The Italian's Future Bride

‘She had nothing to apologise to me for,’ Rachel said flatly. ‘Actually, I could like her despite…’

‘Daniella not liking you?’

‘Yes,’ she said huskily.

He pulled out a chair and sat down on it. ‘You can tell her you like her later when we meet up at the theatre—’

‘Theatre—?’ Rachel stared at him. ‘I don’t want to go to the theatre!’

‘Sit down and eat,’ he instructed. ‘If you are eating for two you must have a good balanced diet.’

Rachel stared slack-jawed at him.

Steady-eyed, Raffaelle just shrugged. ‘I’m the fatalist, remember? I work through problems sometimes before they are problems. It is what helps to keep me at the top.’

‘You’re not short on insufferable arrogance either. You and Daniella should share the same blood.’

He just grinned over the top of his sandwich. ‘Tell me why you don’t want to go to the theatre,’ he instructed.

She pulled out a chair and sat down on it. ‘I don’t get the opportunity to go often enough to get to like it.’

‘Well, that’s about to change.’

‘What kind of theatre?’ she asked dubiously.

‘Opera,’ he provided. As her jaw dropped again, he said, ‘Get used to it because it is the love of my life. Eat.’

Rachel picked up her sandwich. It arrived by instinct at her mouth because her eyes certainly didn’t guide it there—they were still looking at him in horrified disbelief.

‘I can’t believe you want to put me through anopera ,’ she protested.

‘We either go to the opera or we stay in and make love…’

And, just like that, their few minutes of near normality disappeared without a trace.

Rachel put down the sandwich. He chewed on his, his eyes gleaming with challenge.

‘I’m willnot be blackmailed into your bed—!’ She flew to her feet.

‘Then prepare for an evening of Tosca,’ he countered coolly. ‘Wear something long and—sexy. Oh, and take your sandwich with you,mi amore ,’ he drawled as she went to flounce out of the room. ‘The opera starts early and supper will be late.’

She wore a long slender blue gown that faithfully followed her every curve. Raffaelle took one look at her and staked possessive claim with a hand to the indentation of her waist.

‘Mine,’ he declared huskily. ‘Make sure you remember it while we are out.’

Sitting for hours beside a man who seemed to take pleasure in playing the deeply besotted lover throughout the interminable though admittedly moving music heightened her senses to such a degree that she had never felt more relieved to walk out into the ice-cold evening air so she could breathe.

They ate supper with a crowd of people including Daniella, who was quieter than the night before and was almost pleasant to Rachel, though Rachel could tell by the glint in the other woman’s brown eyes that the pleasantness ran only skin-deep. Daniella was still suspicious and hostile and hungered for the real truth as to what was going on.

Rachel gave Daniella no chance of getting her on her own that evening, staying put in her seat and keeping her attention fixed on everyone else. At least they seemed to accept her at face value—it was difficult not to when the man sitting beside her rarely took his eyes from her face. Tension zinged between them like static. Rachel refused to so much as glance at him, smiling where she thought she should do and trying to ignore the ever increasing pulse of awareness he was making her suffer. She was quizzed about her occupation and it seemed a good time to launch into the benefits of organic farming with an enthusiastic vigour that set such an animated debate going she almost managed to forget Raffaelle was sitting there.

Then he reached out to gently take hold of her chin and turned it so she had no choice but to look at him. His expression was difficult to read, kind of mocking yet deadly serious at the same time.

‘You are here with me,’ he said huskily.

‘I know who I’m with.’ She frowned at him.

‘Then don’t ignore me.’