Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire (5 page)

Signor di Fivizzano might favour a particular style of gown, but she had made it clear from the off that if she didn't feel comfortable she wouldn't play the game. Plunging necklines and sausage skins were out. She didn't care how exclusive the fabric might be, the shape had to be right for her. The designer had shuddered at her mention of sausages, but he had promised to supply her with a rail full of his
visions
to choose from. That had taken up a great deal of time and the event was closing in. There was no time to lose, and so she made the best of things, pinning a smile to her face as the hotel manager led her forward.

‘I'll leave you now,' Marco's man said briskly, according her a small bow. ‘You'll have half an hour to settle in, and then your assistants will arrive.'

‘My assistants?'

Too late!
Having nodded briskly to the manager, Marco's man was on his way.

The manager's face was now a professional mask, devoid of all expression, but she had to wonder what he made of her in her one shabby dress—a sale rail number that had seemed a good idea at the time but which now, she realised, having just caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors in the lobby, made her look like a galleon in full sail. And as for the hideous pattern—

‘Signorina?'
he prompted with an almost balletic gesture. ‘No expense has been spared,' he added approvingly as they waited for the elevator. ‘Three hairdressers will attend you in our best suite—on the top floor.'

Three
hairdressers? Was she a three-headed hydra?

Snake charmers this way, she thought dryly as the steel doors slid open.

They exited the elevator into a lobby discreetly decorated in tones of cream, taupe and ivory, with just a hint of Caligula in the crumbling Roman busts that lined the walls on marble plinths. She didn't need any more encouragement to shudder with a sense of impending doom.

‘Your people will be with you shortly,' the manager announced, opening the door onto the suite with a flourish.

The suite was at least twice as big as her godmother's house. Picture windows overlooked Rome—towering antiquity existing happily alongside modernity—and it was a stunning view, but her mind was full of Marco. She only had to look at herself in the mirror to know how out of place she would be at his function, and how quickly he would realise his mistake. It would take more than a team of beauticians to put this right—she'd need a miracle.

And there was another thing—what man would spend this sort of money on a woman without expecting more than small talk? Fantasies were fine, but reality was something else with a man so potent and virile he made Genghis Khan look like a drooping weed. And she had far more sense than to get hot and heavy with her boss. She wanted to keep this job—

She jumped at a knock on the door. Swinging it wide, she stood back as her
team
filed in.

‘Where is she?' a man with a lavender quiff demanded, staring about.

She pressed back against the door, quailing beneath his scrutiny. She could only imagine the many faults he would find with her.

Narrowing his mascaraed eyes, lavender quiff stared at her. ‘Are
you
Signorina Rich?' He couldn't have sounded more horrified.

‘I'm afraid so.' She smiled and jumped to attention.

Lavender quiff did not smile. Finely plucked brows rose at an improbable angle as he leaned in to examine her more closely. He almost, but not quite, managed not to groan.

‘Well. We'd better get started,' he said, pursing his lips. ‘I can see that I've got a lot to do.'

‘What exactly are your instructions?' she asked, glancing around nervously as beauty professionals laid out what might be instruments of torture, for all she knew, along with an improbable quantity of make-up and scent.

Lavender quiff consulted his phone. ‘Do what you can with her,' he intoned.

Marco clearly didn't expect too much of her. No pressure, then, Cass concluded wryly as she resigned herself to her fate.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘A
ND
THE
GRAND
REVEAL
! Come on, sweetie, do try and put a good face on it,' lavender quiff, whom Cass now knew was called Quentin, pleaded as he heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘The livelihoods of all these people depend upon you making a good impression at the party. And, believe me, they have definitely earned their money tonight.'

Cass laughed as Quentin took hold of her hands. He had relaxed her—and he had surprised her by turning out to be the best fun. Every time she had worried that she couldn't pull this off, Quentin had shaken her out of it. He was just the best at bolstering her confidence. With a purse of his lips, or a tweak of her hair, he'd made everything seem that it might be all right. This was one occasion when first impressions were most definitely wrong. Quentin had turned out to be a real fairy godmother.

‘You look beautiful,' he said.

‘Why don't I believe you?' She pulled a face.

‘I have no idea,' he protested. ‘Nigel? Mirror, please...'

The room felt silent and she was stunned.

‘Well? Say something, sweetie,' Quentin prompted.

She couldn't. She was too full of emotion. She was normally so down to earth, and yet after years of trying to blank out the past she was seeing not herself, looking spruced up and almost passable in the mirror, but her mother instead. Had her mother felt like this—like a chicken being prepared for the feast? She could remember enough to know that her mother had tried so desperately hard to keep the interest of Cass's father, and that to do that she had been forced to compete with much younger groupies. How helpless she must have felt...

‘Sweetie?' Quentin prompted anxiously. ‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm fine,' she said, lifting her chin and adding a smile. Quentin and his team had worked so hard that she owed it to them to put a good face on this. ‘I can't thank you enough,' she said to him and to everyone else.

To her embarrassment and amazement people started clapping, until the whole room was ringing with applause.

‘Well, I can't pretend it's been easy,' Quentin admitted with a sigh. ‘But I suppose it's a mark of my genius that you've turned out as well as you have.'

* * *

Where the hell was she? He had waited long enough. He glanced at his watch and then at the door. The event was being catered at his penthouse in the centre of Rome. One hundred carefully selected sponsors were attending. They would be raising a lot of money for the charity tonight, and everything had to be perfect. Cassandra could not be late. They'd be sitting down to dinner soon, and it was unthinkable that he would have an empty place next to him.

His internal rant ended abruptly when Cassandra entered the room. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at her. His mind blanked completely. She looked stunning. Where had that poise come from—that enchanting smile that lit up the room? He was more used to seeing her up to her elbows in mud, leaning on a pitchfork handle.

She saw him at once and smiled, but her eyes were wary as she darted a glance around the room. This was not her comfort zone, though she was a good actress and stepped forward with apparent confidence. Only he had seen the momentary falter in her step; everyone else was riveted by the sight of her. But why was she alone? Where were his people?

He felt protective suddenly, and held his breath as she walked towards him. It was then he realised that Cassandra didn't need anyone to escort her, and that she could hold everyone's attention without any effort at all.

‘So you got here eventually,' he said curtly as she halted in front of him.

‘Good evening to you too,' she murmured, extending her hand. ‘I wasn't in a position to speed things up.' Lifting her chin, she held his stare steadily. ‘I think I presented the beauticians with more problems than they had anticipated.'

He ground his jaw, admiring her even more for her honesty. ‘I doubt that.'

‘I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting,' she added. ‘This sort of transformation takes a lot of time. Do you approve?'

Her concern on this point at least was genuine. Did he approve? So much he wanted to tell everyone to leave.

‘You'll do,' he offered coolly. She looked magnificent. She looked like a queen—like a goddess, a fact that hadn't been lost on any man in the room.

‘Do I look good enough?' she prompted, with real concern in her voice.

‘Of course you do,' he said shortly. ‘Can you really imagine Quentin setting you free unless he was completely satisfied?'

At last she laughed. ‘I suppose not,' she confessed, smoothing her hands down her dress.

The gown was composed of some floating sky-blue fabric, cunningly cut to mould her ripe figure. He would give the designer a bonus on top of his extortionate fee for designing a dress so perfect for Cassandra. The shade of blue brought out the colour in her eyes, and while the neckline was higher than he would have preferred, maybe he was wrong in thinking it should be lower. As it was now, it hinted at the treasures underneath without revealing them. He found this more provocative than putting everything she had in such lush abundance on show.

The gown was sculpted so precisely it made him wonder if she had room for underwear beneath. His best guess was no.

And her hair—
Dio!
Her hair! Flowing free to her waist, it shimmered like a golden cape as it flowed in thick, glossy waves down her back—a back that was naked, he noticed as she turned around. The gown had been cut high at the front, yet it dipped practically to the swell of her buttocks at the back.

‘Shall we sit down?' he suggested, feeling the need to get out of range of all the hungry male glances.

‘Why not?'

Why not?
Because he wanted to take her straight to bed.

Tonight was shaping up to be the most extreme form of torture he'd ever known. He led her to the table and pulled out her chair. He was determined to make her feel at ease, relaxation being a prerequisite for seduction.

He employed the best chefs in Rome and the food was delicious. Cassandra ate little at first, but he tempted her until she met his gaze and grinned. After that she relaxed enough to steal titbits from his plate. And she was charming to his guests. He'd never had a dining companion like her before. They usually took their lead from him— waiting for him to initiate a conversation or to introduce them to one of the other guests. Cassandra simply spread her natural charm about, and everyone, from the starchiest diplomat to the snootiest aristocrat, soon fell under her spell.

‘You've hardly eaten anything,' she pointed out towards the end of the meal.

‘I've been too busy watching you,' he admitted.

Her cheeks flushed red, and then she turned to answer a question from the guest on her other side.

Marco was looking at her in a way that made her body yearn for more than a bath and a good night's sleep. His eyes were so wicked and confident that it was becoming hard to remember why she was here, which was to be a seat-filler and not his companion. From mud to magnificent, she mused wryly as she surveyed the glittering throng. It still seemed incredible that one minute she had been in the garden and the next she was here—

‘Would you like to dance?'

‘What?' She stared at him stupidly.

‘I said would you like to dance?' Marco repeated. ‘More specifically, would you like to dance with me?'

Dance with Marco di Fivizzano? Was he mad? She had two left feet and a sense of rhythm to rival a rhino's. She had to quickly change her expression when she realised that she was staring at him open-mouthed as if he had suggested they have sex on the table.

‘You do dance?' he pressed.

‘I have been known to.' But on her own—most likely jigging along to the latest hit tune. This kind of dancing, though—the up close and very personal variety—she wasn't very good at that at all.

‘We're the only people left at the table,' Marco pointed out, glancing around.

‘And you're worried that people will talk if you don't dance with me?'

His lips slanted as he raised a brow.

Okay, so Marco wasn't worried what people thought, but maybe she was. She was happy to help out by chatting to his interesting guests, but anything more than that... She glanced down a table lit by legions of candles that cast a warm glow over the glittering crystal and silver. What was she doing here in Marco di Fivizzano's fabulous penthouse in the best part of Rome?

What would her mother think about it?

That she was holding a candle to the devil?

She felt a stab of pain, realising that she'd been too young when her mother had died to have a clue what she'd say.

‘Just say yes,' Marco advised, standing up.

As he broke into her thoughts, she looked up blankly. If she remained seated, people would notice, and this event was for charity. So she stood and walked as if in a dream as Marco led her towards the dance floor. Anticipating his touch was stealing the breath from her lungs. When he actually touched her, she knew she might faint.

Don't be so ridiculous, she told herself firmly as he drew her into his arms.
It was the most amazing feeling...
But she had to look on this as a job with perks, and nothing more.

‘Relax.' He laughed softly in her ear, making a tingle race down her spine as he added, ‘I can't dance with a board.'

‘And I can't dance with you at all. I did warn you.' She definitely couldn't—shouldn't be dancing with a man who made her feel like this. She was bound to trip over her dress or step on his feet—

‘I'll lead,' he murmured, as if there was any doubt.

The next moment her body was moulded to his—her body had a mind of its own, as she'd noticed since arriving in Tuscany, but it wasn't long before the music wooed her. Marco wooed her. Pressing her close against his iron-hard frame, he seduced her into dancing with him, while the melody soothed her, reminding her of so many happy days in Tuscany. It wasn't hard to dance with him at all. The Italian music was just so beguiling. It had a charm all its own...

* * *

‘You're a good dancer,' he said.

No one was more surprised than she was by that comment, but when he added, ‘You should dance more,' he sent tremors of excitement racing through her.

But then she reasoned, who was she going to dance with—and where? Marco surely didn't mean she could dance with him—on what occasion? But what could possibly compare with this? She would never dance with another man again, because it could only be a disappointment after Marco.

This was turning into a magical night, and a magical occasion, and she was going to make the most of it, because she knew deep down that it would never happen again.

And then one of the sponsors asked if he could cut in. Marco stopped dancing and smiled. ‘It would be ungracious of me to keep you all to myself,' he explained. ‘Do you mind if I allow the ambassador to dance with you?'

‘You? Allow?' she queried softly, out of the ambassador's hearing, she thought, but the ambassador had overheard, and he laughed.

‘It appears that this young woman knows you, Marco. And quite right, my dear. It's up to you to choose your partner,' he added, smiling at her warmly.

‘Then I would love to dance with you,' she said as she slipped out of Marco's arms.

When she started dancing with the ambassador, she noticed Marco watching her. It might not be sensible, but she liked that he was watching her.

* * *

He had grudgingly—very grudgingly—given way to the ambassador. He missed having Cassandra in his arms. He missed the warmth of her soft body pressed up close to his.

He was paying the woman to be here, he reminded himself. He should not mistake this for anything more—though there was nothing to stop him enjoying her company while they were in Rome.

He could tolerate the older man dancing with her, but when one of the younger sponsors tried to cut in, he returned to the dance floor and reclaimed her.

‘Excuse us, Ambassador. I'm sure you'll understand.' He didn't care if the man understood or not. Cassandra was coming with him. ‘The auction is about to start soon. Cassandra?' he prompted.

She looked daggers at him, though she was charm personified to the ambassador, who was a courtly old man and hadn't deserved his rough treatment. ‘I apologise for denying you the company of this young woman,' he felt bound to add, brought to book by the piercing stare of his assistant gardener. He had to do some serious thinking on that front, but as the auction was about to start...

‘I quite understand,' the ambassador told him, with a look that said he did—absolutely. ‘I'll see you again someday, my dear, I hope.'

‘I hope so too,' she said, with what even he had to admit was a lovely smile.

‘There are some wonderful things in the auction,' Cassandra told him with enthusiasm as soon as they were seated back at the table.

Of course, he thought. All the items on sale were unique and extremely valuable, in order to raise as much money as possible for the charity.

‘Have you seen something you like?' Placing a bid was the least he could do when she had worked so hard to charm his guests.

‘As a matter of fact, I have,' she said.

‘Tell me,' he prompted indulgently.

‘It's that lovely sketch of a dachshund puppy—the Hockney? In my fantasies, I imagine taking it home for my godmother as a gift. Don't worry,' she said before he had chance to say a word. ‘I know they fetch tens of thousands, hundreds, probably—maybe millions by now—but it doesn't cost to dream.'

They both knew that works by the artist David Hockney could go for a fortune. All the auction lots would go for fabulous amounts of money, their value further increased by the fact that they were being sold for charity. Part of him wanted Cassandra to bid—he'd cover any amount she went to. But what would that say to the watching world?