The Italian's Future Bride

And—yes, he freely admitted it—he had been happy to give this woman sitting beside him something useful to think about! Did she think she was the only one of them who could play this game of falseness?

Game, falseness; the two words ricocheted around his head as a brutal reminder as to what this relationship was really about.

Rachel sat beside him with her face averted, fingering the ring on her finger and only realising as she felt its duller contours that she was still wearing the daytime fake.

Looking down, she could see that she had forgotten to swap the ring for the real one. So what was that little error trying to tell her?

You can’t live a lie and expect it to spin itself into the truth?

They arrived at his apartment still steeped in thick silence. The journey up in the lift was just as cold and reined in. They entered the apartment. Rachel tossed aside her purse and just kept walking. He followed her into the bedroom and shut the door.

She could feel his anger beating into her. She refused to turn and look at him. ‘If you want a row, then you’re going to have to save it until tomorrow,’ she tossed out coldly. ‘I’m not—feeling too well, so I’m going to take a shower, then I’m going to bed and I would prefer it if you found somewhere else to sleep.’

Kicking off her shoes, she headed for the bathroom.

‘Pleading a headache,cara ?’

The drawling tone made her wince. ‘Yes, actually,’ she answered.

‘Perhaps even pining for your Italian heartbreaker—?’

What had made him bring up Alonso now of all times? Rachel stopped walking to turn and look at him. He was standing in front of the closed bedroom door, tall, lean, spectacularly arrogant, with that coldly cynical expression lashed to his handsome features that just said it all.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AN ICYchill chased down Rachel’s spine. ‘You know I bumped into Alonso today,’ she murmured.

The tense shape of his top lip twisted. ‘Is thisbumped into an English euphemism for recklessly planned to meet with him in broad daylight on a busy street?’

Refusing to take him up on his cold sarcasm, she replied, ‘No, it means bumped into byaccident .’

‘And, having spent the afternoon in his company,’ Rafaelle said coldly, ‘how would you prefer to describe that to me?’

Rachel frowned. ‘But I didn’t spend the afternoon with him.’

Shifting out of his taut stance, he walked forward, a long-fingered hand sliding into his inner jacket pocket, then smoothly out again. He halted by the bed, placed a photograph down on it.

Rachel glanced at it briefly. So someonehad seen them together. She looked back at him. ‘If you want to say something, Raffaelle,’ she challenged. ‘Then just come out and say it.’

‘You drank coffee with him.’

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

‘You then moved on to his apartment situated above the café.’

‘You have photographic evidence of that too?’

He sliced the air with a hand. ‘It stands to reason.’

‘Does it?’

‘Si—!’ he bit out.

Suddenly all the rage he had been holding in all evening burst to the fore. He took a step towards her. Rachel took a step back. The raking flick of contempt in his eyes as she did so tensed up her trembling spine.

‘You can give me a better explanation as to where you did spend the rest of the afternoon before you returned here?’ he demanded.

Refusing to let his anger intimidate her, ‘Can you explain where you spentyour afternoon?’ she hit back.