Mistress to a Millionaire

Even now she sometimes woke in the middle of the night after a bad dream unable to believe her father was really gone. If she could have seen him—attended the funeral—shared the outward display of grief—something—it would have been a means of coming to terms with her loss—or so the doctor had said. But then doctors didn’t know everything…

‘It’s a beautiful drive. Why don’t you relax and enjoy it?’

‘I am relaxed.’ She glanced at him quickly and the narrowed eyes were black and unblinking on her troubled face as the big car growled impatiently at the traffic lights.

‘Are you?’ he murmured quietly without expression, but the dark gaze moved to her lap and Daisy was mortified to find her hands were clenched fists where they rested against her lower stomach, the knuckles showing white.

There was nothing she could say and so she kept quiet, turning to look out of the window with as much dignity as she could muster. This was going to be great, just great, she told herself miserably as she sucked in a shaky breath. She already had one little English phrase lined up for Francesco—out of the frying-pan into the fire!

But then, as the beautiful car ate up the miles, Daisy found she was beginning to unwind. The scenery was breathtaking and truly awe-inspiring and the mild golden sunlight showed the magnificent mountain vista to full advantage.

Good things could still happen in a world like this one, Daisy thought soberly as the Bentley passed an old bent man walking at the side of the dusty road and leading an aged donkey who was sporting a great straw hat on its furry head.

In the last sixteen months she had felt her life was a never-ending battle, her physical and mental strength constantly tried and tested and her emotions up and down like a yo-yo. Sometimes she had had the faith to believe Stephanie and other close friends when they had assured her she would come through the turmoil and pain and find peace of mind again; at other times her grief and bitterness had taken her down into the depths and she had felt she would never fully rise above them.

Her mother had encouraged her to move to the States, but although she had visited her family twice since her father’s death she had felt no inclination to live in America. Her mother and her sisters had made a new life for themselves there and even with her father gone they felt they were in the right place.

But she had felt strange living back in the family home—maybe it was because her father wasn’t there, or that she had been a married woman with her own home and independence—she didn’t know—but the two short visits had been enough to convince her that at this moment in time it would have been a mistake for her to join them. And so she had got on with life, alone.

Slade talked to her now and again, easy, light conversation that required very little in the way of response, and gradually Daisy found a sense of well-being beginning to invade her senses. She still felt a little on edge, but that was more to do with the narrow-waisted, lean-hipped, broad-shouldered figure at the side of her than dark thoughts.

‘Here we are—our halfway house.’ Slade had turned the car off the road and into the massive cobbled courtyard of an old Italian inn, the ground dappled by the sunlight slanting through the surrounding orange trees and peaks of majestic mountains in the far distance.

‘What a gorgeous place.’ He had come round to the passenger side of the car and now, as he helped her alight, Daisy breathed in the scents of sweet blossom and clean fresh air as she spoke.

‘One of many in this part of the world.’ There was a ring of pride in the deep voice he couldn’t quite hide, and it was particularly endearing in such a cold, controlled, authoritative man who seemed to let very little of himself come to the surface.

Endearing? Daisy caught at the thought in horror as her mind screamed a warning. She had thought Ronald endearing at one time; his apparent unawareness of the interest of smitten females, his boyish pride in his ambition to own his own business—for the two of them, of course—and his devotion to her. Oh, a hundred things. And it had all been a cold-blooded act.

She had been unhappy before she had found out about Susan; for a good twelve months before that fateful Christmas she had struggled with doubts and anxieties and a general feeling of unease about her marriage, but Ronald had the ability to make people believe black was white and so she had blamed herself for any misgivings. And when she had discovered she was pregnant she’d been over the moon at the thought of having a baby—all her qualms and fears had evaporated in the wave of maternal euphoria that had engulfed her.

She had been stupid, very stupid. Her mouth tightened. And she had learnt the hard way that no one ever really knew what was going on in someone else’s heart.

‘The cannelloni ripieni is particularly good here, or perhaps you’d prefer carpaccio? No one makes it like Alberto.’ Slade was talking again and she forced herself to concentrate on the deep husky voice with its slight lilting accent in an effort to dispel the demons.

‘Carpaccio?’ He had taken her arm as they walked, the action naturally courteous, but it was all she could do not to jerk away from the contact. He was too close, too big, she thought feverishly, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like him. ‘What is carp

accio exactly?’ she asked shakily.

‘You have never eaten carpaccio?’ he asked mockingly, shaking his head in sorrow. ‘I can see I am going to have to educate you in the finer things of life, Miss Summers.’ He eyed her face—which had stiffened at his words—from under his thick lashes, and now his voice held a definite note of amusement as he continued, ‘Carpaccio is a dish of paper-thin slices of fillet steak garnished with fresh egg mayonnaise and finely slivered Parmesan. It is quite delicious, especially when it is washed down with a glass of fruity red wine. The wines of this region are second to none,’ he added appreciatively.

Daisy nodded carefully. She had noticed the lush vineyards and fruit orchards, along with the picture-book villages, en route and assumed the wine trade must be big business.

The interior of the honey-coloured building was even more charming than the outside and very Italian, the white walls bright with beautiful pottery plates and the terracotta-tiled floor dotted with pots of flowering plants and ferns. Slade led her to a table at the far end of the main dining room, where French windows were open to the warmth of the weak sunlight and two fat tabby cats were basking on the stone slabs beyond the windows as they soaked up the May sunshine.

This really was another world—a world of light and colour and warmth—and suddenly England, and all the horrors of the last months, receded in a sudden glow of well-being.

‘That’s better.’ There was dark satisfaction in Slade’s voice.

‘What?’ Daisy turned to look at him, startled.

And just before a portly, smiling middle-aged man—whom Daisy took to be Alberto—came bustling up Slade murmured, ‘You’re loosening up at last,’ his mouth curving at her outraged expression.

The carpaccio was delicious and for the first time in a long, long time Daisy found she was hungry. Not even the curiously intimate quality of their cosy table for two or Slade’s uncomfortably close proximity put her off from eating with gusto, if not actual greed as she gobbled down the wonderful meal.

‘That was gorgeous.’ She gave a sigh of gluttonous contentment as she finished the last luscious mouthful and lay back in the upholstered cane chair, her cheeks a little rosy from the two glassfuls of wine she had consumed with the meal. ‘Thank you, Slade.’

‘My pleasure.’ He looked at her quietly for a moment before adding, ‘So you are not one of those women who insist on nibbling on lettuce leaves and carrots after all?’