Alicia was glad of the distraction, her face was still burning. She looked up. ‘Hello, Patrizia.’
The girl blushed, giggled lightly and left the room.
Alicia sighed. A serious case of hero worship. And who could blame the girl? She busied herself with food, feeling her appetite return for the first time in days. That made her think of the pasta Dante had had sent up to her in her room in the villa at Lake Como. The way the housekeeper had taken care of her. The way he’d just smiled at Patrizia. She sneaked a glance at him. He was engrossed in the paper, long brown fingers holding it up. And then she remembered the feeling of his hand on her breast, the calluses. The evidence that his hands weren’t soft, but hard. Her breathing stopped, her nipples tightened. She dropped her knife with a jarring clatter and Dante looked up with a frown.
‘Sorry …’ Alicia furiously willed down the rising tide of shame.
He put down the paper and Alicia concentrated on spreading jam on a rapidly crumbling croissant.
‘I’ve booked you into the boutique this morning, we leave in an hour.’
She looked up, her hands stilling. ‘We?’
He nodded. ‘I have some things to attend to at my offices here; I’ll drop you off and come back to pick you up.’
‘Oh.’ Relief flooded her.
He smiled and it was predatory. ‘Shopping has always bored me to tears, so don’t worry, not even the thought of seeing your delectable form draped in all kinds of silk would induce me to sit for hours while you posture and preen.’
And simultaneously, as he said those words, Dante had a sudden fantasy image of her naked body, wrapped only in silk, and couldn’t imagine anything he’d want to see more. Before he could give himself away—his out of control reactions—he drained his coffee and stood. ‘I’ll see you in the hall, then.’
Alicia’s mouth gaped as she watched him leave, a whole list of retorts which she hadn’t had the chance to get out trembling on her lips. Posture and preen? She hadn’t postured and preened even in her teenage make-up experimentation years. The man was insufferable. And, even more disconcerting, he thought her form delectable? She took a big gulp of coffee and yelped in pain when it burned her mouth.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I’LL be back for you in a couple of hours. I’m looking forward to never seeing those shapeless garments again.’
Alicia had her hand on the car door handle and nearly fell out when the driver opened it for her. She just looked at Dante murderously. Her mouth still smarted painfully from the coffee. She wanted to say something—anything—and had to settle for an incoherent grunt.
‘Ciao …’ came softly from behind her in the car and she took great pleasure in slamming the door shut, much to the driver’s surprise.
Two hours passed quickly. Alicia hadn’t known that it was possible to spend so much time in one shop. Between fittings, she’d stood in her tatty underwear, surrounded by fabric and shoes. It was the kind of place where you had to ring a bell to get in and when she’d arrived she’d almost expected to be turned away, and had wondered for a second what she would do if that happened. Alone with no money in a foreign city. No phone number for Dante, no phone. Instead of feeling relief, she’d actually felt something much more confusing.
But then the door had opened and a tall woman with silver-grey hair and impeccable carriage had taken one look at her and said in perfect English, ‘Ah. You must be Alicia. Dante described you perfectly. I am Signora Pasquale.’
Alicia’s cheeks had burned for about the umpteenth time that morning, as the woman and her assistants had proceeded to strip her completely. Every now and then the very intimidating Signora would come in and look at Alicia, tutting, ‘You are so tiny. What can I do?’ And, with her arms in the air, she’d go off again.
Eventually Alicia heard the bell ring authoritatively and knew it was him. Stupidly, she wrapped her arms around herself, even though she knew he wouldn’t see her. Butterflies fluttered in her belly. She heard the low rumble of his voice, the tinkling laughter of Signora Pasquale and, even though the woman was eighty, something very disturbing flared in Alicia’s chest. One of the assistants came in then with rosy cheeks. Alicia’s mouth tightened. She was going to start calling it the Dante effect.
‘Here are some casual clothes; the Signora had them delivered. They will do you for day wear until the main clothes arrive at Signore D’Aquanni’s villa in a couple of days.’
The girl held out a beautifully folded pile of clothes and what looked like a leather weekend bag, also full of clothes. When Alicia unfolded them she found a silk camisole top in burnished copper, a cream skirt and matching underwear. Kitten heel sandals in a dark complementary gold—very simple, very Italian and very stylish. As much as she hated this—the waste and extravagance—the feel of the silky fabric against her skin made her close her eyes with a stirring of guilty pleasure. It had been so long since she’d let herself feel anything like it.
With the bag in one hand and the matching jacket of the suit in the other, Alicia emerged. Dante was sitting down, drinking a cup of coffee, talking to the designer. He looked up and his hand stilled on the way to his mouth. His whole body stilled. Apart from the tantalizing glimpses he’d had while she’d lain sleeping on the bed in his villa and that all too brief moment in his lap on the plane, he’d had to imagine her shape.
She looked at him defiantly and Dante felt as if they were the only two people in the room, the designer and her assistants forgotten. What she was wearing wasn’t in any way overtly sexy but … with her delicate curves filling it out, he’d never seen anyone so alluring. Everything was in proportion—every curve, every swell. He imagined spanning her waist with one hand. Her skin was lightly tanned—soft and silky. For the first time in his life, he was rendered speechless.
Alicia tilted her chin. If he didn’t stop staring at her as if she were some kind of alien just landed on planet earth she was going to scream. Thankfully, Signora Pasquale got up and fussed around her. ‘Oh, good. These clothes fit perfectly. They will see you through the next few days and we will have the rest delivered by your plane as soon as they are ready.’ She looked at Dante. ‘This time of the month I presume it’ll be on its usual run?’
Dante nodded absently. Alicia blanched and looked at the woman. By plane? Dante saw her reaction and stood smoothly, coming over and taking Alicia’s bag, guiding her out of the shop with a hand on her upper arm, burning it.
In the car she rounded on him. ‘Is a plane really necessary just to bring clothes for me to wear? I mean, really, that is the absolute height of—’
‘Alicia—’ his voice was like the crack of a whip ‘—I can afford it and—’
‘I don’t—’ she tried to interject, but he raised a hand, stopping her.
‘If this is just a facade, a veneer of trendy environmental concern, then give it up now, because I’m not interested. You might try to pretend to others that you didn’t leave your bleeding heart behind in Africa, but you won’t fool me.’