The Italian Millionaire's Virgin Wife. Diana Hamilton

at her for long moments, charged moments that set up a peculiar sensation deep in her tummy, robbing her of breath and turning her face brick-red before he muttered, ‘No, Howard, I won’t.’

      Safely tucked away in the kitchen, Mercy gave up her attempts to eat her own toast and marmalade as her ears strained to hear the sound of his departure.

      She so hoped she hadn’t blown it. The legendary Andreo Pascali wouldn’t stand for an underling telling him what to do. The trouble was that from the age of sixteen she had become used to running the household as she felt fit, looking after the family’s slim budget, because her mother, poor darling, had gone to pieces after her husband’s death and their consequent removal to the tiny cottage. And when she’d come up to London she’d swiftly been put in charge of her own team of cleaners so she’d grown used to deciding how and when things should be done. And maybe that wouldn’t go down well with an Italian creative genius!

      Yet she knew she was right. Her boss must work really hard to make such a success of his agency. He needed a decent breakfast. After all, he employed her to look after him, and that was what she would do.

      The day flew by. Heartened by the growing conviction that she wasn’t about to be made unemployed—an inspection of the breakfast tray informed her that Signor Pascali had eaten a slice of toast and one rasher of bacon, which meant that he hadn’t taken her well-meaning lecture too badly—Mercy cleaned windows and polished furniture with gusto, making a mental note to ask him what his former housekeeper had done about ordering provisions and paying for them.

      Apart from wine and coffee and a few ready meals languishing in the freezer, the cupboard was bare. She had had to pop out and buy the makings of today’s spurned breakfast, and tomorrow’s, out of her own slender resources. She’d thought her brother was undomesticated but her boss was in a league of his own!

      At eight o’clock she called it a day. She was hot, grubby and smelled of floor polish and her feet ached. Popping a frozen meal in the microwave oven and assembling a tray, she promised herself a relaxing hour in front of the television in her own quarters, a hot bath and an early night. Grimacing because she knew Carly would say she’d been born middle-aged, she dropped what she was doing and hurried to answer the summons of the doorbell.

      Signor Pascali? Forgotten his door key? She so wished she didn’t look such a complete mess. No time to tidy herself up.

      The opened door admitted a cooling river breeze and the blonde bombshell.

      ‘I’m afraid he’s out,’ Mercy stated, breathing in an overpowering lungful of heady perfume.

      ‘I know.’ Trisha headed for the stairs. She was wearing a black dress that glittered as she moved. It clung to her magnificent bosom and voluptuous backside. ‘He always stays late on a Tuesday. Brainstorming session, he calls it. I will wait for him in his bedroom. Be a good girl and bring a bottle of wine and two glasses.’

      Despite her highly moral upbringing, Mercy wasn’t a prude. People had ‘partners’ and ‘relationships’ instead of marriages. That didn’t mean they didn’t truly love each other. And a male as magnificent as Andreo would automatically choose a partner to match. So why did she sigh as she went to do as Trisha had asked?

      Envy?

      Utter nonsense!

      ‘You didn’t say whether you wanted red or white,’ Mercy said brightly minutes later, entering Andreo’s bedroom. ‘So I brought both.’

      The blonde was inspecting herself in the full length mirror, turning this way and that as if looking for reassurance. Glancing up after placing the bottles and glasses on the night table that flanked the bed—a heavily carved statement of opulence in the otherwise severely masculine room—Mercy noticed for the first time that the other woman was looking quite peaky underneath all that make-up, her full mouth trembling.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Just open the wine! No, the red,’ she said as Mercy’s hand reached for the white. ‘I need some stiffening.’ Sinking down on to the bed, she kicked off her high heels with edgy force and the hand that took the brimming glass was shaking.

      Seeing the blonde sprawled out on the richly embroidered silk covers made Mercy’s stomach roll over sickly but her intention to make a smart exit was stymied by a breathy, ‘Keep me company for ten minutes?’

      Regretting her by now cooling supper, because surely hunger pangs alone were responsible for the queasiness that had afflicted her on pairing the blonde with Andreo’s bed, Mercy lowered herself down on the very edge of the mattress and asked bluntly, ‘So what’s wrong?’ because something patently was. Beautiful, self-assured women didn’t seek the company of mere underlings unless they were troubled and couldn’t bear being alone with their problems.

      The glass swiftly emptied, Trisha swung her endless legs to the sage green carpet and gave herself a refill. Lifting her magnificent shoulders in a minimal shrug, she answered, ‘Nothing that can’t be sorted. I hope.’

      As the ‘I hope’ bit had emerged on a decidedly wistful note, Mercy said bracingly, ‘Think positive. Whenever I’ve had a problem—and, believe me, I’ve had a few—’

      Uninterested in Mercy’s problems, past or present, Trisha put in, ‘You might as well know, it’s common knowledge. Andreo and I—’ her voice wobbled ‘—had a falling out. He was on the brink of asking me to marry him when it happened.’ She slanted Mercy a sideways look. ‘Do you know if he’s seeing someone else? If some little harpie’s got her claws into him?’

      ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mercy confessed, her ready sympathies aroused. She could understand any woman falling deeply in love with a stunner like the Italian legend and feeling utterly desolate if she thought she’d lost him. ‘But if he’s in love with you and was about to propose, then he’s hardly likely to take up with someone else in a hurry, is he?’ she soothed. ‘It would have been a lovers’ tiff, nothing serious. My friend Carly and her Darren were always having them. And they always kissed and made up. In fact they’re soon to be married. So just hang on to what’s positive—that you’re both madly in love with each other.’

      As her heartening speech had no effect other than earning herself a look of incredulous scorn, Mercy, wanting her supper and a well-earned spell of relaxation, got to her feet, adding a generous, ‘You’re so lovely, he’s not going to risk losing you over some little disagreement.’

      She had reached the door when Trisha said, visibly brightening, ‘You’re right, of course. So right! And, by the way, make yourself scarce, would you? His mood can be tricky after a Tuesday session. Don’t want to make it worse, do we? No offence, but you’re hardly a sight to make a man glad to be home, are you?’

      Was that remark catty or what? Mercy fumed as she clumped down the stairs. Or had the other woman merely been stating the glaringly obvious?

      Andreo paid the taxi off and sprinted over the paving blocks, his door key at the ready. At last he had it! The great idea—the idea that would make Coronet Ready Meals walk off the shelves.

      Chewing over the new project after a hectic day’s work, none of his team had been enthusiastic. Dreary and boring being the general consensus. Used to projects aimed at the wealthy and glamorous, something as mundane as frozen pies and peas in gloopy gravy was a challenge they didn’t want to rise to. Who could make such dull stuff appear trendy or even remotely glossy, even if it was organic, low fat, low salt and boringly good for you?

      ‘We’re aiming at a different market,’ he’d snapped. ‘Forget the glitz. We’ve got to pitch good old plain wholesomeness—’

      And then he’d had it—just like that! The earnest expression, the frumpy little personage telling him to eat his breakfast like a good little boy! All he had to do was persuade her, soft talk her if absolutely necessary. Of course he could hire a professional, set Make-up to work on her—fat suit, wig, that sort of stuff. But Howard was a natural. Just as she was.

      Closing