Sharon Kendrick - Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride

‘Can we kill the story?’ Raffaele asked.

‘Only temporarily. The London News is threatening to run a piece in its gossip column tonight.’

‘Then slam out an injunction!’

‘I already have done,’ said Troy. ‘But the trouble is that they aren’t actually breaking any privacy code. It’s just a general piece, with a few old photos, about concerns for “party-loving heiress, Elisabetta de Feretti”.’

‘But this is intolerable!’ gritted Raffaele from between clenched teeth. ‘Doesn’t anyone give a damn about her well-being?’

‘Not if it sells more newspapers.’

Raffaele shook his dark head, his frustration accentuated by real concern. Had he failed his sister? Been too enmeshed in the world of business to notice that her life was disintegrating around her? ‘How the hell did they find out about it? Didn’t the clinic give me a thousand assurances that Elisabetta’s anonymity would be protected? Do we know the source of the story?’

‘We do now. It’s a member of staff, I’m afraid,’ said Troy slowly, sitting back in his chair as if putting distance between himself and the outburst about to follow.

For a moment Raffaele’s long olive fingers curved, so that they resembled the deadly talons of some bird of prey. ‘Madonna mia!’ he said, with soft venom resonating like liquid poison from his voice. ‘Do you know what we shall do, Troy? We shall hunt down and find the cheating Judas who betrayed my sister. And, much as I should like to inflict a Sicilian form of punishment that they will never forget, we will discipline them formally.’ He punched his fist over his heart. ‘And make sure that he or she never works in a position of trust or authority again!’

There was a pause. ‘You can do that,’ said Troy, with the smooth diplomacy of his profession. ‘But it will be a waste of your time and ultimately of your resources—and at a time when you can least afford to squander them.’

‘You are saying that this kind of behaviour should go unpunished?’ Raffaele demanded icily. ‘Is that the course of action you are recommending to me?’

Troy held his hands up in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger pose. ‘Of course I can see that to carry out such a threat would give you satisfaction—but it would be a short-lived achievement and it would detract from your real aim of making sure that Elisabetta gets the treatment she needs without anything making it more difficult for her. And, unfortunately, all the railing and lawsuits in the world won’t change human nature or the lure of big money—haven’t you said that yourself, Raffaele, more times than you can count?’

Raffaele was silent for a moment while he digested the other man’s words. He had known and admired Troy since both men had met at the Sorbonne in the concluding year of their international law degrees—and he had discovered Troy was that rare thing, an Englishman who spoke several languages. They had been educated as equals, had good-naturedly fought over women, and Troy had never been cowed by the black-eyed Italian who was held in so much awe wherever he went because of his presence and his unforgettable good-looks.

The fact that the Englishman had also been considered to be a bit of a sex god by the women of Paris had meant that there was no rivalry between the two men.

As well as Troy’s fluency in both Italian and French, he possessed the valuable impartiality which was so much a characteristic of his nationality, and all these factors had made him the perfect choice to be personal advocate for the powerful Raffaele de Feretti. There were not many men to whom Raffaele listened, but this was one of them—and he was listening now.

‘Si, Troy, mio amico—you are right, of course,’ Raffaele said heavily, still feeling that he had somehow failed his sister—even though logic told him otherwise. ‘So, what do we do?’

Troy placed the tips of his fingers together in an almost prayerlike gesture of careful thought. ‘We run a spoiler. We take attention away from Elisabetta by giving them a bigger story.’

Raffaele gave a sceptical laugh. ‘And how do you propose doing that?’

Troy leaned forward. ‘Elisabetta is newsworthy because, yes, she’s young, and beautiful, very rich and occasionally flawed—but ultimately she’s famous for being your sister.’

‘I think that you overestimate my interest value,’ demurred Raffaele—because he had sought no publicity for himself.

Troy gave a short laugh. ‘It’s true that in terms of your power and your money everything that can possibly have been written on the subject already has been. But don’t forget, Raffaele, that there is one area of a your life which has held a particular fascination for the press ever since you passed puberty.’

Raffaele stared at him, his black eyes narrowing. ‘Be a little more specific, Troy,’ he instructed softly.

‘They’ve been trying to marry you off for years!’

‘So?’

‘So the only story which could draw interest away from Elisabetta would be if you finally did it.’

‘Did what, precisely?’

‘Got yourself a wife,’ said Troy, just as there was a rap on the door and it began to open. ‘Maybe it’s time you married, Raffaele!’

Natasha entered the room just in time to hear Troy’s enthusiastic statement and, for a moment, she honestly thought that she might drop her tray. She felt the blood drain from her face and her knees grow weak and some terrible roaring sound deafened her ears—like the sound of an express train racing through her head.

‘Natasha?’ Raffaele was frowning at her. ‘Are you sick?’

‘I…’

‘Put the damned tray down,’ he instructed tersely, but he had risen from his chair and was taking it from her himself. He put it down on the desk and caught her by the arm. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’

But with a few deep breaths Natasha had quickly recovered her equilibrium and she shook him off, telling herself that it was very important she didn’t make a fool of herself.

Raffaele had been nothing but decent and fair to her over the years, and he had done more for Sam than could reasonably be expected of a boss. So she was not going to blow the whole thing by showing her distress at what was, after all, a long overdue piece of news. Or had she really expected a man like Raffaele to remain single for the rest of his life, just so that she could maintain her little fantasies about him?

‘You’re getting married?’ she exclaimed brightly, and then forced the next word out, even though it felt like a fishbone stuck in her throat. ‘Congratulations!’

Raffaele was staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘So this is how gossip begins!’ he objected moodily. ‘Something half overheard and then, before you know it, you are dealing with “fact”—only, it isn’t fact at all. Just some crazy conjecture!’

‘You mean, you’re not getting married?’ questioned Natasha cautiously, unable to prevent the wild leap of her heart, and thankful that he wouldn’t be able to detect it.

‘Of course I’m not getting married!’ he retorted.

‘I’m trying to persuade him to get married,’ said Troy.

‘Oh.’ Natasha forced a smile as she looked at Troy, hating—just hating—Raffaele’s smart-aleck lawyer at that moment. She cleared her throat as she began to pour their coffee. ‘Isn’t marriage an honourable institution that isn’t supposed to be entered into lightly?’ she asked, as casually as if she was enquiring whether they wanted milk or sugar. ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’

‘I’m not talking about a real marriage,’ said Troy. ‘I’m talking about a pretend one.’

‘A pretend one?’ said Raffaele and Natasha at exactly the same moment, and Natasha began to fiddle around unnecessarily with the sugar bowl.