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The Tycoon's Shock Heir
Bella Frances


She’s carrying the Rossini baby…Will she become the billionaire’s bride?Restoring his family’s legacy is all that’s important to Italian tycoon Matteo Rossini. Until captivating ballerina Ruby Martin tempts him to abandon his pursuit for a night of fiery pleasure! When sweet Ruby confesses she’s pregnant, Matteo demands his child. But with the heat still burning between them can Matteo ignore his desire for Ruby too?







She’s carrying the Rossini baby...

Will she become the billionaire’s bride?

Restoring his family’s legacy is all that’s important to Italian tycoon Matteo Rossini. Until captivating ballerina Ruby Martin tempts him to abandon his pursuit for a night of fiery pleasure! Yet when sweet Ruby confesses she’s pregnant, Matteo demands his child. But with heat still burning between them, can Matteo ignore his desire for Ruby, too?

Experience the drama in this pregnancy romance!


Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between the deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English Literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practise (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two almost grown-up cherubs. Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK. but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!


Also by Bella Frances (#u20e16661-5c0a-5ffc-8bc1-fb5d01570d65)

The Playboy of Argentina

The Scandal Behind the Wedding

The Consequence She Cannot Deny

Claimed by a Billionaire miniseries

The Argentinian’s Virgin Conquest

The Italian’s Vengeful Seduction

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


The Tycoon’s Shock Heir

Bella Frances






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08731-5

THE TYCOON’S SHOCK HEIR

© 2018 Bella Frances

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my son, Harry.

With all my love.


Contents

Cover (#ucc06caee-f3a8-53ac-b375-add08a523ac9)

Back Cover Text (#u7e452209-6be9-5ebf-90cb-5316f14155a9)

About the Author (#u88feb099-b181-50f7-962e-558138a0e768)

Booklist (#ub6f62b41-0635-58c8-9849-fb55fb72b098)

Title Page (#u1e256dd7-56e2-51ea-bfa1-41b218cce630)

Copyright (#u40fcb277-348d-5458-b19f-b0ec3f18d37f)

Dedication (#u3875bfee-dd40-5369-a945-69172058b76c)

CHAPTER ONE (#u3905d2ba-26cd-5e28-91cf-88432fb57886)

CHAPTER TWO (#u9087a485-a02b-5b15-9da9-d949c71efb84)

CHAPTER THREE (#u0645ea70-cb55-50df-94e2-207708f70096)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ub5c40829-0640-5c5d-9364-f6a90e90549f)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u20e16661-5c0a-5ffc-8bc1-fb5d01570d65)


FRIDAY AFTERNOON. BEST TIME in the world. Working week wrapped up and the party just about to start. And, with the news he’d just heard, Matteo Rossini knew it was going to be some party.

He stepped out of the car, loosened his tie and took the steps into his jet for the last task of the day—the short flight from Rome to London and a call to the Executive Director, Signora Rossini herself. Mamma to him.

He walked through the cabin and sat at his desk, ready to sink his Friday beer. It wasn’t there.

He slung his bag on the empty chair and looked around. Neither was his assistant David. Strange. They had this routine down—the beer, the call, some water, some press-ups, shower and change, the car ready in London, sometimes a woman, sometimes not. Tonight was definitely a ‘sometimes not’ night. Tonight was boxing, a little gambling and all-male bonding—as soon as he delivered the news.

He sat down and keyed in the number. Drummed his fingers. Looked around again for David. Where was he?

At the sound of a beer being opened he turned, just as the call connected. He noticed the legs first, then the red dress. Definitely not David. He frowned and swivelled away from the sight as the bottle was placed beside him. Someone had some explaining to do.

‘Hey, it’s me.’

‘Matteo! Good. I was just going to call you.’

‘Well, here I am. With some news.’

‘OK? You first, then.’

His heart raced. This was it.

‘Arturo is finally selling. And we’ve got first refusal.’ He touched the beer bottle, waited to hear his mother’s response.

‘Seriously? After all this time? That’s incredible news.’

Matteo allowed his fingers to close round the neck of the bottle. Indeed it was.

‘How did you find out?’

‘It wasn’t hard. I heard a rumour and did a little digging. Word is he’s had enough. He wants out and we’re the only ones in the running...’

He let the sentence dangle in the air. Even over the thousand miles that separated them he could imagine the mixture of heartache and hunger on his mother’s face.

‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

He paused. There was no point in pretending.

‘We’re the only ones properly in the running. I heard Claudio’s going to throw his hat in the ring. But he’s poison. His reputation has travelled to Switzerland, I guarantee it. He hasn’t got a chance.’

‘Matty, I don’t want you to get involved.’

Her tone sank further than the ground beneath the plane.

‘Mamma. You know this is the one that matters. Claudio walked away with half our clients and now I’m going to get them back. If we merge with Arturo we’ll be unstoppable. I can do this. I promise you.’

‘I don’t want you to promise anything, Matty. I don’t want you losing your mind the way your father did. It’s not worth it. Nothing’s worth it.’

He sighed and released his hand from the bottle. He had known she’d feel like this and he couldn’t blame her, but they’d never get another chance.

‘I can’t let it pass—you know that,’ he said quietly. ‘Come on, Mamma. For Dad. We can’t let Claudio get one over on us again.’

He waited for her to speak, but the plane climbed through silence. He could imagine the worry knitting her fine brows, twin tracks of loss and anguish. The look that had haunted her for years.

But she was Coral Rossini. And he was her son...

‘You’re right. We can’t let that happen,’ she said finally. ‘We can’t sit back and let him walk all over us again.’

‘Exactly,’ he said, letting out a breath.

‘But you have to promise me that if he tries to do anything you’ll walk away. Matteo. Promise me. I can’t lose a husband and a son.’

The image of his father lying across the dashboard of his car flashed through his mind and he clenched his jaw so hard he could almost taste metal. Metal that he would use to grind Claudio’s bones to dust. One day.

‘You have nothing to fear, Mamma.’

‘I have everything to fear. I couldn’t bear anything to happen to you.’

The break in her voice killed him. She had more strength and resilience than anyone else alive. The fact that they could even say the name ‘Claudio’ in a conversation now was testament to how far they’d come. That man had been closer than family, his father’s best friend, his trusted lawyer then partner, and he’d sold them out—right under their noses. No one had been able to believe he’d set it all up and got away with it. And the rest. The unspeakable dark shadow he’d cast over their lives.

All they could do was put one foot in front of the other and try to salvage Banca Casa di Rossini—the two-hundred-year-old private bank of the Italian super-rich.

‘Nothing’s going to happen other than us taking the bank back to where it should be. Even if we don’t get all of Arturo’s clients we’ll outrank Claudio. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

The plane hit a patch of turbulence and Matty looked out at the thick grey cloud wrapping itself over the Italian countryside, Not even a thunderstorm was going to dim his spirits. Not with this rainbow on the horizon. Handing their crock of gold back to his mother had been his dream for years.

‘What about the name? We might need to change the bank’s name. Have you thought of that?’

‘I’m ahead of you. If it comes to it, I’ll do it. BAR. Banca Arturo Rossini. How does that sound?’

‘Oh, Matty...’

He heard the wistful note in her voice. He felt it too. The bank went back generations, was respected the world over. But it was live or die. There was no third way.

‘It’s not what I want, but if it’s the only way... We really do have a chance with this, don’t we?’

Matty looked up as the woman in red walked past him down the aisle, the satin of her dress catching the light with every slow, steady step. His eyes zoned in on her legs again. They were quite something. And the way the skirt swished gently above her elegant calves with every step she took triggered a strong response. An unwelcome response.

‘Matty?’

‘We’ve got a really great chance,’ he said, refocusing. ‘There’s no other private bank that reeks of old money and old values like ours. Claudio has turned his bank into just another sales-driven call centre. There’s nothing sure and solid and honest about it. We’re unique. Second only to Arturo in terms of stature.’

‘I know. We just have to hope that stature and honesty are what he’s looking for.’

‘It’s going to be all about the chemistry. And the fact that we’ve still not floated on the stock exchange. That’s why we’re ahead of Claudio—no matter what kind of offer he makes Arturo. I’m sure of it. In fact, I’m so sure I’m going to bet you that I land an invitation to Arturo’s villa when we’re at the Cordon D’Or Regatta. It’s going to be a slow burn, but that’s where I intend to start.’

He turned at the sound of water being poured. A squat crystal glass was placed down. He saw long, elegant fingers. Long, slim arms bare in the strapless red dress. And beaming down at him the dimpled smile of an angel.

‘Thanks.’ He frowned, automatically turning his head to watch her walk away. Mistake. His eyes narrowed on the smooth white skin above the red bodice of her dress, the delicate bones and long, swanlike neck. She was absolutely beautiful.

He was far too busy to allow himself any distractions. What the hell was David playing at?

‘That’ll be a start. But it’ll take more than a little corporate hospitality at the Cordon D’Or to win him over. He’s the last of the old guard. You’d better make sure your social media profile is squeaky clean. If there’s a hint of any more scandal he’ll pull up his drawbridge before you get within a mile of it.’

‘There won’t be any more. You can rely on that.’

He bitterly regretted there being any at all. And the timing was a disaster. He drummed his fingers on the window, traced the water droplets as they shook their way across the glass. His media presence had never been an issue before. Not until his most recent ex, Lady Faye, had started to feed the story of their break-up to the press. Now he was the ‘City Love Rat’, destroying the life of any woman who got close, stringing her along with promises of marriage and then dumping her disgracefully.

The truth was nothing like that. He never promised anything beyond the first date—as every one of his ex-girlfriends could testify.

Over the years he had carefully developed the symptoms of full-blown commitment phobia—the best possible illness for any confirmed bachelor to suffer from. Married to the job. Workaholic. Unashamedly, indubitably yes. He didn’t commit to anything he couldn’t see through to the end and he would never, ever commit to a woman the way he had once committed to his first love, Sophie.

He had lost his dad, lost his path in life and then lost her. There would be no more loss. He’d never be that vulnerable again.

‘I wish you’d let David handle it. We could have done some damage limitation at least.’

‘It’s not my style. I refuse to play the games those trashy media sharks want me to play. And I won’t get involved in any tit-for-tat about something that is nobody’s business. Faye was ill. That’s the only explanation. She believed something that wasn’t real and then when it didn’t fall into place the way she imagined she took it to the press the way she did with everything else. If she wasn’t minor royalty no one would have cared, and me weighing in with “my story” would have been the last thing to make it better. That would have just prolonged the whole sorry mess.’

‘I know that. But because you refused to even make a statement people think you’re some sort of pariah. I hate anybody to think badly of you when I know what you’re really like. It upset me reading that stuff.’

‘So do as I do and don’t read it.’

He heard her sigh and it cut him. It was easy for him to brush it off. What did he care what a bunch of people who didn’t know him thought? It was ridiculous, worrying about stuff like that. But his mother was different. She cared. Deeply. About him and the bank. And everyone else too. She cared too much.

‘I’m sorry, Mamma. But I can’t turn the clock back. It’ll all blow over and then it’ll be some other poor sod’s turn to be vilified.’

The woman in red was reaching up to put linens in the cupboard. Her arms were as slender and pale as long-stemmed lilies, her moves graceful and elegant. Her hair hung in a dark ponytail down her back, shiny and thick and long. She turned to glance at him, her dark eyes coy and unsure. He knew that look. He knew where it could go...

‘Hang on.’ He walked to the bedroom at the other end of the cabin and closed the door. ‘Have you heard from David? He’s not here and some woman is in his place. It’s totally out of character for him just to send in agency staff like this...’

‘Ah, I think you must be talking about Ruby. What do you think? Isn’t she lovely?’

His mother had that excited tone in her voice that made him instantly aware...

‘That’s not in dispute,’ he said. ‘But I was hoping David would be looking after things for me until I said otherwise. What’s going on?’

‘Don’t get upset, Matty. I’m up to my eyes and I needed David to finish off the branding work with the new advertising agency. No one knows our business better than him.’

‘You’ve pulled rank and left me with a newbie?’

‘I met Ruby,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘and I was very impressed. She’s a fast learner—I think you two will get along fine. And you’ll have David back on Monday.’

His mother was still holding something back. He was sure of it.

‘You know she’s dressed in a cocktail dress? A very nice cocktail dress, but it’s not exactly work wear. Is there something else you’ve forgotten to tell me?’

Like last month, when she’d only remembered to tell him he had to make an after-dinner speech at the International Women in Finance dinner an hour before the canapés were served. Or the time when he’d had to present a prize at a kindergarten they sponsored on the way home from the casino. It was getting to be a bit of a habit, her asking him these last-minute ‘favours’ now that she was neck-deep in charity work.

‘Ah. Now you mention it...’

Here it came.

‘I’m afraid I’m still in Senegal, and there is one tiny engagement that needs to be covered tonight. You’re in London anyway—so it’s right on your doorstop. And who knows? Maybe you’ll net some good press coverage from it too! Wouldn’t that be lovely? Matty? Are you still there?’

Matty’s fingers slid down the veneer of the door as one by the one all his party plans burst like bubbles in champagne.

‘It’s for charity, darling. The underprivileged.’

Of course it was. It was what she did. While he took care of the nuts and bolts of the business she got on with all the charity and philanthropy. She was amazing at getting the rich and famous to part with cash and favours for the various charities the bank sponsored. It worked perfectly well—if only she would remember to tell him when she needed him.

‘OK. You’ve guilt-tripped me. I’m in.’ He sighed. ‘What’s involved?’

‘It’s an arts benefit premiere at the King’s.’

‘As long as it’s not dance. You know I can’t stand men in tights.’

‘Did you say dance? Yes, it’s my favourite company—the British Ballet. Don’t groan, darling. All you have to do is a quick photo-call on the red carpet and shake some hands afterwards. Everything is arranged. I know you like to be prepared, so I’ve asked Ruby to look after things. She has your itinerary, and there’s nothing she doesn’t know about dance. She’s one of the British Ballet’s soloists, but she’s recovering from injury at the moment—a dreadful year she’s had, poor thing.’

He opened the door into the cabin and right on cue the gorgeous Ruby appeared. So she wasn’t agency staff—she was a dancer. Well, that checked out. Her posture was perfect...her body was perfect. But why on earth was she serving him iced water at twenty thousand feet?

Suddenly it all became clear.

He went back into the bedroom and closed over the door.

‘This is a roundabout way of saying that you met someone with another hard luck story and took her under your wing.’

‘I know what you’re thinking and I’m not going to lie. Ruby’s had a tough time, but she’s not a victim. This isn’t all a one-way street, so you can relax.’

‘Well, what is it, then?’

His mother was always feeling sorry for some waif or stray, and they didn’t all have the best of intentions. He’d had years rooting out the swindlers and the chancers from the genuinely broken people who seemed to flock towards her. For all she was a shrewd businesswoman, she was also immensely gullible when it came to anyone with a hard luck story.

‘Matty, there is nothing for you to worry about! Ruby is not going to trick me out of my millions. She’s completely dedicated to the British Ballet, but she’s off with an injury so this is her way of keeping involved. But if you’d rather have one of the men in tights I’m sure that can be arranged...?’

He shook his head in disbelief. Once again she’d twisted him around her little finger. How could he resist anything his mother said? After all she’d done for him, holding it together all these years. They were tight—a unit. They had been since his father’s death and always would be. It was that simple.

And if ever he had a moment when he doubted anything he heard his father’s voice—his conscience, whatever—whispering in his ear. There was no way his mother’s wishes would go unheeded. Ever.

‘OK. As long as she doesn’t get the wrong idea.’

‘That part’s entirely up to you, Matteo.’

He caught the slight note of censure in her voice—and the double meaning. She knew his vices as much as he did himself. The fact that he didn’t want a long-term relationship didn’t mean that he wanted to spend his evenings alone.

‘OK, Mamma. I didn’t mean with me, but we’ll let that pass.’

‘I’m sorry, darling, I don’t mean to have a dig. But it upsets me that women are so disposable to you. I know you could have a happy life if only you’d let yourself settle down with someone. At the end of the day I’m your mother, and I only want what’s best for you.’

‘What’s best for me is what’s best for the bank. That’s all I’m interested in. Not settling down with a woman. I’m not saying that I’ll always feel this way, but for now, until I’ve got past this hurdle, the bank is all there is.’

The words were out. As plain as numbers on a balance sheet. Irrevocable. No room for misinterpretation. Profit. Loss. Black. White. No shades of grey, no emotion colouring things. Just following the dream. His father’s dream. And now it was his. Like it or not.




CHAPTER TWO (#u20e16661-5c0a-5ffc-8bc1-fb5d01570d65)


FLIGHT AT SIX, land at seven-thirty, less an hour for time difference. Half-hour to get to the theatre. It would be a miracle if she pulled it off without a hitch.

Ruby stood in the middle of the cabin and stared—left to the cockpit and right, all the way to the firmly closed bedroom door, where Matteo Rossini, company sponsor, heart-throb and all-round Love Rat was still taking calls while the minutes ticked past.

She shook her head and stared down at her arms, where blotches and hives were beginning their stress march across her skin—a sure sign that she was out of her comfort zone.

It was bad enough that she’d been on the bench for months, waiting for this ligament damage to heal, but now she was hurtling towards London, and the world premiere of Two Loves, with the job of convincing their sponsor that the British Ballet was worth every penny of the money his private bank channelled their way.

So much responsibility—and she was the last person they should have trusted to do this.

If it had been Coral Rossini herself it would have been fine. She was the Grande Dame of Dance. She’d been a massive support to the company for years. She was loved and gave love in return, supporting them at every premiere. But not this time. This time her second-in-command was stepping in.

And when the director had passed Ruby that note, with a Who’s the lucky girl? look on his face, it had been all she could do to stop herself from groaning aloud, Hopefully not me...

She’d read Coral Rossini’s note.

So lovely to meet you again yesterday!

I’ve suddenly realised you would be the ideal person to look after my son Matteo at the benefit on Friday. He’s not the biggest fan of dance but I’m sure you’ll work your magic.

I have taken the liberty of sending some things for you. And some things for Matteo to wear too.

Don’t worry if he puts up a fight—he’s a pussycat really!

Ciao!

Coral x

She’d stared at the note, her heart tumbling into her stomach, and then opened the bags and boxes of clothes, all beautifully wrapped and folded in tissue. There had been the red dress—a froth of satin and petticoats—a wrap with a beautiful Chinese poppy print, beige court shoes and a little matching clutch. Then she’d found a red tie and pocket square for Matteo to wear, and tucked into an envelope was a cheque for a thousand pounds.

A thousand pounds! That had made it even more impossible to say no. No one could afford to turn her nose up at that kind of money. But for this? She just wasn’t cut out for schmoozing with the people who hung around the fringes of the dance world. She couldn’t care less who was famous or rich or both.

The director had been quite up-front about it.

‘I can trust you to do it. Some of the other girls might get a bit carried away, but you’ve got your head screwed on. You’ll not let us down. Or yourself...’

He was right about that. She’d been with the British Ballet longer than anyone else—it had been home and school and friends and family to her for years. She’d come up through the ranks from eleven years old and she had no ambition to go anywhere else or do anything else. She was safe there. It was all she knew. And all she wanted to know.

Others came, made friends, found lovers, moved on. They had lives outside of the studio and the theatre. They went to parties and spoke about their families. They knew not to ask her about hers. She knew they were curious, but they accepted her silence. Who’d want to talk about that, after all? The gap year father who just kept on travelling, and the teenage mother who hadn’t been able to accept the curfew demanded by a newborn baby.

Thank God for dance. That was her silent prayer. Without dance she would still be the millstone around her mother’s neck or the fatherless obsessive—scouring the internet, searching for his face in the crowd, dreaming about reconciliations that would never happen...

‘Hi. I’m Matteo. Good to meet you.’

She startled at the sound of his voice and dropped the bag of peanuts she’d been about to open.

Deep breath, big smile, and turn.

‘Ruby. Hello.’ She smiled as she neatly grabbed the bag and extended her hand.

She had to admit he was even more of a heart-throb up close—and so tall. His tie hung loosely, like a rope on the wall of his wide chest. She gazed up past thick broad shoulders to a blunt jaw and a full-lipped mouth. His nose was broad and long, broken at the bridge, and his eyes, when she reached them, were sharp brown berries, tucked deep into a frown.

He shook her hand. Warmly...firmly. Then dropped his hand away. She found herself staring at the half-smile on his lips, noticing how wide and full they were, and thinking that with his longer-than-collar-length hair he looked more like a romantic poet trapped in a boxer’s body than a boring banker.

‘Everything OK?’

Bang, bang, bang. Words were fired out like bullets at a target, and his eyes were taking in everything. Every. Thing. They darted all over her face and swept up the rest of her—and maybe it was the close confines of the plane, or the fact that he had such a presence, or the fact that she was not used to standing in heels serving drinks to a total stranger at twenty thousand feet, but her footing faltered and she had to reach out to hold the back of a seat for balance.

‘Yes. I—I was just going to pour you another drink and find some snacks and...’

‘No problem. I’m fine for drinks and snacks. But apparently I’m heading to the ballet now, which is quite a turn of events.’

‘Yes,’ she said, regaining perfect balance and poise. ‘To see Two Loves. The premiere. We’re so excited. It’s an amazing production.’

And it was. And she’d have given anything to be in it. But because of this hideous injury she wasn’t even in the corps. Instead she’d had to pack her day with teaching junior classes and attending physio. And serving Love Rats...

‘And you’re the face of the British Ballet. That’s good. That’s really good,’ he said, scanning her again and nodding as if in fact it was really bad. ‘Done your homework, I take it? I’ll need to know the names and the bios of the people we’re going to see.’

He moved around the cabin now and she stood there, not quite sure if she was supposed to follow him, reassure him, or disappear off the face of the earth.

She watched him turn on a screen that flashed stock exchange numbers. He glanced at it, then changed it quickly to sports. He folded his arms and stared at the screen as a commentator’s voice rose to a crescendo over the roar of a crowd. She looked to see what it was—men charging into one another, with mud-splattered thighs as big as tree trunks, ears and noses like Picasso paintings, all grabbing for an oval shaped ball as if it was the Holy Grail. Rugby. Yuck. How could anyone get excited about that?

‘Come on!’ he grunted at the players on the screen as he moved towards it.

Obviously Matteo Rossini did. She waited...and watched, but it was as if she had become a part of the furniture, as incidental as the beige leather chairs. He might have the looks, but he had none of his mother’s charm.

Suddenly he turned, caught her gawping, and frowned. He pressed the remote control ‘off’ and tossed it down on the chair.

‘I have plans for later, so I’d like this to be all wrapped up by ten. Shall we make a start?’

He nodded, indicating the little lounge area where four leather armchairs were grouped around a coffee table. He lowered himself down, comfortable, confident and totally composed, while she perched carefully, straight-backed, knees locked, smile fixed.

‘OK. Basics first. You’re a dancer with this ballet company, but you’ve “volunteered” to take on this PR role just for tonight.’

‘Something like that,’ she said, ignoring the air quotes he made with his hands.

‘So what’s Ruby’s story? Why you?’ he said, narrowing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

‘You want to know about me? There’s not much to tell. I’ve been with the BB since I was eleven,’ she said, realising that she was now being interviewed for a job she didn’t even want. ‘I’m not dancing tonight, so I think I was the obvious choice.’

‘The BB is the British Ballet?’

She smiled at his stupid question.

‘Yes. The company’s fifty years old. I’ve been in the school, the corps, then a soloist and hopefully one day a principal. So I know everything there is to know.’

‘What about the other side of things? There will be political points being scored here tonight. You know everything there is to know about that too, I take it?’

As she stared at him she suddenly remembered the notes. Had she brought them? Pages and pages of silly handwritten notes about all the other stuff she was meant to tell him. She’d been writing them out in the kitchen, she’d numbered them, she’d stacked them... And then what had she done with them?

‘You’re prepared, right? One thing you should know about me is I’m not a big fan of winging it.’

Neither am I, she wanted to answer back. Which was why she had spent so long making notes about things she didn’t find remotely interesting. But being rude to the sponsor was not an option—not with all that revenue riding on it. Her own scholarship had been funded through the generosity of patrons like Coral Rossini, the Company Director had been quick to remind her.

‘I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. Mrs Rossini was confident I was right for the job.’

‘Yes. I’m sure she was,’ he said, in a tone that buzzed in her subconscious like an annoying fly.

But where were the notes? In her bag? Or could she have stuffed them in her pockets? Left them on the Tube?

He tipped his head back, scrutinised her with a raised brow, looking down the length of his annoyingly handsome nose, and she wondered if he could read her mind.

‘How long have you known my mother, incidentally? She seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’

‘She has?’

She’d definitely had the notes just before she got in the car...

‘Yes. And you wouldn’t be the first person to want to be friends with my incredibly kind, incredibly generous mother.’

What was he talking about? Did he think that she wanted to be his mother’s friend? Did he think she actually wanted to be here, doing this?

‘I’m not here to make friends with anyone. I’m here because I was told to be.’

And then she stopped, suddenly aware of the dark look that had begun to spread across his face. She’d gone too far.

‘You were told to be?’ he asked as his brows rose quizzically above those sharp sherry-coloured eyes.

‘Someone had to do it.’

He sat back now, framed in the cream leather seat, elbows resting on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled in front of his chest. They were shaded with fine dark hair, and above the pinstriped cuff of his shirt the metallic gleam of a luxury watch twinkled and shone.

She kept her eyes there, concentrating on the strong bones of his wrists, refusing to look into his face as the jet powered on through the sky.

‘And you drew the short straw?’ he said, lifting his water.

She caught sight of the solid chunks of burnished silver cufflinks. She’d never even known anyone who wore cufflinks before, barely knew anyone who bothered to wear a shirt and tie, and she wondered for a moment how he got them off at night.

‘You’d rather be anywhere other than here?’

His voice curled out softly, quietly, just above the thrum of the engines, and with the unmistakable tone of mockery. Was he teasing her? She flashed a glance up. He was. The tiniest of smiles lurked at the corner of his mouth. Did that mean he didn’t think she was trying to stick her claws into his mother?

Maybe.

She shifted in the chair, used her core muscles to keep from slipping further down into the bucket seat. He sat completely still, and with all that body sitting across from her it was impossible to concentrate.

‘I’d rather be performing,’ she said. ‘Nothing matters more to me than that.’

‘That I understand,’ he said quietly. His face fell for a moment as some other world held him captive. He opened and flexed his hand, turned it around and she saw knuckles distended, broken. ‘I understand that very well.’

She looked down at her own hands, bunched up on her lap in the scarlet satin, and waited for him to speak. He didn’t. He crossed his leg and her gaze travelled there. And all the way along it. All the way along hard, strong muscle. She knew firm muscle when she saw it, and he was even better built than a dancer—bulkier, stronger, undeniably masculine. She could make out powerful thighs under all that navy silk gabardine, and the full force of the shoulders stretched out under his shirt. He could lift her above his head, and spin her around, lay her down and then...

He laid his hands on the armrests and she glanced up, startled out of her daydream.

‘Sorry. I—Let’s get back on track.’ She cleared her throat. OK, time to remember her notes. ‘The performance tonight. You want me to give you the details now?’

‘Please do.’ He nodded.

She frowned. She could repeat every dance step, but that wasn’t what he needed to know. Details. Names. Dates. All in the notes, in a pile, on her kitchen table—which was at least five hundred miles away.

‘Two Loves is based on a poem.’

‘A poem...? Anything more specific than that?’

Yes, there were specifics. Loads of specifics. She’d written them down, memorised them, but fishing them out of her brain now was a different thing. As if she needed any more reminding that the one single thing she could do in life was dance. She was completely hopeless at almost everything else.

‘It’s...really old,’ she said, grasping for any single fact.

His eyebrow was still raised. ‘How old? Last month? Last year? Last century?’

‘Ancient old,’ she said, an image of the poet that the choreographer had shown them coming to mind. ‘Like two thousand years. And Persian,’ she said happily. ‘It’s all coming back. He’s a Persian poet called Rumi, famous for his love poems.’

‘Ah yes. Rumi. “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along...” And all that rubbish.’

‘Yes, well. Some of that—“rubbish”—has made this ballet tonight,’ she said, pleased that she’d remembered something, even if he sounded less than impressed.

‘OK. Though, since its unlikely I’m going to be shaking hands with the poet Rumi tonight, do you have any facts about anyone alive? There’s normally a whole list of people I need to thank.’

‘Yes,’ she said, staring into his unimpressed face. ‘That’s all in my notes.’

‘Right,’ he said, standing up and staring at his watch. ‘We land in thirty minutes. You get your notes and I’ll grab a shower and get into my tux.’ He looked at her and nodded. ‘I think we’re both agreed that the sooner we get this over with the better.’




CHAPTER THREE (#u20e16661-5c0a-5ffc-8bc1-fb5d01570d65)


MATTEO ROSSINI WAS sacking off boxing and the casino to go to the ballet? Was he for real?

He could hear the boys howling down the phone as they all raised their glasses in a fake toast. At least someone found it funny, he thought as he hauled his third-best tux out of the wardrobe and laid it out on the bed.

He’d been looking forward to this night for ages. A chance to really blow off steam after the disastrous media circus he’d lived through with Faye. And learning of the juicy prospect of tucking Arturo Finance into the back pocket of the bank was going to be the icing on the cake.

He felt he was almost on the home straight already.

But all that would have to wait while he went to the ballet.

He dragged the towel across his damp shoulders and chuckled, realising he wasn’t nearly as down about it as he’d been half an hour ago. And it didn’t have anything to do with a new desire to watch people flounce about the stage. All the charm of the evening was wrapped up in one beautiful little package called Ruby.

She might well have designs on his mother, but he wasn’t getting that feeling from her—he wasn’t picking up that sycophantic thing that most people had about them when they met him for the first time.

She was refreshing, and he was in the mood to be refreshed, and since there was no choice in the matter for the next couple of hours he might as well enjoy what he could.

He stepped into his trousers just as there was a knock on the door. He listened. It came again. Two tiny little raps—one-two. Quiet, but determined. Business not pleasure, he thought, registering with interest a slight sense of disappointment.

He fastened his flies and lifted his shirt, then opened the door and there she was. All eyes, lips and lily-white slender limbs.

‘Hello, there,’ he said, stretching his arms inside his shirt. ‘Everything OK?’

By the look on her face everything was not OK. Her eyes had widened to coal-black circles and her mouth was in a shocked red ‘O’ as she gawped at his chest. He stifled a smile as he turned to spare her blushes and started to button his shirt.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ she said, tucking her eyes down, ‘but I was meant to give you this to wear.’ She held out a little parcel, kept her head turned away. ‘From your mum.’

He continued to fasten his buttons and stared at the little parcel.

‘Want to open it for me?’ he said, now walking to the table for his cufflinks.

Her eyes flicked up, then down, but not before she took a good long look. He couldn’t help but smile broadly. Game on.

She pulled open the package and held out a red bow tie and pocket square.

‘Is everything OK?’

‘What?’ she said. ‘Yes, of course everything is OK. I was just wondering why you bother with those things.’

He paused, his collar up, considering her carefully. That was not what he’d expected to hear.

‘Pardon?’

‘Cufflinks. What are they even for? Why not just use buttons? I don’t get it.’

‘Has anyone ever told you you’re quite forward?’ he said, clicking the cufflinks together.

‘I say what’s on my mind. I’m not trying to cause offence, but I’ve never seen anyone use them.’

He finished and tugged at his cuffs, checking that his sleeves were perfectly straight, watching her watching him carefully. He was warming to her more by the minute.

‘They make my cuffs sit nicely. I like the look. A beautiful shirt deserves beautiful cuffs. And, since you’re looking unconvinced by that answer, I’ll also add that these were a gift from an ex-girlfriend. After we split up.’

He turned them in the light and smiled.

‘I’m not all Mr Bad Guy, despite what you might have read in the press.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right...’ with a tone that was flat and disbelieving.

He raised an eyebrow and tied the bowtie in place.

Well, what did he expect? he thought, turning away to get his jacket while his mind ran to the stupid pictures his friends had texted him and those quotes about being emotionally stunted.

He hadn’t bothered to read them properly. Anyone who knew him well knew the truth. And anyone who knew him well knew that all his stunted emotions sat with Sophie. The only thing he was sure of in his life was that there would never be another Sophie...

They had been the Golden Couple all through university—she with her long blonde hair and he a rising star of the rugby scene. He’d never been happier. The whole world had been spread out before him. His degree in sports science, his imminent career as a rugby player, playing for his country... Would it be Italy or England? When would he ask Sophie to marry him? Where would they live?

Those were the kinds of decisions he’d faced. Until the night he’d got the news that his father had died. Like a great oak being ripped up from the roots, his strength, his confidence had been sapped. He’d felt the world crumble under his feet, felt himself spinning in space. He’d thought his father sure and solid and strong. He’d had all the answers. He’d been wise and clever and honourable and he’d loved his mother—and Claudio had been his best friend.

They had been almost inseparable—closer than brothers. The only thing that had ever came between his parents had been Claudio’s suffocating presence in their lives—until something had happened and everything had changed.

Matteo had once suspected that Claudio had made a move on his mother and his father had found out. It had to be something like that for the schism between them to have been so deep. How wrong he had been.

His father’s fight to save the family bank had been epic. He had worked tirelessly for weeks, but so much of it had gone. People with lots of money wanted lots more. Loyalty was too expensive. Especially when Claudio had offered a fast dividend and people had been too greedy to care how it was made.

But it had been his father’s death more than the losses to the company that had devastated Matteo’s life. His mother had been inconsolable—the thought of her anguish still made him wince with pain. He had gone to her side, nursed her and taken charge as he knew his father would have wanted. A stream of people from the banking world had arrived—all firm handshakes, sober suits and quiet conversations.

All of that he had lived through, knowing that it couldn’t get any worse. Knowing that Sophie was there for him.

And the knowledge of her warm, loving body had driven him one night to take a flight north to university, then a two-hour taxi ride from the airport to the cold, stormy coast of St Andrew’s, where he’d known she would be just about to wake up. Maybe he’d slip into bed beside her, feel the love in her arms and bury himself and his pain...

How many times must he relive those moments? The crunch of the gravel, the lightening shadows of the morning and the frosted cloud of his breath. The cold, metallic slide of his key in the lock, lamps still burning in the hallway, the TV on, glasses on the table.

Like an automaton he had turned to the sound of the shower.

And then had come the sight he wished he could burn from his eyes.

His beautiful Sophie, naked and wet, her legs wrapped around another man. And the other man had been the national rugby coach, come all the way to Scotland to ask him to play for his country.

Was he emotionally stunted? All day long. And for the rest of his life.

‘Most people don’t believe what they read. I never do, if it’s any consolation.’

His eyes tracked round, following the voice that had split through the sick daydream. Angel-faced Ruby, with those huge brown eyes and wide red lips was looking up at him with something that might be described as concern. How sweet. But if it was concern, it was wasted.

‘Please don’t worry about me,’ he said, fastening the last button on his jacket. ‘I’m a big boy. I can take what they dish up and swallow it whole.’

He winked. He smiled. He put one hand on her shoulder. Her delicate, silken-skinned shoulder. He stepped a little closer and watched as her eyes did that widening thing that women always did—usually just before he leaned in for his first kiss...

And wouldn’t a kiss be the perfect way to start his evening with Ruby? Those gorgeous lips, that ivory skin, her lustrous hair... Hadn’t he been tempted from the moment he’d seen her? Hadn’t she shown that she was tempted too?

This could turn into the perfect night after all.

Oh, yes, he thought, and the stirring and hardening in his groin were now very obviously happening. There was only one thing left to do.

‘But it must hurt your mother—reading that,’ she said, turning her head.

He paused in mid-air, correcting himself and exiting the move swiftly. He’d been rebuffed. Well, well, well...

‘What my mother feels is no concern of yours or anyone else’s,’ he heard himself say. ‘I wish people would leave well alone.’

Colour rose like a scarlet tide over her cheeks and he instantly regretted his sharp tone.

Damn, that had been too harsh. Ruby didn’t seem like the gossipy type. And she was only being kind. And, worst of all, she was right. He knew his mother had been hurt by the press, and he knew he had no one to blame for that but himself.

But why couldn’t people worry about their own lives instead of raking all over his?

He reached out a hand—an involuntary gesture—but she muttered an apology under her breath and was already making her way back through the cabin. He watched her walk carefully, the red satin billowing out above her calves, swishing gently with each step, until he was almost hypnotised by the sight.

And then the plane bumped and dropped. And she stumbled. She reached out to grab at the nearest chair and held on to it for two long seconds. He could tell she was holding herself in pain. She didn’t utter a sound.

He rushed to her.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Perfectly, thanks,’ she said, keeping her eyes ahead and fixing that smile in place as she started to walk again.

‘I saw you stumble there. Is it your injury? I know that’s why you’re not dancing at the moment. Is everything OK?’

She raised her eyebrows and flicked him an as ifyou care glance. He deserved that.

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’m going to sit down now, if that’s OK.’

‘Ruby—hold up.’

She sat carefully in the seat, straightening her spine, and her bright smile popped back into place. He recognised that—smiling through pain. Everybody had a mask.

He sat in the seat opposite her. She tucked her knees to the left and pressed them together, sitting even straighter—a clearer Keep Back message he’d never seen.

‘What is it? Hip? Knee?’

‘It’s no big deal. It’s nearly healed.’

‘What happened?’

‘A fall. That’s all.’

‘Must have been some fall to have taken almost six months to heal.’

The bright smile was fixed in place. At least it looked like a smile, but it felt more as if she was pushing him back with a deadly weapon.

‘You know, I’ve had my fair share of injuries too,’ he said, when she didn’t reply. ‘I played rugby for years. I know that you might never have guessed, thanks to my boyish good looks, but I was a blindside flanker at St Andrew’s—when I was at university.’

He tilted his head and showed her the mashed ear that had formed after too many injuries. Luckily that and his broken nose were his only obvious disfigurements, but he’d lost count of the fractures and tears tucked beneath his clothes.

‘Blindside flanker...’ She looked away, sounding totally, politely uninterested. ‘Sounds like rhyming slang.’

‘I was about to be capped for England,’ he said, grinning through her cheeky little retort.

‘Really?’

At least that merited a second glance. He smiled, nodded, raised his eyebrows. Got you this time, he thought.

‘About to be? So what happened?’

‘Long story. Doesn’t matter. So, what exactly is wrong with you, may I ask?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to follow. I’ve been heavily involved in most sports, one way or another, and I know the pounding bodies take. Ballet is tough—I know that. It might not be my cup of tea, but I respect what you guys do.’

He could see her pausing for a moment, hovering between cutting him off again and continuing the conversation. The smile had dropped and she was watching him carefully, but her body was still coiled tight as a little spring.

‘I’ve not always been a boring old banker. I wasn’t born wearing a pinstripe suit,’ he said softly. ‘Give me a rugby ball any day of the week.’

‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘Why didn’t you follow your dream?’

‘Tell me about your injury first,’ he countered.

‘Cruciate ligament,’ she said after a moment.

‘Anterior? Posterior? Don’t tell me it was one of the collaterals?’

‘It was the anterior. I had to have surgery. Twice.’

‘Painful,’ he said, sucking his teeth. ‘You’d better be careful. That can be the end of a beautiful career.’

‘I’m well aware of that.’

‘I imagine you are. Must be on your mind all the time. One of the players in my uni squad had a terrible time. Had to jack it in eventually. Pity. He had a great future ahead but the injury put paid to all that. I’ve no idea what he’s doing now—he was a bit of a one-trick pony. I don’t think he had a Plan B...’

And then suddenly the mask slid down and her brilliant smile slipped and wobbled. Her delicate collarbones bunched and the fine muscles of her throat constricted and closed. She was visibly holding herself in check.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s not what you want to hear right now. Dance is your whole life, isn’t it? I totally get it.’

‘How can you until it happens to you?’

She shook her head and twisted away from him, staring out over the twinkling yellow lights of London.

‘I really do understand,’ he said, cringing at his thoughtlessness. ‘Rugby was my whole life. As far as I was concerned banking was what my father did. And then—whoosh—he died and the carpet got pulled from under my feet. And here I am.’

He looked round at the jet, at the cream leather, the crystal glasses, the plasma screen flashing, the numbers and money, wealth and success. For all the Arturo deal would be the icing on the cake, he still had a pretty rich cake.

Her face told him she was thinking exactly the same thing and he couldn’t blame her for that.

‘It’s not exactly the same, though, is it?’ she said, with a note of wistfulness that rang like a bell in his consciousness. ‘You had a Plan B. I’ve got nothing else. Only this. My whole life has been preparing to be a principal dancer. I’m not good at anything except dancing—I barely got myself together to do this.’

She held out the skirts of her dress and looked right into his eyes with such an imploring look that he thought how easy it would be to fall for a woman like her. She was strong, yet vulnerable too—but all he had to do was dive right in and before he knew it he’d be scrabbling for the banks of some fast-flowing river or, worse, being dragged under and losing his mind along the way.

He would not be diving into anything. Arm’s length was the only safe distance with any woman—especially one that looked like this—because even when he was crystal-clear it always ended up the same way, with her wanting more than he could give.

Relationships: the rock he was not prepared to perish on again. No way. The skill came in avoiding crashing into that rock by keeping it light, keeping it moving along, keeping it all about the ‘now’. Worrying about the future...that wasn’t such a great idea.

He turned to Ruby, lifted her chin with his finger, the lightest little touch.

‘You’re doing a fine job. You’ve nothing at all to worry about,’ he said, hearing himself use his father’s gentle but firm pull yourself together tone.

But she shook her head and lifted those doe eyes.

‘I’m not. I’m useless. I’ve left the notes I wrote out at home on the table. And I spent hours writing them—in case I forgot something. I can’t hold things in my head, other than dance steps, and it’s been months since I’ve danced. I’m terrified that I’ll have even forgotten how to do that.’

‘Well, one thing at a time, yeah? You’ve been brilliant so far. I had no idea I was going to see a ballet based on a poem by Rumi, who I used to think was an amazing poet—back when my head was full of mush. Maybe I’ll see the error of my ways. Who knows?’

‘You really don’t mind that I’ve been a bit of a disaster so far? I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

‘It’s certainly different.’

‘You’re really going to love the ballet. I promise you.’

She smiled. Wide and fresh and beautiful. He wondered if she knew it was her deadliest weapon. She had to. She might say that she was no good at anything except dancing, but he would wager she could wrap pretty much anyone, male or female, around her little finger with just a flash of that smile or a glance from those eyes.

The plane touched down and rolled along the runway. This was shaping up to be quite an evening—the last before he turned all his attention towards netting Arturo. So he might as well enjoy it.

The game was definitely on.




CHAPTER FOUR (#u20e16661-5c0a-5ffc-8bc1-fb5d01570d65)


SO, THE LOVE RAT wasn’t so much of a rat after all.

He could have gone to town on her for messing up with the notes, but he’d let her off the hook and he’d actually been quite kind when she’d almost started blubbing like a baby.

He wasn’t just a boring banker. He was smart. And handsome. Even with a broken nose and a flattened ear he was built like a man should be built.

She glanced down at his thighs and his biceps, pushing out the fabric of his tux as they waited in the back of a limousine to take their journey along the red carpet. He was prepped and primed to play the role of patron, and all the doubts she’d felt that he was just a surly shadow of his mother were gone. He could dial up the charm as easily as she could.

Or down. He was no pussycat either. He’d grilled her when he’d first met her, and that had been no party, but she could see why. He was only trying to protect his mother, and who could blame him for that? In his place she’d have been exactly the same—though of course that was never going to happen. The last person that would need any defending was her mother...except from herself.

The car door was opened. It was time to go. Matteo turned to her, gave her a wink and a smile and stepped out, walking off towards the entrance with lithe grace, light-footed.

It was just like stepping on stage without the dance steps, she thought. Her stomach flipped. She took a breath and popped her smile into place. Then she followed him past the flashing cameras, pausing beside him as he chatted in the foyer, breathing in and out and beaming for all she was worth.

With moments left until curtain up they went on into the auditorium, where the air above the velvet rows bubbled with excitement. Heads turned everywhere as they stepped out into the royal box. Ruby stared straight ahead, the interest of so many people feeling like hives on her skin.

She moved to sit down in the row behind his, but he indicated with a smile and a gracious gesture that she should sit beside him.

He leaned close as the lights dimmed.

‘You’re sure this is going to be as good as you say?’

‘If it isn’t you can always ask for your money back.’

The music struck up. A penetratingly beautiful note was sung in the unmistakable voice of an Indian woman, cutting through the atmosphere of the theatre like a sabre through silk. The audience gasped.

Matteo’s eyes held hers. A shiver ran down her spine.

‘Or I can take recompense another way,’ he said.

Slowly his eyes swept over her bare shoulders and décolleté, down to her mouth and then back to her eyes. She felt it in every tiny pore, every nerve, every fibre of her body. His mouth curled into a smile...some promise of what he would take. With each second she felt the charge of attraction flare between them. Her whole body reacted as easily as if he’d flipped a switch. She wasn’t imagining it.

She sat back in her seat, blind to the emergence of the principal dancers onto the stage. Some part of her knew that they were dancing—striking buoyant and beautiful poses, their costumes flowing and extending the elegance of each step, the hauntingly beautiful song telling the story of the stirrings of early passion between the dancers—and some part of her watched. But most of her was alive to this totally new sensation.

‘Having fun?’ he whispered.

Yes, she wanted to gasp out loud. For the first time in months she felt she was actually living. The dance, the theatre, the interested crowd and, despite knowing the dangers, the magnetic draw of this man.

‘I’d rather be on stage with them,’ she said, for the first time in her life doubting it was actually true.

‘I’d love to see you dance.’

He leaned further into her space. His voice, close to her ear, was thrilling. It was that even more than the dance that set her nerves on edge, dancing their own feverish path across her skin.

‘I imagine you’d be amazing. Maybe one day...’

For a moment she thought he was going to touch her—his hand hovered and then landed again on his own leg. She stared at it, and then risked a glance to the side, where his profile was outlined in a sleek silver line from the stage lights. He stared straight ahead, rapt, but she could feel something between them, a strange energy that made her suddenly aware of her bare flesh, her braless breasts under the bodice of the dress, her thighs as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, her feet in tiny straps and pointed heels.

Her body was what she used to express herself. It was her language, her vocabulary. She could read and sense others through their wordless actions too. How they held themselves. She could see how nervous or confident they were in the tilt of their head or the curl of their shoulders. And the language he was speaking now was as sensual as any lovers’ pas de deux. She was aroused by it. She was aroused by him.

She strained forward, facing the stage as the dancers drew pictures of their anguished love, their bodies twisting and writhing with pleasure and pain. And in every move she felt the exquisite pleasure of physical love. And she saw herself with him as the hero lifted his lover and then let her slide down his body, his hands skimming her waist, her ribs, her breasts, before clutching her face and holding it close against his.

She had danced and felt hands on her body—all dancers had—but she had never, ever felt the way she was feeling right now, simply sitting, watching. Waiting.

It was electrifying. And he had to be feeling it too?

‘What do you think?’ she whispered in a voice not even her own.

‘I think I’m hooked—I think I might just have found my newest passion.’

His expressionless face told her nothing, but the effect of his words sent another searing flash of heat to her core. She watched the final scene in the dreamy haze, felt his hand brushing hers, his foot touching hers—tiny little accidental movements that made her skittish.

Finally it ended. There was uproar from the audience, people yelling ‘Bravo!’ and stamping, up on their feet. She sat there, stunned, beside him. Although she faced forward all her vision was from the corner of her eye—his thigh, his hands clapping in front of his chest, his secret smile as he turned to her.

‘So now, I take it, I have to meet the dancers?’ he said. ‘And then...’

He speared her with a dark look that thrilled her to her core.

She turned back to face the stage, clapping her hands, trusting herself only to stare at the line of dancers taking their bows. He stood beside her as the dancers looked to the royal box. He beamed down at them, waving a salute and applauding once more.

Ruby stood up too. Her legs shook. The theatre lights came up and the crowds began to move. Security appeared, opening the doors and leading them out. She followed Matteo’s back, his sure stride, out and down through the theatre to the back of the stage, people parting like waves before them.

Post-performance adrenaline was pulsing through the air as they walked the line-up. Glittering eyes shone through smudged make-up and gleaming, sore bodies. She felt almost as exhilarated as the soloists and principals as she introduced them.

She could see their raised eyebrows and wide-mouthed smiles. She knew they were watching her closely, would be gossiping excitedly. Ruby the weirdo, who never put a foot out of line, was flirting with the patron.

Let them. It didn’t mean she was going to let herself or anyone else down. She had her head screwed on.

Round the room stood tables laden with drinks and food. She felt a hand on her back, guiding her towards them, and her body tensed and melted. Matteo.

He raised his eyes and smiled indulgently, as if to say, More delay, and she had no thirst for the champagne that was thrust into her hand. She could barely concentrate as she tried to resist being buffeted by the waves of her physical attraction to Matteo as close-eyed scrutiny lapped like the tide where she stood.

When he leaned his ear over his right shoulder—a sign that he wanted more information about someone or something—she happily stood on tiptoe, letting the moments when she whispered names take longer. She lingered there, enjoying the sensation. He placed his hand on her waist, splayed his fingers, tugged her close, and she let her lips brush the side of his cheek.

His skin was soft, but grazed with stubble, and his scent was incredibly subtle. But his aroma, his essence, was magnetic, irresistible male.

‘Say that again,’ he demanded as she delivered him someone’s name. As she tried to pull back a waiter came into view with a wide tray of canapés lifted high on his shoulder. Matteo sidestepped to let him pass and tugged her close to his body. She stood without moving, her breast and hip completely against him, pressed flush. Desire curled—hot and heavy and low in her body.

She knew she should move but she couldn’t seem to do anything other than stand with her body against his, loving the mixture of sure, solid sensation and the sweet yearning to feel closer. Blood was rushing all around her, and she was feeling lightheaded as the noise of the party bubbled higher.

People bustled past, but what did she care...?

The waiter passed again and finally they stepped away.

‘Who is the blonde woman in green, walking towards us with your director?’

Ruby flicked her eyes away and looked down quickly as a wave of guilt washed over her. Her director had trusted her to show Matteo around. She was the one who had her head screwed on. She couldn’t bear it if she disappointed him.

‘Dame Cicely Bartlett,’ she said, focussing. ‘The actress turned politician. She’s going to make a political point about under-funding for the arts...’

‘I’m impressed. You really do know everything about your world. With or without your notes.’ He stepped closer to her again. ‘Are you all right? You look pale all of a sudden.’

He took her hand in his, rubbed his fingers over the back of her wrist, and words died in her throat. She fought to keep her head from rolling back. She was sick with desire, weaker with every passing moment. She had to stop this before it got out of hand.

‘If you don’t mind, I think I need to sit down. I’ve had a bit too much champagne.’

He manoeuvred her into a chair.

‘I’m so sorry. What was I thinking? As soon as I’ve finished with Dame Cicely we can go to supper.’

Supper? He didn’t really mean that, did he? He meant sex.

The thought sent her stomach flipping through her ribs. She couldn’t go through with this. Who was she trying to kid? She would end up back at his place and then the kissing would start. And then the touching. And then she’d realise that she’d changed her mind. She’d want to get away, then he’d look baffled and wonder what was going on. She’d call a cab and go. It was the way it always ended.

And that would usually be fine because she’d never see them again. But Matteo Rossini was their patron, and she couldn’t make a fool of herself with someone like him.

‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he said, stepping close enough for her to see the tiny indentations of his chest hair through the silk of his shirt, the hollow of his strong throat above the collar, the curl of those lips that had grazed her cheek, her jaw, her ear, that she so desperately wanted to feel against her mouth. He stood there and she felt the might and allure of his body pounding down her flimsy defences.

Maybe this time would be different? It felt different...

‘Ruby, it’s a very good idea,’ he said softly.




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