Secret Heirs Collection. Коллектив авторов
simply stared. He really was amazingly good-looking—dark hair cut slightly, rakishly long, those glinting, amber eyes, and a strong jaw with a hint of sexy stubble. He was dressed in a dark grey suit with a darker shirt and a silver-grey tie, and he looked a little bit like Allegra imagined Mephistopheles would look, all dark, barely leashed power, the energy she’d felt from across the room even more forceful now, and twice as compelling.
‘Well?’ The lilt in his voice was playful, yet with a dark undercurrent that snaked its way inside Allegra like a river of chocolate, pure sensual indulgence. ‘Are you?’
Was she what? She was gaping, that much was certain. Allegra snapped her mouth closed and forced her expression into something suitably composed. She hoped.
‘As a matter of fact, I am. Hiding, that is. I don’t know anyone here.’ She took a sip of wine, needing the fortification as well as the second’s respite.
‘Do you make a habit of crashing funerals?’ he asked lightly, and she tensed, not wanting to admit who she was…the rejected daughter, the cast-off child, coming back for scraps.
“Not unless there’s an open bar,” she joked, hefting her glass, and the man eyed her thoughtfully. Did he believe her? She couldn’t tell. ‘Did you know him?’ she asked. ‘Alberto Mancini?’ The name stuck in her throat, and she saw a flash in the stranger’s eyes, a single blaze of feeling that she couldn’t identify but which still jolted her like lightning.
‘Not directly. My father did business with him, a long time ago. I wanted to…pay my respects.’
‘I see.’ She tried to gather her scattered wits. The look of sleepy speculation in the man’s eyes made her skin prickle. His gaze was like a caress, invisible fingertips trailing on her heated skin. She’d never reacted to someone so viscerally before, so immediately. Maybe it was simply because her emotions were raw, everything too near the surface. She certainly couldn’t ever recall feeling this way before. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ He smiled and said nothing. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t.’ His gaze swooped over her again, like a hawk looking for its prey. ‘But it’s Rafael.’
Rafael Vitali didn’t know who this beguiling woman was, but he was captivated by her cloud of Titian curls, the wide, grey eyes that were as clear as mirrors, reflecting her emotions so he could read them from across the room. Weariness. Sorrow. Grief.
Who was she? And what was her relationship to Mancini? It didn’t really matter, not now his business was done, justice finally satisfied, but he was still curious. A family friend—or something less innocuous? A lover? A mistress? She hadn’t come just for the bar, of that he was certain. So what was she hiding?
Rafael took a sip of his drink, watching the emotions play across her face like ripples in water. Confusion, hope, sadness. A lover, he decided, although she was surely young enough to be his daughter. Mancini’s wife and daughter were across the room, looking sulky and even bored. Rafael would have spared a second of sympathy for the man’s widow if he hadn’t known how she’d raced through his money. And tomorrow she would discover how little there was left…perfect justice, considering how Mancini had done the same to his mother, leaving her with nothing.
And as for his father…
He braced himself for the flash of pain, the memories he closed off as a matter of self-protection, of sanity. He never let himself think about his father, couldn’t go to that dark, closed-off place, and yet for some reason Mancini’s death had pried open that long-locked door, and now he was feeling flickers of the old pain, as raw as ever, like flashes of lightning inside him, a storm of emotion he needed to control.
‘Take care of them for me, Rafael. You’re the man of the house now. You must protect your mother and sister. No matter what…’
But, no. He needed to slam that door shut once more, and right now he knew the perfect way to do it…with this beguiling woman by his side.
‘I hope the bar is worth enduring a wake for,’ he said lightly, and she grimaced.
‘I’m not really here for the bar.’
‘I thought not.’ He braced a shoulder against the wall so he was closer to her, inhaling her light, floral scent. A flyaway strand of coppery hair brushed his shoulder. She was utterly lovely, from her silver-grey eyes to her pert nose and lush mouth, her skin pale and creamy with a scattering of red-gold freckles. ‘So how did you know him?’ he asked.
She shrugged, her gaze sliding away. ‘I knew him a long time ago. I’m not even sure he’d have remembered me, to be honest.’ She let out a wavering laugh that sounded a little too sad, and Rafael resisted the tug of sympathy he felt for her. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her, not now. Not when he’d already decided to sleep with her. Besides, she was no doubt been one of Mancini’s cast-off mistresses, a gold-digger in it for the money and baubles. Why feel sorry for such a woman?
And yet he couldn’t help but notice how fragile she looked, as if a breath might blow her away. There were violent smudges like bruises under her eyes, and her face was pale underneath the gold dust scattering of freckles. The figure underneath the rather shapeless black dress looked slender and willowy, with a hint of intriguing curves. ‘I can’t believe anyone would forget you,’ he said, and was amused to see her cheeks turn pink, her pupils flare, as if she were an innocent unused to compliments.
‘Well…you’d be surprised,’ she returned with an uncertain laugh. ‘What business did your father have with my—with him?’
‘A new technology for mobile phones.’ He didn’t want to talk about the past. ‘At least new at the time. The industry has moved on quite a bit since then.’ But the technology would have made his father a lot of money, if Mancini hadn’t cut him off. If he’d lived.
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m rather useless with technology. I can barely manage my own phone.’ She took a sip of wine, golden-red lashes sweeping down onto her porcelain cheeks. Rafael had the desire, unsettlingly strong, to sweep his thumb along her cheek and see if her pale skin felt as creamily soft as it looked.
‘What do you do, then?’ he asked. ‘For a living?’ He reckoned she must be in her late twenties. Had she found a new sugar daddy?
‘I work at a café, in Greenwich Village. It’s a music café.’
‘A music café? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
‘It’s a shop for instruments and libretto,’ Allegra explained. ‘As well as a café. But it’s so much more than that—it hosts concerts for aspiring musicians, and offers lessons to all sorts of people. It’s a bit of a community hub, for music-lovers at least.’
‘And you are one, I gather?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was quiet and heartfelt, as well as a little bit sad. ‘Yes, music is very important to me.’
Rafael watched her, disconcerted by this shy admission, by the genuineness of it, of her. He didn’t want to confuse or complicate his feelings, had no intention of deepening what would be a shallow but satisfying sexual transaction.
‘I suppose I should leave,’ Allegra said slowly. ‘I don’t really have a reason to stay.’ She sounded reluctant, and when she looked up at him her eyes were full of mute appeal, wanting him to stop her. And stop her he would.
‘It’s still early,’ he said as he angled his body closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers, letting her feel both his heat and intent. Her eyes widened, and her tongue darted out to touch her lips. Primal need blazed through him. She was either artless or very, very experienced—he couldn’t tell which, but either way she enflamed him. ‘But we don’t have to stay here. Tell me what your favourite piece of music is.’
‘Oh…’ She looked surprised, and then shyly pleased. ‘I don’t think