Cathy Williams - Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary

‘Come and meet my family,’ he said as he slipped the coat from her shoulders and hung it up and then shrugged his way out of his own leather jacket. He glanced down at his watch. ‘They’ll probably just be finishing lunch.’

Angie followed him through a maze of corridors towards the sound of voices speaking in Italian—but not particularly congenial voices, she realised. A woman’s was raised in obvious protest and a man was clearly arguing with her.

She followed Riccardo into a formal dining room—not really having time to take in the splendour of the huge space—because there was something else which was much more noticeable than all the wealth and history contained within these walls. Angie frowned. A man and a woman sat at opposite ends of the table—but there was absolutely no laughter or mirth on their faces. They might as well have been at the reading of a will, judging from their expressions.

Their dark colouring and naturally sensual features immediately marked them out as brother and sister and she could see something of Riccardo in both of them. But more than anything else, Angie was drawn to the pale, pinched face of the bride-to-be and the haunted look in her eyes.

And the instinctive thought flashed through her mind that this didn’t look like a woman about to participate in one of the happiest days of her life. This looked like a woman who was fast-tracking her way towards doom.

‘YOU remember my sister, don’t you, Angie?’ questioned Riccardo as he led her into the room.

Angie nodded—hoping that her bright smile hid her shock at seeing Riccardo’s young sister again. Why, she looked positively gaunt —her high cheekbones like two high shadowed slashes arrowing down to her nose. Surely that amount of weight loss was due to something more than just pre-wedding nerves?

‘I certainly do. Hello, Floriana, nice to see you again—and congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.’

A faint frown criss-crossed the girl’s lovely face as she summoned up an answering smile. ‘Hello, Angie,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to see you again, too. We are…we are pleased to have you here. My mother sends her apologies for not being here to greet you herself. She’s dealing with caterers at the moment and she looks forward to seeing you at dinner. So does my brides-maid—she’s English, too.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting to mention someone, Floriana?’ drawled a silken voice from the opposite end of the table. ‘I’m sure that Riccardo’s guest is looking forward to meeting the Duca.’

Angie turned towards the dark-featured man who was reclining with indolent ease in one of the chairs, still wearing riding clothes.

‘But I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Romano?’ murmured Riccardo.

Angie shook her head. She’d certainly remember if she had. So this was Romano Castellari—another stalwart of the international gossip columns, as single, sexy Italian billionaires tended to be. In a way, the brothers looked remarkably alike—with their jet hair and imposing physiques. But this man’s features were, if anything, even harder than those of Riccardo and there was a coldly formidable air about him. She knew that he was the elder of the two and that he ran the vast Tuscan estates owned by the family. ‘No,’ she said, slightly nervously. ‘But I’ve heard lots about you.’

Romano gave a detached kind of smile as he rose with effortless grace to shake Angie’s hand, his black eyes flicking over her with cynical interest.

‘All good, no doubt?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly say—everything Riccardo says to me is in the strictest of confidence,’ answered Angie gamely, hoping to lighten the inexplicably dark mood which pervaded the room, but Floriana’s sombre look remained firmly in place.

‘It’s very good of you to bring your secretary,’ commented Romano, raising his black brows in arrogant question. ‘I do hope you aren’t planning on working all the while you’re here, Rico?’

‘I have a couple of important deals going through,’ murmured Riccardo. ‘And I decided that Angie deserved a little treat since she’s threatening to leave me.’

‘Really? What a pity—you must be sure to change her mind. Good secretaries are so hard to find. By the way, we’ve put her in the west wing—which, as you know, is at the opposite end of the house from where you’re sleeping. I do hope that won’t inconvenience you too much if you have to… work late.’ Romano’s black eyes flashed a mocking challenge at his brother and Angie suddenly went cold inside. He knows , she thought. He knows that the two of us are lovers—and he doesn’t approve .

‘You’ll meet my bridesmaid later,’ said Floriana. ‘She and a whole group of others are staying at a hotel in the village. Romano thinks it would be too distracting to have a lot of people here—though heaven only knows, there’s enough room.’

Angie felt a sudden flick of envy as her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips. Oh, to be staying in the village—far away from this cold house with its strange atmosphere and its complicated menfolk. ‘Perhaps I could go and unpack now?’

‘Sure,’ said Riccardo. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

‘Have fun,’ murmured Romano. ‘I expect we’ll see you at dinner. Don’t work too hard.’

Angie didn’t say a word all the way back through the seemingly endless journey to her room, where her case had magically appeared—presumably placed there by some unseen servant. Uncaring of the huge bed or the magnificent picture-postcard view which could be seen from her window, she turned angrily on Riccardo.

‘Your brother knows!’ she accused.

‘Knows what?’

‘That…that…that we’re lovers!’

‘Are we?’ he murmured as he pulled her into his arms and pushed the hair away from her face. ‘You’ve kept me waiting for so long that I’d almost forgotten.’

Half-heartedly, she tried to pull away from his embrace but her body seemed to have other ideas. ‘He knows,’ she repeated.

‘He doesn’t know. He’s guessing—and so what, Angie?’ Tipping her chin up, he raked his gaze over her. ‘Are you ashamed?’

Was she? She was angry with herself for being here, yes—for allowing herself docilely to be led, like a lamb to the slaughter. And for accepting so little from him, when she wanted so much. But ashamed? She shook her head as she looked up into the soft, dark gleam of his eyes, feeling her heart begin to pound and the overwhelming urge to have him touch her. ‘No, I’m not ashamed,’ she whispered.

‘Then kiss me.’

‘No.’

‘Kiss me, Angie. If, as you say, my brother has guessed—then why should we endure all the innuendo without any of the pleasure?’

His arguments were beating down her objections and his lips were making resistance impossible—trailing fire where they touched. Her head fell back as they whispered along the curve of her jaw, the long line of her neck, and she shivered as he reached around her back. Unzipping her dress in one single, fluid movement, he eased her arms out of the garment with the skill of a man who had performed this particular task many times, until it pooled in a soft heap by her ankles.

‘Piccola,’ he murmured, unbearably turned on by the sight of her in that so plain underwear she wore. Despite the short notice, by agreeing to accompany him here—any other woman would have moved heaven and earth to acquire the flimsy wisps of underwear which would be expected of the mistress to a wealthy man. But she had not. And although he knew that her failing to do so was more in a spirit of defiance than anything else, there was still something ridiculously innocent about her functional bra and briefs, this miserable pair of tights. His lips drifted along the line of her collarbone. ‘You look…’