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,
