‘There is something you can do...right now.’
He took her hand and tugged her towards him.
Instant heat flooded Lara’s body at the explicit gleam in his eyes. ‘Ciro...’ she said weakly.
‘Lara...’ he said, and then he stopped any more words by fusing his mouth to hers.
It was only much later, when Lara was back in her own bed, her body still tingling in the aftermath of extreme pleasure, that she realised he’d effectively dismissed her desire to help with the charity.
Clearly it was an arena, along with the kitchen, that she wasn’t allowed to enter. Which only made Lara determined to do something about it.
‘SHE’S WHERE?’
Ciro stood up from his chair and stalked over to the window, which took in a view of the Thames snaking through London.
The voice on the other end of the phone sounded nervous, ‘Er...she’s in one of the Face Forward charity shops, boss. It looks like she’s helping with the display in the window.’
Ciro was terse. ‘Send me a video and stay with her until she leaves.’
About a minute later there was a ping on his phone and he played the video. There was Lara, in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair pulled back, helping to dress and accessorise a mannequin in the window of one of his charity’s shops on the King’s Road.
She looked about sixteen. He saw her turn and smile broadly at a young staff member. She looked...happy. Happier than he’d seen her since they’d met again.
Something dark settled into his chest. A heavy weight. And confusion. Who the hell was she doing this for? What was she up to?
* * *
‘What do you mean, what was I up to? Nothing! I wanted to prove that I was serious about helping with the charity. Or do you expect me to sit around all day waiting for the moment you decide to dress me up and take me out as your trophy wife?’
Ciro had been festering all day and he’d come home in a black mood. Which had got even blacker when he’d found Lara in the kitchen again, cooking.
‘I thought I told you that I don’t expect you to cook?’
She smiled sweetly at him, which made his blood boil even more, because it only reminded him of the very real smile he’d seen on that video earlier.
‘I’m not cooking for you. I’m cooking for me. And Dominique. She can take the leftovers for her and Bill.’
‘Bill?’
‘Her husband. He’s not well.’
‘And you know this...how?’
Lara looked at him now as if he was a bit dense. ‘Because I have conversations with her.’
Ciro was aware that he was being totally irrational and ridiculous. His wife was cooking in the kitchen. Most men would be ecstatic. Especially as it smelt so delicious.
Lara said, ‘I know there’s nothing on tonight, thanks to the helpful events calendar your assistant installed in the phone you gave me. Unless that’s changed?’ She suddenly looked less happy.
‘No,’ Ciro bit out. ‘It hasn’t changed. The evening is free.’
‘Well,’ Lara said, sounding eminently reasonable, and far calmer than Ciro felt, ‘have you made plans for dinner or would you like to join me? It’s boeuf bourguignon.’
Ciro forced himself to stop being ridiculous. He had no idea what Lara was up to with this little charade—helping at the charity shop and revealing her domestic goddess side—but he wasn’t foolish enough to cut off his nose to spite his face.
‘That would be nice, thank you. I’ll have a shower and join you.’
Ciro left and Lara took a deep breath. She regretted cooking now. Dominique had left a perfectly serviceable stew she could have heated up, but she’d needed the ritual of cooking to centre herself.
She guessed Ciro’s security guy would have been on the phone to him earlier, about her going to the charity shop, and she’d expected his suspicious mind to spin it into something nefarious.
She knew he expected her to be like some kind of ice princess, waiting obediently for his instructions, but since they’d begun sleeping together it was harder and harder to maintain that kind of façade. And any emotional distance.
So Ciro could just be perplexed and suspicious. He didn’t really care who she was, after all. So why not be herself?
* * *
The following morning Lara was surprised to see Ciro in the kitchen, chatting to Dominique over a cup of coffee. She felt exposed when she thought of the previous evening, and how Ciro had quickly and efficiently dispensed with dinner so that he could remind Lara of one of her primary functions in this marriage. Being in his bed.
He’d said it to her again as they’d finished eating. ‘I really don’t expect you to be in the kitchen, Lara.’
She shrugged. ‘I know I don’t have to do it, but I like it.’
He’d looked at her as if she’d spoken in some kind of riddle and then, when she’d been getting up to clear the plates, he’d pulled her down onto his lap. ‘I’m drawing the line here. You do not clear up.’
Lara was blushing now because she was thinking of Dominique finding their detritus. Again. But the woman was looking twinkly-eyed. The inevitable effect of Ciro on most people.
She wondered what Dominique thought of their separate beds...
Ciro looked at her then. ‘You need to pack. We’re leaving for New York this morning. Some business has been moved forward. We’ll be there a couple of weeks. Don’t worry too much about what to bring—a stylist will stock your wardrobe there. They’ve been given a list of the functions we’re due to attend.’
Ciro walked out the kitchen with his coffee cup and Dominique sighed volubly. ‘What I wouldn’t give to have my wardrobe stocked for me.’
Lara forced a smile and desisted from saying something trite. She knew she was incredibly lucky. Even if it did feel as though she were a bird in a gilded cage.
As she packed her modest suitcase a little later she told herself she was being ridiculous to suspect that Ciro had brought forward the New York trip to keep her in her place, because things were getting a little too domesticated in London.
* * *
Ciro seemed to be in a state of permanent frustration around Lara. He watched her broodingly from his side of the private plane as she did a crossword puzzle. A pen was between her teeth and her brow was furrowed. Why wasn’t she flicking through a
