The Italian's Future Bride

‘You were blackmailing me,’ he pointed out dryly.

‘She also accused me of being pregnant because I wasn’t drinking tonight, and of having a fling with you at the same time you were with Elise.’ She grimaced. ‘Great reputation you have there,Signor , when even your own family can believe you are capable of swinging it with two women at the same time.’

‘She’s fishing for information, that’s all,’ he answered coolly. ‘And she—cares about me.’

‘Lucky you,’ Rachel mumbled.

‘Do you say that because your family shows so little concern for you?’

That hit her right below the belt. ‘My family care,’ she insisted.

‘Your uncle, maybe,’ Raffaelle conceded. ‘But even he made the quick getaway once he believed he had established that I was not your heartbreaker from Naples. I could have been lying to him. He did not hang around long enough to put me to the test.’

‘He’s a busy man.’ She shifted tensely on the seat next to him.

‘Like your half-sister and-brother are so busy they have not had time to check if I have chopped you into little pieces and dumped you in the Thames?’

‘Sh-shut up,’ she breathed.

They finished the rest of the journey in silence. As they travelled up in the lift to Rafaelle’s apartment, Rachel stared fixedly down at her feet and he—well, she didn’t know what he was looking at but she had an itchy feeling it could be her.

Once inside the apartment she headed for one of the spare bedrooms because there was just no way she was going to sleep with him tonight.

He didn’t try to stop her, which only stressed her out more. She slept restlessly beneath a navy-blue duvet wearing only her bra and panties, woke up early the next morning and remade the bed, then crept back into the other bedroom to get some fresh clothes before Rosa arrived.

The plum-covered bed was empty and, by the look of it, Raffaelle had enjoyed a restless night too. She glanced at the closed bathroom door to listen if the shower was running, hoping to goodness that he’d already got up and dressed and taken himself off to work and out of the firing line.

‘Discovered your sense of fair play,amore ?’ a smooth voice murmured.

She spun around to find him standing in the dressing room doorway wearing only a towel slung low around his hips. It was like being hit by that high wattage charge again.

‘I—thought you would have left by now,’ she said without thinking.

He just smiled then began walking forward. Rachel started to back away.

‘Slept well?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Need any help tying that robe?’

She glanced down, then released a gasp when she saw the robe she had pinched from the other bathroom was hanging open revealingly. It was too big, a man’s full-length heavy towelling bathrobe that trailed the floor at her feet and engulfed her hands. She’d thought she’d tied the belt, but the stupid thing had slid undone.

‘Go away,’ she shook out, trying to fight with the sleeves so she could grab the two ends of the belt.

But Raffaelle Villani wasn’t going anywhere. He just kept coming until he was standing right in front of her. Then, while she mumbled out a protest, he pushed her fingers away and calmly cinched the belt around her waist. His fingers brushed the skin of her stomach as he did it. She breathed in sharply. He ignored the revealing breath, finished his task, then calmly turned away, dropping the towel from around his hips, and strode like the arrogant man he was back into the dressing room and closed the door.

It was the same as a slap in the face. She refused to sleep with him and he was showing her that it made little difference to him.

Rachel ran into the bathroom and wished she was dead, because her body was such a quivering mass of frustration that if he’d stripped the robe from her and thrown her to the bed, she would not have stopped him.

Her day was long and she was tired by the time she trailed into the apartment again. Rosa had gone home hours ago. Raffaelle was still out, which allowed her some time for herself to take a long bath behind a firmly locked bathroom door in an effort to relax some of the tension grinding at her every nerve and muscle.

She stayed in the bath longer than she’d meant to. By the time she let herself back into the bedroom she could sense more than hear that Raffaelle was home, though he was not in the bedroom, thank goodness, which gave her a chance to pull her jeans back on and a fresh T-shirt before she heaved in a breath and went looking for him.

He was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich, the jacket to his suit gone, white shirt-sleeves rolled up. He turned at the sound of her step. Her stomach dipped. She found herself running self conscious fingers through her curls.

‘Ciao,’ he said lightly. ‘You look—pink.’