The Italian Billionaire's Secretary Mistress by Sharon Kendrick Page B

hand moved down to capture her molten warmth. ‘ Isn’t it?’
    ‘Y-yes. Yes. ’
    ‘This, too?’
    Angie closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’
    ‘And this?’ The movement of his fingers became more insistent. ‘What about this?’
    ‘You know I do!’ Gasping again, she blocked the doubts which were now rearing their heads. Telling herself instead that it was glorious to be able to reacquaint herself with his body. To run the flats of her hands possessively over the hard flanks of his thighs. To have him kiss her again and then to feel his welcome weight as he slid on top of her, her body accommodating him as he entered her with such power, her heart thundering as he drove into her and again took her to that exquisite place and allowed her the slow, idyllic tumble down.
    Afterwards, she trembled, reaching out her hand towards him—wanting intimacy of a different kind. And some kind of reassurance that they hadn’t just done the most stupid thing in the world. ‘Riccardo…’
    A nerve flickered at the cheek she was stroking. ‘Mmm?’
    ‘That was…that was…’
    He planted a quick kiss on top of her head and moved away from her. ‘That was great sex, piccola —which probably should never have happened.’
    At first she thought he was joking. Teasing her. But one look at the horribly familiar stubborn expression on his face told her that he was deadly serious—even if the fact that he was now climbing out of bed hadn’t driven the point home with scalpel-sharp precision.
    ‘You’re going ?’
    This time the boxer shorts did make it onto his body—and were swiftly followed by the rest of his clothes—although he made a faint sound of disapproval when he slid the silk of his now completely crumpled shirt over his broad shoulders.
    ‘I have to.’
    He didn’t say why and Angie began to sift through her memory to try to remember what appointments he had planned for today. But as far as she could recall, there was none.
    She fixed a bright smile to her lips. ‘You don’t want any…breakfast, then?’
    He thought of some awkward and protracted meal around that scruffy table of hers and only just suppressed a shudder. ‘Tempting,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have time.’
    ‘Oh? Are you busy today, then?’ she queried, though she hated herself for saying it. And even as she asked she was aware of a new and brittle note which had entered her voice. The old Angie would not have asked Riccardo a question so self-consciously. Nor have pinned quite so much hope on the answer.
    Without answering, Riccardo walked back towards the sitting room in search of his jacket and he found it still hanging neatly over the back of the chair. He could hear the pad of bare feet and, in the middle of shrugging the jacket on, he looked up to find her watching him. She was tying the belt on some sort of silky kimono thing and he strove to find the most appreciative way of telling her that it had been a one-off, without actually having to spell it out. ‘Listen, Angie—I had a great time—’
    But Angie wasn’t completely dense—and she had known Riccardo for long enough to recognise when he was giving someone the brush off. Hadn’t she seen him doing it often enough during his business dealings? And so she cut him short—burying her hurt at the damning attitude he’d adopted with a crisp question of her own. ‘What about Marco?’
    ‘Marco?’ he echoed blankly.
    ‘Your driver and bodyguard. Remember? We left him sitting outside in the car last night.’
    There was a pause. ‘Marco can look after himself.’
    Angie went over to peer out of the window, wondering how Riccardo’s chauffeur-driven limousine would be received in the narrow and busy street in which she lived. ‘He’s gone!’
    ‘Of course he’s gone. He usually waits—’
    Angie turned round, very slowly. ‘Usually waits for what , Riccardo?’
    Riccardo coiled his silken tie and shoved it into his jacket pocket. ‘Nothing.’
    ‘No,