrong. Their no-strings, light-hearted affair СКАЧАТЬ