The Italian's Christmas Secret

A PALE LIGHT woke her and for a moment Keira lay completely still, her head resting against a lumpy pillow as her eyes flickered open and she tried to work

out exactly where she was. And then she remembered. She was in a strange bedroom on the edge of a snowy Dartmoor—and she’d just lost her virginity to the powerful billionaire she’d been driving around the country!

She registered the sweet aching between her legs and the delicious sting of her nipples as slowly she turned her head to see that the other half of the bed was empty. Her pulse speeded up. He must be in the bathroom. Quickly, she sat up, raking her fingers through her mussed hair and giving herself a chance to compose herself before Matteo returned.

The blindingly pale crack of light shining through the gap in the curtains showed that the snow was still very much in evidence and a smile of anticipation curved her lips. Maybe they’d be stuck here today too—and they could have sex all over again. She certainly hoped so. Crossing her arms over her naked breasts, she hugged herself tightly as endorphins flooded through her warm body. Obviously, she’d need to reassure him that although she was relatively inexperienced, she certainly wasn’t naïve. She knew the score—she’d heard the men in the workshop talking about women often enough to know what they did and didn’t like. She would be very grown up about what had happened. She’d make it clear that she wasn’t coming at this with any expectations—although, of course, if he wanted to see her again when the snow had been cleared she would be more than happy with that.

And that was when she noticed the nightstand—or rather, what was lying on top of it. Keira blinked her eyes in disbelief but as her vision cleared she realised this was no illusion as she stared in growing horror at the enormous wad of banknotes. She felt as if she were taking part in some secretly filmed reality show. As if the money might suddenly disintegrate if she touched it, or as if Matteo would suddenly appear from out of hiding. She looked around, realising there was nowhere to hide in this tiny room.

‘Matteo?’ she questioned uncertainly.

Nobody came. Of course they didn’t. She stared at the money and then noticed the piece of paper which was lying underneath it. It took several seconds before she could bring herself to pick it up and as she began to read it she was scarcely able to believe what she was seeing.

Keira, he had written—and in the absence of any affectation like Dear or Darling, she supposed she ought to be grateful that he’d got her name right, because Irish names were notoriously difficult to spell.

I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed last night and I hope you did, too. You looked so peaceful sleeping this morning that I didn’t want to wake you—but I need to be back in Italy as soon as possible.

You told me your dream was to spend Christmas in a luxury hotel and I’d like to make this possible, which is why I hope you’ll accept this small gift in the spirit with which it was intended.

And if we’d been playing poker for money, you would certainly have walked away with a lot more than this!

I wish you every good thing for your future.

Buon Natale.

Matteo.

Keira’s fingers closed tightly around the note and her feeling of confusion intensified as she stared at the money—more money than she’d ever seen. She allowed herself a moment of fury before getting up out of bed, acutely aware that for once she wasn’t wearing her usual nightshirt, and the sight of her naked body in the small mirror taunted her with memories of just what she and the Italian had done last night. And once the fury had passed she was left with hurt, and disappointment. Had she really been lying there, naïvely thinking that Matteo was going to emerge from the bathroom and take her in his arms when the reality was that he couldn’t even bear to face her? What a stupid fool she’d been.

She washed and dressed and went downstairs, politely refusing breakfast but accepting a mug of strong tea from Mary, who seemed delighted to relay everything which had been happening while Keira had been asleep.

‘First thing I know, there’s a knock on the door and it’s a man in one of those big four-wheel drives,’ she announced.

‘Which managed to get through the snow?’ questioned Keira automatically.

‘Oh, yes. Because Mr Valenti ordered a car with a snow plough. Apparently he got on the phone late last night while everyone was asleep and organised it. Must have been very quiet because nobody heard him.’

Very quiet, thought Keira grimly. He must have been terrified that she would wake up and demand he take her with him.

‘And he’s ordered some men to dig your car out of the snow. Said there was no way you must be stranded here,’ said Mary, with a dreamy look on her careworn face. ‘They arrived about an hour ago—they should be finished soon.’

Keira nodded. ‘Can I pay you?’

Mary beamed. ‘No need. Your Mr Valenti was more than generous.’

Keira’s heart pounded; she wanted to scream that he wasn’t ‘her’ anything. So the cash wasn’t there to pay for the B&B or help her make her own journey home, because he’d already sorted all that out. Which left only one reason for leaving it. Of course. How could she have been so dense when the bland words of the accompanying letter had made it perfectly clear? The comment about the poker and the disingenuous suggestion she take herself off to a luxury hotel were just a polite way of disguising the very obvious. A wave of sickness washed over her.

Matteo Valenti had paid her for sex.

Operating on a dazed kind of autopilot, Keira made her way back to her newly liberated car, from where she slowly drove back to London. After dropping the car off at Luxury Limos, she made her way to Brixton, acutely aware of the huge wad of cash she was carrying. She’d thought of leaving it behind at Mary’s, but wouldn’t the kindly landlady have tried to return it and just made matters a whole lot worse? And how on earth would she have managed to explain what it was doing there? Yet it felt as if it were burning a massive hole in her pocket—haunting her with the bitter reminder of just what the Italian really thought of her.

The area of Brixton where she rented a tiny apartment had once been considered unfashionable but now, like much of London, the place was on the up. Two days before Christmas and the streets had a festive air which was bordering on the hysterical, despite the fact that the heavy snows hadn’t reached the capital. Bright lights glittered and she could see Christmas trees and scarlet-suited Santas everywhere she looked. On the corner, a Salvation Army band was playing ‘Silent Night’ and the poignancy of the familiar tune made her heart want to break. And stupidly, she found herself missing her mother like never before as she thought about all the Christmases they’d never got to share. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes as she hugged her anorak around her shivering body, and never had she felt so completely alone.

But self-pity would get her nowhere. She was a survivor, wasn’t she? She would get through this as she had got through so much else. Dodging the crowds, she started to walk home, her journey taking her past one of the area’s many charity shops and as an idea came to her she impulsively pushed open the door of one. Inside, the place was full of people trying on clothes for Christmas parties and New Year—raiding feather boas and old-fashioned shimmery dresses from the crowded rails. The atmosphere was chaotic and happy but Keira was grim-faced as she made her way to the cash desk. Fumbling around in her pocket, she withdrew the wad of cash and slapped it down on the counter in front of the startled cashier.

‘Take this,’ Keira croaked. ‘And Happy Christmas.’

The woman held up a hand. ‘Whoa! Wait a minute! Where did you—?’