Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride

Put like that, she’d found she could accept his offer gratefully, and she would never forget her joy, when Sam spoke his first few words in French and then Italian. After that Raffaele had taken to always speaking to the boy in his native tongue, and while Natasha had revelled with dazed pleasure at this evidence of her son the linguist, there had been a tiny part of her which had felt shut out. It had been enough to make her start taking Italian lessons, herself, though she kept quiet about it—in case it looked as if she was expecting something.

It hadn’t all been plain sailing, of course. There had been the time when Sam had fallen over the step into the back garden and sustained a nasty bump to his forehead. Natasha had rushed him to the emergency room and though Raffaele had been out of the country at the time, he had listened grimly on the other end of the line as she recounted how a social worker had been round the next day to check everything out.

‘Well, you should have damned well been watching him!’ he had flared.

It had been unjust and unfair, but Natasha had been too eaten up with guilt to tell him that her back had been turned for just a few seconds.

And the time when Sam had found a handbag belonging to one of Raffaele’s girlfriends and had decided to reinvent himself as his favourite character, Corky the Clown.

‘But that’s my best lipstick!’ the girlfriend had screeched, as she’d dodged Sam’s pink-glossed and podgy hand as he attempted to hand the decimated piece of make-up back to her.

Raffaele had laughed. ‘I’ll buy you another.’

The woman had pouted. ‘You can’t buy them over here—they’re exclusive to America!’ she spat. ‘What a horrible little brat!’

And Raffaele had looked at her and known that no amount of fantastic sex was worth having to look at a nasty, spiteful face which could make a little boy cry. ‘Tell you what,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll buy you a one-way air-ticket and you can go and get yourself a replacement.’

The girlfriend had flounced out, and Raffaele had told Natasha to make sure she kept her offspring under control next time. But that weekend he had purchased a huge, floppy clown for Sam as a kind of silent thank-you for doing him a favour he hadn’t realised he was in need of.

Of course, he never enquired about Sam’s father—it was none of his business, and he didn’t want to get involved in the bitter stuff which came after a couple split up.

Besides, he never really thought of Natasha in those terms. She was Sam’s mother and his housekeeper, and it seemed to suit them all….

‘Dio!’ he swore. What the hell was he doing, thinking about the past, when he had the biggest problem of his life on his hands right now—in the present? ‘What on earth am I going to do about Elisabetta, Natasha?’ he demanded.

‘You’re doing everything you can,’ she soothed. ‘Presumably, she’s in the best clinic that money can buy. You can support her by visiting her—’

‘She isn’t allowed visitors for the first four weeks,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s one of the rules.’

Natasha nodded. How would he find that? she wondered. He, who had made up his own rules in life as he went along. ‘Well, the other stuff, then. You know. Like keeping her safe.’ Her eyes shone. ‘You’re good at that.’

But he barely heard a word she was saying, because the sudden shrill ring of the doorbell pealed out with its own particular sense of urgency.

He strode off to answer it, checking first in the peephole that it wasn’t the dreaded press-pack. But it was Troy standing on the doorstep, and when Raffaele opened the door and the other man stepped inside the lawyer’s grim face confirmed his worst fears.

‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

There was a pause. ‘The press have got hold of the story,’ Troy said. ‘They’ve found out where Elisabetta is.’

CHAPTER THREE (#uad552004-2d82-568c-9d71-657dd51d5778)

‘ARE you certain—absolutely certain?’ demanded Raffaele, feeling an overwhelming sense of rage run through him at the thought of his vulnerable little sister being at the mercy of the unscrupulous press hounds. Had Elisabetta really had her cover blown? His black eyes bore into his lawyer. ‘They’ve found out where she is?’

Troy nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just had a telephone call from one of our people. They’re outside the clinic now,’ he said.

Raffaele swore very softly and very quietly in the Sicilian dialect he had picked up one long, hot summer on the island, when he’d still been railing against the intrusion of his new stepfather. Few people could understand the language, but it had remained with him in times of anger ever since. But he recognised now that his fury was a nothing but redundant luxury and would not help solve the problem. Every problem had a solution—he knew that. Hadn’t he demonstrated it over the years, time and time again?

He thought quickly. ‘Come through to my study,’ he said, and then glanced at Natasha, who was standing there, looking as if she wanted to say something. He waved his hand at her impatiently. ‘Can you bring some coffee for Troy, Natasha? Have you eaten? I’m sure Natasha can make you something if you want.’

Troy shook his head. ‘No. Coffee will be fine. And maybe one of those biscuit things, if you have them?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Natasha, nodding with a brisk smile and turning away, telling herself that of course Raffaele was going to dismiss her like that—because what was happening with Elisabetta was nothing whatsoever to do with her.

She was an employee, for heaven’s sake, not Raffaele’s confidante—no matter how much she longed to be. And that was one of the drawbacks to the strange position she had in his life—she was part of it and, yet, nothing to do with it. Always hovering on the outskirts of it, like a tiny satellite star which relied on the mighty light of a huge planet, so that sometimes she felt she was consumed by him. But at times like this he would send her away to provide refreshments, just like the servant she really was.

After she’d gone, the two men walked through the long, arched hallway which led to his study, where they sat on either side of the desk.

‘Can we kill the story?’ Raffaele asked.

‘Only temporarily. The London News is threatening to run a piece in its gossip column tonight.’

‘Then slam out an injunction!’

‘I already have done,’ said Troy. ‘But the trouble is that they aren’t actually breaking any privacy code. It’s just a general piece, with a few old photos, about concerns for “party-loving heiress, Elisabetta de Feretti”.’

‘But this is intolerable!’ gritted Raffaele from between clenched teeth. ‘Doesn’t anyone give a damn about her well-being?’

‘Not if it sells more newspapers.’

Raffaele shook his dark head, his frustration accentuated by real concern. Had he failed his sister? Been too enmeshed in the world of business to notice that her life was disintegrating around her? ‘How the hell did they find out about it? Didn’t the clinic give me a thousand assurances that Elisabetta’s anonymity would be protected? Do we know the source of the story?’

‘We do now. It’s a member of staff, I’m afraid,’ said Troy slowly, sitting back in his chair as if putting distance between himself and the outburst about to follow.

For a moment Raffaele’s long olive fingers curved, so that they resembled the deadly talons of some bird of prey. ‘Madonna mia!’ he said, with soft venom resonating like liquid poison from his voice. ‘Do you know what we shall do, Troy? We shall hunt down and find the cheating Judas who betrayed my sister. And, much as I should like to inflict a Sicilian form of punishment that they will never forget, we will discipline them formally.’ He punched his fist over his heart. ‘And make sure that he or she never works in a position of trust or authority again!’

There was a pause. ‘You can do that,’ said Troy, with the smooth diplomacy of his profession. ‘But it will be a waste of your time and ultimately of your resources—and at a time when you can least afford to squander them.’

‘You are saying that this kind of behaviour should go unpunished?’ Raffaele demanded icily. ‘Is that the course of action you are recommending to me?’

Troy held his hands up in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger pose. ‘Of course I can see that to carry out such a threat would give you satisfaction—but it would be a short-lived achievement and it would detract from your real aim of making sure that Elisabetta gets the treatment she needs without anything making it more difficult for her. And, unfortunately, all the railing and lawsuits in the world won’t change human nature or the lure of big money—haven’t you said that yourself, Raffaele, more times than you can count?’

Raffaele was silent for a moment while he digested the other man’s words. He had known and admired Troy since both men had met at the Sorbonne in the concluding year of their international law degrees—and he had discovered Troy was that rare thing, an Englishman who spoke several languages. They had been educated as equals, had good-naturedly fought over women, and Troy had never been cowed by the black-eyed Italian who was held in so much awe wherever he went because of his presence and his unforgettable good-looks.

The fact that the Englishman had also been considered to be a bit of a sex god by the women of Paris had meant that there was no rivalry between the two men.

As well as Troy’s fluency in both Italian and French, he possessed the valuable impartiality which was so much a characteristic of his nationality, and all these factors had made him the perfect choice to be personal advocate for the powerful Raffaele de Feretti. There were not many men to whom Raffaele listened, but this was one of them—and he was listening now.

‘Si, Troy, mio amico—you are right, of course,’ Raffaele said heavily, still feeling that he had somehow failed his sister—even though logic told him otherwise. ‘So, what do we do?’

Troy placed the tips of his fingers together in an almost prayerlike gesture of careful thought. ‘We run a spoiler. We take attention away from Elisabetta by giving them a bigger story.’

Raffaele gave a sceptical laugh. ‘And how do you propose doing that?’

Troy leaned forward. ‘Elisabetta is newsworthy because, yes, she’s young, and beautiful, very rich and occasionally flawed—but ultimately she’s famous for being your sister.’

‘I think that you overestimate my interest value,’ demurred Raffaele—because he had sought no publicity for himself.

Troy gave a short laugh. ‘It’s true that in terms of your power and your money everything that can possibly have been written on the subject already has been. But don’t forget, Raffaele, that there is one area of a your life which has held a particular fascination for the press ever since you passed puberty.’