One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (80 page)

‘Are you not tired of wandering?' He frowned. ‘Of intermittent meetings, making love knowing that time is not on our side because before too long one of us will have to leave to hop on a plane to somewhere? I want to be able to take you places with me, meet the people I work with, who work for me. I work in a very visible field. Expensive hotels and exclusive resorts. I want you on my arm, by my side…my perfect, well-bred, eminently presentable woman.'

Francesca felt sick. She couldn't remain crouched on the bed. She had to get up and move around. Without warning, she flung back the duvet and stuck her legs over the side of the bed, then walked over to the chest of drawers an yanked out some underwear and a tee shirt from the small collection of clothes she kept at the apartment. Yes, he was so right. Clothes that were a testimony to a life on the move. Some here, most in her flat in Paris, some already in a suitcase just in case she got a call and had no time to pack.

‘What are you doing?'

Before she knew it he was out of the bed and coming towards her, and she hugged herself. Her legs felt cold but it was better standing up, made her stomach feel a little less queasy.

‘It's not a good idea, Angelo.'

Panic, he could have dealt with. But the sudden flatness in her voice was like a punch in the gut. He gripped the sides of her arms with his hands and propelled her back against the wall.

‘What are you saying?'

‘Please, Angelo. Let's just leave things as they are. It works for us. Why fix it if it ain't broke?' She tried a laugh but it died as quickly as it had come, leaving the sour aroma of tension in its wake.

‘You needn't be scared that spending more time with one another will jeopardise our relationship. We have been together for over a year. It is time for us to take the next step forward.' Angelo tried again but there was a beating in his head that was getting louder. Yes, he had been scared of jumping off the precipice into the unknown, but he had pretty much expected his landing to be soft. He certainly hadn't expected to find himself falling in thin air with the distinct suspicion that his landing was to be a bed of rocks.

‘There
is
no step forward, Angelo.' She made herself do it. Made herself look at him straight in the face, and God, it was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do in her entire life. It made every painful turning in her life seem pale in comparison. And of course she knew why. Because she had fallen in love with him, hopelessly, blindingly and
stupidly
in love.

She watched the tenderness on his face replaced with disbelief and then his whole expression closed down and she didn't know what he was thinking any more.

‘I don't want to play happy families with you. I was happy with things the way they were. It suited me.' She felt like a gravedigger digging her own grave.

‘I see.'

No, you don't! You don't see anything at all!

‘I don't want to return to England. Maybe one day, but not yet, and I don't want to move in with you and become your companion in this highly visible life of yours. If that's what you want then you're better off finding someone else to fill the role.' His eyes were hard and expressionless and Lord, it hurt.

‘In that case there is nothing further to say.' He turned away from her and walked towards the door, only pausing when his hand was on the knob. Then he turned and gave her one final look.

‘I am going to have a long shower. When I get out, I want to find you gone. Take all your possessions with you and, Francesca…' He allowed a few seconds of silence between them. ‘Make very sure you never cross my path again.'

‘I
T'S
a short-list of three, Angelo, and really you
must
take an interest in this.'

Georgina wasn't happy. He could tell from the pursed set of her mouth and the way her slender, stiletto-shod foot was tapping impatiently on the floor. Angelo was very tempted to open a debate on the subject of exactly
why
he should take an interest. Hadn't he already taken enough of an interest to state what he wanted on the menu? He suppressed a little sigh of impatience and watched the down-bent head of his fiancée as she consulted a wad of papers on her lap.

Through the floor to ceiling windows of his impressive London office he could see the broad expanse of cloudless blue sky. English summers, he had discovered, lacked the vibrant heat of Italian summers or the stifling humidity of New York ones, but he rather liked their uncertainty. Cloudless blue skies one day, leaden grey ones the next. He shifted his chair back from his desk and went across to where Georgina was perched on the sofa.

‘Let me have a look, then.' He took the sample menu sheets from her and sat down.

Animated at this show of interest, Georgina launched into a monologue on the various upsides and downsides of the menus. Which caterer presented what that would appeal to most.

‘We have to get it
just right
,' she asserted. ‘It's
our big day
and you know how many important people are going to be there. We just
can't afford
to have any slip ups. Which is why I am recommending that we go with someone we've heard of. Mummy's used the Walton brothers before and they're absolutely ideal. You just have to look at how they've presented their choices! Professionals.'

‘Why are you asking my opinion if you have already made your mind up?' he queried. Of course he knew why. For all her well-bred, sophisticated, self-assured elegance, Georgina tiptoed around him, never wanting to invite his displeasure. Which, he told himself, was as it should be.

‘You're the one who insisted on authentic Italian food, darling!' She stroked the back of his neck lovingly and Angelo shook his head and stood up. He had decided. And it wasn't the Walton brothers with their impeccable pedigree. He was pretty sure that his choice would meet with a wall of resistance but that didn't bother him. Georgina would accept his decision without any show of temper.

‘Who is Ellie Millband?'

‘Darling, a friend of a friend of a friend used her to cater for one of their supper parties and apparently she's quite good, but probably not quite up to catering for the number of guests we have coming. Rather an amateur, I should imagine.'

‘Her menu is interesting.'

‘So are the others, Angelo.'

‘And,' he said perversely, ‘I like the thought of employing an amateur. There is nothing more spiritually gratifying than knowing one is giving a helping hand to the underdog.'

‘Angelo, this is our
wedding banquet
we're talking about! Surely there is a time and a place for a social conscience!'

‘Have you interviewed her?'

‘I…I
honestly
didn't think that she would be a serious contender.'

Angelo tried hard not to frown at the creeping petulance in his fiancée's voice.
She's going to be my wife in exactly three months' time,
he told himself, and she was going to make him a perfect wife. Her background was impeccable, which was important for a man like him, a man who moved in the highest echelons. She was also devoted to him, reasonably intelligent and unquestionably beautiful. Five foot five inches of peaches and cream English beauty, with her china-doll blue eyes and her sleek, well-groomed blonde bob.

‘Arrange an interview and I will see her. Will that satisfy you? You can trust me when I say that if she seems incapable of doing the job, then she will be dismissed from the running.' He strolled across to her and curved his hand behind her head, tilting her to face him. ‘And we will go with your parents' recommendation. Hmm?' He smiled absent-mindedly at the beaming relief that greeted his suggestion, mind already ahead on the amount of work he had to get through before his dinner engagement later in the evening. ‘But you'll have to leave now,
cara
.' He glanced at his watch ruefully and she sprang to her feet.

‘I know, darling—work, work, work.' She pressed herself against him for a lingering embrace and pouted until he kissed her. ‘Don't forget, Mummy's expecting us to dinner tomorrow evening so that we can discuss arrangements.'

‘I don't think military engagements have been planned in more extensive detail,' he said, half amused, half irritated. ‘And let me know when I can see this girl. If she's free later today I can squeeze her in around four-thirty, before I leave for the Savoy.'

‘Oh, I'm sure she'll be available!' Georgina said airily. ‘The prospect of a job of this size would probably make her willing to jump through hoops to please! But don't forget,
any sign
that she's not up to it and we don't give her the job. Promise?'

Her mouth was pouting for another kiss and Angelo obliged, hand on the door in the process.

‘Absolutely,' he murmured. ‘Now, off you go, my sweet, and I shall see you tomorrow. I'll collect you at eight.'

‘Seven at the latest, Angelo.'

‘I'll do my best.'

She left a waft of expensive perfume in her wake and by the time the scent had faded he had totally forgotten about their conversation until he emerged from his two o'clock meeting to be informed by his secretary that Ellie Millband would be pleased to meet his future wife at four-thirty in the bar of a restaurant in Covent Garden.

‘She's meeting me,' Angelo said, frowning.

‘I believe she's only been contacted by Miss Thompson. Your fiancée rang to tell me that you will be conducting the interview in her place but she probably won't recognise you, Mr Falcone, as no doubt she's expecting Miss Thompson. Will that be a problem? I could always get in touch and—'

‘No, no. No problem, Maisie. Just bring me in those reports on the Downy deal and buzz me at four or I shall forget and be in the doghouse with Georgina.'

Maisie, plump, fifty and the very soul of discretion, didn't so much as crack a smile at that fleeting conspiratorial tone in his voice, but, not for the first time, she wondered why he was marrying Georgina Thompson, who might carry the advantages of her well-connected family, but who lacked substance and who could be very cutting when her fiancé's back was turned and his ears were elsewhere. Not for a million pounds would she have shared those thoughts with anyone.

It was a little after four-thirty by the time Angelo negotiated his way to the American burger restaurant in Covent Garden which housed a long sports bar along one side.

It was, as he'd expected, packed. There weren't many nooks and crannies in Central London that weren't bursting at the seams with tourists in the middle of July and the heat seemed to have driven a fair few of them into the bar for something cold to drink.

Initial impressions were already beginning to leave a sour taste in his mouth. He hadn't wanted to concur with Georgina's prophecy that the woman was a rank amateur, but meeting in a busy burger bar in one of the most crowded parts of London to discuss what would be for her a very important job fell only just short of sheer stupidity. He imagined what Georgina's reaction would have been, had it been her standing in an uncomfortable queue by the door. She would have spun round on her very expensive heels and left without further ado.

If Ellie Millband's choice of venue was anything to go by then he was pretty sure that she had written herself out of the job but, having trekked across London to get to the place and with a bit of time to kill before he returned to his apartment to get ready for his dinner engagement later, he dutifully enquired of the small Australian girl clasping an armful of menus whether she could point him in the direction of a Ms Millband. He was startled to be told that she was downstairs in the restaurant.

‘I'll make my way down myself,' he said, glancing at his watch.

‘She's at the table to the back.'

Angelo nodded and headed towards the wooden stairs leading down, thankfully leaving behind most of the shopped-out hordes. It was cooler as he descended the stairs. It was also much emptier. In fact, so empty that only a handful of tables were occupied and, since three of them were filled with families, there left very little doubt as to whom he was going to see.

Yes, she was sitting right at the back, focusing intently on a small Filofax in front of her. Shoulder-length dark hair was tucked neatly behind her ears. Perfect ears. And, even though she wasn't looking at him, he would have known that face anywhere. He had seen it in his dreams for longer than he cared to remember and the mental image, even after three years, still had the capacity to fill him with burning rage.

Every muscle in his body kick-started into gear. He had to steady himself on the banister. Somewhere in his head, he knew that he should just turn around and go back the way he had come, then tell Georgina that
Ms Ellie Millband
was no longer a candidate for the job. His decision would have been final. He would not even have had to provide an explanation.

Common sense lasted the length of time it took him to blink, then he was walking towards her. In a moment she would look up and see him, see the man she had rejected three years ago. Anticipation of her shock made his pulses race with sadistic pleasure.

The wheel always turned full circle, didn't it? Not in a million years had he ever expected to see the woman again, but that hadn't stopped him from seeing her image in his head. He had striven to wipe her out and, to all intents and purposes, he had succeeded. His life had returned to its driving routine of work interrupted with the occasional fling until the passage of time had dictated that he needed to marry, to settle down and have the family he wanted. But her image had still persisted, creeping out to disturb the ruthless onward march of his career, always leaving behind the bitter taste of impotent fury.

He realised he was clenching his fists by the time he made it to the table. And still she hadn't looked up. Nor did he say a word. He just stood there until she was aware of a shadow looming over her. Only then did Francesca slowly raise her eyes.

The welcoming smile she had prepared for her prospective client faded into a strangled gasp. Nothing had prepared her for this. What was Angelo Falcone doing here? Was he really here? Standing in front of her? She blinked a few times, willing the image away, but he was still there, bigger, leaner and a whole lot more forbidding than she remembered.

‘Surprised to see me, Francesca? Sorry, it's now Ellie Millband, I believe?'

‘What are you doing here?' Francesca whispered, fascinated by the familiarity of his face and terrified at the harshness stamped on it that she had never seen all those years ago when she had been going out with him.

‘Interviewing you, in point of fact.' He nodded at a passing waitress to come and take his order for a drink, then he sat down and gave her the full benefit of one long, insolent, unapologetically cold stare. ‘Although whom exactly am I interviewing?' he asked silkily. ‘Since you seem to have changed identities.' His initial shock at seeing her had given way to ice-cold self-control.

Francesca's brain cranked into gear. ‘I was expecting to see…'

‘My fiancée.'

‘Your fiancée.' In her head, he had remained a single man. Stupid, considering the amount of women who would have swarmed around him, hoping to net the biggest fish in the sea. She stared down at her Filofax in confusion, then reluctantly looked at him. Her hands were trembling and she clasped them tightly together on her lap, well out of sight of his black, impenetrable stare. ‘Congratulations,' she said belatedly. ‘I…that would be…to Georgi…'

‘So
who are you
?' Angelo interrupted. ‘Shall I call you by your new name, or was your old one the fabrication? Tell me. I'm interested.' Her hair was shorter but she looked even better for it and, even though the clothes were different, a tailored suit as befitting someone being interviewed for a big job, he could see that the body was still the same. Still that superbly proportioned body that had once driven him wild.

The memory of how she used to affect him didn't soften him. It was laced with too much bitterness.

‘Francesca Hayley was the name I used when I modelled,' she said, steadying herself by breathing in deeply. ‘I no longer model. Look, Angelo, I'm sorry to have wasted your time, and your fiancée's, but I don't think there's any point in our having this conversation.' She half rose, fumbling to reach for her handbag, which was on the floor by her chair.

‘Sit back down, Francesca.'

His voice was calm and modulated but imbued with threat. Francesca hastily sat back down.
I'm Ellie Millband
, she wanted to tell him,
Ellie Millband, not Francesca Hayley
, but the words wouldn't come out and, anyway, he wasn't going to be prepared to let the past rest.