One Night In…
‘I don’t mean like that,’ Richard said impatiently. He was gazing at the waitress with the longing of a child for a toy—or, as Alessandro had said, a sweet. A forbidden one, sticky and delectable. ‘She’s a waitress. Why don’t you hire her to wait on us tonight? A quiet dinner for two, at your villa.’ Richard’s eyes lit up lasciviously.
Alessandro eyed his companion with cold dislike. ‘To wait on us?’ he repeated. ‘And nothing else?’
Richard grinned. ‘We could see what happens.’
Alessandro didn’t bother to hide his disgust. His guest was actually suggesting they hire the waitress as a virtual prostitute. ‘I think not.’
‘Why such a prude, di Agnio?’ Richard taunted. ‘From what I hear, you’ve done that and worse.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘A lot worse.’
Alessandro did not dignify his companion’s remark with a response. He knew his own past. He knew what people believed. He chose to ignore it, as he had ignored every telling, incredulous remark since he’d taken the reins of Di Agnio Enterprises two years ago.
‘If it’s pleasure you’re seeking,’ he said, with quiet, menacing derision, ‘you’ll find a wider range of amusements in town, not with some two-bit part-time whore.’
‘You don’t need to be crude.’ Richard sipped his wine, his expression thoughtful as he gazed at the waitress. She’d finally cleared the table, dirty plates stacked on one tanned arm.
Still chatting, Alessandro noticed with scathing disdain. He watched her lips curl into a smile that promised all too much.
‘She reminds me of home. I bet she’s American.’
‘Why don’t you go talk to her, then?’ Alessandro questioned silkily. ‘I’m sure you don’t need my intervention.’
‘But I want it.’ Richard’s eyes met Alessandro’s, watery blue clashing with midnight steel. ‘And you need my business, di Agnio, so why don’t you just humour me?’
A muscle ticked in Alessandro’s jaw. He rested his hand flat on the table, resisting the desire to curl it into a fist. He would not be threatened—not by the potential of Harrison’s business, not by the ghosts of his own past.
He was free. He was free of all that.
He smiled. ‘You’ll find I don’t need your business quite as much as you think,’ he said lightly. ‘And perhaps you need mine a bit more than you’d like me to believe.’
Richard’s expression hardened. Fear flickered in his eyes, and one limp, well-manicured hand bunched the tablecloth. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I like to stay informed.’ Alessandro’s smile widened, predatory, in control. Richard saw, and seemed to shrink a little. ‘There’s a dinner and dancing club on the Via Filetteria that will do very well for tonight.’ Alessandro spoke firmly, as a parent to a child, and saw with satisfaction that Richard Harrison’s momentary flare of rebellious authority had died out.
‘I just liked her, that’s all.’
Alessandro glanced again at the waitress. He could understand her appeal, on a basic level. She was pretty enough, and there was an aura about her that exuded—what? Warmth? Sexuality? Availability, perhaps?
A woman to be pleasured—used—once, and discarded.
If he did that. Which he did not.
Not any more.
Then she turned and caught his gaze. Her hair was piled untidily on top of her head, strands of indeterminate brown falling to frame her face. Nothing special, Alessandro decided dismissively, despite her youth and obvious sex appeal. She knew how to work a room, a man.
Then her eyes widened, her gaze fastened on his.
Her eyes were the golden-green of sunlight on an olive grove, iridescent, filled with promise. With hope. Her lips parted into a smile, tender in its uncertainty.
Alessandro felt his insides tighten. Something flared to life within him—something he’d suppressed, had thought banished for ever.
Need.
He turned back to Richard, who was oblivious to the silent yearning exchange. ‘On second thoughts, I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no argument, no opposition. His fingers toyed with then tightened on the stem of his water glass. ‘A quiet dinner at home will suit my needs.’
CHAPTER ONE
‘MEGHAN, there’s someone here to see you.’
Meghan Selby struggled against the knot in her apron strings and sighed tiredly.
‘Please tell me it’s not Paulo,’ she said, as the other waitress, Carla, placed a stack of dirty plates on the counter.
‘Who?’
‘My landlord.’
Carla wrinkled her nose. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Short, fat, greasy-haired.’ She suppressed a shudder.
‘Why would he come here?’ Carla asked, curiosity evident in her eyes, and Meghan shrugged evasively.
‘Who knows? But I don’t know many other people in this town.’
‘Well, it’s certainly not him.’ Carla’s efficient fingers went to work on the knot. ‘This man is tall, built, wavy-haired and asking to see you.’ She released the untangled strings and grinned. ‘He’s gorgeous, actually. Is there something—or someone—you’re not telling me about?’
‘I wish.’ Meghan slipped off her apron with a quick, grateful smile. ‘It’s probably just someone who’s lost his wallet.’
Carla raised her eyebrows. ‘Why wouldn’t he ask Angelo, then?’
She shrugged. The truth was, she’d no idea why a strange man would ask for her, and she didn’t really want to know. She didn’t want to attract attention from any men, strange or familiar. The sooner she dealt with the one waiting outside the better.
She’d been waitressing in Spoleto for six weeks, and she knew instinctively it was time to move on. She enjoyed Carla’s friendship, and Angelo, who owned the trattoria, was like a doting uncle. She’d made a few friends in town, but she felt the inexorable need to shake the dust from her feet before the money ran out, before anyone got too close. Before her past caught up with her.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’ Carla queried, and Meghan pretended not to hear. Best not to make any promises.
‘I’d better go and see about my mystery man,’ she joked, and Carla laughed.
‘I can’t wait to hear all about it.’
A quick glance in the bar’s mirror revealed a stain on her shirt, and her hair, which had been in an almost sleek chignon this morning, was now a flyaway tangle.
‘You look gorgeous, cara.’ Angelo, sixty-three years old and full of spicy humour, grinned at her. ‘Got a date?’
‘Nope,’ Meghan replied, trying for a breezy smile. She didn’t plan on having any dates for a long time. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—not that it did much to help.
‘See you tomorrow.’
She nodded, still making no promises, and went outside.
The man waiting under the red and white striped awning of Trattoria di Angelo was striking even from a distance. He wore a charcoal-grey suit, excellently cut, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, stretching the cloth of his jacket against an impressive pair of shoulders.
He looked up as she approached, navy eyes clashing with hers. The sheer force of those eyes—the power, the knowledge in their midnight depths—made her take an involuntary step backwards even as her heart stumbled in beat.
She recognised him, of course, as the man who’d dined in the trattoria earlier. Someone important in business, or so Angelo’s significant look had implied when he’d asked her to wait on them.
She remembered the way the man had looked at her earlier that afternoon, his eyes blazing into hers. Searing, branding.
Knowing.
As if he knew who she was. What she was.
That wasn’t possible, Meghan reassured herself, and yet one look from beneath those dark, frowning brows told her this man had summed her up—and dismissed her—in a matter of seconds.
Opinions, impressions already formed, and they hadn’t exchanged a word.
She straightened her shoulders, her expression hardening as a matter of instinct and self-preservation. She stopped a few feet from where he paced restlessly on the cobbled pavement.
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Alessandro di Agnio,’ he introduced himself brusquely, and thrust one hand out for her to shake.
Meghan inclined her head in introduction, resisting the impulse—the desire—to take his hand. Long, tapered fingers, strong, square nails. No, she didn’t want to touch him. Didn’t want to invite that particular temptation into her life.
‘I don’t think I know you,’ she said, for he was still staring at her, eyes narrowed, mouth thinned in … what? Disapproval? Dislike? Disdain? Whatever it was, Meghan didn’t like it.
He dropped his hand, smiling slightly in rueful acknowledgement of her rebuff.
‘No, you don’t. Not yet. But I hope you will very shortly.’ His mouth curved in a small wry smile that flickered along her nerve-endings, skittered across her pulse. ‘I wanted to hire your services for the evening.’
Meghan recoiled in spite of her best intentions to stay aloof. His words echoed in her brain. Hire your services. His meaning, the desire darkening his eyes, the faintly sneering curl of his lip, were plain enough.
She lifted her chin, summoned her strength. ‘Services? I think you’re talking to the wrong woman, signore.’
There was a moment of charged silence as he regarded her in obvious distaste. ‘Perhaps I am. I need to hire a waitress for a private dinner party at my villa.’ He raised an eyebrow, humour and contempt mingling in those dark, knowing eyes. ‘Or were you thinking of some other kind of services?’
Humiliation burned colour in her cheeks. Her stomach felt as if it were coated in ice … or acid. Still Meghan glanced at him coolly, refusing to be unnerved. Condemned. ‘A strange man asks to see me in the middle of the street—wants to hire my services— what am I supposed to think?’
‘I can hardly put myself in your place, but I would imagine most women wouldn’t immediately think they’d been mistaken for a whore.’
‘Most women wouldn’t appreciate being looked over like a piece of meat,’ Meghan replied shortly. The word echoed in her numb brain. Whore.
A faint blush stained Alessandro di Agnio’s sharp cheekbones, and he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Meghan knew his type well enough to know there would be no apology forthcoming.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, surprising her. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, and Italian men admire that. Some are more obvious than others. I promise you, I want to hire you as a waitress only, at my villa. It’s a private dinner party for two.’
No doubt the business colleague from lunch, Meghan surmised. She’d seen the way his watery eyes had roved over her, the way his little mouth had pursed in greedy desire.
Yet she wasn’t afraid of that man.
She was afraid of this one.
Afraid of his power, his effortless control, the way his eyes swept her from head to foot … the way her body reacted, tensing, tingling.
He had the face of an angel, Meghan thought, with those liquid eyes and sculpted lips. Not the innocent round-faced cherubs she’d seen in frescoes, but something elemental, beautiful in its power. His jaw was square, cheek-bones chiselled. A dangerous angel.
She shook her head. ‘Why me?’
‘I want a pretty girl as a waitress.’ He shrugged, unapologetic. Unashamed. ‘Someone to lighten the atmosphere, add a bit of flair. It’s not an uncommon desire.’
Meghan cringed just a little bit at his words. A pretty girl. That was all she was, all she’d ever be. So little, so damning.
‘Lighten the atmosphere?’ she repeated, with a scornful note of incredulity. ‘I’m not an entertainer.’
‘Aren’t you?’ His eyes burned her from head to toe, and a slow smile stole over his features.
Meghan flushed angrily. He might not have said it in so many words, but she knew what he thought. Perhaps even what he expected. ‘You don’t know me, signore, she said in a voice of restrained fury. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘No, I don’t.’ His eyes flicked coolly back up to her face. ‘Not yet. So what will it be? I’ll pay you double what you make at Angelo’s.’ There was an impatient edge to his voice. ‘Triple. I’m sure you could use the money.’ His dispassionate glance raked her again, taking in her worn white tee shirt with its tomato sauce stain, the black skirt that was cheap and shiny from wear.
Meghan refused to be embarrassed. She was a waitress; of course she was poor. Of course she could use the money.
And yet she didn’t like the way Alessandro looked at her. As if he were buying goods, services, and cheap ones at that.
‘Well?’
Meghan knew she should say no. Whatever Alessandro di Agnio said about hiring her as a waitress, she knew there were other expectations involved. A man didn’t look at her like that if he just wanted her to serve food.
And yet Alessandro di Agnio hardly seemed like the kind of man who needed to purchase his pleasure.
Her stomach roiled with nerves; doubt wound tendrils around her heart. She didn’t know what kind of man he was. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.
She certainly didn’t want to go to his villa alone, unprotected. Vulnerable.
Unless she could be stronger than that. Unless she could make it work to her advantage. Get through dinner, leave with euros in her pocket and a smile on her face.
Nothing changes the past.
No matter how far you run.
‘One night,’ Meghan clarified.
His lip curled. ‘You want more?’
‘Certainly not,’ she snapped. ‘I’m leaving Spoleto anyway.’
‘Things not to your liking?’
Meghan’s mouth hardened into an unforgiving line, a determination darkening her eyes. ‘It’s time to move on.’
‘Then earn triple the last night you’re here,’ Alessandro suggested smoothly.
Meghan lifted her chin. Her pulse raced, blood rushed in her ears. ‘Maybe I will.’
His eyes fastened on hers, and Meghan saw the hunger in them turning them opaque. She saw expectation, anticipation. Satisfaction. The deep, primal look of a conqueror regarding his spoils.
And she knew that, no matter what Alessandro said, he thought he was getting something more than a waitress for the night.
And was he?
No. For once she would prove who she was. What she was.
And what she wasn’t.
‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ she said, her voice coming out strident. ‘What time do you want me to come? And where?’
‘Villa Tre Querce. It’s five kilometres outside of town. I’ll send a car.’
‘No.’ She didn’t want his car showing up at the grotty hostel she currently called home, and she didn’t want to take anything else from Alessandro di Agnio. ‘I’ll take the bus.’
‘The buses don’t go to Tre Querce,’ Alessandro informed her shortly. ‘I have a car and a driver. Give me your address, and I’ll send him to fetch you at seven o’clock. We’ll dine at eight.’
‘That doesn’t give me much time,’ Meghan protested. ‘It must be six o’clock now.’ Already there was a slight chill in the spring air, descending damply from the mountains, rolling in on a fine mist.
‘All the more reason for me to send the car,’ Alessandro countered, and his tone brooked no opposition. ‘Tell me your address.’
Meghan shrugged. Let him see where she lived. It was dire, she knew that, but who cared?
She didn’t. He certainly didn’t.
‘It’s the Arbus Hostel on the west side of town,’ she informed him coolly. ‘On the Via Campelo.’
His mouth tightened in disapproval. ‘I don’t know it.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘My driver will be there at seven.’ He paused, his gaze flicking the length of her, taking in, no doubt, her mussed hair and stained shirt.
‘You have something to wear?’
Her eyebrows lifted in challenge. ‘I’m waitressing, remember? I think I have something suitable.’
‘This isn’t the trattoria,’ Alessandro warned her. ‘I expect you to dress … and behave … appropriately.’
The warning stung. ‘It’s a little late now for second thoughts, isn’t it?’ Meghan said, her smile cautious. ‘You’ve already hired me.’ Her voice turned ragged as she added, ‘I’m not going to show up in nothing but high heels and a frilly apron, even if that’s what you actually want—’
‘Stop it.’ Alessandro’s voice cut across her. ‘I’ve told you what this position entails—waitressing and nothing more. Do you not trust me?’
Meghan dared herself to meet his eyes, to feel the force of their magnetic onslaught. Trust? What a joke. She barely knew him, and even if she did, the only trust she had was in herself, in her ability to protect herself. ‘Is there any reason,’ she asked quietly, ‘why I should trust you?’
Alessandro gazed at her in silent consideration. He shrugged and looked away. ‘No,’ he said after a moment, his voice flat and expressionless, ‘there isn’t.’
Meghan sagged slightly. Of course there wasn’t. She was walking into the lion’s den, and she wasn’t even armed. All she had was her dignity and her determination to prove herself, and right now they didn’t count for much.
‘I’ll see you, then,’ she said after a moment, thankful her voice was steady. She began to turn away, only to have Alessandro reach out. He put his hand on her arm, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, pulling her towards him.
Meghan stiffened with shock and a little fear. Shock at his touching her, the simple, possessive way he drew her to him. Thoughtlessly, and yet with care. As if already he expected something from her, deserved something from her.
The fear was at her own reaction. She didn’t resist. She let him pull her, her legs moved woodenly, helplessly, closer. Her pulse kicked into high gear with the simple touch of those fingers on her wrist, holding her. Gently.
He kept holding onto her, a slight smile playing about his mouth, his eyes raking in her appearance, their gaze a caress … and an assessment.
‘I don’t even know your name.’
Her lips opened soundlessly as her mind spun. ‘Meghan.’
He nodded. He let go of her wrist, smiling as she pulled her arm protectively inwards. ‘I’ll see you at seven.’
Meghan’s legs trembled as she watched him walk away. She shook her head, resisting the urge to wrap her arms more tightly around herself. Had she really agreed to waitress? Why? It should have been so easy to walk away.
Yet it wasn’t, and she hadn’t.
She couldn’t escape her past, she reflected bleakly. The exchange with Alessandro di Agnio reminded her of that. If anything happened tonight it would be nothing more than she deserved.
CHAPTER TWO
MEGHAN hurried through the darkening streets of Spoleto towards the Via Campelo and the hostel she’d been calling home.
Not a very pleasant home at that, with its tiny dark bedrooms, dripping ceilings and grimy sheets. She’d seen worse on her travels, but Paulo, the proprietor, was a particularly unpleasant landlord.
Meghan had seen him for what he was right away. First it had just been leering grins and wandering eyes, soon followed by coarser remarks and wandering hands.
She’d bought a padlock for her door, and more than once she’d woken up to hear the stealthy, futile turning of the door handle, weak with relief that she was at least that safe.
Now she tried to avoid him altogether. Still, it was another reason to leave Spoleto. With the money earned from waitressing for di Agnio she could buy a train ticket to her next destination … wherever that was.
‘Ciao, bellissima.‘ Paulo leaned over the front desk as Meghan slipped in the door. His white undershirt sported large patches of dried sweat, and his mouth curled in a knowing grin, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.
Meghan didn’t bother to answer. She slipped by before he could reach one hand out to squeeze or pat, and hurried to her room, fastening the padlock.
There was no time for a shower, so she just splashed water on her face and arms from the tiny cracked sink in the corner of the room.
She threw her dirty clothes in the corner and pulled on a fresh white shirt and simple black skirt—her waitressing uniform. She hadn’t brought much with her when she’d left home. It had all been so quick in the end.
Dressed and ready, she sank onto the bed, the broken springs creaking in protest. Her momentary burst of energy spent, she felt weak. Limp. Unreal.
The conversation with Alessandro di Agnio played in her mind, forever on pause and rewind.
Why had she agreed? she asked herself again, and couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. At least not one she was willing to face.
In the last six months of travelling through Europe, she’d become a professional at deflecting comments, invitations, innuendoes. A woman on her own was considered fair game, easy prey by many, and Meghan already knew of her own damning allure.
So why hadn’t she just said no to Alessandro di Agnio? It would have been easy. It would have been safer to have just walked away.
Because he’s different.
The thought was ludicrous, laughable. Stupid.
He’d summed her up quickly enough—easy American, slutty waitress. He wasn’t going to change his mind.
She was the one who would prove she was different. This time.
‘I won’t see him again after tonight,’ Meghan muttered, and it was both thanksgiving and supplication.
He certainly wasn’t expecting to see her again, she reflected with a wry bitterness. One night only, limited engagement.
She pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, her only concession to vanity a bit of face powder and lipgloss. The last thing she wanted was for di Agnio to think she was tarting herself up.
She locked her room and went in search of Paulo.
‘I’ll have my deposit back, please. I’m leaving tomorrow.’
Paulo looked at her with calculating lasciviousness. ‘I don’t remember you putting down a deposit. I said you didn’t have to, because you were so pretty.’
Meghan gritted her teeth. ‘Nice try, Paulo. I have the receipt. Two weeks’ stay in this hovel. That will cover last week’s rent, and the rest I want back. Now.’
His expression hardened. ‘Don’t talk mean to me, principessa. I know what you are.’
‘I’m a waitress,’ Meghan snapped, her already frayed temper now reaching breaking point. She might have been unnerved by Alessandro di Agnio, but she certainly wouldn’t be so shaken by this piece of wheedling slime.
‘You need the money?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘You’re in trouble, perhaps?’
‘No, and no,’ Meghan retorted. ‘But that doesn’t stop me from wanting what’s mine.’
‘Maybe I want what’s mine.’ There was a thread of dangerous need in Paulo’s voice, and Meghan’s scalp prickled in alarm. She took a step away, but not fast enough.
Paulo grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. Meghan slammed against his soft belly with a suppressed grunt, his hands tight on her wrists, pinning her against him.
‘One kiss.’
She could smell his stale smoky breath, his old sweat. She could smell his lust, and everything in her recoiled.
‘Get off me—’ Meghan tried to push herself away, but Paulo only held her tighter.
‘One kiss, bella, that’s all. And then you can have your money.’
‘Go to hell!’ Meghan spat raggedly. ‘I won’t give you anything—’
‘You’ve been wanting it.’ Paulo’s face had turned angry even as his eyes were bright with desire. Meghan wanted to retch. ‘I’ve seen you—the looks you give me—’
She closed her eyes, swallowed bile. ‘You’re fooling yourself, Paulo, and I can call the police—’
‘But you haven’t, have you?’ he said with soft menace. His lips, moist and slimy, were inches from hers. ‘I’ve wondered about you, bella. What are you trying to hide? Why don’t you leave? You could, you know. There are other hostels in Spoleto.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘But you never did leave…so that must mean you want it.’