Beautiful People (30 page)

    "Lemon ricotta ice cream," Marco murmured. She watched his big brown hands—they were scarred, she noticed, yet had long and sensitive fingers—move in explication. "Made with Sicilian lemons. The best."

    He saw her eyes glow at this; they had the burnish, he felt, of candlelight on a perfect chocolate-covered coffee bean. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Marco saw something move behind him.

    He turned, and his heart sank. A man was making his way up the slope. A macho type, with the muscle-bound swagger Marco associated with the gym. He was obviously heading straight for the restaurant.

    He wore a tight, white T-shirt on whose front, beneath the mass of gold chains, crosses, and pendants he wore, the glittering name Gucci flowed over undulating pectorals. His bare, brown, and powerfully muscled arms bristled with bracelets and an expensivelooking watch, and he wore a black-and-white knitted hat covered in interlinked Chanel Cs.

    Marco sighed. The few minutes alone with the beautiful foodlover had been delicious, but they were all too obviously over. Not least because the muscle-bound swaggerer seemed to recognise her.

    "Hey!" he said.

    Darcy Prince, Christian was sure. His latest co-star in what had better be the greatest film of his career. Looking even better than she had in Puccini's. Christian's thick-cut, sensuous lips curved in triumph as he got closer. That dark hair, that pale skin, those very nice tits under that yellow dress.

    Darcy, whose tastebuds were exploding like a firework display with intense lemonness, looked up, disconcerted. She did not immediately recognise the man standing at the edge of the parasol-shaded tables. But then he strode forward, dropped into the chair in front of her, and tore off his sunglasses. With a lift of her heart and a swoop in her stomach, Darcy found herself staring into the same pair of eyes that had hypnotised her in L.A. Christian Harlow. She never forgot a name, and his face was unforgettable anyway.

    "Darcy," Christian repeated, pleased at the effect he had had. She would be putty in his hands; he could see that immediately. He fixed his eyes on her breasts. Jesus, they even looked real. That was an unexpected bonus.

    Marco, pretending to push chairs in a few tables away, glowered from behind the sunshades. This muscle-bound beast of a man, all cheekbones and cock. He was staring at her breasts without even attempting to hide it. What was even worse was that she seemed to like it.

    "Christian," Darcy breathed, all confusion. Her ability to appear normal deserted her. She blushed hot, went cold, and felt shaky and oddly light, as if she might float or fall of the chair. "What are you…I mean…what are you doing here?"

    "
Galaxia
," Christian returned triumphantly.

    "You're in
Galaxia
?"

    He loved her voice. That prissy, high-end English, all repressed fire. You could just tell by looking at her that she'd never had a really good bang.

    "You alone?" he asked her, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "No, like, boyfriend?"

    She looked surprised at this, but Christian preferred to find out where he stood from the start. He was interested to see that a spasm of anger shot across her face as she shook her hair in a negative. The bust-up had been messy, Christian triumphantly deduced.

    "He didn't realise what a good thing he was on top of…I mean onto," Christian hurriedly corrected himself.

    "No." Darcy eyed him balefully. "He preferred to get on top of Belle Murphy instead."

    Christian fought to conceal his horror. He was an actor, after all. The coincidence was appalling. His ex…her ex…together?

    It wasn't, Christian realised, going to help his campaign if he now admitted he had been with Belle himself. Perhaps, later, he could gently slip it in. But—Jesus—that woman. She got everywhere. Still, he could control the situation; there had been plenty of similar ones before.

    "What do you think I should have for lunch?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

    "Well, everything's great. I almost had the lamb with aubergine myself…"

    He nodded, even though his only interest in what she was saying was the way her full lips pouted and parted in speech. They were very kissable. He caught a tantalising glimpse of pink tongue.

    Would it be tonight or tomorrow night, Christian wondered complacently.

    She watched him admiring himself in the shiny bowl of a spoon. "You're rather vain, aren't you?" she teased.

    Christian agreed readily. "Sure. You gotta look after yourself." His frankness was disarming; that he obviously saw vanity as a virtue, amusing. As Christian chatted on, Darcy noticed that he referred frequently, and in terms of the utmost approval, to his willy, but perhaps that too was refreshingly honest. Perhaps British men—or at least the ones she knew—didn't talk about their willies nearly enough. Perhaps bottling up all that angry sexuality was what, ultimately, had led Niall to Belle.

    Christian was smouldering at her. "You're very flirty," she remarked.

    He flashed her a grin. "I know. I can't help it. If I wasn't flirting with you, I'd be flirting with that fork over there." His grin broadened, and Darcy found herself smiling back. His candour was irresistible, as was the rest of him.

    As the man and the woman laughed on the terrace, Marco, inside, felt as seared as the salmon he was preparing. He had never felt this jealous before. At least, not of a man, about a woman. He'd felt something similar when tasting a particularly perfect dish in someone else's restaurant, but even that, now, seemed tame in comparison.

    Marco felt disappointed. The woman had displayed such impeccable taste up until now.

Of course, she was going to sleep with him. If sleep was the word. She had known that as soon as she had seen him walk up to her at the restaurant.

    She knew that now as he drove her off in his car. She could imagine what Sam would say about exposing her newly valuable features to the full force of mid-day Italian glare in an open-topped Ferrari. "Factor fifty sunblock at all times," the model agency head had warned. "And hats from eleven to three."

    She had tried to protest. "They're expecting me at the villa," Darcy had gasped. "My car's down in the carpark; there's a driver…" She thought guiltily of Marcello.

    "So what, baby," Christian had shrugged as he took a slug of sparkling wine. He had not been impressed by the fact Marco's did not stock champagne, only the Italian equivalent. "You're a star; you do what you like. What the hell does it matter about anybody else?"

    "But they'll be waiting…"

    "Baby, they're paid to wait. They expect to wait. So let 'em wait."

    "It's a bit rude…"

    Christian plonked his glass down hard and burst into incredulous laughter at this.

    Darcy let herself be persuaded. Marcello was sent to her villa with the luggage. Christian, with his designer clothes, his flashing gold, his cheekbones, and most of all, his swaggering self-confidence, made fame look like such fun. He talked about
Galaxia endlessly throug
h lunchtime, hardly noticing the food, it seemed to Darcy, as he outlined just how seismic the effect of the film would be on both their careers.

    "Just enjoy yourself, baby!" Christian shouted, grinning, as they raced along in the Ferrari. "You English chicks, you're so uptight!" His white teeth flashed in the sunshine almost as brightly as the car's chrome fittings.

    He made her feel fast and reckless. The air rushing at her was exhilarating; she felt like a plane taking off. The speed was such that she felt they might.

    "Where are we going?" she shouted excitedly.

    "My place," he yelled back over the air screaming past them.

    Darcy pushed caution firmly aside. She wanted some fun, after what seemed in retrospect years of deprivation. She had an alter ego now, a reckless, pleasure-seeking, beautiful young film star. And going to bed with your co-stars—especially if they looked like Christian—was the sort of thing film stars did.

    He zoomed up a hill and skidded to a halt in front of a pair of huge gates.

    A wide, gravelled path led through the middle of a garden to a large villa whose central door was surrounded by grandiose carving. There must, Darcy thought, be hundreds of bedrooms.

    "You're staying here?" she asked Christian, in awe. "On your own? It's incredible."

    Christian shrugged. Incredible was one way of describing it. Huge and creepy was another, and he didn't like the way the place was so old. Secondhand was bad enough; this place was probably hundredth-hand. Not for the first time, Christian rather regretted his insistence that the film company book him the biggest villa in the area, all for himself.

    "You're so beautiful," he murmured, folding her into his arms.

    Darcy felt her whole body thrum with anticipation. She traced his face, her eyes hungrily devouring his features. They had been together a mere few hours, but really, Darcy felt, her mind all excited in a alcohol-fused, pleasure-hungry whirl, they had known each other for ages. Ever since their eyes had met across a crowded, neck-craning restaurant in L.A., a defining moment. Maybe even the turning point of her life.

    "We're gonna set that screen alight," he whispered to her, his eyes wide with excitement. "You an' me, we're gonna be the new Burton and Taylor."

    She pressed herself against him. As he dipped his mouth to hers, she felt a stab of joy between her legs.

    "The bedroom's up here," he muttered thickly, pulling her gently but firmly up the stairs.

    It was a huge, high-ceilinged room with enormous shuttered windows. In the muted light, a tall bed with white curtains rose like a ship in full sail.

    On the bed, in the cool shadows cast by the canopy, he pushed her gently back, his mouth locking hers down. Pushing up her dress to reveal her breasts, he kissed them reverently, flicking the tips with his tongue. She shuddered with delight.

    He looked up, his eyes soft with surprise. "Hey. They're real!"

    "What did you expect them to be?" Darcy asked laughing.

    "Oh. You know. The usual silicon valleys," Christian grinned.

    Afterwards she rose from the bed, flung open the shuttered windows so that the dazzling light poured in, and looked out over the sunny garden. It stood still in the singing heat. As she stood there, a gentle breeze sprang up and hurled soft balls of scent from the earth against her bare skin: rosemary, sage, pine. Darcy closed her eyes and breathed slowly, luxuriously in.

Emma stood at the gate. The name chiselled in gold on the neat, white marble nameplate—"Villa Rosa"—was that of the address Belle had given her.

    She felt relieved but exhausted. It was dazzlingly hot, and Morning, whose weight seemed to be doubling daily—he'd soon be out of the baby carrier altogether—hung like lead around her neck. Fortunately, he was quiet and content under his little white sun hat, looking about him with interest as he had throughout the journey on the bus from the airport. A taxi would have been better, but Emma's funds, as yet unswelled by Belle, did not stretch to one.

    Would Belle be here, Emma wondered as she pressed the buzzer on the thick, stone gatepost. She had not seen her employer since Belle disappeared into the VIP area at Gatwick. And while travelling alone with the baby had had its hair-raising moments, being in charge had been enjoyable. Emma realised, with a clutch of regret, that her feeling of autonomy was about to end.

    "Benvenuto!" someone called from the other side of the gate.

    Emma peered through the wrought iron to see a middle-aged, beaming woman of wiry build and wiry cropped black hair that was tinged with grey. She wore a black skirt and white blouse.

    "I'm Mara," the woman smiled as she punched a code into somewhere unseen on the other side of the gatepost and swung open the wrought-iron screen. "The housekeeper. I do housework, laundry, cooking…ah. Bello bambino!" She tickled Morning under the chin and beamed at Emma. "You have had a good journey, Signorina Murphy?"

    "Actually, I'm not Signorina Murphy."

    "Not Signorina Murphy?" For a moment, the housekeeper looked suspicious. Then she smiled again. "Ah. You Signorina Prince then."

    "No."

    "I am told," the housekeeper said, rather crossly, "that Signorina Prince and Signorina Murphy, they both arrive at lunchtime. I cook my special beef lasagne."

    At the thought of Mara's special big lasagne, Emma's stomach growled. She was here. She was hungry. She hastened to explain herself. "I'm Signora Murphy's nanny. Signora Murphy's son's nanny, rather…"

    Could it possibly be true that Belle had not given any advance warning? Had not told the housekeeper that her son and his nanny were expected?

    "Ah. Si. I see." There was a flash of black eyes, a smile, and friendliness was restored. "I carry the baby?" Her voice was as much command as it was suggestion. Gratefully, Emma unbuckled the heavy child and handed him over. Morning's reaction was to open one eye and survey Mara sleepily before closing it again.

    "Bello!" Mara deposited a loud and smacking kiss on the top of his head. "I am frustrated grandmother!" she explained, shaking her head and grinning ruefully. "I have no children, only nephew. And he never find right girl!"