The Italian Duke's Virgin Mistress (10 page)

She tried not to let her feelings show as he flicked back his cuff and glanced at his watch, as though impatient for their lunch to be over. She’d been a fool to hope as they left the shop that he might offer to show her something of the city.

It had been a mistake to bring Charlotte here to this small restaurant for lunch, Raphael recognised, irritated with himself for the way his desire for her was weakening him. The intimacy of the restaurant made him ache for the even greater intimacy of his bedroom, and Charlotte naked in his arms on the bed within it. There was no logical reason why she should have this effect on him. He had, after all, known and resisted far more openly sexual women. But the sunlight striking through the windows warmed the pale skin of her throat, making him want to touch it, to possess the tiny pulse he could see beating at its base, to possess
her.
This was madness. He couldn’t allow himself to be controlled by his desire for her. It would be breaking all the rules he had made for himself.

‘I have some meetings this afternoon.’

At last Raphael was speaking to her, even if his voice was abrupt and cold. Charley focused on him as he summoned the waiter and asked for the bill. Was it because of this morning and the clothes? Was he already regretting allowing her to work on the project? She made herself think about how she would feel if he were to change his mind. The surge of emotion within told her immediately. She wanted desperately to work on the garden project, she realised. She wanted to prove herself—wanted to be herself.

The same sense of shock and recognition she had felt staring at her new reflection in the mirror of the changing room hit her again now, bringing with it an awareness that deep down inside herself she had longed for the opportunity to overturn the conceptions about herself that imprisoned her; had secretly yearned not to be clumsy, awkward Charley, but someone else instead. Before she had told herself that that was impossible, that she was what she was. Now, though, she was suddenly able to see that Raphael had been right when he had said that what she had been was what others had forced on her. The prospect of shedding that persona and its restrictions might be uncomfortable and alarming, but it was also exciting, Charley recognised, and was filled with new possibilities, new goals, new ambitions—just as she had been filled with a sense of mingled anxiety and delight when she had come face to face with her new image in the mirror. She was filled with those same feelings at the knowledge of what she could be if only she had
the courage to seize the opportunity life and Raphael had given her.

She had always longed to visit this part of Italy and now she was here; she had always ached and yearned for a job that would allow her to express herself artistically, and now she had one. She wanted desperately to learn more and grow as a person now she had that opportunity. Like tiny bolts of lightning her thoughts darted through her head, illuminating the darkest corners of her secret self. She could improve her Italian, explore the countryside, soak herself in Florence’s artistic history, feel herself grow with the garden, do everything,
be
everything she had ever wanted to do and be. Except for wanting Raphael. That she could not and must not do. That was a closed door and must remain so. If with the birth of the new Charlotte that was happening within herself there was to come a desire to embrace her sexuality by taking a lover, then she must accept that that lover could not be Raphael.

The bill paid, Raphael told her, ‘I suggest you spend the afternoon getting to know your way around the city, as that will be essential if you are to work efficiently. There will be occasions when you will have to come here alone—which reminds me that you will need a car.’

‘Only something inexpensive…’ Charley put in. She had cost him so much already, but she was determined that the work she would do for the garden would more than repay that expenditure.

‘And small, please,’ she added, remembering the narrowness of the streets.

A waiter was hovering, ready to pull out her chair for her, and Raphael stood up, signalling that it was time for them to leave.

As they walked out into the sunshine of the courtyard Charley warned herself that she would need to buy herself some decent sunglasses to replace the cheap pair she had brought from home. Raphael was already reaching for his—classically shaped, with a discreet Cartier logo—and their dark glass completely obscured his eyes. If he had already looked male and dangerous, the sunglasses brought a sharper raw edge to that look, making her heart turn over and her senses thrill with female sensual speculation and expectation. Coupled with a desire to make him equally aware of her it brought a new strand to everything else that she was discovering about herself. It was just as well, she decided, that Raphael quite plainly did not find her attractive—otherwise this new desire to explore and adventure could take her very quickly out of her depth, because if Raphael were to indicate that he wanted her, then…

Then what? Charley asked herself as they parted outside the restaurant and she turned to make her way to the square, following one of the many helpful signs. Then she would fling herself into a brief sexual affair with him with hedonistic abandon, relishing the opportunity to give in to what she had already been feeling? Her heart thudded—not with apprehension and shock, but with excitement and anticipation.

Deep in her own thoughts, she didn’t see the good-looking young man coming the other way until she had bumped into him. Flushed and guilty, she began to
apologise, but instead of merely walking on the young man removed his sunglasses to smile at her, revealing white teeth. His voice was as liquid with warmth as the look in his eyes as he told her, simply and approvingly, ‘
Si bella, signorina,’
and then swept her with a look of meltingly delicious male approval before moving on.

He had been little more than a boy, really, probably still in his late teens, his early twenties at the most, with a mop of dark curls and that male lankiness that young men possessed, but his compliment had still boosted her confidence, Charley admitted as she continued to walk down the street.

Watching her from the pavement a few yards from the restaurant, Raphael frowned and then turned on his heel. What did it matter to
him
if other men found Charlotte Wareham attractive?

S
HE
had had a wonderful afternoon, Charley reflected as she sat in a small café, drinking her cappuccino. One glance at the queues of people waiting to visit some of Florence’s most famous sites had told her that with only an afternoon at her disposal her time would be put to its best use if she simply wandered around and got a feel for the city—which was exactly what she had done. She had walked down from the Via de Tornabuoni to the River Arno, and then along its embankment until she reached the Ponte Vecchio, wandering by the long queues for the Uffizi to gaze in delight at everything in the Piazza della Signoria. Picking up a free map from a tourist office, she had strolled at her leisure, pausing frequently to admire her surroundings and to drink in the wonderful atmosphere of the city. Inside her head she had removed its modern-day crowds and re-peopled its streets with men and women of the Renaissance, imagining them going about their everyday business.

Now, though, it was nearly four o’clock, and she still had an hour to spare before she had to return to
the apartment. A girl walking past, dark hair swinging on her shoulders like liquid silk, caught her attention. Italian women had such lovely hair…She reached up and touched her own. She’d tied it back again during the afternoon, but the new Charlotte who was emerging from the old Charley wasn’t satisfied any longer with the plain practicality of simply pushing her hair out of the way. She wanted a hairstyle that matched her new self. She’d passed any number of hair salons on her stroll—but how to find the right one? She could see the store where Raphael had taken her down the street to her left. Determinedly, before her courage could desert her, Charley finished her cappuccino and, having paid for it, made her way towards it.

If the saleswoman who had served them earlier was surprised by her request she gave no sign of it, listening calmly instead, and immediately announcing that she knew the very place and that if Charley would kindly wait for a second she would telephone them herself, on Charley’s behalf.

Which was how, nearly two hours later, Charley found herself stepping out of the salon with an elegant, sleek, not quite shoulder-length newly bobbed hairstyle, which she liked so much that she couldn’t help sneaking glances at herself in shop windows, unable to resist moving her head just for the pleasure of feeling her hair swing so perfectly against her neck.

But she wasn’t going to have much time in which to get changed for dinner. The new haircut had taken far longer than she had expected…

Raphael looked at his watch. Charlotte should have been back over an hour ago, and her failure to return—initially an irritation—had now grown into an anxiety that was manifesting itself within him as anger that he was fighting to control.

Anger. Just thinking about the dangers of allowing himself to feel such an emotion intensified what he was trying
not
to feel. Was this a manifestation of the madness that ran in his blood? A feeling of irritation that would ultimately grow into a monstrous, manyheaded alien form within him that he could not control? That would make him lash out, at first verbally, then physically, hurting and then destroying those who aroused the rage that had taken possession of him? That rage had already possessed him once, and he had sworn that he would never allow it to do so again.

The buzz of the apartment’s intercom, followed by the sound of Charley’s voice, cut across his thoughts, replacing them with action as he moved quickly towards the door of his study-cum-office.

Standing on the step outside the imposing double doors in the still busy street, not hearing any response to her call, Charlotte was just about to try the intercom again when the door suddenly opened to reveal Raphael standing there.

‘You were supposed to return here at five-thirty. It is now nearly seven o’clock.’

He was angry, Charley recognised. ‘I know—I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I got stuck in the hairdressers.
I didn’t realise it would take so long, and I couldn’t let you know as I don’t have your mobile number.’

She’d been in a
hairdressers?
Raphael looked at the shining, elegant swing of her hair as she stepped out of the door’s shadow, and was filled with an irrational surge of fresh anger as he recognised how much confidence and pleasure her new hairstyle was giving her, and that his concern for her wellbeing had been totally unnecessary.

‘In future it would be as well if you remember that I don’t pay you to visit hairdressers,’ he told her harshly, adding, ‘We have a vitally important business meeting in less than an hour’s time, prior to which I had intended to run through a few things with you.’

Charley was completely mortified, all her pleasure in her new hairstyle lost, destroyed by the force of Raphael’s anger.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long. I wanted…’ Her throat locked protectively around the words that would have humiliated her even more had she uttered them—told him that she had wanted him to look at her and admire her. Admire her or desire her? The confidence and happiness she had felt earlier had gone.

‘I’ll go and get changed,’ she told Raphael in a flat voice that echoed what she was feeling.

Raphael watched her go, resisting the temptation to stop her and tell her—tell her what? That he wanted her? Wanted her when he knew that ultimately he might destroy her, and with her himself? The sooner everything was sorted out and he was able to leave her in charge of the garden project the better. He had work
to do in Rome with regard to his business interests, which would keep him safely away from her for long enough for him to deal with his unwanted desire for her, Raphael assured himself.

In her bedroom, Charley undressed and then showered quickly, glad that the stylist had taken the time to show her how to dry and smooth her hair to keep it in polished perfection. She had taken the opportunity to ask the saleswoman at the designer store which of Charlotte’s new outfits she would recommend for a smart business dinner engagement, and so, wrapped in a towel, she removed the clothes the saleswoman had suggested from the wardrobe in the dressing room off her bedroom and carried them carefully to place them on the bed.

The outfit was a slim-fitting sleeveless cream dress, over which went a soft, floating, seamed and tucked tunic top, with long sleeves that flared out at the wrist to almost cover her hands. The tunic reached almost to the hem of the dress, and the outfit was completed by a fine-knit silk jersey double-breasted cardigan jacket, cropped just above the waist.

A little dubiously Charlotte put each piece on, and then went and looked uncertainly in the mirror, exhaling a sigh of shaky delight when she saw that, far from looking as though she was dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, the finished effect was a breathtakingly delicate yet sophisticated blending of textures and fabrics.

Boosted by the new confidence, Charley slipped on the strappy wedge sandals that complemented the
outfit, and picked up the pretty soft leather clutch bag that went with them. It was just about large enough to hold a notepad and pen, as well as her lipstick and comb. She headed for the door, stepping out onto the landing just as Raphael emerged from his own room.

Charley held her breath a little, wondering if he would make any comment about her appearance, and then told herself when he didn’t that she wasn’t really disappointed. He was wearing a light-coloured suit over a dark shirt—the effect, to her mind’s eye, very Italian and very sexy.

As he waited for her at the top of the stairs he reached into his pocket and produced a small oblong package, which he handed to her, telling her, when she looked uncertainly at him, ‘Scent. Later on you can choose your own, but for now this will have to do. No Italian woman considers herself properly dressed without her favourite perfume, and I’m aware that you don’t wear any.’

Aware too, Raphael acknowledged inwardly, that the scent she always carried with her that was simply her own was becoming dangerously embedded in his senses. He had been glad of the shadows on the landing when she had come out of her room; he might have seen the clothes the saleswoman had chosen hanging on their rail, but the effect of the blending of different fabrics and textures of the outfit she was now wearing, and the way they both concealed and yet at the same time subtly hinted at the curves of her body, was one of sensual promise. And he would not be the only man to think that, Raphael knew. The feeling that speared
through him was viciously sharp.
Jealousy?
He did not
want
other men to look at her with desire? He had no right to feel like that, Raphael told himself grimly.

Scent! She had not thought of buying any herself. Charley’s fingers trembled as she removed the wrapping, just as they would have done if this had been a lover’s gift—which of course it was not.

The liquid in the small glass bottle was the colour of warm amber. Very carefully Charley removed the top, breathed in the scent, and immediately fell in love. It transported her to summer gardens filled with fat, blooming heavy-petalled roses, their sweetness spiced with something alluringly exotic that made her think of Eastern harems and velvet nights.

She’d expected Raphael to choose her something modern and practical, but this surely was a scent designed for a woman who luxuriated in her sensuality—a scent she would wear in bed at night to clothe her naked body in temptation for her lover.

‘If you don’t like it—’ Raphael began.

‘I do,’ Charley assured him, determinedly dabbing it on her throat and wrists in proof of her claim. ‘It’s heavenly—but there’s no label on it.’

‘It’s from a
parfumier
who blends his own scents.’ His manner was off-hand and dismissive, making Charley feel reluctant to pursue the subject, although she loved the scent so much she desperately wanted to know where it had come from. She already knew that when the bottle was empty she would want to replace it.

Charley had only just dabbed the scent on her wrists and throat, but already Raphael could smell its sensual
mix of promise and passion and Charley herself. He had had to smell several different scents before he had found the one he had eventually chosen. Even though he had been aware of its sensuality, he hadn’t, he admitted to himself now, been prepared for the effect it would have when mixed with the warmth of Charley’s skin. His mother had always worn a rosebased scent, less sensual and more floral. He pushed away that memory. He didn’t know why Charley’s presence was making him think so often of his mother, and nor did he want to know.