Napoleon’s sister Pauline relaxing in the deep tub as she gloated over her brother’s conquest of Italy. Despite its delicate colour scheme, somehow the rooms possessed an air of sensuality that reminded Charley of her own awkwardness. This was a bedroom for a woman confident in her sexuality—a purring, sensual seductress of a woman, who wore silks and satins and spent long, lazy summer afternoons lying in the arms of her lover.
Was this where Raphael brought his lovers? Sophisticated, knowing women who—Quickly Charley clamped down on thoughts she had no right to have, and which were an intrusion on Raphael’s privacy that surely shamed her just as much as the betraying ache which had now started to pulse through her lower body. She must not let herself feel like this. She must not and she would not, Charley assuredherself as she made her way back downstairs—just in time to see a small plump man stepping out of the lift to shake Raphael’s hand.
‘Charlotte, your timing is excellent,’ Raphael told her. ‘Come and meet my friend, Paulo Franchetti. It is Paulo who has acted as go-between for us with Niccolo Volpari.’
Impossible for her to pull away when Raphael reached out to take hold of her arm and draw her towards them.
‘Buongiorno, Charlotte.’ Paulo greeted her with a smile and a handshake.
Fifteen minutes later, after a brief discussion about the garden, Paulo left. Flicking back the cuff of his pale blue shirt, Raphael studied his watch and then told her, ‘Soon we shall have some lunch, but first there is something else we have to do.’
Since he was already striding towards the main door to the hallway, plainly expecting her to follow him, there was nothing else Charley could do.
The moment he opened the door bright sunlight streamed in, making Charley blink.
‘This way,’ Raphael directed her, putting his hand beneath her elbow and taking the outside edge of the pavement. Somehow, almost miraculously, the crowd seemed to part to allow them through, and within a few short yards Raphael came to a halt in front of the plate glass windows of the store of an internationally famous Italian designer of women’s clothes.
‘You will need a working wardrobe commensurate with your position,’ Raphael informed her. ‘We may as well deal with that now, whilst we are here in Florence.’
Charley looked at him.
‘I have plenty of clothes at home that my sisters can send out to me.’
Raphael raised one eyebrow in a way that made her face burn.
‘Let me guess: these clothes that you have at home are dull, plain garments that are two sizes too big for you? Si? They will not be suitable for your new role. You will be dealing with artists and craftsmen who value beauty—Italian men,’ he emphasised. ‘It is vitally important, since you are representing me, that they respect you and recognise that you understand the importance of quality craftsmanship. To the master stonemason the correct drape of fabric against a woman’s body is as important to his artistic eye as the correct choosing of a piece of stone, and that applies to all those with whom you will be dealing. In addition to that there will be many occasions on which I shall require you to accompany me to meetings and business dinners. Tonight, for instance, I do not want…’
‘Me to show you up with my dull plain clothes?’ Charley finished for him. ‘Well, in that case I’m surprised you’ve brought me here instead of…of some elegant clotheshorse.’
‘Why does the thought of wearing beautiful clothes fill you with such panic? Most women…’
‘I am not most women, and it does not fill me with panic,’ Charley denied. But of course he was right. She couldn’t tell him, though, that she was afraid of beautiful clothes because she knew they would only underline how unworthy she was of wearing them.
‘What I was actually going to say,’ Raphael continued, ‘was that most women would wish to be dressed appropriately
Was this where Raphael brought his lovers? Sophisticated, knowing women who—Quickly Charley clamped down on thoughts she had no right to have, and which were an intrusion on Raphael’s privacy that surely shamed her just as much as the betraying ache which had now started to pulse through her lower body. She must not let herself feel like this. She must not and she would not, Charley assuredherself as she made her way back downstairs—just in time to see a small plump man stepping out of the lift to shake Raphael’s hand.
‘Charlotte, your timing is excellent,’ Raphael told her. ‘Come and meet my friend, Paulo Franchetti. It is Paulo who has acted as go-between for us with Niccolo Volpari.’
Impossible for her to pull away when Raphael reached out to take hold of her arm and draw her towards them.
‘Buongiorno, Charlotte.’ Paulo greeted her with a smile and a handshake.
Fifteen minutes later, after a brief discussion about the garden, Paulo left. Flicking back the cuff of his pale blue shirt, Raphael studied his watch and then told her, ‘Soon we shall have some lunch, but first there is something else we have to do.’
Since he was already striding towards the main door to the hallway, plainly expecting her to follow him, there was nothing else Charley could do.
The moment he opened the door bright sunlight streamed in, making Charley blink.
‘This way,’ Raphael directed her, putting his hand beneath her elbow and taking the outside edge of the pavement. Somehow, almost miraculously, the crowd seemed to part to allow them through, and within a few short yards Raphael came to a halt in front of the plate glass windows of the store of an internationally famous Italian designer of women’s clothes.
‘You will need a working wardrobe commensurate with your position,’ Raphael informed her. ‘We may as well deal with that now, whilst we are here in Florence.’
Charley looked at him.
‘I have plenty of clothes at home that my sisters can send out to me.’
Raphael raised one eyebrow in a way that made her face burn.
‘Let me guess: these clothes that you have at home are dull, plain garments that are two sizes too big for you? Si? They will not be suitable for your new role. You will be dealing with artists and craftsmen who value beauty—Italian men,’ he emphasised. ‘It is vitally important, since you are representing me, that they respect you and recognise that you understand the importance of quality craftsmanship. To the master stonemason the correct drape of fabric against a woman’s body is as important to his artistic eye as the correct choosing of a piece of stone, and that applies to all those with whom you will be dealing. In addition to that there will be many occasions on which I shall require you to accompany me to meetings and business dinners. Tonight, for instance, I do not want…’
‘Me to show you up with my dull plain clothes?’ Charley finished for him. ‘Well, in that case I’m surprised you’ve brought me here instead of…of some elegant clotheshorse.’
‘Why does the thought of wearing beautiful clothes fill you with such panic? Most women…’
‘I am not most women, and it does not fill me with panic,’ Charley denied. But of course he was right. She couldn’t tell him, though, that she was afraid of beautiful clothes because she knew they would only underline how unworthy she was of wearing them.
‘What I was actually going to say,’ Raphael continued, ‘was that most women would wish to be dressed appropriately
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