weren’t really suitable for a city lifestyle. Sometimes it felt as if she’d taken on a different persona to match the new outfits she’d acquired—a glossy patina which concealed the real her. She’d certainly never have worn heels this high or a dress this short back home. But then, she’d never have been standing looking into the face of a man like this back home, would she?
Suddenly shy and wanting to divert herself from the gleam of appraisal in his black eyes, she glanced around the entrance hall, which was as big as a room itself with its high ceilings and pale grey walls hung with a series of muted charcoal drawings of a beautiful Japanese woman. Stained glass from the window light of the front door splashed reds and blues on the tiled black and white floor, and on a gleaming rosewood table stood a glass bowl of white roses and freesia which perfumed the air with their delicate scent. The airy dimensions and sense of space were awesome—it was like somewhere you might see in one of those glossy interior magazines you found at the dentist’s—and Cassie couldn’t imagine just one person living in a place this big.
She looked at Giancarlo expectantly, waiting for him to fetch his jacket. ‘Where are we going for dinner?’ she asked.
‘Well, actually, we’re not going anywhere.’ His voice was soft. ‘We’re eating right here.’
‘Here?’ Her heart began to thud and she wasn’t sure why. She had imagined a rooftop and a twinkling city view. Someone playing a white piano—and cocktail waitresses with flowers in their hair. The soft murmur of conversation and watching all the rich people out at play.
‘You have some sort of objection to that, mia bella?’ His eyes gleamed. ‘You don’t think the standard of food will be what you’re used to?’
Her cheeks grew pink at the mockery in his voice. ‘Well, I…’
‘Well, what, Cassandra?’ he questioned teasingly.
Nobody—nobody—ever called her Cassandra. And nobody had ever told her that an Italian voice could make a single word sound like a soft seduction. Surely it wasn’t decent behaviour for her to have dinner alone in a man’s house on their first date—and yet if she came out and told him so, then wouldn’t it make her sound awfully naïve? As if she’d just come up from the country and were some sort of hick. Maybe this was normal behaviour for London. And just because they were eating in didn’t mean he was going to leap on her, did it? Cassie cleared her throat. ‘I just thought—well, there are lots of lovely restaurants locally.’
‘So there are—but most of them are full of tourists and office parties at this time of the year.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘Come with me and let me see if I can change your mind.’
She let him take her hand and allowed him to lead her along an endless corridor hung with yet more pictures, past the faint sound of a radio and the clanking sound of something being whisked. The corridor led into an enormous, wooden-floored room dotted with several dramatic sculptures and large French windows which opened onto a beautiful conservatory, where a table had been set for dinner.
Stars gleamed through the clear ceiling, a bottle of champagne sat waiting in an ice-bucket and pots of jasmine scented the air. Aware that he was still holding her hand and that it now seemed a little too intimate, Cassie shook hers free and walked over to the glass doors, which overlooked an enormous garden.
Though the night was cold and dark, strategic lights had been placed around the huge grounds, illuminating bare trees and elegant shrubs so that the whole scene resembled a winter stage-set. It was the prettiest and most unexpected thing she had ever seen—as if the countryside had been transplanted into the centre of the busy city and given a theatrical twist.
‘Oh, my,’ she breathed. ‘All that garden—and right in the middle of London. Lucky you.’
Luck? Giancarlo walked over to stand beside her, looking at the tight high curve of her young bottom as he did so and the way the pale blonde hair fell almost to her waist. How people always looked at his life and thought he’d had it easy. He thought that luck didn’t feature as strongly as the capricious hand of fate and a corresponding determination to make something of himself. The senseless shock of a double betrayal. And the long, grim struggle to work his way up from the bottom. To prove to his brother and himself that he didn’t need an inheritance to elevate himself to the level of a wealthy man.
And he had done it. Exceeded even his own exacting standards and lofty expectations. Been single-minded enough to focus on his goal and to achieve the success he had set out to achieve. Which was why he could bring this beautiful young woman into his home—for a meal which would rival most award-winning restaurants in the capital.
‘So have you changed your mind about going out? Can you think of anywhere prettier to eat?’ he questioned, glancing at the waterfall of blonde hair which was rippling down her narrow back.
‘I guess I can’t. Not really. But who’s doing the cooking?’
‘Well, not me, that’s for sure!’ Walking back over to the table, he pulled the bottle of champagne from the bucket and removed the thick foil with his thumb. ‘Drink?’
‘Lovely,’ she said lightly, taking the flute of pale fizz from him and giving a little squeak as she sipped it.
‘Bubbles up your nose?’ he murmured.
‘Every time,’ she agreed sanguinely, as if she drank champagne every day of her life. ‘So who does do your cooking?’
‘I have staff.’ His tone was casual. ‘A cook. A housekeeper. A gardener.’
‘Gosh. How very indulgent.’
He flicked her a glance. Wealth did strange things. It opened up the world like an oyster—and closed off other parts of it for ever. It isolated and enclosed you in a rarefied and gilded existence. It meant that people sometimes looked at you with envy—or avarice. But that was the price you paid. And what would this little shop-girl know of his life unless he told her? ‘More a necessity than an indulgence. I travel a lot for work and my hours are long. So I don’t have time for all the maintenance stuff.’
‘And even if you did—maybe you still wouldn’t do it? I can’t really imagine you peeling potatoes or hammering a nail in a wall.’
‘The former is what I’d expect a woman to do,’ he said, with a faint glimmer of a smile. ‘The hammering part of the equation wouldn’t be a problem.’
Cassie nearly choked on the mouthful of champagne she was drinking. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘About the nail? Sure I am. I’m pretty good with a hammer.’
She blushed—because the soft mockery in his voice made it sound as though he was referring to something other than DIY skills. ‘I meant your remark about peeling potatoes being women’s work.’
‘Are you going to subject me to a lecture about sexual stereotypes, bella?’ he mocked. ‘Because let me save you the time. I know it off by heart.’
Cassie stared at him, her heart beating very fast. ‘Some people might describe that as arrogance, Giancarlo.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ he said silkily.
Cassie stared at him and their eyes clashed—fighting a sudden silent battle which had nothing to do with potatoes or sexual stereotypes. A battle
