Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince. Lynn Raye Harris
and followed their mother into the kitchen.
‘It will be easy for you, Emily,’ her mother asserted confidently, after Miranda had outlined her plan to secure the recording contract. ‘You’re not emotionally involved like Miranda. And you’ll run rings around this record company man when it comes to securing the best terms for Miranda.’
Emily was surprised by her reaction to this vote of confidence. It was unnerving to discover that her mother’s assessment of the situation could be so far off the mark. Intuition told her that running rings around Alessandro Bussoni was out of the question. But her main worry was the strange way her heart behaved just at the thought of him joining them in the tiny house. The man behind the voice would fill every inch of it with presence alone, never mind the unsettling possibility that she might brush up against him—
‘Are you sure you’re all right with this, Emily…? Emily?’
Finally the concern in her father’s voice penetrated Emily’s dream-state, and her eyes cleared as she hurried to reassure him. ‘Of course, Dad. Leave it to me,’ she insisted brightly, ‘I can handle Signor Bussoni—’
‘Italian!’ her mother exclaimed, showing double the interest as she unconsciously checked out her neat halo of curls. ‘How exciting. And when did you say he was arriving?’
‘Right now, by the looks of it,’ Emily’s father said as he peered through the window.
‘OH, NO!’ Miranda gasped, looking to her sister for guidance.
‘Stay upstairs until he’s gone,’ Emily suggested briskly. ‘I’ll come and get you when the coast’s clear. Mum. Dad. Act normal.’
‘Yes, dear,’ her mother said breathlessly, exchanging an excited glance with her father.
Don’t look so worried,’ Emily called after Miranda. ‘I promise not to turn anything down without your approval.’
Exchanging quick smiles, the girls were just on the point of parting at the foot of the stairs when they stopped, looked at each other, and then swooped to the hall window.
Standing well back from the glass, Emily ran a finger cautiously down the edge of the net curtain.
‘Oh, boy,’ she murmured, watching the tall, darkly clad figure unfold his impressive frame from the heavily shaded interior of a sleek black car.
‘You said Herman Munster,’ Miranda breathed accusingly.
‘I said he might have been Herman Munster for all I could see of him,’ Emily corrected tensely.
‘Looks like you were both wrong in this instance,’ their father commented dryly.
Alessandro felt a frisson of anticipation as he double-checked the address his private secretary had passed on to him that morning.
He wasn’t used to waiting, and eighteen hours was far too long in this case.
But then he wasn’t used to speaking to someone hiding behind a screen either, or accepting anyone’s terms but his own—which was how he now found himself getting out of a rented Mercedes outside a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house in North London.
He smiled a little in amused acceptance. He couldn’t recall a single instance of being turned down by a woman, let alone agreeing to a time of her choosing for an audience as begrudging as this one. His sharp gaze took in the small rectangular lawn, freshly mowed, and then moved on to the splash of vivid colour provided by a pot of petunias to one side of the narrow front door. For someone who moved between palaces, embassies or the presidential suite in some luxury hotel when he was really slumming it, this chance to sample suburbia was a novelty…No. A welcome change, he decided as he swiped off his dark glasses.
Behind a snowy drift of net, the Weston family watched Alessandro Bussoni’s progress towards the house in awe-struck silence.
‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Miranda murmured. Their distracted mother barely managed a weak gasp of, ‘Oh, my!’
‘Go, before he sees you,’ Emily suggested urgently, having already turned her back on the window.
‘But your make-up,’ Miranda said, hopping from foot to foot, torn between going and staying.
Emily’s hand shot automatically to her face. ‘What about it?’
‘You’re not wearing any,’ Miranda exclaimed with concern.
‘Can’t be helped. He’ll still think I’m you. Why shouldn’t he? Anyway, you’re not wearing any make-up,’ Emily pointed out.
‘Only because I’m sick.’
‘Well, there’s no time for me to do anything about it now,’ Emily said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Sure?’ Miranda asked hopefully.
‘Sure,’ Emily said briskly, hoping no one had noticed that her hand was shaking as it hovered over the doorknob.
‘I’m going to change,’ Miranda shouted, on her way up the stairs. ‘Then I’m taking over from you.’
‘No!’ But even as Emily’s gaze raked the empty landing to call her sister back she knew it was too late. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she seized the doorknob tightly and began to turn…
‘You go and wait in the lounge, pet.’
‘Dad—’
‘Go and compose yourself,’ Mr Weston urged gently, refusing to let go of her arm until Emily allowed him to steer her away from the door. ‘You look like you could do with a few minutes. I’ll keep him busy until you’re ready.’
‘You’re an angel,’ Emily whispered, reaching up on tiptoe to give her father an affectionate peck on the cheek. But a moment alone was all it took her to realise that she couldn’t go ahead with the charade after all, and she rushed upstairs to find her sister.
The twins waited motionless, hardly daring to breathe as they stood just inside the door to Miranda’s bedroom. It felt as if the conversation downstairs had been going on for ever while their father satisfied himself as to their visitor’s identity and then invited him into the house, but at his signal they started down the stairs.
Emily was dressed in her customary relaxing-at-home-uniform of blue jeans and a simple grey marl tee shirt. Her well-buffed toenails, devoid of nail varnish, were shown off in a pair of flat brown leather sandals, while her long black hair was held up loosely on top of her head with a tortoise-shell clip.
In complete contrast, Miranda had somehow found enough time to coat the area around her large green eyes with copious amounts of silver glitter, add blusher to her cheeks and staggeringly high platform shoes to her seemingly endless legs.
Surely there could be no mistake, Emily thought, giving her twin the final once-over before they reached the sitting room door. Signor Bussoni would immediately presume it was Miranda he had seen on stage. ‘Relax,’ she whispered, taking hold of her twin’s wrist. ‘It’ll be all right.’
‘Then why are you shaking?’ Miranda remarked perceptively.
‘Girls? What’s keeping you? You’ve got a visitor.’
‘We’re coming now, Dad,’ Emily called back, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She had no idea what she was up against, and had nothing to go on but that disconcerting voice. For all she knew it might be Herman Munster hiding behind that impressive physique and those super-sleek clothes.
‘Come on, love. What’s the hold-up?’ Popping his head round the door, her father drew her into the room. ‘Your mother will have tea ready in about fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘You two know each other,’ he added, with