HELEN BROOKS - Out of Hours...Cinderella Secretary - The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress / The Secretary's Scandalous Secret / The Boss's Inexperienced Secretary

Did he really and truly think it was that simple? Silently, Angie counted to ten. If only he knew how close she was to picking up last night’s mug of cold coffee and tipping it all over his arrogant black head. But if she demonstrated her anger or her hurt—then wouldn’t that make him think that she cared? And she didn’t. Not any more. For how could she care about a man who had a lump of stone for a heart? Who could take her to heaven and back in his arms and then leave her feeling like some cheap little tramp in the morning?

‘Just go,’ she repeated, marching to the front door and averting her eyes as she held it open for him, afraid that he would see the tears of shame and humiliation which were threatening to spill from her eyes.

‘YOU’RE not eating very much, Angie.’

‘I’m not that hungry, Mum.’

‘Oh, don’t give me that, darling. It is Christmas day. Go on—have some more!’

Angie’s smile didn’t slip as she obediently speared a sprout and began chewing it even though she felt as if the effort might choke her. But then it had been like that ever since she’d woken up that morning and eyed the few presents under the tree with a dutiful rather than enthusiastic eye. If the truth were known, she’d rather have put her head back under the duvet and stayed in bed all day than have to go through the charade of celebrating!

Yet her Christmas probably looked picture-perfect from the outside—with snow tumbling prettily down over the houses in the village where her mother lived and every shiny front door decked with a bright wreath of holly. You could have painted the scene and stuck it on the front of a Christmas card and people would have cooed over it.

There had been a traditional service in the tiny church, chatting to people she’d known since she’d been a little girl and then trudging back through the silent white lanes to open their presents. But her mother always found this particular holiday difficult and Angie had been aware of a terrible dull ache which had nothing to do with it being the anniversary of her father’s death. Her sister’s current marital woes weren’t helping matters any either.

Phone calls had been arriving with scary regularity from Australia. Angie had worried how on earth her sister was going to pay for them all with a costly divorce pending—and she wasn’t even sure how useful they were, since they consisted mainly of Sally sobbing and saying how unhappy she was with the ‘Aussie idiot’.

‘Believe me, Angie,’ she had sniffed. ‘There’s a lot to be said for the single life!’

Not from where Angie was sitting. Today, she felt like the loneliest person on the planet—an uncomfortable feeling only sharpened by her regret at having so recklessly gone to bed with Riccardo.

Riccardo. Angie swallowed down the last of the sprout and tried not to feel sick. It didn’t matter what she did or said—nor how much she tried to fill her waking hours with mundane tasks which would occupy her mind—her thoughts stubbornly kept coming back to the arrogant Italian.

The glow of physical pleasure had faded quickly—helped by the knowledge that he regretted the sex had ever happened. His hasty retreat from her apartment had left her feeling abandoned and foolish. And she had quickly realised that her long-cherished dream of ending up in the arms of her boss hadn’t turned out as she’d expected.

Because Riccardo didn’t want her. Not in any way which didn’t involve fielding his phone-calls or typing his letters. He didn’t even desire her enough to want to repeat the sex on a different occasion—why, he’d left so fast that morning that she hadn’t seen him for dust. And if she’d been harbouring some small hope that he might have had second thoughts—that he might have rung her up to apologise for his abruptness and to ask to see her again outside work—well, that hope too had been crushed. There had been nothing but a deafening kind of silence from Signor Castellari.

And then, of course, there was the bigger picture. Like, what the hell was she going to do when she got back to work after the holiday was over? Act as if it had never happened? Primly place his coffee on the desk in front of him while trying not to remember the way that he had pushed her hair back from her face and then lowered his head to kiss her? Or remember the way that his tongue had trickled its way over an extremely intimate part of her anatomy? Her cheeks flushing with remorse, Angie bit her lip. There was no way she was going to be able to remain there, that much was certain. Before Christmas she had been aware that she couldn’t stay working for Riccardo for ever—but that vague wish had now become an absolute necessity.

As soon as she got back to London, she would start applying for a new job.

‘Are you all right, dear?’

Her mother’s voice broke into her silent deliberations and Angie quickly put her fork down.

‘Yes, Mum—I’m fine.’

‘You’ve been distracted since you arrived. Nothing’s wrong , is it, Angelina?’

Angie managed a weak smile. ‘No, of course not. Nothing’s wrong.’ Because what woman in the world could confide to her mother that she had broken the cardinal rules of advancement in the workplace? Never mix business with pleasure. Never fall for a man who is light years out of your league. And never end up in bed with the boss after the Christmas party.

‘And how’s that nice boss of yours?’

Could mothers mind-read? ‘Oh, he’s…he’s fine. Successful as ever.’

‘So I keep reading in the newspapers,’ murmured her mother approvingly. ‘You were so lucky the way he plucked you out of the typing pool like that!’

Angie only just stopped herself from cringing at her mother’s choice of words—but, come to think of it, didn’t she used to feel exactly the same way about her rapid promotion? As if Riccardo were some kind of knight in shining armour, galloping into the office and carrying her away on his white charger. Back then, in her eyes, her boss could do no wrong—no matter how irascible he could be. In a way, she had been stuck in a groove of adoring him—her mind still fixed in the same mode it had been when he’d ‘rescued’ her.

Except he hadn’t done anything of the sort. All he had done was recognise that he’d found a woman who would completely submerge her life in his. Who would put up with just about anything he cared to throw at her. Long, thankless hours spent helping him meet some deadline or other—just for the occasional heart-fluttering smile or glinty-eyed look he threw across the office.

And just because he’d done the unthinkable—events had taken an unexpected turn. If he hadn’t bought her the kind of dress she would never normally have looked at, then she would never have been transformed into someone else. Someone who had taken a night off from being Angie—so that Riccardo hadn’t treated her like Angie at all. He’d treated her like a woman he’d just been tantalised by. He’d taken her to bed and made her discover just how wonderful a man could make you feel. And just because she had woken up the next morning in a smitten state and wondering if perhaps they had some kind of future together didn’t mean that he felt the same way.

On the contrary. He wanted to erase the woman in the red dress from his mind and replace her with the old, familiar version of herself—the dull one that he scarcely noticed. Angie didn’t know whether that was possible—and, more importantly, she had to ask herself whether she wanted it, even if it was. Could you possibly go back to the life you’d been living after an event like that?

‘So what’s he doing for Christmas?’ asked her mother brightly.