One Night In…. Оливия Гейтс

actually suggesting they hire the waitress as a virtual prostitute. ‘I think not.’

      ‘Why such a prude, di Agnio?’ Richard taunted. ‘From what I hear, you’ve done that and worse.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘A lot worse.’

      Alessandro did not dignify his companion’s remark with a response. He knew his own past. He knew what people believed. He chose to ignore it, as he had ignored every telling, incredulous remark since he’d taken the reins of Di Agnio Enterprises two years ago.

      ‘If it’s pleasure you’re seeking,’ he said, with quiet, menacing derision, ‘you’ll find a wider range of amusements in town, not with some two-bit part-time whore.’

      ‘You don’t need to be crude.’ Richard sipped his wine, his expression thoughtful as he gazed at the waitress. She’d finally cleared the table, dirty plates stacked on one tanned arm.

      Still chatting, Alessandro noticed with scathing disdain. He watched her lips curl into a smile that promised all too much.

      ‘She reminds me of home. I bet she’s American.’

      ‘Why don’t you go talk to her, then?’ Alessandro questioned silkily. ‘I’m sure you don’t need my intervention.’

      ‘But I want it.’ Richard’s eyes met Alessandro’s, watery blue clashing with midnight steel. ‘And you need my business, di Agnio, so why don’t you just humour me?’

      A muscle ticked in Alessandro’s jaw. He rested his hand flat on the table, resisting the desire to curl it into a fist. He would not be threatened—not by the potential of Harrison’s business, not by the ghosts of his own past.

      He was free. He was free of all that.

      He smiled. ‘You’ll find I don’t need your business quite as much as you think,’ he said lightly. ‘And perhaps you need mine a bit more than you’d like me to believe.’

      Richard’s expression hardened. Fear flickered in his eyes, and one limp, well-manicured hand bunched the tablecloth. ‘Where did you hear that?’

      ‘I like to stay informed.’ Alessandro’s smile widened, predatory, in control. Richard saw, and seemed to shrink a little. ‘There’s a dinner and dancing club on the Via Filetteria that will do very well for tonight.’ Alessandro spoke firmly, as a parent to a child, and saw with satisfaction that Richard Harrison’s momentary flare of rebellious authority had died out.

      ‘I just liked her, that’s all.’

      Alessandro glanced again at the waitress. He could understand her appeal, on a basic level. She was pretty enough, and there was an aura about her that exuded—what? Warmth? Sexuality? Availability, perhaps?

      A woman to be pleasured—used—once, and discarded.

      If he did that. Which he did not.

      Not any more.

      Then she turned and caught his gaze. Her hair was piled untidily on top of her head, strands of indeterminate brown falling to frame her face. Nothing special, Alessandro decided dismissively, despite her youth and obvious sex appeal. She knew how to work a room, a man.

      Then her eyes widened, her gaze fastened on his.

      Her eyes were the golden-green of sunlight on an olive grove, iridescent, filled with promise. With hope. Her lips parted into a smile, tender in its uncertainty.

      Alessandro felt his insides tighten. Something flared to life within him—something he’d suppressed, had thought banished for ever.

      Need.

      He turned back to Richard, who was oblivious to the silent yearning exchange. ‘On second thoughts, I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no argument, no opposition. His fingers toyed with then tightened on the stem of his water glass. ‘A quiet dinner at home will suit my needs.’

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘MEGHAN, there’s someone here to see you.’

      Meghan Selby struggled against the knot in her apron strings and sighed tiredly.

      ‘Please tell me it’s not Paulo,’ she said, as the other waitress, Carla, placed a stack of dirty plates on the counter.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘My landlord.’

      Carla wrinkled her nose. ‘What does he look like?’

      ‘Short, fat, greasy-haired.’ She suppressed a shudder.

      ‘Why would he come here?’ Carla asked, curiosity evident in her eyes, and Meghan shrugged evasively.

      ‘Who knows? But I don’t know many other people in this town.’

      ‘Well, it’s certainly not him.’ Carla’s efficient fingers went to work on the knot. ‘This man is tall, built, wavy-haired and asking to see you.’ She released the untangled strings and grinned. ‘He’s gorgeous, actually. Is there something—or someone—you’re not telling me about?’

      ‘I wish.’ Meghan slipped off her apron with a quick, grateful smile. ‘It’s probably just someone who’s lost his wallet.’

      Carla raised her eyebrows. ‘Why wouldn’t he ask Angelo, then?’

      She shrugged. The truth was, she’d no idea why a strange man would ask for her, and she didn’t really want to know. She didn’t want to attract attention from any men, strange or familiar. The sooner she dealt with the one waiting outside the better.

      She’d been waitressing in Spoleto for six weeks, and she knew instinctively it was time to move on. She enjoyed Carla’s friendship, and Angelo, who owned the trattoria, was like a doting uncle. She’d made a few friends in town, but she felt the inexorable need to shake the dust from her feet before the money ran out, before anyone got too close. Before her past caught up with her.

      ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’ Carla queried, and Meghan pretended not to hear. Best not to make any promises.

      ‘I’d better go and see about my mystery man,’ she joked, and Carla laughed.

      ‘I can’t wait to hear all about it.’

      A quick glance in the bar’s mirror revealed a stain on her shirt, and her hair, which had been in an almost sleek chignon this morning, was now a flyaway tangle.

      ‘You look gorgeous, cara.’ Angelo, sixty-three years old and full of spicy humour, grinned at her. ‘Got a date?’

      ‘Nope,’ Meghan replied, trying for a breezy smile. She didn’t plan on having any dates for a long time. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—not that it did much to help.

      ‘See you tomorrow.’

      She nodded, still making no promises, and went outside.

      The man waiting under the red and white striped awning of Trattoria di Angelo was striking even from a distance. He wore a charcoal-grey suit, excellently cut, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, stretching the cloth of his jacket against an impressive pair of shoulders.

      He looked up as she approached, navy eyes clashing with hers. The sheer force of those eyes—the power, the knowledge in their midnight depths—made her take an involuntary step backwards even as her heart stumbled in beat.

      She recognised him, of course, as the man who’d dined in the trattoria earlier. Someone important in business, or so Angelo’s significant look had implied when he’d asked her to wait on them.

      She remembered the way the man had looked at her earlier that afternoon, his eyes blazing into hers. Searing, branding.

      Knowing.

      As if he knew who she was. What she was.

      That wasn’t possible, Meghan reassured herself, and yet one look from beneath