Sharon Kendrick - The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress

But instead of looking chastened by her criticism, he merely smiled like a cat who had been given an entire vat of cream. ‘Ah, but I say what I believe—unfashionable or not. And I have never pretended to be any different, Angie,’ he murmured.

And that, she thought, just about summed him up. Riccardo had pleased himself all his life—and the combination of looks, brains and charisma had allowed him to do so. Didn’t matter that he expressed views which were deeply unfashionable and would be seen by many as out of date. He didn’t care because he didn’t have to. Rich, powerful and single—he blazed through life exactly as he wanted to and he wasn’t about to start changing now. Why should he?

So forget the fancy dress you’re wearing and try to forget your unwanted feelings for him, she told herself fiercely. Just be Angie—and set an example to the juniors by enjoying your staff party.

‘Who wants to pull another cracker?’ she questioned brightly.

Riccardo sat back in his chair and watched her as she fished a gaudy-looking bracelet from the tissue paper of a spent cracker, and good-naturedly put it onto her wrist. But then, she was pretty much always good-natured, he realised. She was one of those backroom kind of people—the unseen and unnoticed ones who quietly kept the wheels of enterprise turning, without seeking any attention or glory for themselves. He could talk to Angie in a way he couldn’t talk to other women. Where would the world be without people like her? His eyes narrowed as a disturbing thought popped into his mind without warning. Because God help him if she ever decided to leave.

Did he treat her properly? Did she get from him all the perks a secretary of her standing would expect to receive? His attention was caught by a pale flurry of snowflakes outside the window. Snow was unusual in London and it would be a cold night. His eyes flicked to the scarlet satin and a pulse began to work at his temple. A very cold night. Especially in a dress like that.

And just at that moment, he saw yet another waiter look at her with ill-concealed interest on his face. ‘How are you getting home?’ he questioned suddenly.

Angie stilled. ‘Home?’ she echoed stupidly, digging a spoon into her little dish of trifle.

‘I presume you have one,’ came the dry rejoinder. ‘Where do you live?’

The question hurt more than it should have done. She knew everything about him. She knew the size shirt he wore, the hotels he liked to stay in and the wine he liked best to drink. She knew the birthdays of his mother, his brother and his sister and always reminded him in plenty of time for him to buy them presents. That she inevitably ended up choosing those presents was neither here nor there—because that was what good secretaries did, wasn’t it?

She knew where he liked to ski in winter and where he occasionally basked in summer. She knew that he never ate pudding but occasionally would eat a square of dark, bitter chocolate with his coffee. She even knew which flowers he liked to send women when he was in pursuit—dark pink roses—and an appropriately generous consolation gift when he inevitably ended it—pearl and diamond cluster ear-studs from an international jeweler, and, oh, what pleasure Angie took in the purchase of those.

Yet after five years of her pandering to his every whim and making his life as easy as possible Riccardo Castellari didn’t even know where she lived!

‘Stanhope,’ she said, putting her spoon down.

‘And where’s that?’

‘It’s on the Piccadilly Line—towards Heathrow.’

‘But that’s miles out.’

‘That’s right, Riccardo. It is.’

‘And how are you getting there?’

How did he think? ‘By broomstick,’ she giggled.

He frowned. Angie giggling? Was she drunk? ‘I’m serious, Angie,’ he growled.

‘Oh, all right, then. By Tube.’ She tipped her head to one side, aware of the unaccustomed silky fall of hair over her shoulders. ‘Same way I always get home.’

He thought of the late-night underground network, chock-a-block with Christmas revelers, and the kind of reception she might expect to get. And his eyes flicked over her surprisingly slim waist, accentuated by a flimsy silk gown which he must have been insane to give her. At the way her breasts seemed to be defying gravity by failing to spill out of the damned dress altogether. No wonder the waiters had been circling her like a pack of wolves for most of the evening, until his icy glance had made it very clear that they were jeopardising their tip by doing so. Was he prepared to sit back and let her go alone into the night? Why, it would be like throwing a lamb before lions!

‘Come on—get your coat on,’ he ordered abruptly. ‘I’m taking you home.’

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