The Legend of de Marco

Gracie alternately felt like laughing and crying. She’d never before allowed herself to daydream such fantasies even for a moment. Her life had been about gritty reality from day one. She’d had one boyfriend and he’d never given her anything—not even a birthday card. And suddenly she was indulging in Cinderella-esque dreams?

Disgusted with herself, Gracie stuffed the dress back into the box, childishly hoping it would get creased. She returned to her preparations and took a deep breath, curbing the desire to walk down to Rocco’s gleaming office and tip the sauce she’d been preparing over his smarmy head.

CHAPTER FIVE

PACING in his drawing room that evening, Rocco couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so tense. He’d come back to the apartment about thirty minutes before and had headed for the kitchen—only to find the door locked. He’d knocked on the door, to hear Gracie call from inside, ‘Go away. I’m busy.’

He’d called through the door, ‘I hope you have everything in hand.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she’d sung out sweetly. ‘I do. The fish fingers are almost done.’

Rocco had bitten back the urge to demand she open up immediately. He’d never been kept so consistently in an uncomfortable state of arousal in his life, and it had nothing to do with the woman due to walk in the door at any moment and everything to do with the woman a few feet away, behind the closed kitchen door. The woman related to the man who had set out to destroy his reputation and steal from him. The woman to whom he’d all but handed a sterling opportunity to humiliate him this evening.

A discreet knock on the door at that moment heralded his security man showing Honora Winthrop into the drawing room. The door opened to reveal the icy beauty looking predictably stunning in a black silk draped dress which managed the amazing feat of being completely modest while at the same time daringly see-through.

The immediately negative effect on Rocco’s libido was almost comical. She was effectively better than a cold shower. But, with smooth smile in place, Rocco went forward to greet her, pushing aside all visions of a red-haired temptress.

Gracie heard the voices outside in the drawing room and took a deep shaky breath. Much to her chagrin, the dress Rocco had sent was not creased. It was also about a size too small, proving to be a very snug fit around her breasts, bottom and thighs. At first she’d cursed him for doing it on purpose, but then had had to figure that it was far more likely to be because he had no interest in her body, therefore why would be have any notion, or care, what size she was?

She smoothed the small frilled white apron and tried once again to pull the dress down a little further to her knee. She tidied her hair, which she’d pulled back into a high bun, and picked up the tray that held two ice-misted glasses of champagne and a couple of small plates with crushed olive vol-au-vents and crab canapés.

When she walked into the room the voices died away. Gracie was burningly aware of two sets of eyes, one of which was dark and lingered, the other which glanced away again almost immediately. It must be the woman from the paper. Gracie was peripherally aware of a statuesque blonde beauty standing near Rocco at the window.

He surprised her by coming forward and taking the tray out of her hands. ‘Thank you, Gracie. We’ll eat in twenty minutes.’

She released the tray and tried to read the ambiguous look in his eyes, but couldn’t. So she turned and forced herself to walk away, when all she wanted to do was run. Back in the kitchen she laid her face against the door for a moment. She was shaking. Thankfully Rocco hadn’t expected her to hand out the drinks and canapés. She would have expected that he’d make the most of a moment like that and it was disconcerting that he hadn’t.

Pushing herself off the door, she went to finalise preparations for the starter and forced from her head images of Rocco and that woman toasting each other with the sparkling drink.

Rocco couldn’t get the image of Gracie walking into the drawing room out of his head. He felt as if it would be seared there for ever. Clearly the uniform he’d organised had come in a size too small. It was plastered to her petite lithe body, showing off the curves that were normally hidden. A button strained across her chest. The dress’s hem rested teasingly above her knee, revealing pale and slender legs. It was more like a French maid’s outfit for a hen night than the sophisticated serving dress he’d expected. And he had no one to blame but himself.

‘Rocco?’

Rocco broke out of his trance and looked at the woman beside him, one finely drawn eyebrow arched above perfectly made-up blue eyes.

He smiled tightly. ‘Forgive me …’

Gracie had just served the starter, and put her ear to the door to try and hear the conversation, or any observation about the food. She heard Rocco’s low voice, and then an irritating tinkling laugh followed by, ‘Oh, Rocco, you’re terrible!’

/> Gracie’s face burned. She felt paranoid, as if Rocco might come back through the door and hold up his plate with its linguine and truffle starter and say, Seriously? You thought this would be suitable?

But he didn’t appear. So Gracie got on with the main course.

After a suitable amount of time she went in to check the wine levels and saw that Rocco had finished his starter but Ms Winthrop’s was half eaten. The woman barely glanced at Gracie, just pushed her plate slightly towards the edge of the table, clearly indicating that she was finished.

Gracie curbed her tongue when she got a warning glance from Rocco, and replenished the wine and took the plates away, also curbing a cheeky urge to curtsey.

When she brought in the main course Gracie couldn’t help the dart of satisfaction at seeing Rocco’s eyes widen. The smell of the guinea fowl cacciatore was impressively aromatic. She deftly served them both, and left again. She was starting to get seriously annoyed with Rocco’s date’s complete lack of acknowledgment. At least in the bar where she’d worked—as rough as it had been—people looked you in the eye and not through you.

She started clearing up, valiantly ignoring the hum of voices and trying not to imagine what they might be talking about. Wedding plans? Gracie slapped down the tea-towel at the spiking of irrational jealousy.

Any kind of feelings for Rocco de Marco beyond antipathy and extreme wariness were so patently futile that—

Gracie heard a noise and whirled around to see George coming in through the other kitchen door, which opened out to the entrance hall. She’d given him an early supper of the same food she was serving Rocco and his guest because he’d finished his shift.

He had a big grin on his face and patted his enormous belly. ‘That was the singularly most amazing meal I’ve ever eaten.’

Gracie grinned. ‘Really? Oh, George, thank you!’ And she jumped up to give him a quick impetuous kiss, as much for his human affection and their growing friendship as anything else. Just then the other door opened and Gracie sprang back, cheeks burning.