The Uncompromising Italian. Cathy Williams

      

       Lesley spun away from the mirror suddenly as she heard the door open and saw Alessio look at her in shock.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ She felt naked as his eyes slowly raked over her, from the top of her head, along her body, and then all the way back again.

      Alessio couldn’t stop looking at her. Any other woman would have been overjoyed to be the centre of his attention, as she now was, but instead she was staring straight ahead, unblinking, doing her utmost to shut him out of her line of vision.

      He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted this one right now. Mind and body fused. This wasn’t just another of his glamorous sex-kitten women. This thinking, questioning, irreverent creature was in a different league.

      CATHY WILLIAMS is originally from Trinidad, but has lived in England for a number of years. She currently has a house in Warwickshire, which she shares with her husband, Richard, her three daughters, Charlotte, Olivia and Emma, and their pet cat, Salem. She adores writing romantic fiction, and would love one of her girls to become a writer—although at the moment she is happy enough if they do their homework and agree not to bicker with one another!

      The Uncompromising Italian

      Cathy Williams

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      To my wonderful daughters.

      Contents

       Cover

       Excerpt

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Extract

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      LESLEY FOX SLOWLY DREW to a stop in front of the most imposing house she had ever seen.

      The journey out of London had taken barely any time at all. It was Monday, it was the middle of August and she had been heading against the traffic. In all it had taken her under an hour to leave her flat in crowded Ladbroke Grove and arrive at a place that looked as though it should be plastered on the cover of a House Beautiful magazine.

      The wrought-iron gates announced its splendour, as had the tree-lined avenue and acres of manicured lawns through which she had driven.

      The guy was beyond wealthy. Of course, she had known that. The first thing she had done when she had been asked to do this job had been to look him up online.

      Alessio Baldini—Italian, but resident in the UK for a long time. The list of his various companies was vast and she had skipped over all of that. What he did for a living was none of her business. She had just wanted to make sure that the man existed and was who Stan said he was.

      Commissions via friends of friends were not always to be recommended, least of all in her niche sideline business. A girl couldn’t be too careful, as her father liked to say.

      She stepped out of her little Mini, which was dwarfed in the vast courtyard, and took a few minutes to look around her.

      The brilliance of a perfect summer’s day made the sprawling green lawns, the dense copse to one side lush with lavender and the clambering roses against the stone of the mansion facing her seem almost too breathtakingly beautiful to be entirely real.

      This country estate was in a league of its own.

      There had been a bit of information on the Internet about where the man lived, but no pictures, and she had been ill-prepared for this concrete display of wealth.

      A gentle breeze ruffled her short brown hair and for once she felt a little awkward in her routine garb of lightweight combat trousers, espadrilles and one of her less faded tee-shirts advertising the rock band she had gone to see five years ago.

      This didn’t seem the sort of place where dressing down would be tolerated.

      For the first time, she wished she had paid a little more attention to the details of the guy she was going to see.

      There had been long articles about him but few pictures and she had skimmed over those, barely noting which one he was amidst the groups of boring men in business suits who’d all seemed to wear the identical smug smiles of people who had made far too much money for their own good.

      She grabbed her laptop from the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

      If it weren’t for Stan, she wouldn’t be here now. She didn’t need the money. She could afford the mortgage on her one-bedroom flat, had little interest in buying pointless girly clothes for a figure she didn’t possess to attract men in whom she had scant interest—or who, she amended with scrupulous honesty to herself, had scant interest in her—and she wasn’t into expensive,