The Italian's Pregnant Mistress

‘I’ll call.’

Francesca dropped her eyes. Those two words said it all. She had become the puppet and he the all-powerful puppet master, holding the strings, in control. If sweet revenge had been what he was after, then he had got it because he had reduced her to a state of voluntary helplessness. But she believed what he had told her, that revenge was not the name of the game. If it had been, he would have walked away the very first time he had proved to himself that he could have her. He certainly would not have broken off his engagement with Georgina and wrecked his perfect plans. Angelo Falcone was not a man to disturb the onward march of his well-planned life on the spur of the moment. He wanted her and had given her the option of satisfying him and herself in the bargain, and she had taken it because she was a coward when it came to him. He had stormed back into her life and revealed it for what it was. A life devoid of any emotional passion or connection to anyone else, given meaning only by virtue of the career she had chosen.

She nodded and turned away, stretching out her hand once again for a passing cab. She neither expected, nor was surprised by the fact that he didn’t see fit to wait by her side until one arrived. Why should he? She meant no more to him than a body that could excite him. Any feelings beyond that were illusory. They could chat and laugh but her main purpose was to be his willing bed companion. Everything else orbited around that one central need.

And she would do it, because she loved him and loved life when he was in it, for better or for worse.

The fact that her circumstances would never change, that she would never be able to even dream of anything more, was her cross to bear.

In the meantime, she would snatch what she could get. A black cab pulled up and she hopped in, tempted to look back and seek him out, and making herself stare straight ahead, destination unknown.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SOMETHING wasn’t quite right. Angelo could feel it in the small breaks in conversation, during which her eyes slid away from his and her hand fiddled with the damn wineglass, from which she was drinking very little.

‘Okay, you might as well spit it out. What’s wrong?’ The Italian restaurant, at which they had dined for the first time almost six weeks ago, had become their staple eating out place. It was convenient and convenience counted when sitting down and eating was something that they wanted to do in the minimum amount of time.

Because their need for one another had not diminished. Angelo looked at her broodingly across the table and raised his wineglass to his lips. He was mildly surprised that she was still a fixture in his life, considering they now saw each other several times a week, which had given him ample time to grow bored, but he wasn’t questioning the situation. He just knew that when he clicked his fingers she came running and that suited him superbly. He had also been careful not to allow any complacency to enter into the well-oiled arrangement. No cosy cooking in the kitchen, not even a take-away. They either ate out or didn’t bother to eat at all. And no sleeping over. He left, whatever the time, when they utilised her house and she did the same when, as more often than not, she came to him. His boundaries were perfectly intact, allowing him to enjoy himself without any bothersome stirrings of conscience or doubt.

‘Nothing.’ Francesca dragged her eyes back to him and forced herself to smile. ‘I’m not very hungry.’

‘So I notice. But I’m not buying that as an excuse. So tell me what’s wrong. Some catering job not going according to plan? Or are you worrying about Jack again? He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.’ He had heard a great deal about Jack over the past few weeks, entertaining stories of his various escapades, some of which left her tearing her hair out in despair.

‘I know that,’ Francesca said, staring down at her plate and contemplating the arrangement of chicken and sautéed potatoes there which was making her feel slightly nauseous.

‘So what then?’

She detected the hint of impatience in his voice and winced. Mood swings were not part of the deal.

‘What if I told you that I was tired? That I just wasn’t in the mood to go back to your house tonight and make love? Or that yes, I wanted to go back to your house, but to talk.’