That gorgeous mouth hardened. ‘We are late for our appointments.’
Did that mean he wasn’t going to fire her?
Without another word he walked away and she followed alongside him, over countless bridges and through a maze of calli. They passed few people, and in the tight confines of the laneways he seemed taller and more powerful than she remembered.
She gave a quick summary of her meetings, updating him on any changes. Hoping his mood might improve. He made no comment but gave an occasional nod. At least he was listening.
Eventually they arrived at the broad reach of Canale della Giudecca and he led her to a sleek, highly polished wooden motor boat moored at a landing stage.
After untying the two mooring ropes he held the stern tight against the wooden stage. He held out his hand to her. ‘You need to climb aboard.’
She hesitated for a moment, suddenly wary of touching him. But, with the boat swaying in the choppy waters, she decided she’d risk holding his hand over the chagrin of being crushed against the landing stage.
His hand encased hers, and his powerful strength guided her on board. For a crazy few seconds she was engulfed by the sensation that she would always be safe with him in her life.
With practised ease Matteo pulled the boat away from the stage and was soon heading across the canal towards St Mark’s Square.
‘I’m sorry I got lost. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.’
He gave that ubiquitous continental shrug that might mean he accepted her apology with some reservations or was so irritated by her that he couldn’t speak.
At first she thought he was going back up the Grand Canal to Ca’ Divina, but just west of St Mark’s Square he turned right and slowly motored up a smaller canal. The canal was busy with gondolas, the majority of their passengers embracing and kissing couples.
She plucked her phone out of her pocket and pressed some buttons mindlessly. She had thought she wouldn’t mind seeing couples together, enjoying this city of romance. Boy, had she been wrong.
A heavy pain constricted her chest.
She was supposed to be here with her husband. Not with a man who was clearly irritated with her. Not with a man who in truth she was more attracted to than she had ever been to her fiancé.
That truth was shaming.
That truth was bewildering.
* * *
‘As I explained this morning, five of my companies have a presence here on Calle Larga.’
Matteo came to a stop outside the type of store Emma would window shop at when walking along Bond Street in London but would never dare to enter, knowing her monthly salary wouldn’t even buy her a set of barely there but, oh, so gorgeous underwear.
He pointed along the bustling street. ‘Verde for handbags, Marco for shoes, Osare is the label for our younger urban clients... Gioiello stocks daywear, and...’ Gesturing to the store behind them, he added, ‘And VMV for the discerning.’
Was he aware of the constant looks of appreciation he received from passers-by? How within the VMV store a bevy of model-like assistants were flapping their arms in excitement at his imminent entrance?
‘I had hoped to take you into each store so that you could familiarise yourself with our product range.’ He threw her a reproachful frown. ‘But that will not be possible now. We only have time for your fittings.’
With that he turned, and the door of the store was magically opened by a stealthy doorman Emma hadn’t seen lurking behind the glass pane.
Matteo gestured for her to enter first.
She took a step closer to him and in a low voice asked, ‘What do you mean, “fittings”?’
‘You will need dresses and gowns for the various events you will be accompanying me to during the week.’
‘I have my own clothes.’
With a raised critical eyebrow he ran his gaze down over her body. Okay, so her black padded jacket and red skirt mightn’t be the most glamorous, but she did own some nice clothes.
‘I mean I have suitable dresses back at the palazzo.’
He stepped closer, his huge body dwarfing hers. His head dipped down and he glared into her eyes. ‘I don’t have time for this. Let me be clear. You are representing my companies this week. You have to wear clothing from the lines. It’s not negotiable. If you don’t like it then I’m happy for you to leave.’
Emma gave a quick nod and, with dread exploding in her stomach like fast-rising dough, stepped inside the store and sank into plush carpet. She opened up her padded jacket and yanked at the collar of her jumper. She was burning up. Not only from the heat of the store but from the unfriendly gazes being thrown in her direction by the models.
Matteo walked through the store, pointing out garments which were immediately whisked away to the rear of the store.
‘Bene. I’ve selected the gowns which I think will suit you.’ He exchanged some rapid words with the woman who had accompanied him in his selection of dresses. ‘Andreina will help you try them on.’
Emma smiled warily at the six foot ash blonde diva standing before her. In return she received a cool blue stare. Boy, was she glad she had been waxed to within an inch of her life in preparation for her wedding.
The fitting room was like nothing she had ever seen. A bottle of Prosecco on ice sat on an antique side table, with velvet grey chairs at either side. The floor was tiled in marble, and giant gilt-edged mirrors filled three walls.
She looked at the row of dresses awaiting her. And then at Andreina, who was staring down at her ankle boots, her forehead pinched in obvious disbelief at the water stains on the suede. Yeah, well, maybe Andreina should try walking from Camden Police Station to Highgate in icy slush.
Her stomach lurched. She felt like a gauche fourteen-year-old again, facing her mother’s critical stare. Forced to wear only what her mother approved of.
Time for Operation Toughen Up again.
She propelled Andreina by the elbow towards the door. ‘I’ll call you if I need any help.’ She closed the door on a stream of Italian protest, adrenaline pumping.
She approached the dresses warily. She would get this over and done with as quickly as possible. She stripped off her clothes and grabbed the first dress to hand. Her stomach lurched again. She pulled the silk bodice over her head, felt layer upon layer of fine tulle falling from her waist down to the floor. She twisted her arms around to her back in an attempt to tie the bodice but it was hopeless. She needed help.
She fought against the tears stinging her eyes. She couldn’t bear the feel of the material on her skin.
A knock sounded on the door. She ignored it.
‘Emma, what are you doing?’
Matteo.
She called out, ‘None of them suit. I’ll just have to wear my own clothes.’
The door swung open.
‘For crying out loud, Matteo, I could have been undressed!’
He crossed the room towards her, his eyes darkening. ‘I see near-naked models backstage at fashion shows all the time.’
‘Well, I’m not a model, am I?’
His mouth pursed, and then he asked with irritation, ‘Why are you upset?’
‘I’m not.’
He threw her an exasperated look. ‘That dress is perfect for you—what do you mean, it doesn’t suit? Look in the mirror and see for yourself.’
She turned her back on the mirrors, refusing to look, unable to speak.
He came closer, and she gave a yelp when she felt his fingers on the back of the bodice, tying the tiny fastenings.
‘Please don’t.’
He ignored her protest and continued to work his way down the bodice. Her spine arched beneath his touch as startling desire mixed with the upset dragging at her throat.
At first his movements were fast, but then he slowed, as though he too was weakened by the tension in the room—the tension of bodies hot and bothered, wanting more, wanting satisfaction.
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