The Italian's Pregnant Mistress

The taxi dropped her off first. They lived within blocks of one another and, in fact, had, at points, debated the wisdom of sharing a house, but had both backed away from the idea. She didn’t want the dubious pleasure of having to live with Jack’s convoluted personal life and he, she suspected, did not want to run the risk of having her lecture him on his sloppy habits. So he continued to pay the rent on his property and she continued to pay her small mortgage, even though they saw one another daily.

The first thing Francesca did was to get rid of her suit, which she hung back up in her wardrobe, and have a shower. Then she slipped into some old jeans and an even older tee shirt and went into the kitchen to make herself something to eat. Years in the modelling world had made her very careful in her own eating habits and the fact that she dealt with food every day had made her very quick when it came to preparing anything for herself.

She was sitting down in front of a mushroom omelette and French bread when the doorbell rang.

This, she thought with irritation, was exactly when a butler would have been useful. Jeeves, just tell Jack that I’m busy and, no, I won’t be going with him to the pub for a quick drink.

Instead, she padded across to the front door and opened it just enough of a crack to signal to Jack that she wasn’t going out.

It wasn’t Jack.

‘Angelo! What are you doing here?’ The chain on the door remained in place and she looked at him warily.

‘Have I come at a bad time?’

‘Inconvenient. I’m having my dinner.’

‘I thought I might catch you both to apologise on behalf of my fiancée.’ He leaned against the door so that if she decided to close it she would find herself engaging in an undignified struggle.

‘Jack’s not here,’ Francesca told him reluctantly. ‘And if you lean any harder on this door you’re going to break it.’

‘That’s the problem these days. Impossible to find solid craftsmanship anywhere. Are you going to let me in?’

‘We’ve already discussed the food for your wedding.’

‘I told you, I would like to apologise for Georgina. Humour me my good manners.’

No need to come in to apologise, she wanted to tell him. You can do that quite easily from outside. But he was her employer, at least for the time being. More importantly, he was someone who could ruin her if he so chose. And she was a professional. With a sigh, Francesca pulled the chain back and watched as he strolled into her house and looked around him with unconcealed curiosity.

It was a small, old semi-detached house but it had been refurbished to a very high standard. Gone were the dingy carpets. Instead, wooden floors had been laid throughout and the wallpaper had been replaced with various shades of paint, ranging from buff in the hallway to burgundy in the small dining room. The curtains were light and pooled on the ground and, in a burst of creative energy shortly after she had bought the house, Francesca had had installed a stained glass window which formed a dramatic partition between the dining room and the kitchen.

‘Nice,’ Angelo commented, taking it all in before allowing his eyes to rest on a now casually clad Francesca. ‘Did you do it all yourself or did your boyfriend help?’

‘You came to apologise, I believe?’

‘It’s something I do far better over a cup of coffee, or something stronger if you have it.’

Francesca sighed. ‘You’d better come into the kitchen. I was in the middle of my dinner.’

‘Smells good.’

‘Angelo…’ She paused and turned around to look at him. ‘We had our chit-chat three days ago. And we had our serious talk about the menus today. So please spare me the polite conversation.’ He obviously hadn’t had time to completely change but the formal shirt had been replaced by a rugby style sweatshirt. He looked devastating. Too devastating for someone whose will-power had a tendency to flag whenever he was around. She could almost fill her nostrils with his clean, manly scent when she breathed in.

‘Stop acting like a child, Francesca. There’s nothing wrong with being polite. You seem to forget that I didn’t purposefully seek you out.’