a large prawn and eat it.
‘Oh, you know.’ Angie drank some more champagne. It was delicious. ‘Family stuff.’
Riccardo put his fork down. He certainly did. Sometimes he thought he could write a textbook about families—especially dysfunctional Italian ones. But Angie’s would be very different…A wry smile quirked the corners of his lips. ‘You’ll see your parents, of course? What is it—let me guess—a cosy and very English Christmas around the tree?’
Angie’s face didn’t change, but she brought the glass up to her lips more as a distraction technique than because she particularly wanted to drink any more of the wine, because it was making her feel a little bit giddy. She forced a smile. ‘Well, not really, no. As I’m sure you know—my father is dead and my mother is worried sick because my sister’s getting a divorce.’
Riccardo’s eyes narrowed as he registered the subtle dig. Had he known that? Had she perhaps told him and it had slipped his mind? He looked at the honeyed spill of her hair and wondered why she didn’t wear it down more often. ‘Sì, sì—of course.’ He shrugged—for he had wanted a polite, monosyllabic response from her, not to continue with a topic such as this one. But it was nearly Christmas and she deserved his civility. ‘And is that a…difficult situation?’
Angie knew her boss well enough to know when he was distracted, when he was asking a question because he felt it was expected of him rather than because he was particularly interested in the answer. And although it was usually in her nature to instinctively accede to Riccardo’s wishes, to cushion his life and make it as carefree as possible—tonight she wasn’t in a particularly cushioning or secretarial mood. Let him ask something about her for a change—for hadn’t she devoted enough of her life asking about him?
She thought about the actuality of the festival which was looming up. About the frantic phone calls she and her mother would receive from her sister. And their frustration at their powerlessness to do anything much to help because she was so far away. And she thought of Riccardo, who would be flying off to Tuscany—to his family’s amazing castle. Unlike her, his new year would be filled with lots of exciting things. New challenges. A new woman probably.
‘Actually, yes, it is difficult,’ she admitted. ‘Especially at Christmas time. Because, if you remember—my sister lives in Australia and we can’t be there for her.’
Riccardo leaned back to allow the half-eaten plate of prawns to be replaced with some sort of fish, and viewed it unenthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can imagine it can’t be easy.’
Angie doubted it. Riccardo had many, many characteristics which made him irresistible to women, but an ability to put himself in someone else’s shoes and to empathise wasn’t at the top of the list.
Angie leaned closer and peered into his face. ‘Can you really?’ she questioned pointedly.
Riccardo was so preoccupied with the tantalising glimpse of her cleavage when she leaned forward that he failed to register a word of what she was saying. Or what he had said to her. But she had clearly just asked him a question and so he tried the fail-safe approach which always worked and which women seemed to love.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’ he murmured.
Angie’s mouth opened into an astonished little ‘oh’ shape that Riccardo should have given her carte blanche to confide in him. He really was being attentive tonight, she thought. Understanding, even. Nobody else was even getting a look-in. And the awful thing was that, try as she might to quell it, she began to get a flicker of hope that he really might be thinking of her as a woman at last.
‘Well, my sister keeps ringing up in hysterics because it’s a really acrimonious divorce,’ she said.
Riccardo shrugged. ‘Ah, but surely that is the nature of divorce.’ He studied her, aware of the trace of some light perfume which was drifting towards his nostrils. Maybe she always wore perfume…but if that was the case, then why had he never noticed it before? Noticing that one of the waiters seemed to be as fascinated by her as he was, Riccardo glowered at him until he went away again. ‘Did they marry for love—your sister and her husband?’ he questioned, sitting back in his chair.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Angie defensively, though the question caught her off guard and she found herself grateful for the candlelight which shielded the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks provoked by Riccardo speaking about love.
He shrugged. ‘Well, there you have your reason for their break-up in a nutshell.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you? It’s quite simple. Never marry for love. Much too unreliable.’
Someone was enthusiastically poking her in the ribs and Angie turned to half-heartedly pull at a cracker, glad for the momentary disruption which gave her time to gather her thoughts. To formulate some kind of answer. To be sure he wouldn’t see her stupid and naïve disappointment that clearly he thought so little of love.
‘You don’t really believe that, do you, Riccardo?’ she questioned, in a deliberately jocular way.
‘Sì, piccola,’ he said softly. ‘Absolutely, I do. For it is unrealistic for a man and a woman to commit to a lifetime together based only the temporary excitement of chemistry and lust. And love is just the polite word we use to describe those things.’
‘What do you think they should do?’ she asked tremblingly. ‘Go to a marriage broker?’
He ate a little salad. ‘I think that a couple should find as many compatible areas in their lives as possible and work hard to keep the marriage going for the sake of the children. Something which is—alas—becoming increasingly rare in these days of easy divorce.’ Putting the glass down, he gave a slow smile. ‘And of course, you can maximise your chances of marital success.’
He thought he was making marriage sound like a game of cards now—but Angie continued to stare at him in fascination! ‘How?’
‘By having a bride who’s a generation younger than the groom.’
Angie’s mouthful of wine threatened to choke her and she could feel her cheeks growing flushed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
His black eyes mocked her. ‘You heard me perfectly well.’
‘I thought my ears must be playing tricks with me.’
‘But why are you so shocked?’ he questioned carelessly. ‘Italian men have done this successfully for centuries. My own parents had such a union and a very happy marriage until my father’s death. Because such a match ensures the very best combination between the sexes—an experienced man who can educate a young virgin. He will tutor her in the fine art of pleasure and she will give him many child-bearing years.’
Angie’s throat constricted. ‘You are…are…’
He leaned closer, enjoying her obvious rage, finding that it was turning him on far more than was wise—but suddenly he didn’t care. ‘Am what, piccola?’
‘Outrageous. Outdated. Shall I go on?’ she retorted, swallowing to try to dampen down the sudden leap of excitement which his proximity had provoked. But wasn’t the real reason for her anger not so much a noble
