The Italian Boss's Mistress. Lynne Graham

blood keeps the company fresh and sharp.’ Ricky Brownlow frowned at her in reproof and a painful flush lit her fair skin.

      A slender young woman with shaken blue eyes and vibrant auburn curls scraped back from her brow and held tight by a clip, Pippa walked back to her desk. She could have taken losing out to a superior candidate, she told herself urgently. But was she just being a bad loser? Shame at the fear that she might be that petty consumed Pippa, who suffered from a conscience more over-developed than most. Self-evidently, she decided, Cheryl Long had talents that she herself had failed to recognise.

      The animated buzz of dialogue around Pippa reminded her of the party being held that evening to welcome Andreo D’Alessio and she suppressed an exasperated sigh. She had never liked parties and she liked work social occasions even less. However, now that she had been turned down for the job that she had naively assumed was in the bag, she had better make an appearance at the celebrations lest other people start thinking that she begrudged Cheryl her good fortune.

      Cheryl was about to become her boss. Pippa swallowed the thickness building in her tight throat. For goodness’ sake, had she screwed up somewhere so badly that she had blown her own promotion prospects right out of the water? If that was the case, why hadn’t she been told and at least warned of her mistake? Cheryl was going to be her boss. Cheryl, whom Pippa had had to be rather stiff with on several recent occasions for her incredibly long lunch breaks and shoddy work? Cheryl, who seemed to spend half the day chatting and the rest of it flirting with the nearest available male? Cheryl, who was mercifully on leave that day…

      Pippa sank deeper and deeper into shock. Hothoused as she had been from preschool level right through to university, and always expected to deliver exceptional results, failure of any kind threw her into an agony of self-blame and self-examination. Somehow, somewhere, she was convinced, she had fallen seriously short of what was expected of her…

      ‘I wish he was more into publicity and we had a better photograph of him,’ one of the project assistants, Jonelle, sighed in a die away voice that set Pippa’s teeth on edge. ‘But we’ll see if he lives up to his extraordinary reputation when we see him in the flesh tonight—’

      Her companion giggled. ‘He’s supposed to have bought his last girlfriend a set of diamond-studded handcuffs…’

      Pippa had no need to ask who was under discussion for Andreo D’Alessio’s exploits as an international playboy, business whizkid and womaniser were very well documented for a male who went to great lengths not to be photographed. Her soft full mouth curled in helpless disgust. The man that offered her diamond-studded handcuffs as a gift would find himself skydiving without a parachute. But then no man was ever likely to offer her diamond-studded sex toys of any description, and very grateful she was too not to be the type to attract that kind of perverted treatment! Just listening to another female agonise in fascination over a male set on reducing her sex to the level of toys for fun moments made her feel ill.

      ‘I bet he’s an absolute babe.’ Jonelle had a dreamy look on her pretty face. ‘Hot stuff—’

      ‘I bet he’s small and rather round in profile just like his late father,’ Pippa inserted with deliberate irony. ‘And the reason that Andreo D’Alessio doesn’t like publicity is that he loves the rumour that he’s much bigger and better looking than he really is.’

      ‘Maybe the poor guy is just sick of being chased for his mega-millions,’ Jonelle opined in reproach.

      ‘And maybe he wouldn’t be chased at all if he didn’t have them,’ Pippa mocked.

      Mid-morning she was called to an HR interview. Informed for the second time that her application to become Finance Manager had been unsuccessful, she felt grateful but still a little surprised that Ricky Brownlow had been kind enough to forewarn her of the disappointment coming her way. When she asked if there had been any complaints about her work performance, the older man was quick to reassure her.

      ‘And that’s very much to your credit when one considers events in recent months,’ the HR director continued in a sympathetic tone.

      Picking up on that oblique reference to her father’s death in the spring, Pippa paled. ‘I’ve been lucky to have my work to keep me busy.’

      ‘Are you aware that you haven’t utilised your holiday entitlement in several years?’

      Her fine brows pleated and she shrugged. ‘Yes…’

      ‘I’ve been asked to ensure that you take at least three weeks off effective from the end of this month—’

      ‘Three weeks…off?’ Pippa gasped in dismay.

      ‘I’ve also been authorised to offer you the opportunity of a sabbatical for six or twelve months.’

      ‘A…a sabbatical…are you serious?’ Pippa exclaimed in an even greater state of disconcertion.

      Impervious to Pippa’s discouraging response, the older man went on to wax lyrical about the benefits of taking a work break. He pointed out that Pippa had not taken a gap year between school and university and had in fact commenced employment at Venstar within days of her graduation.

      ‘You spend very long hours in the office.’

      ‘But I like working long hours—’

      ‘Nevertheless I’m sure that you will enjoy de-stressing during your holiday in two weeks’ time and that you’ll consider the opportunity of extending your break with a sabbatical. Think of how refreshed you would be on your return to work.’

      De-stressing? Ultra sensitive, Pippa picked up on that word and wondered if that was why she had been passed over in the promotion stakes. Did she come across as stressed to her colleagues? Irritable? Or was it that she seemed lacking in management skills? There had to be a reason why she had been unsuccessful—there had to be! Whatever, she was not being given a choice about whether or not she took a holiday and that bothered her. Why now and not before? Was there concern that she might not adapt well to the new command structure in the finance section?

      Deeply troubled by her complete loss of faith in her own abilities, Pippa worked through her lunch hour and when, around three that afternoon, she glanced up and saw the empty desks around her, she frowned in surprise.

      ‘Where is everybody?’ she asked Ricky Brownlow when she saw him in his office doorway.

      ‘Left early to get ready for the party. You should be heading home too.’

      Pippa hated to leave a task unfinished but then she recalled the events of the day and the holiday that had been pressed on her. That had been a hurtful lesson in the reality that she was not indispensable. Rising from her desk, she lifted her bag. She had reached the ground floor before she appreciated that the rain was bouncing off the pavements outside and, in her haste to depart, she had left her coat behind.

      Too impatient to wait on the lift again, she took the stairs. The finance floor was silent and she was walking towards the closet where her coat hung when she heard Ricky Brownlow’s voice carrying out from his office.

      ‘When I was in Naples, Andreo D’Alessio made it very clear that he likes sexy, fanciable women around him,’ Ricky was saying in a pained, defensive tone. ‘He took one horrified look at the piccy of our Pippa Plain in the company newsletter and it was clear that she would never fit the executive bill in his eyes, so I backed Cheryl’s application instead. Cheryl’s less qualified, I grant you, but she’s also considerably more presentable—’

      Pippa had frozen in her tracks. Pippa…Pippa Plain?

      ‘Pippa Stevenson is an excellent employee,’ a voice that she recognised as belonging to one of the older directors countered coldly.

      ‘She’s an asset as a backroom girl but her best friend couldn’t call her a looker or a mover or shaker. She has all the personality of a wet blanket,’ Ricky Brownlow pronounced with a viciousness that flayed Pippa to the bone. ‘To be frank, I didn’t think we’d be doing ourselves any favours if we ignored D’Alessio’s sexist preferences