Olivia Gates - One Night In…

Her day was long and she was tired by the time she trailed into the apartment again. Rosa had gone home hours ago. Raffaelle was still out, which allowed her some time for herself to take a long bath behind a firmly locked bathroom door in an effort to relax some of the tension grinding at her every nerve and muscle.

She stayed in the bath longer than she’d meant to. By the time she let herself back into the bedroom she could sense more than hear that Raffaelle was home, though he was not in the bedroom, thank goodness, which gave her a chance to pull her jeans back on and a fresh T-shirt before she heaved in a breath and went looking for him.

He was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich, the jacket to his suit gone, white shirt-sleeves rolled up. He turned at the sound of her step. Her stomach dipped. She found herself running self conscious fingers through her curls.

‘Ciao,’ he said lightly. ‘You look—pink.’

‘I stayed in the bath too long,’ she explained as naturally as she could.

He turned back to what he was doing. ‘Want a sandwich?’

Her stomach gave a hungry growl. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Take your pick,’ he invited, pointing to the variety of salad things he had already sliced up. ‘There’s cheese in the fridge, some chicken and ham.’

Choosing the ham because she saw it first, she took over and handed it to him. Then surprised herself by staying there watching as he layered fresh bread with salad stuff.

‘Not going to offer to do it for me?’ He arched a look at her.

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘I might grow the produce but I can’t cook it,’ she confessed. ‘Ask me to make a sandwich like that and it will fall apart the moment you pick it up.’

‘No culinary skills at all, then.’

‘Not a single one.’

‘Any good with a coffee machine?’

‘Hit and miss.’ She grimaced. ‘I’m an instant coffee girl.’

‘Tragic,’ he murmured. ‘Give it a try anyway.’ He nodded to where the coffee machine stood. ‘It’s loaded and ready to hit the cup like the instant stuff does, only it tastes better.’

‘That’s an Italian opinion.’ She moved across to the machine and fed it a cup as she’d done two days before.

Two days, she then thought suddenly—they felt like years. How had that happened?

‘Tony tells me you have been treading the miles again,’ he murmured.

She turned to look at him curiously. ‘How often does he report in to you?’

The wide shoulders gave a shrug inside expensive white shirting that didn’t quite stop the gold of his skin from showing through. ‘Each time you stop somewhere.’

‘Do you think it’s necessary? I mean, I haven’t seen a glimpse of a reporter in the two days I’ve been out and about.’

‘Then you would make a lousy detective.’ Turning he pointed to the newspaper lying on the table.

Going over to it, Rachel saw a photo of herself sitting at a table in a top Knightsbridge restaurant drinking morning coffee with its famous chef owner. A flush arrived on her cheeks because, not only was she aware that she had not seen the lurking reporter but she’d now realised that the only reason why she had been sitting there at all was because the chef had recognised her and his curiosity had been piqued.

‘Where was Tony when this was taken?’ she demanded. It was his job after all to stop this from happening.

‘He did clear the reporter off, but not before he had managed to take this one photograph. Then the guy waited until you had left the restaurant and went back to quiz the chef.’

The chef had given an interview, getting a plug for his restaurant by happily telling the reporter what Rachel Carmichael did for a living. There was another photograph in a different paper showing Raffaelle kissing her cheek as he helped her on with her jacket.

‘What it is to be famous,’ she murmured cynically.

‘Well, your secret other life is now out,’ Raffaelle declared. ‘Which means you can stop hiding behind the mask of Elise when we go out.’

‘Daniella is going to love it.’

He turned with two loaded plates in his hands. ‘I’ve spoken to Daniella.’

Rachel froze as he put the plates down on the table.

‘She sends you her apologies and promises to behave the next time that you meet.’

‘She had nothing to apologise to me for,’ Rachel said flatly. ‘Actually, I could like her despite …’

‘Daniella not liking you?’

‘Yes,’ she said huskily.

He pulled out a chair and sat down on it. ‘You can tell her you like her later when we meet up at the theatre—’

‘Theatre —?’ Rachel stared at him. ‘I don’t want to go to the theatre!’

‘Sit down and eat,’ he instructed. ‘If you are eating for two you must have a good balanced diet.’

Rachel stared slack-jawed at him.

Steady-eyed, Raffaelle just shrugged. ‘I’m the fatalist, remember? I work through problems sometimes before they are problems. It is what helps to keep me at the top.’

‘You’re not short on insufferable arrogance either. You and Daniella should share the same blood.’

He just grinned over the top of his sandwich. ‘Tell me why you don’t want to go to the theatre,’ he instructed.

She pulled out a chair and sat down on it. ‘I don’t get the opportunity to go often enough to get to like it.’

‘Well, that’s about to change.’

‘What kind of theatre?’ she asked dubiously.

‘Opera,’ he provided. As her jaw dropped again, he said, ‘Get used to it because it is the love of my life. Eat.’

Rachel picked up her sandwich. It arrived by instinct at her mouth because her eyes certainly didn’t guide it there—they were still looking at him in horrified disbelief.

‘I can’t believe you want to put me through an opera,’ she protested.

‘We either go to the opera or we stay in and make love …’

And, just like that, their few minutes of near normality disappeared without a trace.

Rachel put down the sandwich. He chewed on his, his eyes gleaming with challenge.

‘I’m will not be blackmailed into your bed—!’ She flew to her feet.

‘Then prepare for an evening of Tosca,’ he countered coolly. ‘Wear something long and—sexy. Oh, and take your sandwich with you, mi amore,’ he drawled as she went to flounce out of the room. ‘The opera starts early and supper will be late.’

She wore a long slender blue gown that faithfully followed her every curve. Raffaelle took one look at her and staked possessive claim with a hand to the indentation of her waist.

‘Mine,’ he declared huskily. ‘Make sure you remember it while we are out.’

Sitting for hours beside a man who seemed to take pleasure in playing the deeply besotted lover throughout the interminable though admittedly moving music heightened her senses to such a degree that she had never felt more relieved to walk out into the ice-cold evening air so she could breathe.

They ate supper with a crowd of people including Daniella, who was quieter than the night before and was almost pleasant to Rachel, though Rachel could tell by the glint in the other woman’s brown eyes that the pleasantness ran only skin-deep. Daniella was still suspicious and hostile and hungered for the real truth as to what was going on.

Rachel gave Daniella no chance of getting her on her own that evening, staying put in her seat and keeping her attention fixed on everyone else. At least they seemed to accept her at face value—it was difficult not to when the man sitting beside her rarely took his eyes from her face. Tension zinged between them like static. Rachel refused to so much as glance at him, smiling where she thought she should do and trying to ignore the ever increasing pulse of awareness he was making her suffer. She was quizzed about her occupation and it seemed a good time to launch into the benefits of organic farming with an enthusiastic vigour that set such an animated debate going she almost managed to forget Raffaelle was sitting there.