The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress by Sharon Kendrick Page B

that it?’
    ‘What did you expect—that I’d be leaping for joy having been blackmailed out here?’
    ‘Don’t be melodramatic, piccola —you could have easily stayed at home.’
    ‘And turn down the chance of a pay-off and early exit from your life?’ she challenged hotly.
    ‘Why, Angie,’ he murmured. ‘And here was me thinking that you were here because you couldn’t resist my body.’
    Glaring at him, she glanced around. ‘Shh! Somebody might hear!’
    He shrugged as he took the suitcase from her unprotesting fingers. ‘We’re speaking English,’ he remonstrated silkily. ‘And we’re in Italy—where men and women tend to be less uptight about such matters.’
    ‘Oh, how you twist things round to suit yourself!’ she retorted crossly. ‘One minute you’re advocating harsh rules that virgin women should marry older men—and the next minute you’re telling me that Italy is liberal about lovers.’
    ‘Ah, but that’s the difference between lovers and prospective marriage partners,’ he murmured flippantly.
    Reinforcing her lowly status, the careless remark hurt more than it should have done and Angie dropped her passport into her handbag and zipped it up, determined to change the subject. ‘What did your sister say when she knew I was coming?’
    ‘She’s delighted—if a little distracted—but I guess that’s the prerogative of brides-to-be. Shall we go?’
    Angie had half expected to see another chauffeur-driven car—since that was usually Riccardo’s preferred mode of transport—hoping that a third person might dilute some of the undeniable tension between the two of them. But her wish was not to be granted since an airport valet brought round a sleek, scarlet statement of a car which she realised that Riccardo was planning on driving himself. She swallowed. Just her and him. Alone together in a confined space, while her nerve endings were screaming out their heated response to his proximity.
    Her pulse skittered as he pulled away from the kerb and the powerful car began heading out towards a line of mountains. Determinedly, she stared out of the window—afraid that he might read some of the conflict of emotions in her face. Or worse, the naked desire in her eyes.
    Yet despite her misgivings, she soon began to relax a little—lulled by the sheer beauty of the green countryside which flashed past and by the smooth progress of the car.
    ‘It’s amazing,’ she said softly.
    ‘My driving, you mean?’
    ‘No.’ She laughed, in spite of her nerves. ‘The countryside. The country itself.’
    ‘But of course. It is the most beautiful country in the world,’ he said. ‘We have sleek cities and ancient villages. Stunning beaches and rich agriculture. Look up there and see the pure white marble which streaks the mountains like virgin snow, Angie. That is the same marble which Michelangelo used to fashion his David—which is the greatest sculpture in the world.’
    She heard the pride and fervour which had deepened his voice—a side of Riccardo she’d never seen before, and one which was oddly stirring. Had she been naïve in hoping that prolonged exposure to this man might remove her longings for him? What if the reverse were true—her passion for him growing while Riccardo grew bored with her?
    Surely here was a lesson to be learned. That she must protect her emotions at all costs. She felt the car swing off the main road and then turned to him as they bumped their way up a lonely little track and came to a halt. ‘This isn’t where you live,’ she said slowly as she heard the engine die.
    ‘No.’
    The confusion in her voice was genuine. ‘Then what are we doing in the middle of—?’
    ‘This.’ He pulled her into his arms and stared down at her—a fierce dark blaze in his eyes. ‘What I’ve been wanting to do since I first saw you walk towards me at the airport with that misleading butter-wouldn’t-melt look on your face. To kiss you, Angie.’
    It occurred to her