Italian Boss, Proud Miss Prim. Susan Stephens

thought, bring it on. What did she have to worry about? Rigo Ruggiero would take one look at dull little Katie Bannister and she’d be safe.

      ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid your late stepbrother’s personal effects cannot be sent to you through the post, Signor Ruggiero.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because…’ She took a deep, steadying breath. Forget the letter of intentions—shouldn’t he care a little more? And did he have to snap like that? His stepbrother had just died, for goodness’ sake. Surely he was curious to learn what he’d been left in the will? ‘Your stepbrother’s instructions are most specific, Signor Ruggiero. He appointed the firm I represent, Flintock, Gough and Coverdale, as executors to his will, and Mr Flintock has asked me to carry out the requirements therein to the letter—’

      ‘Therein?’

       Mockery now?

      ‘Do you always speak legalese to your clients, Signorina Bannister? That must be very confusing for them.’ His voice was dry and amused. ‘I recommend plain-speaking myself…’

      No one had ever criticised her dedication to the letter of the law before and it was becoming increasingly clear that Rigo Ruggiero couldn’t care a fig for his stepbrother. She could see him now, lolling back on some easy chair as he took the call—all preposterously white teeth, inky black hair and dark, mocking eyes. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to remain calm. ‘What I’m trying to explain, Signor Ruggiero—’

      ‘Don’t patronise me.’

      The tone of voice both stung and acted as a warning. ‘I apologise. That was not my intention.’

      ‘Then I forgive you…’

      In a voice like a caress. Was he flirting with her? Unlikely as that seemed, it appeared so, and her body definitely agreed. ‘So could we fix an appointment?’ she suggested, returning determinedly to the point of the call.

      There was silence at the other end of the line, but somehow worldly amusement managed to travel down it anyway. ‘Whenever you like,’ he murmured.

      The throaty drawl was enough to make her body quiver with anticipation. Katie stared out of the window at the cold, autumnal Yorkshire rain. That was the swiftest return to reality she could imagine. Beneath her conventional, even plain exterior, lurked a seam of wanderlust. She had dreamed at one time that it would be the opera houses of the world she’d be visiting. Did she have the courage to make this trip to Rome in her new guise as solicitor, or would the loss of her singing voice be a reminder that was too painful to bear?

      ‘Well,’ the deep male voice demanded, ‘I don’t have all day, Signorina Bannister. When would you like to meet?’

      She longed for a break, and she could be in Rome tomorrow. Before she could stop herself the words tumbled out. ‘What about tomorrow, Signor Ruggiero? If that’s convenient for you…?’

      ‘I’ll make it so,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ She could hardly breathe her heart was thundering so fast. Talking over the phone was easy, but when Signor Ruggiero saw how plain and boring she was in person…And when she saw Rome…

      ‘I look forward to meeting you,’ he said. ‘You have a lovely voice, by the way.’

      A lovely voice…‘Thank you…’ Playboys were expected to flirt, and Signor Ruggiero couldn’t be expected to know that her voice had been reduced to husky ashes after a fire in her student lodgings. She had been overjoyed in the hospital when she found out all her friends had escaped uninjured, and devastated to discover that after inhaling too much smoke her voice had been reduced for good to a croak. Oddly enough, people who didn’t know her history found that husky sound attractive. But that wasn’t her only legacy from the fire. She would never sing again and had enough scars on her back to ensure no one would ever see her naked. When her singing career had crashed to a close, she had set about forging a new life as a lawyer. This was a life in the shadows rather than the spotlight, but she wasn’t interested in the spotlight; it was the music she missed.

      ‘Signorina Bannister? Are you still there?’

      ‘I beg your pardon, Signor Ruggiero. I just knocked something off my desk.’

      Or wished she had, Katie thought, staring at the magazine. A towering powerhouse of hard, tanned muscle, dressed in a sharp designer suit, stared back at her from the front cover. Rigo Ruggiero couldn’t even be accused of having a smooth, rich boy’s face. His verged on piratical, complete with sharp black stubble and a dangerous gleam in night-dark, emerald eyes. Add to that a shock of thick black hair and a jaw even firmer than her own—

      ‘You haven’t changed your mind about our meeting, I hope?’

      There was a faint edge of challenge to his voice that her body responded to with enthusiasm. ‘Not at all,’ she reassured him firmly. Reaching across the desk, she was about to send the magazine flying to the floor when she paused. The cynical curve of his mouth set her teeth on edge, but she had to admit it was the perfect frame for his arrogant voice. And, as if there wasn’t enough perfection in his life, the image showed him with his arm draped around the shoulders of a blonde girl so achingly lovely she looked like a doll rather than a living, breathing woman.

      It would be fine, Katie told herself, straightening up. She could do this. The trip to Rome was business and no one could distract her from that.

      ‘I have a question for you, Signorina Bannister.’

      ‘Yes?’ Tightening her grip on the phone, Katie realised she was still transfixed by the image of the girl’s unblemished skin.

      ‘Why you?’ he rapped.

      This was no playboy, but a merciless tycoon questioning the wisdom of sending such a young and inexperienced lawyer to meet with him. But he had a point. Why were they sending her? Because she spoke fluent Italian, thanks to her opera training, Katie reasoned, because she was plain, safe and unattached, and, as the newest recruit to the firm, she had little or no say when it came to apportioning work.

      Better not let on she was so junior. ‘I’m the only solicitor in the firm who could spare the time to come to Rome—’

      ‘You’re not much good, then?’

      ‘Signor Ruggiero—’

       ‘Piano, piano, bella…’

      Piano, bella? He was telling her to calm down—and in a voice he might use with a lover.

      Italian was sexy, Katie reminded herself. The language itself had a lyrical music all its own. And when you added Rigo Ruggiero to the mix—

      ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you in Rome tomorrow—sì?’

      See him tomorrow…

      He was quicksilver to her caution, one moment stern, the next amused. But he was right to be suspicious about her credentials. She wasn’t a great lawyer. She never would be a great lawyer because she didn’t have the hunger for it. She sometimes wondered if the passion she’d felt for her operatic career would ever transfer to anything else. But the firm she had worked for since she had retrained as a solicitor had been good to her when her life had gone up in flames, and now she was scarred a role in the background suited her.

      ‘I’ll expect you tomorrow.’

       Tomorrow…

      This was exactly what she’d asked for. But since she’d suggested tomorrow her confidence had been slowly seeping away. The whole idea was ridiculous. How could she go to Rome, the city where she had dreamed of being part of the musical life, only as a second-rate lawyer to deal with one of the most acute minds around?

      The only reason Katie could think of was hard, economic reality. The senior partner at her firm was talking redundancies, thanks to the economic downturn, and as last into the firm