Her Italian Boss’s Agenda Page 3

  ‘I don’t want to abandon my car here.’

  ‘We’re not going to. If you hold a torch, I’ll fix the tow.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be me fixing the tow?’

  ‘You’ve had a bump on the head. Do as I ask and don’t speak.’

  ‘Anything you say.’

  He had to admit she knew what she was doing, attaching the two vehicles as efficiently as a mechanic. In no time at all they were on their way. Ten minutes drive brought them to a smart block of flats, where Olympia parked both cars efficiently.

  ‘I’ll call the hire firm first thing tomorrow,’ he said, adding wryly, ‘They’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘When did you hire it?’

  ‘This morning.’

  Her apartment was on the second floor. It was neat, elegant and expensively furnished with perfect taste, he noticed, but it seemed to him that there was something lacking. For the moment he couldn’t define it.

  ‘Sit down while I look at your forehead,’ she said.

  Unwilling though he was to admit it, his head was aching horribly, and a glance in the mirror showed him a nasty bruise and some scratches that were bleeding.

  ‘It won’t take a moment for me to clean that up,’ she said. ‘And I’ll make you a strong coffee.’

  He was glad to sit down and close his eyes. From somewhere in the distance he thought he heard her talking, but then he opened his eyes to find her standing there with coffee.

  ‘Drink this,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks. Then I’ll call a taxi to take me back to my hotel. I’m sorry about your car. I’ll pay for all the repairs.’

  ‘No need. The insurance will take care of it.’

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ he said hastily, with visions of form-filling and having to give his real name. ‘We don’t want to damage your no-claims bonus, and I’d rather the world didn’t hear about this.’

  ‘You think they might laugh?’ she asked.

  ‘Fit to bust,’ he said gloomily.

  The coffee was good. Almost up to Italian standard.

  As he was finishing it there was a knock at the door. Olympia answered it and returned with a young man.

  ‘This is Dr Kenton,’ she said. ‘I called him when we came in.’

  He groaned. ‘I told you I’m all right.’

  ‘Why not let me decide that?’ the doctor asked pleasantly.

  He studied the bruise for a few moments, then took out an instrument which he used to look into his patient’s eyes, before declaring, ‘Mild concussion. It’s not serious but you ought to go straight to bed and have a good sleep.’

  ‘I’ll go home right now,’ he said, giving Olympia a reproachful look.

  ‘Is there anyone there to look after you?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Olympia said. ‘It’s a hotel. That’s why he’s staying here.’

  ‘Nonsense-’ Primo protested.

  ‘He’s staying here,’ Olympia repeated, as though he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Ah, good.’ Dr Kenton looked from one to the other. ‘That’s all right, is it? I mean, you two are-’

  ‘The best of enemies,’ Olympia said cheerfully. ‘Never fear, I’ll keep him in the land of the living. I haven’t had such a promising fight on my hands for ages.’

  Dr Kenton grinned and produced some pills from his bag.

  ‘Put him to bed and give him a couple of these,’ he said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  When they were alone they looked at each other wryly for a moment until Primo said, ‘If I’d thought about it for a month beforehand I could hardly have made a bigger foul-up, could I?’

  ‘True,’ she said, amused. ‘But don’t knock it. It’s left me feeling so much in charity with you.’

  He managed a faint laugh. ‘Yes, there’s nothing like having the other feller at a disadvantage to improve your mood.’

  ‘There’s a supermarket next door. I’ll just go along and get some things for you, then I’ll make up your bed when I get back. Don’t even think of leaving while I’m gone.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I couldn’t.’

  In the supermarket she went swiftly round the shelves taking shaving things, socks and underwear. She had to guess the size but it wasn’t hard. Tall, lean, broad-shouldered. Just the way she liked a man to be. Evidently her subconscious had been taking notes.

  She looked for pyjamas too, but the supermarket’s clothes range was limited to small items. Finally she stocked up on some extra groceries and hurried back, only half believing his promise to stay there.

  But she found him stretched out on her sofa, his eyes closed, and got to work without disturbing him, putting clean sheets on her own bed, as there was no guest room.

  ‘How did I get into this?’ she asked herself. ‘It’s only an hour ago I was planning dire vengeance.’

  When she returned to the main room he was awake and looking around vaguely.

  ‘The bed’s ready,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any night things.’

  ‘That’s all right. I got you some stuff in the supermarket. You’ll find it in there.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve been very kind. I can manage now.’

  His head was aching badly and he was glad to find the bedroom in semi-darkness, with only a small bedside lamp lit. When she was safely out of the room he removed his clothes and pulled on the boxer shorts she’d provided, meaning to don the vest as well. He would just lie down for a moment first.

  It was bliss to put his head on the soft pillow and feel the ache slip gently away in sleep.

  Olympia slept on the sofa. Waking in the early hours, she sat up, listening intently to the silence. There wasn’t a sound, but a faint crack of light under her bedroom door told her that the lamp was still on.

  Frowning, she went over to the door and hesitated only a moment before turning the handle quietly and looking inside. Then she stopped.

  His clothes were on the floor, tossed everywhere, as though he’d only just torn them off before sleep over-came him. He’d put on the underpants, but not the vest, which was still loosely clasped in one hand as he lay on his back, his head turned slightly aside, his arms outstretched.

  At first she viewed him with concern, in case he wasn’t recovering properly. But then she realised that he was breathing easily, relaxed and contented. All was well.

  It was lucky for him, she thought, that she wasn’t the kind of woman to take advantage of a defenceless man; otherwise she would have let her eyes linger on his chest, smooth and muscular, and his long arms and legs. Propriety demanded that she withdraw, after she’d switched off the lamp.

  Moving carefully, she eased herself along the side of the bed and reached for the switch. The sudden darkness seemed to disturb him for he muttered something and rolled over on the bed, flinging out an arm so that it brushed against her thigh.

  She stood petrified, not wanting him to awaken and find her here, but realising that movement would be difficult. Between the large bed and the large wardrobe was a space too narrow for her to back away from his hand. Holding her breath, she took hold of his fingers, turning them enough for her to slip past.

  But when she tried to let go she found that she couldn’t. Suddenly his fingers tightened on hers. She twisted her hand, but it only made him clasp her more strongly.

  Holding her breath, she dropped to her knees and put up her free hand, trying to release herself gently. A shaft of light from the window showed her his face, very near to hers, outlining the mouth that seemed different now. Earlier, she’d seen in it strength and a kind of jeering confidence, almost laughing at her even when he was trying to placate her.

  But now, with its lines relaxed, it seemed softer, gentler, as though its smiles came naturally, and its laughter might be more real and spontaneous. Even delightful.

  She drew a swift breath and rose to her feet, pulling her hand free and leaving the room without a backward glance.

  Primo awoke suddenly. The pain i
n his head had completely gone and he was filled with a sense of well-being stronger than he had ever known before. It had something to do with the extraordinary woman who’d appeared in his life the day before and caused him to behave like a stranger to himself.

  Lying there gazing into the darkness, not sure exactly where he was or how he’d got there, he wondered if he would ever recognise himself again. And decided that he wouldn’t greatly mind if he didn’t.

  But then, he’d never quite recognised himself in all the years he’d had a dual identity.

  He couldn’t remember his mother, Elsa Rinucci, dead only a few weeks after his birth. In fact his earliest clear memory was of standing in the register office, aged four, while his father married a nineteen-year-old girl called Hope.

  He’d adored her and had been on tenterhooks in case the wedding fell through. Only when it was over had he felt safe in his possession of a mother.

  But no possession was eternally safe, he’d discovered. After two years, Hope and Jack had adopted Luke. He was a year younger than Primo, which everyone thought was charming.

  ‘They’ll be such companions for each other.’

  And they had been, after a fashion. When they hadn’t been squabbling and sabotaging each other’s childish projects, they had formed an alliance against the world. But it had been an uneasy alliance, always ready to fracture.

  His cruellest memory was of having his heart broken when he was nine years old. Jack and Hope’s marriage ended in divorce, and she had departed, taking Luke but not himself. Only much later had he understood that she’d had no choice. He was Jack’s son, but not hers. She could claim custody of Luke, but Primo had to be left with his father, feeling deserted by the only mother he had ever known.

  There he had remained until Jack’s death two years later, when his Rinucci relatives had taken him to live in Naples. To his joy, Hope had come to find him. That was how she’d met his Uncle Toni, and their marriage had soon followed.

  Primo had taken the family name, and for a long time now had thought of himself as a Rinucci from Naples. But with the beautiful, maddening, fascinating woman whose bed he was occupying, that was the one person he couldn’t be.

  It was seven a.m., still dark at that time of the year, yet late enough for him to be thinking of rising. Pulling on his trousers, he went to the door and opened it a crack. It was still dark but a glow was beginning to come through a window, illuminating the young woman who stood there.

  For a moment he didn’t recognise her. This mysterious creature with the long black hair streaming down over her shoulders, over her breasts, halfway down her back, was quite different from the austere woman he’d met by day. The pale grey light limned her softly, bleaching colours away until she was all shadows.

  She was looking out into the growing light as though the dawn itself was bringing her to life. She was growing brighter, more real, yet without losing her mystery.

  Una strega, he thought, using the Italian word for a witch.

  He was thinking not of an old crone stirring a cauldron, but of a temptress, endlessly enticing, teasing her prey to follow her to a place where anything could happen. Italian legends were full of such creatures, alarming even in their beauty, impossible to resist. With that long black hair she seemed to be one of them, plotting spells of darkness and light. A man who wanted the answer would have to follow her into the dancing shadows. And then it would be too late.

  He shook his head, astonished at himself for such thoughts. He prided himself on his good sense and here he was, indulging in fantasies about witches.

  But how could a man help it when faced with her fascinating contradictions? She showed an austere aspect to the world, scraping back her hair against her skull in a no-nonsense fashion and sleeping in pyjamas.

  Nor were they seductive pyjamas. There was nothing frilly or baby-doll about them, no embroidery or lace. And she probably hadn’t even realised that light from the right angle would shine through the thin material, revealing the outline of high, firm breasts, narrow waist and delicately flared hips. If she’d known that she would probably have worn flannel, he realised despondently.

  He forced himself reluctantly back to earth and looked around the dimly lit room. When he saw the sofa with its pillows and blankets, it dawned on him that she’d slept there, while he occupied her bed.

  He ought to move away. No gentleman would watch her while she was unaware, standing in a light that almost made her naked. So he limited himself to another two minutes before forcing himself to back off, closing the door silently.

  He waited another few minutes, putting on his shirt and making plenty of noise to warn her. When he opened the door again he saw that the sofa had been stripped of sheets and blankets.

  Olympia emerged from the kitchen, smiling. She was dressed in sweater and trousers and her hair was still long, although it had been drawn back and held by a coloured scarf.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. If he’d been thinking straight he might have thought the brightness rather forced, but he was long past thinking straight.

  ‘How are you this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘A lot better for that sleep, thank you. In fact, thank you for everything, starting with making me come home with you. You were right about the hotel. It’s a crowded place, but it would have been just like being alone.’

  ‘Of course, you could always have asked them to send for a doctor,’ she mused. ‘But you wouldn’t have done that. Too sensible. Men never do the sensible thing.’

  ‘Actually, I usually do,’ he said, making a face. ‘That’s my big problem, according to my mother. She keeps choosing wives for me but, according to her, I’m so sensible I drive them off. I tell her that when I’m ready to marry I’ll find a woman as sensible as myself, and then neither of us will notice how boring the other one is.’

  She laughed. From where she was standing no man had ever seemed less boring. A shaft of sunlight was falling on him, emphasising a masculine vigour that made him stand out vividly in her too-neat apartment. She found herself thinking of the countryside in summer, fierce heat, vibrant colours, everything deeper, more intense.

  But the subtext of the story was that he had no wife at home. It alarmed her to find that she was glad to know that. It could make no possible difference to her. And yet she was glad.

  She covered herself by turning it into a joke.

  ‘You’re in luck. I know several boring ladies who’d overlook a few deficiencies and make do with you.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said ironically. ‘And while I’m thanking you I’ll add the fact that you called the doctor last night, despite what I said. It was sneaky, but it was also the right thing to do.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t waste time arguing. When a man’s totally wrong I just ignore him.’

  ‘Now, that I believe.’

  They laughed and she said, ‘The bathroom’s over there.’

  He went in, taking the things she’d bought him, and had to admit that even her choice of shaving cream and aftershave were perfect. This was one very organised lady, who got every decision right.

  But that was just one side of her, he realised. There was another side, with an unruly tongue that burst out despite all her efforts at control. That was the interesting side, the one he wanted to know more about, which was going to be hard, because it was the one she strove most fiercely to hide. But he wasn’t going to give up now.

  When he came out the room was empty and he could hear her moving in the kitchen. He looked around her apartment and again had the sense of something missing. Now he realised what it was. Like herself, the place was neat, focused, perfectly ordered. But what else was she? What were her dreams and desires? There was nothing here to tell him.

  He could find only one thing that suggested a personal life and that was a photograph of an elderly couple, their heads close together, smiling broadly. The woman bore a faint resemblance to Olympia. Grandparents, he thought. There were no othe
r pictures.

  Her books might give a clue. But here again there was nothing helpful. Self-improvement tomes lined the shelves, courses for this, reading for that. They had been placed there by the woman who wore mannish pyjamas and sleeked her hair back, not the witch whose black locks streamed down like water.

  She emerged with hot tea. ‘Drink this, you’ll feel better. I hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘Starving.’

  From the kitchen came the sound of a toaster throwing up slices at the same moment that there was a ring on the front doorbell.

  ‘Answer it for me, would you?’ she said, heading back to the kitchen.

  At the door he found a young man in a uniform, clutching a large bouquet of red roses, a bottle of champagne and a sheaf of envelopes.

  ‘This stuff has just arrived on the desk downstairs,’ he said. ‘There’s a few others, mind you. The post’s always heavy on St Valentine’s Day, but the others are nothing to Miss Lincoln’s. It’s the same every year.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take them.’

  The roses were of the very best, heavy with perfume, clearly flown in expensively from some warmer location. He managed to read the card.

  To the one and only, the girl who transformed the world.

  He returned to the main room just as she appeared from the kitchen.

  ‘You seem to be very popular,’ he said.

  He was stunned by the look that came over her face as she saw the roses. Her smile was tender, brilliant, beautiful with love.

  ‘Who are they from?’ he couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘What’s the name on the card?’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘There’s no name,’ he said, and could have kicked himself for revealing that he’d read it.

  ‘Well, if he wants to keep his identity a secret,’ she said carelessly, ‘who am I to say otherwise?’

  ‘There’s a bottle of champagne and several cards.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She took them and laid them aside.

  ‘You’re not even going to read them?’

  She shrugged. ‘What’s the need? None of them will be signed.’

  ‘Then how will you know who sent them?’