“I find you entrancing.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright

“I find you entrancing.”

Luciano murmured, “Make no mistake about it. If you stay, you must take responsibility for encouraging me.” His eyes gleamed. “I’m aroused every time I’m near you. I can’t go on like that, can I? I’ll be a nervous wreck,” he said disarmingly.

“This is part of your ploy to make me go!” said Debbie. “Everyone can find self-control if they try,” she mumbled primly, wishing she could find a little more herself.

“Not always. Sometimes—” Luciano’s sculptured mouth arched sensually “—sometimes our passionate natures rebel against being held under control. That’s what has happened to me, to you.”

Childhood in Portsmouth, England, meant grubby knees, flying pigtails and happiness for SARA WOOD. Poverty drove her from typist and seaside landlady to teacher until writing finally gave her the freedom her Romany blood craved. Happily married, she has two handsome sons: Richard is married, calm, dependable, drives tankers, Simon is a roamer—silversmith, roofer, welder, always with beautiful girls. Sara lives in the Cornish countryside. Her glamorous writing life alternates with her passion for gardening, which allows her to be carefree and grubby again!

A Forbidden Seduction

Sara Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SABOTAGE! thought Debbie immediately. Another nail in the coffin! Anger narrowed her big, soulful grey eyes beneath her sooty lashes to nothing more than a hint of gleaming charcoal. Why did trouble come when they were least able to handle it?

‘I can’t believe it! Both Penny and Judy have left us in the lurch?’ she asked incredulously.

She stalked across the kitchen floor with such vehemence that her curvaceous figure quivered with indignation and her flaxen braid swung like a bell-rope. With quick, deft movements she shed her jacket, washed her hands, and poured herself a reassuring cup of tea.

‘Without the common decency to face us,’ complained her mother bitterly, waving a piece of blue notepaper. “This was stuffed in the letter-box. They’ve had a better offer. I ask you!’

Fuming, Debbie read the brief apology. ‘It must have come after seven-thirty, when I left to take Stefano to nursery school,’ she decided after a moment. ‘What a blow.’

Her mother sniffed her disapproval of such disloyalty in their delivery girls and picked up the telephone receiver decisively. ‘I’ve been ringing round for replacements. No luck so far but I’ll have another go. I must say, those girls might have given us more notice.’

Debbie saw that the sniff covered up a secret despair and she wanted to throw her arms around her mother and hug away that tight, haunted look. Instead, she reached for an apron and tied it around her waist. Her mother would want the situation to be played down. East Enders were brought up to be tough, not to whine in a corner when things went wrong.

‘Pen and Jude are hard up, like us, Mum,’ she said with resignation. ‘Who can blame them if they’ve had a lucrative bribe to work elsewhere?’

‘I do!’ grumbled her mother, dialling the next number on the list of agencies in front of her. ‘It’s going to be hell today!’

That could be an understatement, thought Debbie as she collected the basket of freshly baked bread. Even if they did find someone else to deliver the lunch boxes, it would take twice as long as usual. ‘Try for a couple of kitchen-hands,’ she suggested. ‘One of us can do the deliveries.’

They were teetering on the brink again, trying not to topple into the abyss. Putting the loaves through the slicer, she reflected moodily that they couldn’t keep on coping with one crisis after another. They’d met so many obstacles lately: false orders, wild-goose chases to phantom addresses, customers lost to competitors and mystifying complaints about the freshness of the foodsomething they prided themselves on.

‘They’ll ring back if they find anyone,’ said her mother, replacing the receiver and sounding grim. ‘In the meantime, it’s action stations!’

Debbie frowned. ‘I wish I hadn’t hung around the nursery chatting to the mothers.’ She lifted boxes of fillings from the fridge and lined them up on the counter. ‘Sorry, Mum. I just like to stay till Stefano is settled.’

‘Course you do, love.’ Her mother picked up a large chef’s knife, briskly sliced up a heap of tomatoes and slid them into a dish. ‘Steffy’s your priority, I’ve told you before.’ The blade hovered uncertainly over a sweet-smelling tomato and Debbie suddenly noticed how pinched her mother’s face looked. She was dreadfully worried, she thought with a sudden pang. More than the other times when they’d been in trouble. The knife resumed a fiercely concentrated bout of slicing as her mother muttered, ‘He needs one of his parents to make him feel special.’

Debbie flushed at the dig. ‘Gio adores Stefano!’ she protested, struggling with her conscience and defending her ever absent husband. Gio had never hit it off with her mother. There had been a lot of rows. And his being a travelling salesman meant that he spent long, long periods away with little to show for it. Times were bad, he said. But her mother often berated him because he didn’t contribute much to the family kitty.

‘Steffy is a symbol of his virility and someone to play with when you’re too busy,’ said her mother bluntly. ‘And you? Does he adore you?’

She couldn’t answer that, because although her marriage was a sham she’d felt she had to keep it going for Steffy’s sake. So to everyone in the family she always pretended that there was nothing wrong between herself and Gio. Despite the fact that it had virtually ended less than a year after their wedding-day. And by that time she had been pregnant and desperate to make a stable background for her child. It had been a mistake, she knew that now. And when Gio came home they’d have to talk about ending the farce.

‘It’s not Gio’s fault that he has to work away from home so much,’ she reasoned, ducking the question. But a little voice inside her said, Yes, it is. He could come home more often—he just didn’t want to. And to be honest she preferred it that way. Her marriage had to be ended. They couldn’t go on like this.

Her mother’s mouth tightened. ‘Your uncle offered him that job down the market. Better money, better hours. And he could have set you and Steffy up in a nice little flat instead of the one room upstairs.’

‘Not now, Mum,’ she begged uncomfortably. ‘Don’t let’s quarrel over him. There’s too much to do.’

The phone rang and she waited expectantly. But it was clear from her mother’s gloomy expression that the agency had no one to spare.

‘It’s that big convention.’ Her mother banged the receiver down irritably. ‘Anyone who happens to have two hands has been hired. So that’s it. What are we going to do?’

‘Fight, of course!’ said Debbie briskly. ‘Come on. We’re used to managing on our own.’ She’d had enough practice, she thought wryly, with Gio playing a nonexistent role in supporting her and Steffy. She smiled encouragingly at her mother. They’d do it. They had to.

Her mother gave a watery but unconvincing smile in return. Debbie grabbed a carving knife and controlled her frustration by thinly slicing a side of gammon while she thought how best to cope.

She was sick of hiring delivery girls and teaching them the job—the charm, perpetual smiles, the need for speed and safety combined, the low-level pleasant but persuasive selling techniques—only to have someone offer them more lucrative employment elsewhere.

This was the third time it had happened. And the sandwich business was so competitive that it would happen again and again till they couldn’t stand the strain any longer. Or till her mother keeled over with the stress—like last year.

Oh, God! Debbie thought, the horror sweeping through her in waves. The memory of her mother’s heart attack was still horribly vivid in her mind. Life couldn’t be that cruel. Not again. Not ever again.

A sideways glance told her that her mother’s hands were twisting and knotting around one another as if they might wring out the trouble from their lives as easily as squeezing water from a towel. So Debbie smiled with as much reassurance as she could muster, trying to make light of the appalling situation.

‘It’ll be a rush, but we can do it,’ she said with commendable conviction. When faced with an almost impossible task, you just started it and kept on going till it was finished. Sounded simple, put like that. If only! ‘I know this was to have been my afternoon off, but I can work all day today. You’ll need help with the clearing up later. They’re having a puppet show at the nursery this afternoon, so Steffy will be perfectly content.’

‘We said you had to spend as much time with him as—’

‘I know,’ Debbie said gently. ‘But this is an emergency. Steffy will be asleep half the time I’m working—he’ll hardly notice. I’ll call in later to tell them and give him a hug. OK?

‘Don’t worry, Mum. We’ll leave our oldest, most sympathetic customers till last, just in case we get dreadfully behind. Right, let’s get started; customers are waiting. Better get the show on the road. Who’s going to do what?’ she asked bossily. ‘One to cut and butter, one to dash about the City—’

‘Don’t look at me!’ said her mother hastily. ‘I’m not driving that van through central London—I haven’t driven for ten years. You’ve got to be the delivery girl for today. You know you’ve got no choice.’

‘OK, I’ll do it.’ Debbie flicked back her long braid with a sigh and untied her apron before checking the boxes by the door. ‘Are these the first orders to go?’

‘Yes, love. But you’ve forgotten something,’ ventured her mother delicately. When Debbie looked blank, her mother grinned broadly and said, ‘The costume?’

‘Costume.’ Very slowly, the penny dropped. ‘Oh, the costume!’ Two pairs of wide eyes swivelled to the froths of nonsense hanging under large polythene covers. A doubtful silence fell. Secretly appalled at the thought of wearing anything so...sweet, Debbie playfully lifted one of the dresses from its hanger and held it against her mother’s skinny body. ‘Suits moddom a treat,’ she simpered, in the tones of an adenoidal salesgirl.

They both dissolved into laughter and soon they were clutching each other, giggling hysterically. It was better than crying, she thought, upset as she always was by her mother’s fragility. It was like embracing a bony sparrow.

‘No, it doesn’t! I’d frighten the horses,’ spluttered her mother, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Dear Debs. You are a tonic.’

Debbie beamed with pleasure. If necessary, she’d don a red nose and do comic falls to make her mother laugh. The dress was worth wearing if it meant her mother could be left to cope in a good humour.

‘Let’s hope our customers think so too,’ she said drily. ‘I’m going to look a right idiot in this. Did I really send Penny and Judy out looking like demented Miss Muffets?’ she marvelled, flicking a frivolous puff sleeve as her mother did a solemn twirl with the dress against her aproned front.

‘You’re exaggerating!’ scolded her mother. ‘It’s not that bad an outfit. Rather pretty, really—sprigged muslin, and really demure. Pen and Jude loved wearing their costumes.’

‘But they were drama students, Mum,’ Debbie pointed out wryly.

A knot of nerves began to tie itself up in her stomach. She knew fate would have her wearing one of the costumes in a few minutes. Sprigged muslin wasn’t her scene; she was too tall and big-boned and her legs were so long that the dress would hang just below her knees instead of a prim calf-length.

OK, it fitted the image of her mother’s very English sandwich business—the plain, honest food, the big slabs of bread pudding, hunks of home-made pies and cakes that made City financiers’ knees go weak—but would the English country girl style look ridiculous on her?

The soft, floaty skirts with masses of petticoats had looked attractive on Penny and Jude, and had brought in the punters and made people smile sentimentally on a grey London day. But she dreaded dressing up and going out on the streets of London in anything other than the inconspicuous clothes she usually wore. The delivery girls had loved their job but they were extroverts and Debbie knew she wouldn’t have their chutzpah.

Torn between speed being of the essence and a sudden desire to crawl under a stone, she blinked at the pretty skirt, with its layers of stiffened broderie anglaise and taffeta petticoats beneath, and shuddered at the ghastly prospect of striding through central London looking like Bo-beep. People would stare. The knots inside her tightened.

‘It’s very pretty and you’ll look wonderful,’ said her mother with unusual firmness, affectionately tweaking Debbie’s thick braid. ‘You don’t get out much. Good grief, you don’t get out at all! About time you wore something nice and showed yourself off a bit.’

At the vote of confidence, Debbie gave her a quick but infinitely loving hug. ‘Could be fun,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Shut your eyes and think of England,’ suggested her mother with a smile.

‘I’d hit a bus!’ retorted Debbie drily, slipping off her apron and dropping it on a chair. Suddenly she had a new goal in life—to find out who was trying to cut them out of business, and make them walk up and down Oxford Street in fancy dress. ‘OK, let’s go for it!’ she cried with a light laugh. ‘Give the nursery a ring for me, would you?’

With commendable enthusiasm, she scooped up both dresses and dashed into the back room of the small business premises to select whichever outfit fitted the best. At last she was able to vent her impotent anger in the violent way she dragged off her blue stretch trousers, the old blouse and baggy cardigan with its much washed and wavy hemline.

The softness that characterised her usual expression had vanished completely now. In its place was a tight, shaking fury. ‘Whoever you are taking my business away,’ she vowed quietly, the words shooting with soft venom through her neat white teeth, ‘I’ll get it back. Every customer. Any way I can!’

She wasn’t born under the sign of Taurus for nothing. Her easygoing and loving nature hid a bull-headed determination. And she wouldn’t let the business go under—that could kill her mother.

Money worries had a tendency to take over their whole lives till that was all they could think about. They were surviving at the moment—nothing else. Darn it! If only they were rich! They often planned what to do if they won a million pounds. She’d love her mother to stop working.

Her dove-grey eyes darkened and her plush, sweet mouth took on a stubborn strength. They’d been struggling to keep their heads above water ever since her father had died nine years ago, trapped in the cab of his lorry on the M25 after a multi-car pile-up because some idiot had fallen asleep at the wheel.

Her lovely father. How much she missed him. How much she’d longed in the lonely days of her marriage to have a husband as kind, as thoughtful, as caring and responsible. In the pock-marked mirror she caught sight of her pale-as-milk face with its charcoal-fired eyes fringed by rapidly blinking sooty lashes. Slowly she straightened, fighting the tears.

The cycle of bad luck had to end. Who cared about wearing some stupid costume when there was so much at stake? She’d go out and win more customers, she vowed, and find the chutzpah from somewhere.

With her tall and womanly body naked in all its workhoned, creamy-skinned glory, she stepped into the frilly briefs and snatched up the larger of the two outfits to slide down the zip at the back.

The material whispered over the silky gleam of her skin, giving her an alien and luxurious feeling as it glided upwards. Letting the dress sit in soft folds around her waist, she realised she’d have to dispense with her bra because the dress had been cleverly cut and boned by her aunt to lift and separate without recourse to any bra. And lift and separate it did, shaping beautifully around her generous bosom and startling her with the effect. The only mercy was that the neckline was decent, with enough broderie anglaise to hide the upper swell of her breasts. But their existence was only too plain.

Debbie blinked at the hot-cheeked woman who bore only a passing resemblance to herself. The outfit was really quite flattering; but she didn’t want that because she hated people noticing her.

‘Oh, boy.’ she groaned, appalled to think that her figure was so clearly on display. ‘I can’t do it,’ she muttered in growing panic.

‘Debbie?’ yelled her mother. ‘People are demanding their orders.’

‘Oh, dam!’ she cursed softly. Hastily she tried on the replica eighteenth-century shoes, with their criss-cross ribbon laces and Louis heel. A bit tight, but bearable. ‘I’m on my way,’ she yelled back, bowing to the inevitable and fastening the huge bow of the little apron that snuggled into the sensuous dip of her waist.

‘Here I am,’ she cried brightly, all rustling taffeta and frothing petticoats. And despite her inner qualms she brazened it out for her mother’s sake, striking a theatrical pose in the doorway. ‘Voilà! What do you think? Am I sweet and countryish?’

‘You look lovely,’ said her mother fondly. ‘Stunning. The dress does a lot more for you than it did for Penny.’

Debbie looked down at her bosom in alarm. ‘It’s not too obvious, is it?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No. I wouldn’t let you out if it were,’ reassured her mother. ‘You just look beautiful, darling. Except for your hair. It’s all wrong.’

‘Mum...oh, Mum!’

Debbie suffered the unpicking of the slippery silk braid and allowed her mother to tease out the rippling waves till her hair hung in a great springy fall down her back. It didn’t seem very ‘country girl’ to her, but time was going on and she didn’t dare stop to argue. Besides, it might serve to hide her face if she blushed when people stared.

A quick check of the map, then, ‘Cannon Street and Cheapside, here I come,’ she said cheerfully, picking up the laden baskets. ‘You know where the list is for the other orders, Mum. The cakes will go in the oven at the usual time. I’ll be back for the next batch of deliveries if I’m not arrested for frightening horses.’ She grinned. ‘Here we go. Is this going to be fun!’

No, she thought morosely, it’s not. Dreading the coming day, she drove as close to her first delivery point as possible, parked, and hesitantly ventured out, the taffeta petticoats sounding irritatingly noisy to her sensitive ears, as if she was deliberately drawing attention to herself.

This was ridiculous, she thought grimly, suffering the double takes of several passers-by as she set off. She was having to make a spectacle of herself because some mean-minded competitor was acting sneakily. Her teeth jammed together in rage. Wait till she found out who it was—she’d grill than and serve them on toast to selected customers!

Sheer anger kept her working that morning. The journeys through the streets of London became something of a nightmare. People had seemed to think that because she was in costume she must be some footloose and fancy-free exhibitionist—despite the demure impression the outfit must have given. Soon she’d collected four invitations to dinner, three to the nearest beefburger bar and two other suggestions of the kind she’d never expected to receive now that she was a married woman—kind of married, she amended.

Remembering she was a moving advert for her business, she’d smiled sweetly and dropped a leaflet into every leering guy’s car, or stuffed one into his pocket, when she’d wanted to scowl and offer knuckle sandwiches all round instead of beef and home-cared gammon. This wasn’t what she wanted to do with her life!

But this was her last customer: nice old Mr Porter, one of the first people she’d ever canvassed. She smiled with joyous relief as she distributed lunch packs around the office. Slowly it dawned on her that the staff seemed tenser than at the office conference a month before, when she and her mother had done the catering. There was fear in the atmosphere. Very odd.

The lift took her to the penthouse suite. The doors slid open and she gingerly walked across the midnight-blue marble floor. Midnight-blue! Her eyes widened. Where was the beige industrial-weight carpet? Mr Porter had transformed the place!

Awed, she swept into the thickly carpeted reception-room which was luxuriously decorated in soft greens and blues, with enormous emerald and sapphire armchairs and huge displays of country flowers in shades of gold and orange. Even the paintings of autumnal English landscapes harmonised perfectly and the music in the background was sensual and seductive, smooth and easy on the ear. Stunning.

‘Morning, Annie!’ she said cheerfully to the secretary who was guarding the entrance to Mr Porter’s office. ‘I’ve got lunch for Mr Porter. One home-cured gammon, one smoked fish, slab of cheddar and one bread pudding. What’s happened to him? The office is wonderful—and he’s even changed his choice of food...’

Her voice trailed away, her surprised gaze fixed on the panelled door of the managing director’s office. Hugh Porter’s name had gone. In its place was a new name: Luciano Colleoni.

‘That’s my surname!’ she cried in astonishment. ‘How extraordinary. It’s a remarkable coincidence; my husband doesn’t have any family, you see. But what a surprise.’

‘Hugh’s gone!’ said Annie, stating the obvious in a conspiratorial whisper.

Before Debbie could ask any questions, the intercom buzzed and an irritable and very deep, alluringly accented voice said, ‘Where’s my lunch, Miss Howard? It’s late.’

‘The delivery girl’s just arrived, Mr Colleoni.’

‘Send her in,’ he grated in the ominous tones of a man organising a firing-squad.

Annie shot a doubtful look at Debbie’s costume. So did Debbie. ‘Um... I can bring your lunch in, Mr Colleoni—’

‘The girl!’ rasped Colleoni.

Annie raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t be put off,’ she whispered. ‘I’m afraid he’s been in a filthy mood ever since he had his post.’

‘Fear no longer. I think I’m guaranteed to give him a smile,’ said Debbie wryly, tweaking her pinny.

Curious to meet the new boss, she knocked on the door and walked meekly into the huge and elegantly decorated room whose buttermilk and moss-greens screamed good taste. She came to a respectful halt.

Sitting at a new and richly polished mahogany desk was a man with dark, almost blue-black hair and eyes that would cut metal. Dark eyes, like Gio’s. Perhaps Sicilian, like him too—but without her husband’s smooth charm and easy smile. This man didn’t look as if he knew what a smile was.

Not surprisingly, perhaps, he was frowning at her appearance, the broad shoulders in the beautifully cut black pin-striped suit rising a good inch or two in what she interpreted as the weary resignation of a man who had seen it all and appeared to be reluctantly seeing it again. There was a similarly visible swell of the sharp white shirt and the royal blue tie too, and the atmosphere in the penthouse office dropped by several degrees. Oh, Lord, she thought, a man of unimpeachable taste; he didn’t approve of fancy dress during office hours.

Debbie suddenly felt very self-conscious and very foolish. But she smiled her sweetest smile and approached the desk, wishing that nice Mr Porter were sitting there instead of the bad-tempered dark ogre who was eyeing her outfit as if he was afraid she’d whip out a snake and do some impromptu dance with it.

‘What the hell are you supposed to be?’ asked Colleoni abruptly.

Debbie swallowed the urge to giggle at his reaction. ‘An olde Englishe wench, I think,’ she said cheerfully.

‘I had my doubts about the costume suiting me too,’ she admitted with engaging honesty. His frostiness didn’t dissolve by one iota as she pressed on. ‘I must apologise for the late delivery...’ she began, hoping to placate him.

‘I said twelve-thirty.’

He radiated confidence and authority—in the way he sat, the way he commanded the room, the way he spoke, his voice very Sicilian in the way it dropped at the end of his sentences as if he’d said something that was not to be questioned. It made Debbie feel like a schoolgirl who’d been hauled in front of the headmaster for some grave misdemeanour. And she had a wicked urge to hang her head sullenly, swing her body from side to side and mutter, Yes sir, sorry sir; it won’t happen again, sir.

But she remembered that she had to be charming at all times and so she willed herself to approach the forbidding area between her noisily rustling skirt and the desk. She placed the box on his pristine blotter and kept the pleasant smile firmly in place.

‘Both of our delivery girls were pinched by a rival,’ she explained calmly.

His black brow had arced up sardonically because her cockney accent had become more pronounced—perhaps in contrast to his classy tones, she had decided it would be best to be herself. He’d see through any attempt she made to sound refined.

‘I’m not surprised, if they were wearing such revealing costumes.’

Debbie blinked, wondering if he’d made a joke, and decided he was far too po-faced to do any such thing. ‘By pinched I meant that our girls were lured away, given alternative employment,’ she explained, and checked herself to see if the broderie anglaise insert had come adrift from her bosom. All was in place. ‘It’s not revealing,’ she protested mildly.

‘It is from where I’m sitting.’

His eyes wandered critically down her body, inch by inch, and she felt the tightness of the material increase, proving his point.

She blushed and felt an urge to wrap her arms around herself defensively. ‘Well, it wasn’t made for me.’

‘I guessed.’

‘You’re lucky you got any food at all,’ she confided. ‘I’ve been breaking the world speed record to make sure you didn’t miss out.’ She beamed.

He didn’t look impressed or grateful. ‘The world speed record wasn’t fast enough for me,’ he drawled sarcastically.

‘Oh. Mr Porter wouldn’t have minded.’

‘I’m not Mr Porter.’

‘No. He was bald.’ She flashed him an innocent grin to dispel his perfectly reasonable suspicion that she was sending him up. ‘What’s happened to him?’ she asked in genuine concern. ‘He’s not been sacked by the board, has he?’

The man was clearly taken aback, as if people—especially Bo-Peeps in aprons—didn’t normally talk to him so frankly. ‘Golden handshake. I bought the bank,’ he said drily.

His eyes seemed to be everywhere, appraising her with the confidence of someone who expected to be found attractive. And his arrogant gaze lingered particularly on Debbie’s straining bosom. It felt hot and prickly. She was so uncomfortable that she decided she’d better leave.

‘I hope Mr Porter got a good solid handshake from you,’ she said, longing to find a human spark in the man. ‘He was a darling. I’d like to think of him on some desert island, swigging gin and swatting flies.’ The glittering black eyes hadn’t even flickered. She decided to give up on him. ‘Well, my feet are killing me, so I’ll be off.’

‘Wait.’ The word was softly spoken but carried so much authority that it halted her in mid-stride as she headed for the door. And although her back was turned to him she felt his eyes burning into her spine and doing funny things to her nerves. ‘I want to check the food first,’ he murmured.

Stifling a groan, she returned to his desk and, carefully moving aside a stack of mail and a half-opened parcel, patiently undid the string on the box to reveal the contents. ‘It’s all fresh,’ she said brightly. ‘I baked the bread this morning.’

‘You?’ he said in frank disbelief, fingering a fountain-pen thoughtfully.

‘At dawn,’ she retorted, widening innocent eyes.

‘While the mists were lifting from the Thames and the sky lightened from rose to saffron?’

Was that sarcasm? She wasn’t sure—the dark face was deadpan, the eyes so intense and magnetic that she had to make a real effort to drag her gaze away. ‘Not quite. While the dustmen banged about outside and next door’s cat yowled in the yard,’ she corrected him with a wry grin.

‘Well, don’t bother on my account in future,’ he said, apparently not possessing a sense of humour. The hard male mouth hadn’t as much as quivered in amusement. He poked about in the box, a faint curl to his upper lip. Then he looked up and met her concerned gaze with a cold, hostile stare. ‘I’m re-assigning the catering to another firm.’

Debbie’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘You’re what? Why?’ she asked in dismay. ‘The food’s terrific—’

‘I don’t have to give a reason,’ he snapped irritably.

‘I think you do!’ she cried in protest, deciding to stick her neck out and get to the bottom of Colleoni’s brushoff. ‘I need to know what we’ve done wrong—we could put it right.’

The black eyes flashed a warning. ‘I’m busy,’ he said curtly. ‘I don’t discuss decisions.’

The strong nose had lifted with the haughtiness of a Roman emperor and Debbie suddenly felt she’d been relegated to a servant level. ‘Particularly with delivery girls?’ she asked quietly.

His glacial stare never wavered but she felt the scorn pouring from him like an acid river. ‘Out,’ he grated through perfect white teeth.

He bent his glossy head and scowled at some papers in front of him, effectively dismissing her. She was stunned. They needed the business to pay the gas bill. Her body trembled at the prospect of more debts, more arrangements to pay instalments from a rapidly diminishing income. She thought of how the news would affect her mother and steeled herself to face him, since she had nothing to lose and a lot to win. She stood her ground.

‘If you’re not happy with Bo-beep invading your offices, we’ll deliver wearing anything you like,’ she said submissively, trying to keep her voice level and mask the betraying wobble. When he raised his eyes and shot her a baleful, end-of-my-tether look, she bit her lip. ‘A nice ladylike outfit.’ Twin set and pearls, she almost suggested in defiant hysteria, but didn’t dare.

‘The costume’s not the problem.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she cried hopefully. ‘Then you can’t fault the food. Please let us keep you on our books,’ she begged. ‘We have your directors’ lunch next week and food to do for the office outing next month—’

‘Not any longer, you don’t. Shut the door behind you: The papers were treated to his baleful scowl again. He started crossing out whole sections of some kind of agreement, his gold fountain-pen digging hard into the thick paper and making a loud scratching noise in the silence.

Debbie was appalled at the injustice. It was so unfair! Her mouth tightened ominously. It had been a hard day and he’d made it harder. ‘I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. I hope you enjoy your lunch and change your mind,’ she said politely, and made for the door before she lost her temper and taught him his manners.

Preoccupied with the loss of the business, she flung open the door and hurried out, her head down. There was a cry of warning from Annie and too late she saw an advancing redhead in the briefest of high-cut shorts and bra which had apparently been made from tiny scraps of the American flag. Her mind registered for a split-second that the redhead had a basket of sandwiches over her arm and then the two of them collided, collapsing on to the office floor.

‘Oh, Lord!’ groaned Debbie. She flicked away a mouthful of stiffly lacquered hair and made a face at the disgusting taste. ‘I wish I were rich. I’d never be here,’ she muttered fervently under her breath, cautiously working out which were her legs in the general jumble of limbs. ‘I think,’ she said tartly to the woman, ‘you’re trespassing on my patch.’

‘Basta! Get up, both of you!’ roared Colleoni’s voice from the doorway.

With another groan of dismay, Debbie reached back to steady herself, her hand coming into contact with the frills of her briefs which were lavishly exposed to public view. Scarlet with shame, she flipped down the hated petticoats and skirt as far as she could to restore her dignity and methodically set about undoing herself from the cursing redhead. Her eyes widened in shock at the breadth and coarseness of the woman’s vocabulary.

Two big male hands suddenly cupped beneath Debbie’s armpits and she felt herself lifted up into the air, a light scrap of thistledown instead of a well-built mother of a two-year-old. And then she was set down on her feet again.

Her head jerked around. Level with her eyes was the unmistakable spotless white shirt and the broad knot of Colleoni’s royal blue tie. Since she was above average height, she realised that he must be unusually tall but embarrassment stopped her from looking up at him.

‘I wish the floor would open up and swallow me,’ she muttered miserably to his tie.

“That can be arranged,’ he grated grimly stepping back as if she’d contaminate him with some foul disease.

Leaving her to squirm, he reached down and courteously helped the redhead to her feet, and was rewarded by a breathtaking display of femininity as the woman nervously clutched at the shelf that was Colleoni’s broad, pin-striped shoulder. Debbie, however, wasn’t mollified by the pathetic whimpering emerging from the pouting red lips.

‘I want a word with her,’ she said menacingly.

‘Save me!’ The woman cringed and clung, but didn’t forget to thrust out her ample chest in a way that threatened to split the stars and stripes forever. ‘Protect me,’ she implored. “That woman’s mad!’

Debbie noticed that Colleoni was ignoring the redhead completely and became aware that his frowning gaze had focused with a deep concentration somewhere around her breastbone. For a moment she was riveted by the raw sexual curl of his suddenly expressive mouth and then she realised why he seemed to be breathing so heavily.

Hastily she shot a quick look down at herself and groaned at the startling amount of her own bosom that had become exposed—almost, but mercifully not quite, to the tight, hard peaks thrusting out at the sprigged material. Appalled at the way the treacherous neckline had let her down, she wriggled the modesty piece back in place again, feeling hotter and hotter as the disapproving silence deepened.

She knew she’d never get the business back now. She felt her stomach somersault with the awful realisation that her late delivery and the mortifying scene had counted against her.

Most men would have found the situation amusing—especially the ratio of flesh per metre of fabric. This guy evidently had firm ideas about women and, although he’d been red-blooded enough to spend a little while staring at her half-exposed breasts, his ideas of womanhood didn’t include females who rolled around the floor dressed in fancy costumes.

‘I’m not mad; I’ve just had enough of being sabotaged!’ she said irritably, adjusting the puff sleeves and restoring some of her dignity. But not much. ‘Look,’ she continued sharply to Miss Stars and Stripes, ‘I know it’s not your fault you’re working my area, but—’

‘Shove off!’ said the woman rudely, bending down to pick up the scattered cling-filmed sandwiches and return them to her basket. ‘I’m delivering samples. Ask him. It’s his sister who’s got the franchise. Pia Colleoni. She’s the boss of City Lights,’ she sneered.

‘City Lights! His sister?’ Debbie’s husky voice ran out on her.

‘Sister-in-law,’ corrected Colleoni. ‘Leave the sandwiches,’ he said disdainfully to Miss Stars and Stripes. ‘I’ll let you know.’

Lithe and supple, as if his muscles had been liquefied, he strolled back into his office, confident that the matter was closed. But for Debbie it wasn’t; it had been City Lights which had made sneaky deliveries to some of their customers. After a moment of shocked astonishment, she sped inside after Colleoni and slammed and boldly locked the door behind her.

He froze on the way to his desk and then whirled around, his black eyes glittering with exasperation. ‘Unlock that door at once and get the other side of it!’ he roared. ‘You’re infringing my space—’

‘And you’re infringing my rights!’ she said hotly.

He raised eloquent eyes to the ceiling. ‘A woman with rights!’ he said in exasperation. ‘OK, now what?’ he barked.

Her eyes blazed with anger. ‘I think City Lights has been acting unfairly,’ she said vigorously, tossing a wedge of ruffled blonde hair out of her eyes and earning herself a cynically curled lip in response.

‘What are you after?’ His eyebrow was making a lot of suggestions, all of them sexual.

‘Justice,’ she said huskily, and could have kicked herself for the breathless way that word had been delivered. She might as well have said ‘sex’, judging by Colleoni’s expression.

He pushed back his jacket and lazily studied her while she tried to pretend that she hadn’t noticed his flat stomach and the slender hips. Her brain was in a tangle and he knew that, and his menacing sexuality unnerved her utterly.

‘And... how may I provide this... justice?’ he asked sardonically.

She felt the wash of heat burning her face again but forged on, dragging her brain to attention. ‘My mother and I are trying to run an honest business,’ she said shortly. ‘We provide good food at competitive prices. City Lights isn’t playing fair—’

‘So? That’s business,’ he interrupted coldly.

Exasperated, she went closer, anger and desperation overcoming her sense of intimidation.

‘Sliced factory bread and soggy, chemical-injected ham don’t win orders!’ she said heatedly. ‘They have to resort to dirty tricks: telephoning customers and saying that deliveries can’t be made, undercutting with ridiculous prices and pinching staff from small businesses who are running on a shoe-string like us. It’s not decent and it’s not fair competition,’ she stormed. ‘If you won’t tell your sister-in-law she’s heading for trouble, then I will!’

‘Don’t threaten me,’ he said in a deceptively soft growl that reminded her of distant thunder. ‘I don’t want to get involved in your nasty little squabbles. You might think it’s acceptable to throw yourself at your rival delivery girls and tussle on my office floor, but I find it highly distasteful.’

She took a long, slow breath and a long, slow look at him. She sensed his claws were about to be unsheathed. Though sleek and urbane, there was something about the way he glowered at her from under his brows, the way his eyes blazed into hers, that spoke of danger. He was staring at her, unblinking, unsmiling, unmoved by her plight.

She recognised that he was more stubborn, more pigheaded than she was—with infinitely more power to hold his ground. The taut and muscled body exuded a great strength—not only a physical energy, but the sublime directness of purpose of a man who expected—no, demanded—respect and obedience. Her lashes flickered with the surprise of that discovery. She lowered her gaze in weary defeat—and found herself staring at a photograph on his desk, half concealed in some bubble-wrap as if it had just arrived in the post. It was a picture of Gio!

Startled, she rushed forward, and he flung out an arm to stop her so quickly that she lost her balance, grabbing at the nearest thing: Colleoni himself.

She was in his arms, trembling at the hardness of his jaw against her cheek and the instinctive male tightening of powerful sinew around her. Alarmed, too, by the slide of his hands up her back and the sudden warmth and silken slither of his chest against hers.

Then he was detaching himself calmly and looking down at her, his expression inscrutable. With great care, he checked his jacket for damage, shot his cuffs with a flash of gold and amber cuff-links and said tightly; ‘I don’t like the way you seek justice. I dislike women who use their bodies like a weapon.’

‘I didn’t!’ she objected indignantly.

‘You’ll get out,’ he continued, overriding her protest. ‘Now! I see you’re married. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, propositioning customers when they curtail contracts?’

Sick with shame, her head whirling with confusion, she ignored what he’d said and stared at the photograph in the solid silver frame, Luciano and Gio, side by side. Gio grinning, Luciano scowling. No mistake. Something lurched in her heart; Gio had said he had no family. But the photo had been taken recently—after Gio had altered his hairstyle.

She took a deep, steadying breath, her grey eyes dark with shock. Gio knew Luciano Colleoni. He’d lied to her about having no relatives. She felt her lip tremble as she wondered whether Gio had been deceiving her about anything else, and, if so, why...

CHAPTER TWO

DEBBIE felt the room whirling around. She clung to the desk, fighting for breath, and then Colleoni was forcing her head down with a none too gentle hand on her neck till she was bent over double and breathing stentoriously.

Conscious of the fact that she must present a rather provocative picture to the red-blooded Sicilian, she struggled to free herself and came up panting, her face puce with embarrassment and the effects of gravity.

‘That’s...’

She gulped, not from dizziness caused at the shock of discovering that her husband was linked with a wealthy financier, but from that same financier’s touch. The strong hand drifted over her shoulder as it withdrew, leaving her skin alive with the sensation. Struck dumb, she struggled for a reason and decided she must be suffering from confusion. No one had ever had that effect on her—not that strong, that intense.

‘Sit down.’ When she was slow to respond, still trying to work out her extraordinary reaction, Colleoni said irritably, Tor God’s sake, sit down, woman!’

‘Bully,’ she muttered, resentful of more than the command.

With a glint in his dark eyes, he put his firm hand on the centre of her back, unaware that he was sending more frantic signals to her brain. And, because she was dealing with the sexual messages and trying to deflect them, she offered no resistance.

So she found herself by one of the deep armchairs which faced the picture windows looking out to Tower Bridge and the River Thames. One of the most expensive views in London, she thought hazily. And this man had bought the bank as if he’d been buying a bar of chocolate.

‘Sit down,’ he repeated, a little more gently. ‘I’d prefer you not to faint if you can possibly avoid it,’ he added drily.

She sat. And felt a lot better. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised spiritedly, trying to gather her wits.

‘I hesitate to suggest that your dress ought to be eased. I don’t think either of us could cope with that, could we?’ he drawled.

‘No,’ she answered hoarsely; the thought of loosening anything in Colleoni’s presence was quite illogically unnerving. ‘Oh, my feet,’ she moaned, feeling them throb now that she’d sat down.

‘You ought to take those shoes off. They look tight too.’

More touching! Her eyes became huge grey pools of anxiety. ‘No! I’ll keep them on, thanks.’

‘Yes.’ And he confounded her by kneeling at her feet and carefully beginning to untie the ribbon, his head close to her bare shins. ‘For the sake of your comfort and your quick recovery—which I’m sure we both want,’ he murmured.

In the light from the window his hair gleamed with a depth of colour like those wonderful dark plums with that faint blue tinge—the kind of invitingly glossy, smooth texture that made you reach out and... She checked her fidgeting hand quickly.

What was it about this situation that was making her feel so vulnerable? Was it the powerful and charismatic man at her feet, gently—and surely rather slowly—removing something she was wearing?

She gasped. Colleoni’s fingers were lightly touching her ankle, nothing more, but a shudder had rippled through her body and he’d looked up, his eyes suddenly glowing with an indolent warmth.

‘Something wrong?’ he enquired silkily.

‘I’m ticklish,’ she croaked, and blushed because of the lie.

For a couple of seconds he studied her soberly while she wondered if he was reading the truth: that she found him intensely compelling; that she felt horrified that her long-denied sexual hunger was spilling out to a complete stranger.

‘Really?’ he drawled softly.

Miserably she watched him bend his head again and attend to the ribbons, knowing he’d recognised the signals being sent out by her body. Impatiently she waited, wondering why he was finding the laces so difficult to undo. But it gave her a chance to chill down her feelings.

She was married. Unhappily, perhaps, certainly close to divorce. But, for the moment, she was legally tied and therefore unavailable. Her body must know that, surely?

Curls of wicked, delicious pleasure wound up from her feet to her brain, touching every erogenous zone in between, and she realised that her body knew nothing of the sort and was telling her so in no uncertain fashion.

‘Please...’ she demurred huskily, finding it difficult to breathe.

In protest, she reached down to stop him. Their hands met, their fingers entwined. For a brief second or two they both stilled—she because of the extraordinary sensation that had shot into her chest and stomach and was now warming her thoroughly, crawling through her veins like an electric charge. It appalled her. And he—well, she didn’t know why he had paused, because when his long, dark lashes lifted his eyes were big and glistening and molten but quite without expression.

He seemed filled with a vital force and his energy had flowed into her like a bursting dam filling a channel. She’d heard the expression ‘a coiled spring’ before but had never understood it. Now she did. It was that—the tangible force—which had disturbed her and jolted her with a few hundred volts of electric power. Nothing sexual at all, she told herself, willing it to be true.

‘I’d be hard put to it to translate that plea,’ he drawled, and her lips parted in dismay because she couldn’t speak for the choking sensation in her throat.

His mocking, contemptuous eyes never left hers. He continued to untie the ribbons; she continued to feel disorientated and uncomfortable under the intense, mesmeric stare. With tantalising gentleness, he lifted her feet from the shoes just as her hair fell forward, brushing his face, and she felt its silken strands drifting across the flawless darkness of his skin.

And then, in a flash, he’d straightened and was standing again, leaving her flexing her released feet in relief. But she felt miserable and bemused and warily peered at his shadowed face and his husky body, which was outlined sharp and black against the glare of the sky.

But in the darkness of his face his eyes burned feverishly, causing floodgates to open within her, a terrible rush of flowing heat pouring through her veins. His energy was invading her and she was being drawn to him like a magnet and she was praying for him to have a power failure.

She had to get out. He was evil—one of those Svengali types. But she felt weak and confused, hardly able to understand what was happening to her. Because she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it was nothing to do with a mere sexual vacuum that had existed within her for longer than she could remember. This was something different. Something so threatening to her vaguely ordered life and her respect for herself that she must escape.

And yet ... there was the mystery of the photograph. Torn between flight and curiosity, she looked up at him helplessly, her enormous, soft eyes unknowingly begging him for help. And seeing his tense stillness, his potent and sinister stare, she grasped frantically for the banal.

‘Any chance of some tea?’ she asked tentatively.

A short laugh exploded from his lips as if that was the last thing he’d expected her to say. ‘Tea!’ The cynical mouth curled into something resembling a wry smile. ‘Of course. I should have remembered the English pick-me-up, the solution to all of life’s dramas,’ he said a little scathingly, as if, she thought wryly, she should be knocking back double whiskies like any self-respecting Sicilian.

When he went to the desk and ordered tea over the intercom, she allowed her gaze to focus on the photograph again. Still there. Still Gio. Someone else’s suit-madly elegant and expensive and so designer-labelled it would have been out of their realm—but she recognised the shirt...

She jumped. Colleoni had come up behind her so quietly that she hadn’t noticed, and put a hand on her shoulder. Which she flinched from and which he drew away. But not before his wretched energy field had made her stomach contract in alarm.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, coming around the chair and speaking with a huskiness that rolled through her in waves. Either she’d imagined it or be had caressed her neck with his maddeningly arousing fingers. Something had caused her skin to tingle.

Too many things were happening to her. She needed to deal with one at a time. With a shaking finger, she pointed to the photograph. ‘That’s...that’s my husband,’ she croaked.

Surprise wiped away all the sensuality, all the ruthlessness of his expression and he was briefly just plain handsome. Seeing that she was serious, he followed her pointing finger and then looked back at her in astonishment.

‘Impossible!’ he said emphatically. ‘That’s my brother—my elder brother.’

‘Gio,’ she persisted shakily, levering herself cautiously to her feet.

There was a pause. ‘Really?’

For a moment she thought Luciano had tensed but when she studied him carefully she saw that he was quite composed. She checked the photo again. It was Gio. Her legs wobbled and she caught hold of the arm of the chair as a million doubts began to wash through her mind.

‘He is my husband.’ Her bewildered eyes met his. ‘He’s called Gio Colleoni,’ she cried in agitation. ‘I’m Debbie Colleoni.’

And although he hadn’t moved she knew that Luciano had killed his sexual response to her stone-dead and replaced it with a wall of ice. ‘You’ve linked our names and jumped to a few conclusions. That can’t be your husband. I think you’re mistaken,’ he said coldly.

She wasn’t. Her heart was pumping hard. What did Gio get up to when he was away? Were her secret fears right—that Gio’s stories about his travels didn’t ring true, that his refusal to give her a contact number at work was highly suspicious?

‘Oh, God,’ she groaned softly, closing her eyes. ‘Please let there be a good reason for this.’

“There is.’ Luciano Colleoni stood between her and her view of the photograph. ‘You’ re mistaken. He must be... similar to your husband. The photo’s blurred and there’s a similarity in some faces that—’

‘No. That’s him,’ she whispered, opening her eyes again and staring blindly at the view. She didn’t need to look at the photo again; the image had been burned into her brain. ‘That’s the way he tilts his head.’ She looked up at Luciano helplessly, willing him to solve the mystery. ‘That’s the expensive watch he won in a rams.’

‘A raffle? No. My brother bought that in Venezia—Venice,’ said Luciano curtly.

‘I bought him that shirt!’ she cried, failing to keep her voice calm.

‘There must be a million like it,’ dismissed Luciano with a shrug.

‘That is my husband,’ she persisted in a wobbly voice. ‘Heavens, we have the same surname! There aren’t coincidences like that; you must be some relative!’

‘The name is common among my countrymen. If you were called Smith, would you claim kinship with any Smith who resembled your husband?’

‘If there was a photograph of them both together, yes!’ she declared hotly.

Colleoni strode over to his desk, studied the photograph and appeared to come to a decision. He picked it up and brought it over to her. ‘Do you recognise his wedding-ring?’ he asked abruptly.

She held the frame with trembling hands. It was evidently an expensive ring, a thick gold band with stones set in it. Not the cheap one she’d saved up for and which she’d exchanged with the thin band of gold he’d given her on their wedding-day.

Muddled, she looked up, her expression lost and forlorn. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘As I said,’ murmured Luciano soothingly, taking the photograph back and dropping it rather casualty on the bubble-wrap, as if it had no sentimental value to him, ‘he can’t be your husband. It’s out of the question.’

‘But... it’s so like him. I thought...’

‘Ah, tea,’ he said, sounding relieved, as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of the paranoid female making outlandish claims in his office. ‘Bring it here, Annie,’ he instructed coolly. ‘Milk?’ Debbie nodded glumly as he went through the ritual. ‘Sugar?’

‘Two.’

‘I’ll make that three.’ He hesitated and then said in stilted tones, ‘It must have been a shock to think that you might be related to me.’

‘Yes,’ she muttered, wondering if she was going crazy. But she couldn’t see the photo any more. Perhaps it had been her imagination. She could be wrong.

He handed her the thin porcelain cup edged in gold and watched while she stirred and sipped, his arms folded across his brawny chest.

When she put the cup down and lifted unhappy eyes to him again, his mouth compressed as if he was stifling a wince. ‘You do see that you’re mistaken, don’t you?’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I do know my brother. I know what he would have spent on that suit, for instance, and...’

She dashed the tears from her eyes. Either he believed what he was saying and she’d mistaken the identity of the man in the photograph, or he was hiding the truth. She needed to be sure.

‘It’s expensive,’ she said shortly. ‘I take your point.’

‘You’re not offended?’

Luciano proffered a royal blue silk handkerchief. She gave a good blow, hoping it would wake up a few brain cells. And then she screwed the silk into a small ball in her clenched fist, her lower lip trembling with uncertainty. Maybe Gio had kept the existence of his family from her because he was ashamed of her.

Debbie swallowed the hard, choking lump in her throat, her eyes filling again. He’d made his opinions clear quite soon after their wedding-day, when he’d discovered the easy, ordinary way they lived. Gio was too smooth, too classy, his manners too impeccable for him to be comfortable in their cramped flat. Sauce bottles on the table, butter from the packet, no napkins—napkins!—which he’d been horrified to hear her mother calling serviettes!

And now she might be facing his brother—the elegant, autocratic Luciano, who seemed equally determined to keep her at arm’s length.

‘I like honest people,’ she said pointedly. ‘I call a spade a spade. I know my husband couldn’t possibly afford to buy such an expensive suit but—’

‘You... you don’t have much money, then?’ asked Luciano carefully, unfolding his arms and passing her a bourbon biscuit from the dainty plate.

‘Not a lot,’ she said cautiously, biting into it gratefully. She was suddenly starving.

‘He’s unemployed, your husband?’

Her eyes flicked up. ‘No, he’s a salesman. He’s not home much. Hardly at all, lately...’

‘He keeps you short of money?’

Debbie frowned and indicated that she had a mouth full of biscuit. Something in his tone spoke of disapproval—no—anger. That didn’t make sense. But it was probably ignorance and he thought all men should make a fair settlement on their wives. What would a wealthy man know of budgeting? He probably gave his wife a huge allowance each month for underwear alone. If he was married.

She peered at the long, tanned fingers of his left hand which was holding out the plate again. A signet-ring on the ring-finger. But he was a Continental. She munched on the biscuit, her tongue absently lapping the thick sandwich of cream, and realised that when Luciano had pointed out his brother’s wedding-ring it had been on the right hand, Continental style. However, Luciano didn’t wear a ring on his right hand. So he could be married or he could be a bachelor.

‘We’re hard up,’ she said defensively, wondering why her thoughts had run on so. ‘Life’s tough out there,’ she informed him wryly.

‘Is he home at the moment?’ he asked casually.

Debbie shot him a quick look because there had been a thread of tension under the silk. His expression, however, was unreadable. ‘Not till tomorrow. He’s travelling back at the moment,’ she explained, her lashes moist with slowly oozing tears as she pictured herself asking Gio for a divorce. He’d threatened to take Steffy away with him if she ever thought of leaving him. She shuddered at the thought.

‘Does he call you when he’s away?’ asked Luciano, soft sympathy in his melting eyes.

‘No.’ She could explain that by saying that Gio had long since stopped bothering to call her, but didn’t want to share the problems of her marriage with Luciano. She bit her lip. ‘He’s working in Scotland and the Midlands at the moment,’ she confided. ‘He’s been away for three weeks...’

The dark eyes met hers with cool remoteness. ‘I see. My brother lives in Sicily. He’s been there for—’ there was a brief hesitation ‘—some time.’ The strong jaw clenched as though he was grinding his teeth in suppressed anger.

‘Oh. It seems that I jumped to the wrong conclusion. It... it did look like him,’ she said in a small voice.

‘How many more deliveries do you have?’ he suddenly asked.

‘None. I’ve finished,’ she answered listlessly, and gave a short laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I hadn’t.’

‘I’ll get you a taxi.’

‘No!’ she cried quickly. ‘I can’t afford one. And,’ she said as he opened his haughty mouth to speak, ‘you can forget any ideas about offering to pay for one. I don’t take charity. I’ve got my van down the road.’

‘You look very pale. I don’t think you should drive,’ he insisted sternly.

‘I’m perfectly all right.’ Flustered, she slipped her feet into the shoes, only to see him cross to his desk and punch the intercom button.

‘Get my driver to bring the limo to the front,’ he ordered abruptly.

It sounded wonderful, but her mother would have hysterics if she turned up in a limo with a chauffeur. ‘I’d rather he didn’t. Thanks for the tea,’ she said politely, roughly tying the ribbon laces. ‘I’m grateful—and sorry to have taken up your time.’

‘I’m seeing you home,’ he said firmly. ‘You can show my chauffeur where your van is and he’ll drive it for you. No arguments,’ he said, holding up his hand when she rose in protest. ‘My sense of honour would be wounded if I didn’t treat a lady in distress with Sicilian gallantry.’

‘You are Sicilian, then!’ she cried in astonishment. ‘So’s my husband.’

His mouth had tightened. ‘As I said, Colleoni is a common name there,’ he said stiffly.

Debbie passed a hand over her forehead, feeling she’d missed something vital. ‘I’m sorry. It seemed such a coincidence...’

‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ he said smoothly, taking her elbow. ‘Now, no arguing. Let’s get you home and then I can come back and eat my lunch in peace.’

‘You’ll like it,’ she said, allowing herself to be guided into the lift. ‘It’s awfully good.’

He seemed to fill the lift. The air squeezed in on her, making her breathe faster. He looked steadily at her but she studied her feet, feeling dreadfully conscious of his proximity. She squirmed irritably and heard his soft laugh.

Scowling at him from under her thick brows, she said boldly, ‘Give me another chance to do your catering. Your staff don’t want doughnuts and beefburgers, or plastic-tasting sandwiches. We can—’

‘Family comes first,’ he cut in with quiet decisiveness. ‘I have promised Pia, my sister-in-law, that her franchises can supply my banks.’

‘Banks? Plural banks?’ she asked, her eyes widening.

‘Plural banks,’ he confirmed in amusement.

‘Good grief, you must be as rich as Croesus! My statement’s always in the red.’

‘Things are bad, then?’ he enquired thoughtfully.

‘Awful,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not playing for the sympathy vote, but if there’s a chance...’

‘No. I might have to persuade my sister-in-law to reorganise her catering till it’s to my satisfaction, but I will keep the promise I made. I must—you must see that.’

Debbie nodded gloomily. Their business would be wiped out if City Lights improved its food drastically and used real, fresh produce. She visualised the final nails being hammered into her coffin. Fate was kicking them both into the gutter again; she dreaded going back to her mother with the news. Her stomach sank with the lift as the floors ticked themselves off on the display unit above, not only gravity sucking away her insides, but despair too.

‘Tell her to sort out her ethics as well as make improvements to the food,’ she muttered, and her baleful eyes clashed with his. ‘I expect no more dirty tricks from her! A fair fight—’

‘Surely it can’t be fair?’ he pointed out as they walked out into the foyer. ‘She can cut costs by buying in bulk—’

‘But we can work all the hours God sends us and cook home-made stuff that knocks spots off anything produced in quantity,’ she defended vigorously. ‘Look,’ she said, stopping in the middle of the marble floor and gazing earnestly up at him, ‘get her in line. That’s all I ask.’

‘You think I can?’ he murmured, his mouth twitching.

‘You can do anything you want,’ she said tartly. ‘You’ll always do anything you want. That’s how you are. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Possibly.’ The mobile mouth had softened into a smile.

‘OK, well, listen.’ Debbie was fighting for her livelihood now. And for her mother’s health. She didn’t care that people were stopping and staring, giggling, muttering behind their hands at the sight of the great Luciano talking to a gesticulating shepherdess straight out of a nursery rhyme.

She gave two back-from-lunch typists a haughty stare and returned to the matter in hand, a little surprised that Luciano was still standing there patiently, waiting for her to continue. But she had the impression that he was finding this amusing—at last. And so she’d play on that in order to get what she wanted. Justice.

‘City Lights has to stop working on other people’s patches,’ she said firmly. ‘I told you the kind of tricks they pull. My girls have turned up several times and found someone else has already delivered, hàving persuaded the customers that we’ve gone out of business. We’ve had staff nobbled outside our premises and offered better money. You think of a dirty trick, they’ve played it. It’s got to stop or I’ll implicate you.’

‘I agree,’ he said placidly.

She breathed a sigh of surprised relief. It wasn’t entirely what she’d wanted. It would have been better if she’d been given the chance to continue catering for his company. However, it would do. So she treated him to a shy smile which faltered after a moment.

Luciano was looking at her oddly. It could have been admiration. It could have been anything, because she wasn’t thinking straight any more. A strange, jelly-like consistency had taken up residence in her limbs, and she pressed down on her thighs in the hope that she could stop her legs trembling. He followed the movement of her hands, and then she watched in helpless fascination as his gaze made its way unhurriedly all the way up her body again till it reached her huge dove-grey eyes.

‘You must have caused traffic jams right across the city,’ he said softly.

Debbie floundered, lost for words. She was out of her depth with compliments like that—because, judging by the expression on his face, it was meant to be flattering. Was he about to make some kind of proposition? This was worrying, especially if they were going to spend time in the back of some limo.

Her aunt had said that Italians had funny morals and shocking libidos. Gio had been within earshot and had coldly reminded everyone that Italians weren’t the same as Sicilians at all. But, however he identified himself, Luciano was giving out interested vibes and therefore he must be indifferent to the fact that she was married. Since he had no idea that her marriage was dead and buried, that made him immoral.

Instinctively she dragged back her tumble of blonde hair and twisted it at the nape of her neck so that it reduced his impression of a game-for-anything woman.

‘I hated it,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I imagine my husband will be amused when he comes home tomorrow,’ she added, enunciating every word carefully so that he didn’t miss anything and emphasising the word ‘husband’. That would tell him where she stood. ‘He’ll be amused to think he has a double,’ she went on breezily. ‘What’s your brother’s name?’

Luciano’s eyes had narrowed. ‘I don’t think that matters now,’ he said quickly, and drew her firmly out to the waiting car. ‘And... I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell your husband about meeting me.’

Debbie flushed. ‘He won’t try to sting you for a loan on the basis of sharing a surname, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ she said, bristling at his stiff request. He neither confirmed nor denied her assumption, and she slipped a little huffily into the passenger seat of the elegant Bentley.

There was a silence on the way back. Wrapped in some beautiful orchestral music that was probably classical, she leaned back in the seat and enjoyed the ride. He drove with a heavy, preoccupied air that didn’t encourage idle chit-chat and she, for once, was relieved to be quiet. Occasionally she glanced at the brooding Luciano and wondered how she could ever have imagined that Gio might have been his brother.

The two men were so different. Luciano vibrated with power and that fascinating, disconcerting energy, whereas Gio was... She flushed, hating the truth. When he was home, he lounged around expecting her to fetch and carry for him, even though she was working from dawn to midnight.

If he were driving now, Gio would be lounging with one hand out of the window. He’d be more reckless, too, and he wouldn’t have stopped for that party of schoolchildren or waited so patiently for the old woman to teeter over the crossing. He certainly wouldn’t have jumped out of the car and helped her to pick up the potatoes that had spilled out of her basket.

It had been a very revealing action on Luciano’s part. She eyed his hands, now grubby from the soil on the potatoes, and knew that Gio would have cursed the old woman for being a nuisance, perhaps shouting a clever remark out of the window before driving on.

Her teeth dug into her lower lip, hating the way her thoughts were going but incapable of denying the truth.

‘Do you see your brother often?’ she ventured, hoping to banish all the uncharitable thoughts from her mind.

‘Not much,’ he said flatly, and she got the impression that it was no great loss. Perhaps that explained his casual treatment of the photograph—and his scowl. ‘He lives in the north-east of Sicily, I work in London.’ He switched the direction of the conversation smoothly. ‘Your premises are near Guy’s Hospital, you said?’

‘Yes.’ He seemed to know his way around London very well. ‘If your sister-in-law runs City Lights, she must spend a lot of time apart from your brother,’ she mused.

He gave her a quick, startled look. ‘Half running it,’ he corrected her. ‘She inherited the franchises from her father. He still controls the business on a day-to-day basis while she handles the marketing strategies and acts as a sort of ideas woman. So she does a lot of business via computer link from Sicily and spends a lot of time commuting between Palermo and London. Well, she’s been doing that for the last few months or so. I’m surprised at her interest. She never cared to work before—now she’s obsessed with it. Usually Gio comes to England with her and visits... friends.’

Debbie froze. ‘Gio. You said Gio!’ she cried, turning accusing eyes on him.

‘Did I?’ Luciano sounded a little too surprised and Debbie felt a cold hand clutching at her stomach. ‘How extraordinary,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘Must have been your saying the name so often.’

‘What is your brother’s name?’ she probed with quiet determination.

‘Valentino,’ he answered glibly. ‘Don’t pursue it any further,’ he advised tightly, his profile grim and forbidding. ‘Don’t pursue it,’ he repeated softly, like a litany, as they drew up outside her premises.

He peered at the shabby shop, once a newsagent’s, its window whitewashed to give them privacy inside while they cooked and dashed around preparing orders. ‘Is this it?’

Debbie wanted to explain that it was all they could afford, that there was living accommodation above, that the kitchens were sparklingly clean and they produced miracles inside. But she kept her mouth shut about those things.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The van, which had been following close behind all the way, drew up behind them and the chauffeur struggled with the bent door. Debbie went over and gave it a bang in the right place, grinned at the man as it flew open, and went to the back of the van to collect the empty baskets.

Luciano was standing at the pavement, frowning at the peeling paint on the shop-front as if it offended him. She was about to thank him again, when her mother appeared in the doorway.

‘Debs?’ she asked uncertainly, her eyes switching from the chauffeur to the elegant Luciano and his glorious mirror-polished car, all of which looked extremely incongruous in the run-down little street. ‘Nothing wrong?’

‘It’s a long story, Mum,’ she said with a reassuring smile.

‘Mrs...?’ Luciano held out his hand politely.

‘Baker. Stella Baker,’ said her mother, wiping her sudsy hands on her pinny.

‘Luciano...’ He smiled so engagingly that her mother lost her uncertainty and shook the proffered hand warmly. ‘Luciano,’ he said again, with a small flicker of his eyes in Debbie’s direction as he deliberately omitted his surname. ‘Your daughter felt a little unwell,’ he explained. ‘I believe she’d been working flat out without anything to eat. Since I was coming this way,’ he lied easily, ‘I said I’d drop her here.’

‘Well!’ Her mother beamed and patted his arm. ‘You’re all right, you are. Thanks a lot.’ To Debbie’s dismay, her mother leaned her sparrow-like frame closer to Luciano and muttered, ‘Debs works twice as hard as she ought to because she thinks I’m going to fall down dead if she doesn’t. I keep telling her I’m a tough old woman.’

‘Hardly old, I think, Mrs Baker,’ demurred Luciano. ‘Let’s see... your daughter must be in her late teens, so you are...’ he dropped his voice, as if her age were a state secret ‘...late thirties? Married young? Perhaps—’

‘Oh, please!’ Her mother blushed.

Debbie’s mouth opened in amazement. When Gio had tried similar flattery before they’d married, her mother had brushed him off impatiently and said he was too smooth by half. Luciano was a better flattierer; he actually sounded as if he believed what he said.

And she, in her late teens! She tried to keep back the giggle. He’d get a shock if he knew she was twenty-five!

‘We’ve got a lot of washing-up to do. Greasy pans. Sausages to make,’ she said prosaically. ‘Me and the youngster here,’ she added straight-faced, indicating her mother, who put her arm around Debbie’s waist and gave her a hug.

‘Thanks for bringing her home,’ Stella said to Luciano. She smiled affectionately at Debbie, whose eyes instantly glowed with the warmth of love. ‘She means the world to me.’

There was some emotion tugging at Luciano’s mouth and it seemed to Debbie that he didn’t know whether to smile or be sad. Puzzled, she gave her mother a quick hug back and watched him carefully.

‘There are people who would give the world to have what you have,’ he said gravely to them both.

‘Yes, we’re very lucky,’ Debbie acknowledged quietly.

He hesitated as if he wanted to tell her something and then frowned and lowered his thick fringe of black lashes. Debbie felt a little pang eating into her heart because he would go now and they’d never meet again. Perhaps it was just as well—he seemed a very dangerous man to know.

‘I hope your fortunes improve,’ he said with deep sincerity and then he turned, got back into the car and was driven away, his eyes rigidly fixed on the chauffeur’s head.

Debbie stood mutely on the pavement and then followed her mother in, knowing that she’d have to explain what had happened, and that she’d leave most of the important stuff out; otherwise her mother would read all the right things into the extraordinary attraction she’d felt for the worryingly magnetic Luciano.

She delayed answering her mother’s barrage of questions by protesting that she had to change out of the outfit first. In the privacy of the little back room she stared at herself, amazed to see that she didn’t look any different.

She felt different. Despite all her endeavours to remain indifferent to Luciano, she had secretly coveted him—a virtual stranger—and felt a stir of sexual energy so strong that she was fully aware that it had the potential to be more powerful than anything she’d ever known. It was frightening.

Today she’d met someone who’d shaken her world.

The next day, Gio didn’t come home at the expected time. When she found herself fretting at the fact that she couldn’t finish her farce of a marriage-yet feeling a sense of utter relief at her freedom from her husband’s oppressive demands—she knew that seeking a divorce was the right decision. There was no marriage any more. There hadn’t been anything between them for a long while and they both knew it. It was time to tell her mother the truth.

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