Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

And then he thought of her face. Of her rose-petal lips and those eyes—the most vivid, violet colour he’d ever seen. In fact, come to think of it, he’d never seen a pair of eyes like that. He found himself thinking beyond her face. Wondering what kind of panties she favoured. And what she liked best to do in bed. And he swallowed down the sharp tang of lust which had dried in his throat.

‘Then we must have dinner tomorrow,’ he said unevenly. ‘I’ll send a car to collect you. What time do you finish at the store?’

‘I…’ Cassie’s thoughts began rattling through her head as she tried to work out the logistics. She could take an outfit into work and get changed afterwards. ‘That would be great. Tomorrow I finish at seven-thirty.’

‘The car will be waiting for you. A domani,’ he said softly, and hung up.

Cassie was left listening to the click as he cut the connection, her heart racing as she replaced the phone in its cradle. She thought of the sensual curve of his lips and way his hard black eyes had glittered when he looked at her. She remembered the way her body had trembled when his hand had brushed over hers and she had the strangest sensation of standing beside a deep, dark lake and getting ready to dive in without really knowing anything about what might lay beneath the surface.

The only thing she knew was that she was going to be way out of her depth.

Chapter Two (#uf7bbfdde-7cd7-5096-94d6-1c7fc24d3301)

THERE must have been some kind of mistake.

For a moment Cassie froze as she stared up at the imposing white mansion. Yes, she’d guessed that Giancarlo was rich—very, very rich—but surely he couldn’t live somewhere like this? Not looking out over the lush gardens of Kensington Palace and slap bang next door to an embassy where a flag was fluttering in the cold December breeze.

Already the evening felt as if it were happening to someone else—and yet it had barely begun. She kept thinking that if she pinched herself hard enough she might wake up and find herself on the bus going home to Greenford instead of in the back of a chauffeur-driven car which had just stopped in front of one of the most prestigious crescents in London.

After finishing work, she had changed into a simple black dress and a pair of cheap, high-heeled shoes that she’d hastily run out and bought during her lunch hour. Adding a touch of lipstick, she had untied her hair and tried to quell her steadily rising nerves as she dragged a brush through it. It was only when it was hanging loose in a pale waterfall down her back that Lindy from the cosmetics department had walked in, to see Cassie looking at herself in the mirror.

‘Going somewhere?’

‘Um, out for dinner.’

‘Got a date?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’ She was dying to tell someone but she’d been asleep by the time her flatmates had arrived home last night—and Lindy had never been friendly towards her. Plus Lindy was a full-time member of staff—not someone who’d been drafted in for the Christmas period—and perhaps it wasn’t really appropriate to tell her that she was dating a customer. Not when the expression on her face as she looked Cassie up and down was as sour as a bowlful of lemons.

Instead, Cassie glanced at her watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? I’d better go or I’ll be late. See you tomorrow, Lindy.’ Carefully, she picked up the distinctive claret-and-gold-wrapped package and smiled.

Lindy’s sharp eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, just—just some candles. They belong to a…friend.’ Did she know Giancarlo well enough to call him a friend—and why was she blushing? Why hadn’t she just come out and said that a customer had left them behind? ‘He asked me to bring them over.’

Lindy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did he?’

‘Yes. Well, I’d better…I’d better go. Night, Lindy.’

Feeling ridiculously guilty—and not quite sure why—Cassie had left the building, relieved to find the promised car waiting for her at the Brompton Road entrance to the store. But the only person in the vast vehicle was the chauffeur and she found herself wishing that Giancarlo had come to collect her personally. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of man who sat waiting patiently for a woman—but it didn’t exactly do her ego much good.

And now she felt a bit like a door-to-door salesperson as she made her way up the flight of white stairs leading to the enormous front door, the candles in one hand, her fingers clutching tightly at her handbag with the other. What on earth was she going to talk to him about? But before she’d had the chance to ring the bell, the door opened and there was Giancarlo himself—a gleam flickering in the depths of his ebony eyes.

His black hair was gleaming and tousled—as if he’d run his fingers through it when he’d been fresh out of the shower—and he wore a fine white silk shirt which was unbuttoned at the neck. Dark trousers hugged his narrow hips and emphasised the muscular legs and he seemed much taller than she remembered. Despite the simplicity of his clothes, he looked rich and powerful and intimidatingly masculine and Cassie felt the sudden spiralling of nerves.

‘So here you are,’ he said softly.

‘Here I am.’ Glad to have something to distract her, she thrust the package into his hand. ‘Look, I’ve brought your candles.’

His lips curved into a smile as he took them from her. Candles were the very last thing on his mind. ‘Grazie. Now come inside and let me look at you.’ Giancarlo’s throat thickened as she stepped past him into the hallway on those killer heels, with a sway of her silken hair.

He let his gaze drift over her. Even when she’d been working behind the counter in her starchy uniform with her hair scraped back there had been some quality about her which had intrigued him. But in the short dress and high heels with that pale cascade of blonde hair running down her back, she looked utterly irresistible. Fresh, and young and firm. Suddenly, he wished he knew her well enough to skip dinner and take her straight to bed. Or at least to start kissing her. ‘You look amazing,’ he said softly as he put the package down on a table.

‘Do I?’

‘You know you do.’

But Cassie shrugged a little awkwardly. Like most women, she had little real confidence in the way she looked—even though she’d tried her best to fit in since arriving in London and discovering that her Cornish clothes weren’t really suitable for a city lifestyle. Sometimes it felt as if she’d taken on a different persona to match the new outfits she’d acquired—a glossy patina which concealed the real her. She’d certainly never have worn heels this high or a dress this short back home. But then, she’d never have been standing looking into the face of a man like this back home, would she?

Suddenly shy and wanting to divert herself from the gleam of appraisal in his black eyes, she glanced around the entrance hall, which was as big as a room itself with its high ceilings and pale grey walls hung with a series of muted charcoal drawings of a beautiful Japanese woman. Stained glass from the window light of the front door splashed reds and blues on the tiled black and white floor, and on a gleaming rosewood table stood a glass bowl of white roses and freesia which perfumed the air with their delicate scent. The airy dimensions and sense of space were awesome—it was like somewhere you might see in one of those glossy interior magazines you found at the dentist’s—and Cassie couldn’t imagine just one person living in a place this big.

She looked at Giancarlo expectantly, waiting for him to fetch his jacket. ‘Where are we going for dinner?’ she asked.

‘Well, actually, we’re not going anywhere.’ His voice was soft. ‘We’re eating right here.’

‘Here?’ Her heart began to thud and she wasn’t sure why. She had imagined a rooftop and a twinkling city view. Someone playing a white piano—and cocktail waitresses with flowers in their hair. The soft murmur of conversation and watching all the rich people out at play.

‘You have some sort of objection to that, mia bella?’ His eyes gleamed. ‘You don’t think the standard of food will be what you’re used to?’

Her cheeks grew pink at the mockery in his voice. ‘Well, I…’

‘Well, what, Cassandra?’ he questioned teasingly.

Nobody—nobody—ever called her Cassandra. And nobody had ever told her that an Italian voice could make a single word sound like a soft seduction. Surely it wasn’t decent behaviour for her to have dinner alone in a man’s house on their first date—and yet if she came out and told him so, then wouldn’t it make her sound awfully na?ve? As if she’d just come up from the country and were some sort of hick. Maybe this was normal behaviour for London. And just because they were eating in didn’t mean he was going to leap on her, did it? Cassie cleared her throat. ‘I just thought—well, there are lots of lovely restaurants locally.’

‘So there are—but most of them are full of tourists and office parties at this time of the year.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘Come with me and let me see if I can change your mind.’

She let him take her hand and allowed him to lead her along an endless corridor hung with yet more pictures, past the faint sound of a radio and the clanking sound of something being whisked. The corridor led into an enormous, wooden-floored room dotted with several dramatic sculptures and large French windows which opened onto a beautiful conservatory, where a table had been set for dinner.

Stars gleamed through the clear ceiling, a bottle of champagne sat waiting in an ice-bucket and pots of jasmine scented the air. Aware that he was still holding her hand and that it now seemed a little too intimate, Cassie shook hers free and walked over to the glass doors, which overlooked an enormous garden.

Though the night was cold and dark, strategic lights had been placed around the huge grounds, illuminating bare trees and elegant shrubs so that the whole scene resembled a winter stage-set. It was the prettiest and most unexpected thing she had ever seen—as if the countryside had been transplanted into the centre of the busy city and given a theatrical twist.

‘Oh, my,’ she breathed. ‘All that garden—and right in the middle of London. Lucky you.’

Luck? Giancarlo walked over to stand beside her, looking at the tight high curve of her young bottom as he did so and the way the pale blonde hair fell almost to her waist. How people always looked at his life and thought he’d had it easy. He thought that luck didn’t feature as strongly as the capricious hand of fate and a corresponding determination to make something of himself. The senseless shock of a double betrayal. And the long, grim struggle to work his way up from the bottom. To prove to his brother and himself that he didn’t need an inheritance to elevate himself to the level of a wealthy man.

And he had done it. Exceeded even his own exacting standards and lofty expectations. Been single-minded enough to focus on his goal and to achieve the success he had set out to achieve. Which was why he could bring this beautiful young woman into his home—for a meal which would rival most award-winning restaurants in the capital.

‘So have you changed your mind about going out? Can you think of anywhere prettier to eat?’ he questioned, glancing at the waterfall of blonde hair which was rippling down her narrow back.

‘I guess I can’t. Not really. But who’s doing the cooking?’

‘Well, not me, that’s for sure!’ Walking back over to the table, he pulled the bottle of champagne from the bucket and removed the thick foil with his thumb. ‘Drink?’

‘Lovely,’ she said lightly, taking the flute of pale fizz from him and giving a little squeak as she sipped it.

‘Bubbles up your nose?’ he murmured.