He had not stood shoulder to shoulder with Antonia…
‘After all,’ Alex continued with honeyed persistence. ‘How could you ever trust him again? Or her?’
The darkness sank back down over Sara where for an instant she had seen a wild, hopeful chink of light.
‘Were you thinking of giving him another chance?’ Alex enquired in a tone of polite astonishment.
Sara flinched. ‘No,’ she muttered sickly, duly forced to see the impossibility of ever trusting again.
Yet she could not believe that she was actually having such a conversation with Alex Rossini, who was not known for his concerned and benevolent interest in his employees’ personal problems. Indeed, the Rossini credo was that the best employees left their private life outside the door of Rossini Industries and never, ever allowed that private life to interfere with their work.
‘Why are you talking to me like this?’ she whispered helplessly.
‘Do you have anyone else to confide in?’
Sara tried and failed to swallow. It was almost as if he knew, but how could he possibly know how frighteningly isolated she now was? She could not turn to Antonia’s parents and she had no other relatives, no close friends who were not also Brian’s friends or colleagues. ‘No, but—’
‘Nothing you have told me will go any further,’ Alex asserted, his night-dark eyes, sharp and shrewd as knives, trained on her, but those eyes were no longer cutting, no longer cold, no longer grimly amused.
‘You’re being so…so kind,’ Sara said in a wobbly tone as she fought to conceal her disbelief, for this was a side of his character that she had never thought to see, indeed never dreamt existed.
‘You have had a traumatic experience and, naturally, I am concerned.’
‘Thank you, but I don’t need your pity,’ Sara bit out painfully.
‘The very last thing you inspire is pity,’ Alex assured her, unleashing a wry smile of reproof on her. ‘You should be celebrating your freedom. Life is far too short for regrets. You’ve already wasted two years of it on that little salesman. The future has to offer far more entertaining possibilities—’
‘How did you know Brian was a salesman?’ Sara breathed, the words slurring slightly.
‘Isn’t he? He looks like one,’ Alex informed her smoothly.
Something not quite right tugged at her instincts and then drifted away again, for nothing in her entire world was right any more.
‘You live with your cousin, don’t you?’ Alex probed.
Again she was disconcerted by his knowledge and perhaps it showed, because he added, ‘Marco mentioned it to me.’
‘Yes.’ Sara flushed, reluctantly recalling all the unwanted, gory details which had been forced on her during Antonia’s short-lived affair with Alex’s brother. That connection had embarrassed Sara.
‘Naturally you do not want to return to your home at this moment,’ Alex murmured, and casually tossed a set of keys onto her lap. ‘You can use the company apartment until you have made other arrangements.’
Even in the state she was in Sara was staggered by such a proposition. The apartment was a penthouse on the floor above, used only by the Rossini family and, very occasionally, their personal friends. ‘I couldn’t possibly—’
‘Where else have you got to go?’
She clutched the keys, meaning to return them but thinking helplessly of the humiliation of dealing with Antonia as she felt now. Her strained eyes unguarded and vulnerable, Sara stared back at him. ‘I’m very grateful.’
‘A fresh start,’ Alex murmured intently. ‘I’m having a dinner party tonight. Why don’t you come? You shouldn’t be on your own.’
A nervous laugh lodged in her aching throat. A party? He thought that she was in the mood for a party? Was he insane or just downright incapable of comprehending the immensity of what had happened to her today?
‘I’ll be fine,’ she returned tremulously, wondering if he needed someone to supervise the caterers. Pete usually attended Alex’s dinner parties, checked the seating arrangements, oiled the conversation and ensured that everything went smoothly. Alex Rossini paid for that kind of service. Alex Rossini was so rich that he could afford to burn money for amusement.
‘I’ll call you later. I’ll send a car to pick you up at seven,’ Alex told her as if she hadn’t spoken.
Dully she fumbled for an excuse. ‘I have nothing—’
‘I’ll buy you a dress to wear. No problem, cara. Don’t even think about something so trivial.’
‘But I—’
Strong brown hands reached down and closed over hers, tugging her gently upright. He angled her towards the door as if she were a walking doll. ‘Go up to the apartment and lie down for a while; practise thinking optimistic, happy thoughts. Smile…’ he urged softly, and a blunt fingertip skimmed below the trembling curve of her full lower lip and withdrew again, the contact feather-light and strangely soothing.
Unwarily, like someone in a dream, Sara looked up at him, connected with shimmering, mesmeric gold eyes and staggered slightly. He balanced her again with ease. An ache unlike anything she had ever experienced made her shiver. ‘Mr Rossini—’
‘Alex…Cristo!’ he exploded, abruptly freeing her.
Sara almost fell over. Numbly she watched him stride over to sweep up the phone that she hadn’t even heard ringing. He swung smoothly back to her. ‘Go up to the apartment and lie down,’ he instructed her again.
Sara backed out slowly and walked back down to her office to collect her bag. Her head was aching. She put a hand up to her hair and undid the tight plait, running her fingers through the loosened tresses. The phone on her desk was ringing. For an instant she hesitated, and then she lifted it.
‘Sara?’ Pete demanded impatiently. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I was—’
‘Look, I need a favour,’ he broke in. ‘Alex told me to get Marco’s signature on some papers yesterday but I forgot. They’re in the top right-hand drawer in my desk. Take a cab over to the studio and get it seen to before Alex asks for them…OK?’
Sara took a deep breath, grimaced and then wearily sighed. ‘OK.’
‘You’re an angel. I bet your replacement won’t be half so helpful.’
The reminder that she was actually working out her notice hit Sara hard as she climbed into a taxi. She would be in the dole queue soon, she realised dully. Her successor was already picked, due to take her place in a fortnight’s time. Brian hadn’t wanted a working wife. And she had no savings. She had poured every penny of her salary into renovating and furnishing the Victorian terrace house that Brian had bought. Weekends and evenings, she had scraped walls, plastered, decorated, cut out and sewn and hung curtains. She had put her heart into transforming
