until I get my hands on James Riley! she told herself grimly, walking forward to open the passenger door of the limo. In fact, she was definitely going to enjoy having a few choice words with that gentleman! Because not only had James landed her with someone who was clearly the client from hell—but it looked as if he’d also managed to completely screw up the arrangements.
Even if he had informed Signor Foscari about the appointment of a bodyguard, James had clearly failed to provide the Italian with any other basic information regarding Close Protection. And why on earth he’d told the client that her name was Tony—a hangover from her childhood, which was only used nowadays amongst her family, and friends in the profession—she had no idea.
‘If you’d like to take your seat in the vehicle…?’ she murmured, holding the car door open and being careful not to make direct eye contact with Signor Foscari—who was clearly in a very tricky, nasty frame of mind.
‘I do not recognise either this limousine or its driver,’ he was saying, his voice hard and accusatory. ‘Exactly who gave you the authority to dismiss my own car and chauffeur?’
She must at all costs remain non-confrontational, Antonia reminded herself, firmly suppressing a sudden urge to give the guy a good kick in the shins. The fact that he was becoming a first-class pain in the neck was obviously just her bad luck.
Unfortunately, and far more to the point, he appeared to be about as explosive as TNT—and equally unstable. So, the sooner she managed to take the steam out of the situation the better.
‘It’s merely the usual, standard procedure—all of which is designed to ensure your complete safety,’ she told him quietly, deliberately keeping her voice empty of all expression, with her gaze firmly fixed on a point just below his tightly clenched jaw.
‘My safety?’ Lorenzo gave a snort of derision. ‘I was perfectly safe until the arrival of you, and this…this gorilla!’ he added, turning to glare at the tall, thick-set guard standing behind him. His fury increased as the large man merely responded to the insult with a cheerful grin.
‘I can assure you that Martin is a very experienced, highly trained operative,’ Antonia retorted, relieved to note that her colleague wasn’t taking any notice of the Italian’s clear loss of temper.
In fact, when swiftly escorting the grim-faced Signor Foscari along the hotel corridor, and down the back service stairs, Martin had murmured in her ear, ‘You’d better watch it, Tony. This guy looks as if he’s on a very short fuse!’
‘Tell me about it!’ she’d muttered, grateful for the solid, reliable back-up of the ex-paratrooper, with whom she’d worked closely over the years.
However, if they didn’t get a move on, Signor Foscari was going to be late for the opera. So, she must somehow find a way of persuading this extremely difficult man to get into the limousine.
‘You really have no need to worry about your new chauffeur,’ she assured him firmly. ‘Not only is he fully conversant with all aspects of close protection, but should there be an emergency he would immediately be able to…’
Lorenzo Foscari’s harsh bark of sardonic laughter cut sharply across her words.
‘Kindly spare me the sales pitch, Miss Simpson!’ he snapped curtly. Glaring down at her for a few tense moments, he eventually gave a shrug of his broad shoulders, before taking a few steps forward and entering the car.
Antonia gave a heavy sigh of relief. She didn’t like admitting the fact, of course. But, just for a few seconds, she’d found herself feeling distinctly nervous. Which was, of course, totally ridiculous. Especially as she was used to handling far tougher, rougher-looking men than Lorenzo Foscari.
Waiting until Martin had taken his place in the front of the vehicle beside the driver, she took a deep breath before joining her client in the rear of the limousine.
Taking the radio receiver out of her handbag, she alerted the back-up car, waiting around the corner in Grosvenor Crescent, that they were about to leave, before giving the go-ahead to her own driver.
Preoccupied in making sure that her arrangements went smoothly, she gradually realised that Signor Foscari had so far remained remarkably silent.
Long may it last! Antonia told herself, glancing cautiously through her eyelashes at the profile of the tall, dark figure sitting at the far end of the wide leather seat.
The dying rays of the summer sun were casting a rosy glow over the tanned, hawk-like features of the man, who was staring straight ahead and was clearly buried deep in thought. From the enigmatic, inscrutable expression on his face, it was impossible for her to guess what was going through his mind. She could only hope that he’d begun to calm down, and regard the whole situation in a more reasonable frame of mind. But, the way her luck was going at the moment, he was just as likely to suddenly erupt, once again, in a violent storm of rage and fury.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the squawks issuing from the small black receiver in her hand.
‘It’s a nuisance, but it can’t be helped,’ she said, after listening to the message being relayed by the car in front. ‘I suggest that you take the next right turn, and we’ll go through the park, OK?’ she added, waiting until she’d received an acknowledgement of her instructions before turning to face Lorenzo.
‘There seems to be a bit of a traffic jam ahead. So we’re now making a slight detour through Hyde Park.’
‘Is that likely to delay my arrival at the Albert Hall?’ he asked quietly.
‘No.’ She shook her head, relieved to discover that her client now appeared to have calmed down. ‘We should still be in plenty of time for you to have a drink with your friends, before taking your seat for the opera.’
‘I’m glad to hear it!’ he murmured, giving her a surprisingly friendly grin, before querying the system she was using to communicate with her operatives.
‘I can understand the reasons why you need to be in touch with the vehicle in front of us. But I fail to see why, when you want to say something to our chauffeur, you cannot just slide apart that partition,’ he added, nodding towards the glass barrier between themselves and the men in front.
‘While you have a bodyguard in here with you, that glass partition is always kept firmly closed,’ she told him. ‘It’s made of bullet-proof glass—as are all the other windows in this vehicle. So, if anything should happen to the driver…’
‘Like getting shot?’
‘Well…er…something along those lines,’ she murmured, before adding quickly, ‘Although that’s very unlikely, of course. I mean, there’s no need for you to worry about details like that.’
‘Oh, I’m not at all worried, Miss Simpson,’ he drawled, turning his dark head to give her a warm, charming smile. ‘To tell you the truth,’ he added, ‘I’ve never believed that these so-called threats against my life were anything other than total nonsense.’
‘Once someone has issued threats, there’s always a risk that they will try and carry them out,’ she pointed out, finding it surprisingly hard to resist the almost beguiling warmth and charm of the man sitting beside her. Not to mention that low, positively toe-curling, sexy Italian accent of his—which appeared to be having a very strange effect on her whole nervous system.
‘You
