supposed to work the other way around? They had been childhood sweethearts, perfectly matched in every way and, as if plucked from a fairy story, had lived perfectly happy lives until his father had died five years previously. His mother still wore black, carried pictures of him in her handbag and frequently referred to him in the present tense.
In an age of quickie divorces, money-grabbing gold-diggers and women with an eye to the main chance, what hope in hell did he have of a comparable marriage?
It took him a little over twenty minutes before he was standing in front of the gracious block of apartments where he had been instructed to hand deliver a very delicate orchid to one of the women who had helped out two weeks previously on a charity fund-raiser, a belated thank you present for her contribution. His mother was leaving for their country house and the orchid, she told him, would not wait until she returned. Nor would she trust any old courier service to deliver it because those ragamuffin boys were useless when it came to delivering anything of a fragile nature.
Privately, Cristiano figured that it was her way of expressing her pique at his casual dismissal of whatever suitable candidate she had had lined up her sleeve for his perusal, but running the errand had been a small price to pay for making good his escape.
Nor had the walk been half as uncomfortable as he had imagined. He very rarely walked anywhere, he realised. His life was cushioned by the luxury of a full-time driver in London and, besides, walking for the sake of walking was a time-consuming business in a life that seemed to have little spare time as it was.
The block of opulent apartments was portered and he was pointed in the direction of the lift without question. Even dressed in casual clothes, Cristiano exuded the sort of wealth, power and confidence that ensured entry anywhere. The porter had asked for no identification and Cristiano would have been outraged had his movements been questioned.
Rather than take the lift, though, he decided to climb the three flights up to the apartment. This was no dingy staircase. Rich turquoise carpeting ran its length and the wallpaper was cool and sophisticated. He assumed the apartment would be more of the same. In all events, several rings on the doorbell elicited no response. Nor did his mother’s mobile when he called to inform her that his mission had been a waste of time.
What the hell was he to do, stranded with an overpriced hothouse plant in search of a home?
Cursing under his breath for having allowed himself to be virtually blackmailed into running the ridiculous errand, he finally resorted to banging on the door. Like every single mega-expensive apartment building on the face of the earth, there was an eerie silence in the hall. He knew from his own personal experience that rich people rarely emerged to chew the fat and pass the time of day with the people living in the apartments next to them. He, frankly, had no time for useless chatter on stairwells or in elevators and happily was spared such inconvenience by having a private lift to his penthouse apartment.
He banged on the door again, this time very loudly, and was rewarded with the sound of scurrying feet.
Under normal circumstances, Bethany, hearing those three ridiculously loud and incredibly rude bangs would have flown to the door, prepared to give her unwanted caller a piece of her mind, but as it was these weren’t exactly normal circumstances.
In fact…
She glanced down at what she was wearing and broke out in a fine film of nervous perspiration. The dress, which must have set its owner back the price of a small car, clung lovingly to her body, graceful, floaty and as utterly, utterly beautiful on as it had been hanging in the wardrobe fifteen minutes earlier.
Oh, God, why, why, why had she given in to the temptation to just try it on? What had possessed her? She had managed to resist the urge for the past three days, so why now? Because, she thought frantically, it had been so hot outside and she had come back to the apartment and had a long, luxurious bubbly bath in the splendid marbled bathroom and then she had strolled into the dressing room, which was three times the size of the poky room she had been renting at university, and she had run her hands along the magnificent gowns and dresses and jackets and coats and had stopped at this particular creation and had just not been able to resist the wicked impulse.
Now, having ignored the doorbell, there was some persistent visitor banging like mad on the door and she knew for a fact that it wouldn’t be Amy, who had gone to Florence for the weekend with her boyfriend. Nor would it be a salesman because they weren’t allowed to set foot into the hallowed halls of the building. Which just left…a resident or, worse yet, a friend.
The fourth bang snapped her out of her merciless daydream, which involved first and foremost losing her job as house-sitter, which was a laugh considering Amy should have been the one doing it, followed rapidly by angry Italian policemen and a stint in a cell somewhere.
She stood behind the door and opened it very, very slowly, making sure that none of her body in its borrowed garb was revealed. Her eyes travelled from the ground upwards. And upwards. From expensive tan loafers and cream trousers towards a similarly cream collared polo shirt, taking in the tanned arms, the dark hair curling round the dull silver of a very expensive make of watch, up to…the most amazing face she had ever set eyes on in her entire life. In fact, the stranger standing outside the front door was so sensationally handsome that, for a few seconds, Bethany felt literally winded.
Then reality kicked in and she remembered where she was. In an apartment that wasn’t hers and decked out in clothes that weren’t hers. She edged further behind the safety of the heavy door.
‘Yes? May I help you?’ She didn’t want to stare, but she found that it was practically impossible not to. It wasn’t just the man’s height, and he must be over six foot, nor was it the perfection of his features or the sculpted muscularity of his body. It was the aura of power and incredible self-assurance that invested him with a potent, suffocating sex appeal.
Cristiano, initially taken aback by the woman who had answered the door, a girl when he had been expecting an ageing dowager, was now busy taking in the delicate lines of her heart-shaped face, the full mouth, the slanting green eyes and the mass of copper hair that tumbled down, almost to her waist.
‘Are you hiding?’ he asked and was fascinated as a tide of pale pink coloured her cheeks. Nor was she responding as women usually did at his presence, with smiles and lowered lashes and all those coy signals that indicated interest.
‘Hiding?’ His voice matched his looks. Deep, lazy, confident. ‘I’m not hiding.’ Bethany sidled a little further along so that the wretched dress was not at all visible. She didn’t know who this man was but if he lived here, if he was a friend, he would know that she certainly wasn’t the Amelia Doni who owned the apartment and who was in her mid forties. He might, however, know that the outrageously expensive dress would not belong to a twenty-one-year-old girl who happened to be house-sitting. ‘I’m just a little surprised…to have a visitor…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name…’
‘Cristiano De Angelis.’ He waited for a glimmer of recognition because any woman who owned this apartment would have heard of the De Angelis family. He wondered how it was that he had not met her before at one of the high society events that he invariably attended when he came to Rome to spend time with his family. This was a face he certainly would have remembered. She was not the usual Italian beauty, although her Italian was fluent. She looked…It suddenly dawned on him why he might not have met her in the past and he smiled slowly, switching effortlessly from Italian to English.
‘And now that I have introduced myself, perhaps you’d like to tell me if I’m at the right apartment…Signora Doni?’
‘I’m
