The Mistress Wife
Автор
Lynne Graham
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CHAPTER ONE
‘I WASN’T sure whether or not you would want to see this…’ Speaking in the uneasy tone of one apologising in advance for a potential offence, Lucca’s cousin, Alfredo, settled a tabloid newspaper down on the elegant glass desk.
At first glimpse of the smirking blonde displaying her bountiful curves in the centre of a page topped by garish headlines, Lucca Saracino froze, his lean, powerful face hardening. It was Jasmine Bailey, the bimbo whose lies had contributed to the destruction of his marriage. Now yesterday’s news as far as the rich and famous were concerned, Jasmine was plumbing even sleazier depths with the no-holds-barred revelations of exactly how low she had had to sink to achieve her original fifteen minutes of fame. In that uninhibited telling, the former topless model freely confessed that she had concocted her story about having shared a wild night of passion with the Italian billionaire, Lucca Saracino, on his luxury yacht.
‘You should sue her!’ Alfredo, a stockily built young man in his early twenties, urged with all the eager but unsophisticated zeal of a recent law graduate keen to prove his mettle.
Such an exercise would be futile, Lucca reflected, wide, sensual mouth assuming a sardonic curl. He would gain nothing from dragging a cheap little scrubber and his own long-lost reputation through the courts. More to the point, his divorce was about to be made final. Vivien, his soon-to-be ex-wife, had judged him guilty with a speed and lack of trust that would have shocked any male with a sense of fair play. Lifting her virginal little head high, Vivien had donned the mantle of saintly, suffering piety and vacated the marital home. Encouraged by her sour and money-hungry sister, Bernice, Vivien had walked out on their marriage in spite of the fact that she’d been carrying their first child. She had refused to listen to his declaration of innocence. The woman who wept buckets over Lassie films had shown him a face of stone.
‘Lucca…?’ Alfredo prompted in the brooding silence that every other member of Lucca’s personal staff would have read as a tacit warning.
With difficulty, Lucca suppressed an exasperated rebuke. Allowing his gormless cousin to work for him even temporarily had been an act of charity on his part. Alfredo was desperate to add some business experience to his unimpressive CV. Lucca had found him clever but impractical, conscientious but uninspired, well meaning but tactless. While others soared, Alfredo would always plod and often infuriate.
‘I owe you a big apology,’ the younger man continued awkwardly, standing square in front of the desk and evidently determined to say his piece. ‘I didn’t believe the Bailey woman had set you up. My parents didn’t either. We all thought you had been playing away!’
Every low suspicion of the level of that side of the family’s faith in him now fully confirmed, Lucca veiled grim dark golden eyes.
‘And absolutely nobody blamed you in the slightest,’ Alfredo hastened to assert. ‘Vivien just didn’t fit the bill—’
‘Vivien is the mother of my son. Don’t speak of her with anything other than the respect that is her due,’ Lucca murmured in icy reproof.
Alfredo flushed and hurried to offer profuse apologies instead. Impatient with his essential stupidity, Lucca dismissed him from his presence. Rising from his seat, he strode over to the imposing windows that proffered a spectacular view of London, but his forbidding gaze was turned inward and his thoughts were relentlessly bitter.
His infant son, Marco, was growing up without him in a mean little home where Italian was not spoken. There had been nothing civilised about the breakup of his marriage or the separation that had followed. Lucca had had to fight hard for what little he saw of the child he adored. He had been branded an unfaithful husband by Jasmine Bailey’s sleazy allegations. His lawyers had made it plain to him that he had no hope whatsoever of winning guardianship of his son from an estranged wife with an irreproachable reputation. It utterly outraged Lucca’s sense of justice that Vivien, who had wrecked their marriage with her distrust, should have effortlessly retained custody of his child.
He knew himself to be at best an occasional visitor on the outskirts of Marco’s life and he was afraid that his son forgot him altogether between visits. How could so young a child remember an absentee father between one month and the next? There was no way either that Vivien would be reminding Marco of the parent she had deprived him of possessing. But now there was also no way that she would be able to retain occupancy of the moral high ground…
As that tantalising reality pierced Lucca’s brooding reflections it was like a shot of adrenalin slivering through his lean, powerful frame with life-giving force. His luxuriant lashes lowered on eyes that suddenly glowed tiger-bright with scorching satisfaction. He pondered the very real possibility that Vivien might miss out on seeing Jasmine Bailey’s confession. An academic who took little interest in the everyday world, Vivien rarely read newspapers.
Lucca buzzed his secretary, instructed her to obtain a pristine new copy of the relevant paper and have it delivered to Vivien with a gift card bearing his compliments. Petty? He didn’t think so. Pride demanded that he draw her attention to the proof of his innocence.
It would spoil Vivien’s day and worse. Vivien had led a sheltered life. Naïve as she was, she bruised easily. She had the sort of conscience that kept her awake at night and would suffer the tortures of the damned when she was forced to face the truth that she had misjudged her husband. Natural justice might finally be operating on his behalf but nothing could make the punishment fit the crime, could it?
‘Please come out, Jock…’ Vivien begged the three-legged Scottie dog hiding under the sideboard.
Jock, rather optimistically named after a genial cartoon character, stayed put. He had been denied the chance to get his teeth into the leg of the washing-machine repairman and therefore cruelly prevented from fulfilling his duty to protect his mistress from a male interloper. Dogs were not supposed to sulk but Jock went off in a huff if he was denied the delights of chasing male individuals from the premises.
Marco gave a gurgle of delight and began crawling under the sideboard to join his favourite playmate. Vivien scooped her son up. Huge brown eyes fringed by silky black lashes as long as fly swats reproached her for her interference. Marco made a determined squirming motion in an effort to escape his mother’s restraining arms and when that failed loosed a noisy shout of annoyance.
Vivien steeled herself for a battle. ‘No…’ she told Marco quietly and steadily, all too painfully aware after a recent very public humiliation at the supermarket that it was time that she learned how to handle her son’s fits of temper.
No? In visible disbelief, Marco gazed back at the fair-haired woman with her big anxious green eyes. No? His nanny, Rosa, used that unpleasant word to him, and his father too. But he knew his mother adored him, and loved to please him. Indeed at the age of eighteen months he had all the controlling instincts of a tyrant, who had already discovered that he needed only the most basic of weapons to triumph over all opposition: when thwarted, he threw unmanageable tantrums until he got what he wanted. He began to draw in a deep, deep breath in preparation for screaming and raging his way to a crushing victory.
Barely five feet two inches tall and of slender build, Vivien laid her solid little son down inside the playpen. Marco was strong and when he flailed around in a temper, she found it very difficult to hold him. Once he had fallen off her lap and bumped his head. After that scare she had begun putting him down for his own safety.
‘He’s a spoilt brat!’ her sister, Bernice, had condemned with a shudder of distaste that had cut Vivien’s tender maternal heart to the quick.
‘Demanding little chap, isn’t he?’ Fabian Garsdale, her friend and colleague in the botany department, had remarked with an air of shocked disapproval when he’d witnessed such a display. ‘Have you thought of applying a spot of good old-fashioned discipline?’
‘You must try really hard to be firm with him,’ Rosa, Marco’s part-time nanny, had advised when pressed to explain why her charge rarely subjected her to the same temperamental episodes. ‘Marco can be very strong-willed.’
Vivien performed a handstand beside the playpen. If she was quick off the mark, simply distracting Marco worked a treat. Mid-wail, her son paused for breath and then chortled with delighted surprise at the sight of his mother upside down. He sat up to get a better view and his glorious smile shone forth.
Flipping back upright again, Vivien swept him into her arms, hugged him tight and blinked back the moisture in her eyes. All the fierce agonising love that she had once felt for Lucca had been transferred to their son. Without Marco, she was convinced that she would have gone out of her mind with grief over her broken marriage. It had been her baby’s needs that first forced her to confront unpleasant realities and carve out a new life for them both. But the devastating pain of Lucca’s betrayal was still locked up inside her and she had to live with it daily. She had always felt things too deeply and had learnt as a child to conceal the embarrassing intensity of her feelings behind a quiet façade. To do otherwise made people uncomfortable.
The noise of a car pulling rather too fast into the gravel driveway outside announced Bernice’s return. Jock emerged from below the sideboard, uttered a single bark, looked nervously at the sitting-room door and then went into retreat again. A moment later, the door bounced back in protest on its hinges to frame a tall, leggy brunette, who would have been quite stunningly lovely had it not been for the angry hardness of her blue eyes and the clenched set of dissatisfaction marring her mouth.
Indifferent to Bernice’s, entrance for his aunt never gave him attention unless it was to lament his vocal output or his infuriatingly immature behaviour, Marco gave vent to a large sleepy yawn and rested back heavily in his mother’s arms.
Bernice sent the curly-headed toddler a look of irritation. ‘Shouldn’t the kid be having his nap?’
‘I was just about to take him up.’ Wondering sympathetically if her sister had suffered yet another disappointment in the employment stakes, Vivien went upstairs and tried not to worry about her own increasingly strained finances.
After all, it would be downright cruel to preach economy yet again to Bernice, who was already utterly miserable struggling to survive without champagne breakfasts and the like. Vivien was also guiltily conscious that her own personal reluctance to take anything other than the barest minimum financial assistance from Lucca after their separation was ultimately responsible for her overdraft at the bank. She had put pride ahead of common sense and was now paying the literal price.
At least, the cottage was small and, now that all the repairs had been done, economical to run. Of course, Bernice said it was only fit for dolls. But in the dark days of late pregnancy when Vivien had been alone and struggling to bear a life that did not contain even occasional glimpses of Lucca, the little house had seemed like a sanctuary. Embellished by a mature tree in the front garden, the cottage lay in pretty countryside not too far from the Oxford college where Vivien currently worked three days a week as a tutor in the botany department.
Vivien squeezed between her own bed and Marco’s cot and tucked her son in for his morning nap. Possessed of two narrow bedrooms, her diminutive home was the perfect size for a single parent of one but stretched to capacity when required to house another adult. Even so, Vivien was overjoyed to have her sibling’s company and only wished she had foreseen the possibility that she might one day require roomier accommodation. Yet who could have guessed that her sister’s designer boutique in London would fail? Her poor sister had lost everything: her trendy Docklands apartment, her smart sports car, not to mention the majority of her fashionable but fickle friends.
‘Don’t even bother asking me how my interview went!’ her sister hissed furiously when Vivien joined her again. ‘The cheeky old hag virtually accused me of lying on my CV and I told her what she could do with her lousy hotel job!’
Vivien was taken aback ‘Surely the woman didn’t accuse you of lying—’
‘She didn’t have to…she started asking me questions in French and I hadn’t a clue what she was rattling on about!’ Bernice proclaimed in outrage. ‘I claimed a working knowledge of French on my CV…I didn’t say I was practically bilingual!’
Although it was news to Vivien that the sibling three years her senior had even a working knowledge of the French language, she hurried to soothe ruffled feathers with words of sympathy.
Unimpressed, Bernice pursed her lips. ‘It’s your fault that I was humiliated!’
‘My fault?’ Vivien stilled in dismay.
‘You’re still married to an incredibly rich man and yet we’re practically starving!’ Bernice condemned with ferocious bitterness. ‘You’re always moaning about how broke you are and making me feel guilty…I’m chasing rotten jobs way below my capabilities and you’re sitting home on your bum most of the week spoiling Marco like he’s a royal prince!’
Vivien was appalled at the level of her sister’s resentment and felt horribly responsible for her own deficiencies. ‘Bernice, I—’
‘You always were weird, Vivien. Look at your life!’ her angry sister urged with contemptuous clarity. ‘You live out here in the back of beyond with your freaky dog and precious son and you never do anything or go any place worth mentioning. You work in a boring job, live a boring life and have always been the most boring person I know. I wasn’t surprised when Lucca took to adultery on the ocean waves with a sexy blonde! The wonder was that he ever married a non-entity like you!’
Beneath that tirade, Vivien had turned white as milk. Bernice slammed into the sitting room and the cottage shook with the force of the door shuddering shut. Resolutely, Vivien thrust Bernice’s hurtful words down into her subconscious. Fondling Jock’s ears to soothe his trembling, for loud voices upset him, Vivien reminded herself that her sister was going through a very unhappy time, which would have challenged anyone’s temper to the utmost. Nobody knew better than Vivien that it was tough building a new life out of the ashes of loss and destruction. It was particularly difficult for Bernice, who had never had to make compromises and who had taken her once privileged world entirely for granted.
In comparison, Vivien had been brought up to believe that she was an incredibly lucky little girl. Her birth mother and father might have died in a car accident when she was only months old but she had been swiftly placed for adoption with the affluent and socially prominent Dillon family. Their daughter, Bernice, had been just three years old and the couple had been eager to adopt a little girl to ensure that Bernice would never want for company.
Nobody had ever been unkind to Vivien in the Dillon household but she had failed to fulfil her adoptive parents’ fond hope that she would become Bernice’s best friend. Bernice and Vivien had had nothing in common and the age gap between the two girls had only underlined the differences. Sensitive to a fault, Vivien had grown up with the guilt-making awareness that she seemed to be a source of continual disappointment to her family. The Dillons had hoped that Vivien would be a girlie girl like Bernice, who would delight in fashion, ponies and ballet before branching out into fashion, young men and a wild social whirl.
Instead, Vivien had been shy and retiring and the clumsiest little girl in the ballet class. Horses had scared her only a little less than young men and she had avoided parties like the plague. A bookworm from the instant she’d learned to read, she had been confident only in the academic world where her intelligence was rewarded with top exam grades awarded at an early age. Her achievements in that line however had merely embarrassed her parents, who felt that it was somehow not quite normal for a young woman to be quite so keen on studying.
Her mother had died of a heart attack when Vivien was seventeen. She had been at university when her father had passed away after many months of stress following severe financial reverses. Bernice had been hit very hard by the sale of the Dillon family home and the beautiful antiques, which she had grown up believing would one day be hers. Vivien had found it impossible to comfort her sibling for that loss.
The shrill of the doorbell startled Vivien out of an anxious re-examination of her failings as an adoptive daughter and sister. A courier passed her a package and raced away again on his motorbike.
‘What is it?’ Bernice demanded from behind Vivien as the smaller woman stared down dumbfounded at the elegant gilded card bearing her estranged husband’s signature in a careless black scrawl.
‘I don’t know.’ Having assumed the parcel contained a present for Marco, Vivien frowned in confusion when she found a newspaper inside the quite ludicrously opulent gift bag.
Instantly, she froze, for she recognised the photo of the voluptuous blonde promising to spill all her secrets on page five. Her tummy quivered and flipped with nausea and her palms grew damp. Why on earth would Lucca be so fantastically cruel as to send her an article about Jasmine Bailey? She thumbed clumsily to the relevant page, deaf to her sister’s piercing demand that she pass the publication to her.
Finding the headline of LIES MADE MY FORTUNE, Vivien read the first few paragraphs of the double-page spread three times over. With a total lack of even rudimentary shame, Jasmine confessed in print that her claim to have slept with Lucca Saracino had been an elaborate and highly effective lie couched to gain her publicity and win her invites to society parties. The wild all-night bout of adulterous passion, which the glamour model had described in such disgusting detail just two short years earlier, had been a complete fabrication.
Vivien was welded to the spot by a curious spreading numbness that appeared to be threatening her brain as much as her body. Perspiration dampened her brow. Jasmine Bailey had made up her story? It had all been a wicked lie? Her stomach felt hollow. Lucca had not betrayed his marital vows. Lucca had been true to her…and she? And she? She had believed the very worst of him and discounted his denials. She had turned her back on her husband and their marriage. That rolling agony of horrifying truth swallowed Vivien alive. It was like falling into an abyss and drowning.
‘I got it all wrong…I misjudged Lucca…’
‘You…you did what?’ her sister questioned loudly, impatience impelling her to snatch the newspaper from Vivien’s loosened grasp.
Vivien raised a trembling hand to her brow where unbearable tension was pounding out a drumbeat of self-blame. Her mind just could not cope with the enormity of Jasmine Bailey’s confession. It had hit her like a brick on glass and shattered her. The world she had remade had been shattered with it. In the space of a moment she had gone from being a woman who believed she had been right to walk away from her unfaithful husband to a woman who had made a huge and appalling mistake that had damaged both the man she loved and their child.
‘Surely you’re not being taken in by this rubbish?’ Bernice queried on a cutting note of scornful dismissal. ‘Now that she’s yesterday’s news, Jasmine Bailey would say or do anything to get her name back into the headlines!’
‘But not that…her story tallies with exactly what Lucca said at the time, only…’ Vivien’s voice lost power and then regrouped in a choky tone as her throat convulsed on the tears she was fighting back. ‘Only I wouldn’t listen to him—’
‘Of course you didn’t listen!’ her sister snapped. ‘You had too much sense to listen to his lies. You knew he was a notorious womaniser even before you married him. Didn’t I try to warn you?’
A lot of people had tried to warn Vivien off marrying Lucca Saracino. Nobody had been happy about their union. Not his family and friends and not her own either. Everyone had been astonished and then critical of the chances of such an apparent mismatch lasting. Supposed well-wishers had variously told Vivien that she was too quiet, too reserved, too old-fashioned, too academic and insufficiently exciting for a male of Lucca’s smooth sophistication. She had dutifully listened to all the concerned onlookers and her confidence had been battered low even before the wedding. At the end of the day, however, Lucca would still only have had to snap his fingers for her to have come running across a field of flames. She had loved him more than life itself and had been as lost and helpless as a child against the power of that love.
‘You’re virtually divorced now anyway,’ Bernice reminded the smaller, slighter woman sharply. ‘You should never have married him. You were totally unsuited.’
Vivien said nothing. She was staring into space, momentarily lost in her own feverish thoughts. Lucca had not, after all, betrayed her in Jasmine Bailey’s arms. The tacky blonde had pretty much conned her way onto Lucca’s yacht in the first place, Vivien recalled dully. Passing herself off as a student, Jasmine had been hired by one of Lucca’s guests to act as a companion to his adolescent daughter during the cruise and help her improve her English. When Jasmine had gone public with her colourful tale of a night of stolen passion nobody had been in a position to confirm or contradict her claims. Nobody but Lucca…
Vivien felt sick. She had punished her husband for a sin he had not committed. Instead of having faith in the man she had married, she had abandoned faith. Lucca had been innocent, which meant that all the agonising unhappiness she had endured since then was entirely of her own making. That was a very tough reality for Vivien to accept but she had sufficient humility to soon achieve it and move on to the far more important point of facing the great wrong that she had inflicted on Lucca. Her mind was as clear as a bell on what she ought to do next.
‘I need to see Lucca…’ Vivien breathed.
‘Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said?’ Bernice demanded. ‘What on earth would you need to see Lucca for?’
Vivien was in the grip of shock and acting on automatic pilot but, regardless, the overpowering necessity of seeing Lucca in the flesh shone like a beacon in the darkness of her turmoil. It was almost two years since she had last laid eyes on him. Lawyers had dealt with the legal proceedings and a nanny collected Marco for his visits with his father. Lucca’s immense wealth had ensured that there was no requirement for him to tolerate a more personal connection with his estranged wife.
‘I have to see him.’ Vivien was slowly, clumsily striving to consider the practicalities of travelling up to London. As it was a day on which Vivien usually worked, Rosa would soon be arriving to look after Marco and would stay until six that evening. ‘Are you going out tonight?’
Surprised by that change of subject, Bernice frowned. ‘I’ve nothing organised…’
‘Goodness knows what time I’ll get to see Lucca. I expect I’ll be very low on his list of welcome visitors. So I’ll probably be back late,’ Vivien explained anxiously. ‘I can arrange for Rosa to stay longer and put Marco to bed. Could you babysit until I get home?’
‘If you go anywhere near Lucca, you’ll be making the biggest mistake of your life!’ Bernice swore in vehement annoyance.
‘I have to tell him how sorry I am…that’s the very least of what I owe him,’ Vivien pointed out tightly.
In the strained silence that fell, a calculating light entered Bernice’s appraisal. ‘Possibly it’s not such a bad idea after all. You could use the opportunity to tell Lucca that you are hopelessly broke—’
Vivien flinched. ‘I couldn’t!’
‘Then I won’t be able to look after Marco,’ her sister countered without hesitation.
Frustration and embarrassment fought inside Vivien. ‘All right…I’ll raise the subject and see if something can be sorted out…’
Her capitulation made Bernice smile with amused triumph. ‘Fine…then just this once I’ll babysit. Let’s hope that when Lucca sees you grovelling, he feels excessively generous.’
Informed of Vivien’s arrival, Lucca rose and called a five-minute break in the meeting he was chairing.
Able to view his estranged wife through the glass partition that surrounded the reception area, Lucca stilled on the landing above. In the vast, opulent space below, Vivien looked small, slight and insignificant. Her brown top and skirt were shapeless and ill fitting and she probably owned at least three sets of the same outfit. She hated shopping and buying in triplicate helped her to avoid it. Shorn of his care and attention, she had regressed from the standards he set at shocking speed and barricaded herself back into her unfashionable shell. Her nails were unpainted, her silky blonde hair caught up rather messily in a cheap plastic clip.
In her current guise, she was not a woman likely to turn male heads at first glance. Yet she possessed a luminous beauty that not even the dullest presentation could conceal. His keen gaze lingered on the visible slice of narrow shoulder blessed with skin as opalescent as a pearl and moved on to the delicate perfection of her profile and the tantalising femininity of her slim, restive hands and slender ankles. A raw flame of desire blistered through his big, powerful frame and rage at his own lack of control surged in its wake and balled his own hands into hard fists.
Once, he recalled bleakly, he had thought her sweet and unspoilt and loyal unto death. Her warmth and modesty had enchanted him and her honesty and kindness had made a huge impression on his cynical view of the world. There had been nothing false about her. He had truly believed he had struck gold. He had believed that his marriage would work where so many others broke down. He was a man to whom failure of any kind was anathema and he had chosen his wife with great care and caution. Yet she had proved completely unworthy of the ring he had put on her finger.
Righteous derision made him look away from her and the chill of intellectual control soon cooled the fire in his blood. For what good reason had he walked straight out on an important meeting? His essential courtesy had momentarily misled him, he decided, swinging on his heel to return to the conference table. After all, he had not invited Vivien to storm his office in the middle of his working day and demand his attention.
Her response to Jasmine Bailey’s confession in print was, however, very typical of her and he could have predicted it, Lucca conceded grimly. He knew Vivien well. Indeed, he had once prided himself on the reality that he excelled at everything at which she was useless. For all her apparent outward calm, Vivien could react with staggering impulsiveness and wildly undisciplined emotion. She was always uniformly blind to the darker motivations of others. She was a leading authority on rare ferns but she could neither recognise nor protect herself from the arts of calculation and manipulation. She would struggle to find a redeeming quality in even the most dislikeable human being.
But Lucca had no desire to be redeemed in her eyes. He did not wish to see her either and regarded her spontaneous arrival at his office as a piece of foolishness, likely to plunge her into embarrassment. To stage her descent on the same day that Jasmine Bailey confessed her lies to the world was exceptionally bad timing. Had Vivien no sense whatsoever? He had often thought not. If the press realised where she was, the paparazzi would arrive in hordes. Angling his wide shoulders back beneath his superbly tailored grey suit jacket, Lucca strode back to his meeting.
Unaware that she had been under observation, Vivien took a seat. She was flustered and uneasy at the covert stares she was attracting. On the train, she had tried to contact Lucca by phone and failed. Once she had had a private number for his mobile phone but that number was no longer operational. He had been ‘unavailable’ when she’d phoned the Saracino building. When she had asked for the means to contact him in person, she had been coolly told that only Lucca could give out that information. Dismayed by the confidential wall holding her at bay, she had rung off again without requesting an appointment. Told on arrival that Lucca was exceptionally busy, she prepared herself for a long wait and comforted herself with the reflection that at least Lucca was in the building and not abroad on business as he might well have been.
At five that evening Lucca closed his meeting and instructed a member of his staff to show Vivien into his office. Having waited for almost three hours without a word of encouragement and with steadily shrinking expectations, Vivien was hugely relieved to be escorted out of the reception area. But she was a jelly of nerves at the very thought of seeing Lucca again after so long. She did not know what she was going to say to him. She had no idea how to bridge the enormous chasm between them. His supposed infidelity had formed a giant barrier between her and her emotions and now that barrier was gone and with it the script of how she was to behave.
Flustered and unsure of herself, Vivien walked through the door.
Lucca stood centre stage in his cool, contemporary office, effortlessly dominating his surroundings. Six feet three inches tall and gifted with the superb build of a natural athlete, he was an exceptionally good-looking guy with an overwhelmingly physical impact. All the oxygen Vivien needed to breathe seemed to vanish from the atmosphere. Her mouth ran dry and her heart thumped. Colliding with his stunning dark eyes was like falling on an electric fence. She was embarrassed and rather ashamed that at such a crucial moment she could still be so immediately aware of his magnetic attraction
‘So…’ murmured Luca, whose machinations in business had once led to him being described as smooth as black ice and twice as treacherous. His gorgeous accent sizzled along the single drawn-out word and sent a reflexive shiver down her taut backbone. ‘What brings you up from the country?’
