Which was how, nearly two hours later, Charley found herself stepping out of the salon with an elegant, sleek, not quite shoulder-length newly bobbed hairstyle, which she liked so much that she couldn’t help sneaking glances at herself in shop windows, unable to resist moving her head just for the pleasure of feeling her hair swing so perfectly against her neck.
But she wasn’t going to have much time in which to get changed for dinner. The new haircut had taken far longer than she had expected…
Raphael looked at his watch. Charlotte should have been back over an hour ago, and her failure to return—initially an irritation—had now grown into an anxiety that was manifesting itself within him as anger that he was fighting to control.
Anger. Just thinking about the dangers of allowing himself to feel such an emotion intensified what he was trying not to feel. Was this a manifestation of the madness that ran in his blood? A feeling of irritation that would ultimately grow into a monstrous, many-headed alien form within him that he could not control? That would make him lash out, at first verbally, then physically, hurting and then destroying those who aroused the rage that had taken possession of him? That rage had already possessed him once, and he had sworn that he would never allow it to do so again.
The buzz of the apartment’s intercom, followed by the sound of Charley’s voice, cut across his thoughts, replacing them with action as he moved quickly towards the door of his study-cum-office.
Standing on the step outside the imposing double doors in the still busy street, not hearing any response to her call, Charlotte was just about to try the intercom again when the door suddenly opened to reveal Raphael standing there.
‘You were supposed to return here at five-thirty. It is now nearly seven o’clock.’
He was angry, Charley recognised. ‘I know—I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I got stuck in the hairdressers. I didn’t realise it would take so long, and I couldn’t let you know as I don’t have your mobile number.’
She’d been in a hairdressers? Raphael looked at the shining, elegant swing of her hair as she stepped out of the door’s shadow, and was filled with an irrational surge of fresh anger as he recognised how much confidence and pleasure her new hairstyle was giving her, and that his concern for her wellbeing had been totally unnecessary.
‘In future it would be as well if you remember that I don’t pay you to visit hairdressers,’ he told her harshly, adding, ‘We have a vitally important business meeting in less than an hour’s time, prior to which I had intended to run through a few things with you.’
Charley was completely mortified, all her pleasure in her new hairstyle lost, destroyed by the force of Raphael’s anger.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long. I wanted…’ Her throat locked protectively around the words that would have humiliated her even more had she uttered them—told him that she had wanted him to look at her and admire her. Admire her or desire her? The confidence and happiness she had felt earlier had gone.
‘I’ll go and get changed,’ she told Raphael in a flat voice that echoed what she was feeling.
Raphael watched her go, resisting the temptation to stop her and tell her—tell her what? That he wanted her? Wanted her when he knew that ultimately he might destroy her, and with her himself? The sooner everything was sorted out and he was able to leave her in charge of the garden project the better. He had work to do in Rome with regard to his business interests, which would keep him safely away from her for long enough for him to deal with his unwanted desire for her, Raphael assured himself.
In her bedroom, Charley undressed and then showered quickly, glad that the stylist had taken the time to show her how to dry and smooth her hair to keep it in polished perfection. She had taken the opportunity to ask the saleswoman at the designer store which of Charlotte’s new outfits she would recommend for a smart business dinner engagement, and so, wrapped in a towel, she removed the clothes the saleswoman had suggested from the wardrobe in the dressing room off her bedroom and carried them carefully to place them on the bed.
The outfit was a slim-fitting sleeveless cream dress, over which went a soft, floating, seamed and tucked tunic top, with long sleeves that flared out at the wrist to almost cover her hands. The tunic reached almost to the hem of the dress, and the outfit was completed by a fine-knit silk jersey double-breasted cardigan jacket, cropped just above the waist.
A little dubiously Charlotte put each piece on, and then went and looked uncertainly in the mirror, exhaling a sigh of shaky delight when she saw that, far from looking as though she was dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, the finished effect was a breathtakingly delicate yet sophisticated blending of textures and fabrics.
Boosted by the new confidence, Charley slipped on the strappy wedge sandals that complemented the outfit, and picked up the pretty soft leather clutch bag that went with them. It was just about large enough to hold a notepad and pen, as well as her lipstick and comb. She headed for the door, stepping out onto the landing just as Raphael emerged from his own room.
Charley held her breath a little, wondering if he would make any comment about her appearance, and then told herself when he didn’t that she wasn’t really disappointed. He was wearing a light-coloured suit over a dark shirt—the effect, to her mind’s eye, very Italian and very sexy.
As he waited for her at the top of the stairs he reached into his pocket and produced a small oblong package, which he handed to her, telling her, when she looked uncertainly at him, ‘Scent. Later on you can choose your own, but for now this will have to do. No Italian woman considers herself properly dressed without her favourite perfume, and I’m aware that you don’t wear any.’
Aware too, Raphael acknowledged inwardly, that the scent she always carried with her that was simply her own was becoming dangerously embedded in his senses. He had been glad of the shadows on the landing when she had come out of her room; he might have seen the clothes the saleswoman had chosen hanging on their rail, but the effect of the blending of diff
erent fabrics and textures of the outfit she was now wearing, and the way they both concealed and yet at the same time subtly hinted at the curves of her body, was one of sensual promise. And he would not be the only man to think that, Raphael knew. The feeling that speared through him was viciously sharp. Jealousy? He did not want other men to look at her with desire? He had no right to feel like that, Raphael told himself grimly.
Scent! She had not thought of buying any herself. Charley’s fingers trembled as she removed the wrapping, just as they would have done if this had been a lover’s gift—which of course it was not.
The liquid in the small glass bottle was the colour of warm amber. Very carefully Charley removed the top, breathed in the scent, and immediately fell in love. It transported her to summer gardens filled with fat, blooming heavy-petalled roses, their sweetness spiced with something alluringly exotic that made her think of Eastern harems and velvet nights.
She’d expected Raphael to choose her something modern and practical, but this surely was a scent designed for a woman who luxuriated in her sensuality—a scent she would wear in bed at night to clothe her naked body in temptation for her lover.
‘If you don’t like it—’ Raphael began.
‘I do,’ Charley assured him, determinedly dabbing it on her throat and wrists in proof of her claim. ‘It’s heavenly—but there’s no label on it.’
‘It’s from a parfumier who blends his own scents.’ His manner was off-hand and dismissive, making Charley feel reluctant to pursue the subject, although she loved the scent so much she desperately wanted to know where it had come from. She already knew that when the bottle was empty she would want to replace it.
Charley had only just dabbed the scent on her wrists and throat, but already Raphael could smell its sensual mix of promise and passion and Charley herself. He had had to smell several different scents before he had found the one he had eventually chosen. Even though he had been aware of its sensuality, he hadn’t, he admitted to himself now, been prepared for the effect it would have when mixed with the warmth of Charley’s skin. His mother had always worn a rose-based scent, less sensual and more floral. He pushed away that memory. He didn’t know why Charley’s presence was making him think so often of his mother, and nor did he want to know.
CHAPTER NINE