Riccardo gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I would love some coffee—could you tell?’

Hopelessly, she noted the way his voice dipped when he said love like that. ‘Of course I could, because—’

‘Because?’

‘You’re entirely predictable.’

‘Am I?’

‘As the sun which rises in the morning sky. And in a minute you’ll start moaning about the fact that tonight’s the office party—’

‘It’s tonight?’ Riccardo raked long olive fingers through already tousled black hair. ‘Madonna mia!’

‘You see?’ she murmured as she walked over to the machine which had been exported here at great expense from his native Italy. ‘Entirely predictable.’

Ignoring the file in front of him, Riccardo sat back and watched her for a moment, thinking that she was the only woman whom he would allow occasionally to tease him. She was certainly a lot less timid than when he had first employed her—though her dress sense hadn’t improved one little bit. Disparagingly, he flicked a glance over her neat skirt and the pristine blouse which accompanied it and he suppressed a very Italian shudder. How dull she looked! But perhaps he was ill-advised to criticise her appearance under the circumstances. After all—hadn’t her plainness been one of the reasons he’d employed her?

He’d been looking for someone to replace the motherly figure who had guarded his office since his arrival in London but who was leaving to spend time with her grandchildren, no matter how much he’d tried to persuade her otherwise.

It had been a gruelling day of interview after interview—when it had seemed that every would-be glamour model in the universe had tried to convince him that she wanted nothing more but to type his letters and answer the phone. He hadn’t believed one of them—not when their accompanying actions had belied the sincerity of their words.

Riccardo knew what he wanted, and he did not want distractions in the office—women crossing and uncrossing their legs to show him peeps of stocking tops, or leaning forward to accentuate their cleavage. In fact, he regarded his time at work as a break from the constant attentions of women which had plagued him since his early teens.

The afternoon interviewing session which had fielded a clutch of admirably qualified graduates had proved no more fruitful in his search to find someone prepared to work for him on his terms. Not one of them had flinched when he had flicked a cool, challenging gaze and stated that what he wanted was an old-fashioned secretary. Not an assistant—and certainly not an equal. He was not interested in teaching them anything and there would be no fast-track promotion through the business.

His outrageous assertion had not put off a single candidate and yet Riccardo had moodily rejected every one of them—mainly on the illogical grounds that there wasn’t one he couldn’t have bedded before the evening was out. And he wanted a secretary, not a lover.

But then he had been on his way home and had passed the open door of the typing pool—to see some mouse of a thing bent over the filing cabinet. To a man with the Italian sensibilities of Riccardo, her appearance was appalling—a functional skirt which did her no favours and hair scraped back into an unflatteringly tight bun.

He remembered glancing at his watch, thinking how late it was and admiring her dedication to duty before deciding that she probably didn’t have much to rush home to; this mouse was unlikely to have a line of men beating their way to her door. Maybe she was one of those women who lived at the office, he thought wryly.

She must have been alerted to his presence for she had whirled round, fingers flying to her bare lips—her cheeks colouring a rosy-pink when she saw him standing there. It was a long time since a woman had blushed in his presence and for a moment a faint smile had played around Riccardo’s lips.

‘Can I…can I help you, sir?’ she had questioned with the kind of deference which told him that she knew exactly who he was.

‘Maybe you can.’ His eyes had narrowed as he took in the dreary surroundings of the communal room and then back to study her surprisingly long fingers. ‘Can you type?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Fast?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘And what would you say,’ he had asked, ‘if I asked you to make me a coffee?’

Angie’s eyelids had lowered by a deferential fraction. ‘I would ask if you took it black or white, sir,’ she had replied softly.

Riccardo had smiled. So—she had no unrealistic ambitions to be on the board. Or none of the ridiculous modern attitude which meant that women no longer seemed prepared to wait on men!

She had been installed in his office the very next day—and up until this moment she was the best secretary he’d ever had. Mainly because she knew her place and had no desire to leave it. And perhaps just as importantly because she hadn’t fallen in love with him—although naturally she adored him, as women invariably did.

His recollection faded as the tantalising aroma of coffee reached him and Angie put a cup of coffee in front of him. Cappuccino, because it was before noon. Just as later she would produce an inky-black espresso after lunch. She acted like balm to a troubled flare of skin, he thought suddenly. Like a long, warm bath after a transatlantic flight. For a moment, he relaxed. But only for a moment.

His time in New York had been troublesome—with the actress he had dated earlier in the year refusing to accept that it was over. Why did women show such little dignity when a man ended a relationship? he wondered bitterly. And there were problems at home in Tuscany, too…

‘Riccardo?’ Angie’s soft voice drifted into his troubled thoughts.

‘What?’

She stood there looking at him—wondering what was causing his darkly handsome face to look so grim. ‘You do know that the party’s starting a little earlier this year?’

‘Don’t nag, Angie.’

‘It’s called a timely reminder.’

He bit back a sigh of irritation. ‘What time?’

‘We start at seven-thirty.’

‘And the restaurant’s booked?’

‘Everything’s ready. I’m going there now just to check a few last-minute details. All you have to do is turn up.’

He nodded. Maybe he could grab a little sleep. ‘I’ll go back to my apartment and change,’ he said. ‘And then go straight to the restaurant. There’s nothing especially urgent that I need to handle here, is there?’

‘Nothing that can’t wait until Monday.’

She turned to leave and as he noticed the plain navy skirt which hung so unflatteringly over her bottom Riccardo suddenly remembered the package he had left lying in the car.

‘Oh, Angie?’

‘Yes, Riccardo?’

‘You don’t usually bother dressing up, like the other girls, do you?’ he questioned slowly. ‘For the office party, I mean.’

Angie halted, composing her face before she turned to face him with just the right amount of friendly interest. It wasn’t just that the question was so unexpected—it was—it was just extremely hurtful into the bargain, though she was pretty sure he didn’t mean it to be. Of course she dressed up for the party—but her taste was different from the other girls’. Inevitably. Because so was her age. When you were barely into your twenties you could easily buy up one of the cheap and sequined dresses which abounded in the shops at this time of year. You could splash out very little on an entire outfit—and end up looking like a million dollars.

But when you were twenty-seven, it was a little different. You ran the risk of looking tacky. Or like mutton dressed as lamb. So Angie handled her budget carefully and dressed accordingly. All her clothes were conservative pieces. Investment dressing, they called it. Clothes that would never date—which you could bring out year after year and they would look just as smart. Why, last year she had been wearing a lovely beige knitted dress—with a string of real pearls around her neck.