Lucy Gordon: Her Italian Boss’s Agenda

‘True,’ she said, amused. ‘But don’t knock it. It’s left me feeling so much in charity with you.’

He managed a faint laugh. ‘Yes, there’s nothing like having the other feller at a disadvantage to improve your mood.’

‘There’s a supermarket next door. I’ll just go along and get some things for you, then I’ll make up your bed when I get back. Don’t even think of leaving while I’m gone.’

‘Don’t worry. I couldn’t.’

In the supermarket she went swiftly round the shelves taking shaving things, socks and underwear. She had to guess the size but it wasn’t hard. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered. Just the way she liked a man to be. Evidently her subconscious had been taking notes.

She looked for pyjamas too, but the supermarket’s clothes range was limited to small items. Finally she stocked up on some extra groceries and hurried back, only half believing his promise to stay there.

But she found him stretched out on her sofa, his eyes closed, and got to work without disturbing him, putting clean sheets on her own bed, as there was no guest room.

‘How did I get into this?’ she asked herself. ‘It’s only an hour ago I was planning dire vengeance.’

When she returned to the main room he was awake and looking around vaguely.

‘The bed’s ready,’ she told him.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any night things.’

‘That’s all right. I got you some stuff in the supermarket. You’ll find it in there.’

‘Thanks. You’ve been very kind. I can manage now.’

His head was aching badly and he was glad to find the bedroom in semi-darkness, with only a small bedside lamp lit. When she was safely out of the room he removed his clothes and pulled on the boxer shorts she’d provided, meaning to don the vest as well. He would just lie down for a moment first.

It was bliss to put his head on the soft pillow and feel the ache slip gently away in sleep.

Olympia slept on the sofa. Waking in the early hours, she sat up, listening intently to the silence. There wasn’t a sound, but a faint crack of light under her bedroom door told her that the lamp was still on.

Frowning, she went over to the door and hesitated only a moment before turning the handle quietly and looking inside. Then she stopped.

His clothes were on the floor, tossed everywhere, as though he’d only just torn them off before sleep over-came him. He’d put on the underpants, but not the vest, which was still loosely clasped in one hand as he lay on his back, his head turned slightly aside, his arms outstretched.

At first she viewed him with concern, in case he wasn’t recovering properly. But then she realised that he was breathing easily, relaxed and contented. All was well.

It was lucky for him, she thought, that she wasn’t the kind of woman to take advantage of a defenceless man; otherwise she would have let her eyes linger on his chest, smooth and muscular, and his long arms and legs. Propriety demanded that she withdraw, after she’d switched off the lamp.

Moving carefully, she eased herself along the side of the bed and reached for the switch. The sudden darkness seemed to disturb him for he muttered something and rolled over on the bed, flinging out an arm so that it brushed against her thigh.

She stood petrified, not wanting him to awaken and find her here, but realising that movement would be difficult. Between the large bed and the large wardrobe was a space too narrow for her to back away from his hand. Holding her breath, she took hold of his fingers, turning them enough for her to slip past.

But when she tried to let go she found that she couldn’t. Suddenly his fingers tightened on hers. She twisted her hand, but it only made him clasp her more strongly.

Holding her breath, she dropped to her knees and put up her free hand, trying to release herself gently. A shaft of light from the window showed her his face, very near to hers, outlining the mouth that seemed different now. Earlier, she’d seen in it strength and a kind of jeering confidence, almost laughing at her even when he was trying to placate her.

But now, with its lines relaxed, it seemed softer, gentler, as though its smiles came naturally, and its laughter might be more real and spontaneous. Even delightful.

She drew a swift breath and rose to her feet, pulling her hand free and leaving the room without a backward glance.

Primo awoke suddenly. The pain in his head had completely gone and he was filled with a sense of well-being stronger than he had ever known before. It had something to do with the extraordinary woman who’d appeared in his life the day before and caused him to behave like a stranger to himself.

Lying there gazing into the darkness, not sure exactly where he was or how he’d got there, he wondered if he would ever recognise himself again. And decided that he wouldn’t greatly mind if he didn’t.

But then, he’d never quite recognised himself in all the years he’d had a dual identity.

He couldn’t remember his mother, Elsa Rinucci, dead only a few weeks after his birth. In fact his earliest clear memory was of standing in the register office, aged four, while his father married a nineteen-year-old girl called Hope.

He’d adored her and had been on tenterhooks in case the wedding fell through. Only when it was over had he felt safe in his possession of a mother.

But no possession was eternally safe, he’d discovered. After two years, Hope and Jack had adopted Luke. He was a year younger than Primo, which everyone thought was charming.

‘They’ll be such companions for each other.’

And they had been, after a fashion. When they hadn’t been squabbling and sabotaging each other’s childish projects, they had formed an alliance against the world. But it had been an uneasy alliance, always ready to fracture.

His cruellest memory was of having his heart broken when he was nine years old. Jack and Hope’s marriage ended in divorce, and she had departed, taking Luke but not himself. Only much later had he understood that she’d had no choice. He was Jack’s son, but not hers. She could claim custody of Luke, but Primo had to be left with his father, feeling deserted by the only mother he had ever known.

There he had remained until Jack’s death two years later, when his Rinucci relatives had taken him to live in Naples. To his joy, Hope had come to find him. That was how she’d met his Uncle Toni, and their marriage had soon followed.

Primo had taken the family name, and for a long time now had thought of himself as a Rinucci from Naples. But with the beautiful, maddening, fascinating woman whose bed he was occupying, that was the one person he couldn’t be.

It was seven a.m., still dark at that time of the year, yet late enough for him to be thinking of rising. Pulling on his trousers, he went to the door and opened it a crack. It was still dark but a glow was beginning to come through a window, illuminating the young woman who stood there.

For a moment he didn’t recognise her. This mysterious creature with the long black hair streaming down over her shoulders, over her breasts, halfway down her back, was quite different from the austere woman he’d met by day. The pale grey light limned her softly, bleaching colours away until she was all shadows.

She was looking out into the growing light as though the dawn itself was bringing her to life. She was growing brighter, more real, yet without losing her mystery.

Unastrega, he thought, using the Italian word for a witch.

He was thinking not of an old crone stirring a cauldron, but of a temptress, endlessly enticing, teasing her prey to follow her to a place where anything could happen. Italian legends were full of such creatures, alarming even in their beauty, impossible to resist. With that long black hair she seemed to be one of them, plotting spells of darkness and light. A man who wanted the answer would have to follow her into the dancing shadows. And then it would be too late.