The Italian's Pregnant Mistress Read online

  ‘She’s meeting me,’ Angelo said, frowning.

  ‘I believe she’s only been contacted by Miss Thompson. Your fiancée rang to tell me that you will be conducting the interview in her place but she probably won’t recognise you, Mr Falcone, as no doubt she’s expecting Miss Thompson. Will that be a problem? I could always get in touch and—’

  ‘No, no. No problem, Maisie. Just bring me in those reports on the Downy deal and buzz me at four or I shall forget and be in the doghouse with Georgina.’

  Maisie, plump, fifty and the very soul of discretion, didn’t so much as crack a smile at that fleeting conspiratorial tone in his voice, but, not for the first time, she wondered why he was marrying Georgina Thompson, who might carry the advantages of her well-connected family, but who lacked substance and who could be very cutting when her fiancé’s back was turned and his ears were elsewhere. Not for a million pounds would she have shared those thoughts with anyone.

  It was a little after four-thirty by the time Angelo negotiated his way to the American burger restaurant in Covent Garden which housed a long sports bar along one side.

  It was, as he’d expected, packed. There weren’t many nooks and crannies in Central London that weren’t bursting at the seams with tourists in the middle of July and the heat seemed to have driven a fair few of them into the bar for something cold to drink.

  Initial impressions were already beginning to leave a sour taste in his mouth. He hadn’t wanted to concur with Georgina’s prophecy that the woman was a rank amateur, but meeting in a busy burger bar in one of the most crowded parts of London to discuss what would be for her a very important job fell only just short of sheer stupidity. He imagined what Georgina’s reaction would have been, had it been her standing in an uncomfortable queue by the door. She would have spun round on her very expensive heels and left without further ado.

  If Ellie Millband’s choice of venue was anything to go by then he was pretty sure that she had written herself out of the job but, having trekked across London to get to the place and with a bit of time to kill before he returned to his apartment to get ready for his dinner engagement later, he dutifully enquired of the small Australian girl clasping an armful of menus whether she could point him in the direction of a Ms Millband. He was startled to be told that she was downstairs in the restaurant.

  ‘I’ll make my way down myself,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

  ‘She’s at the table to the back.’

  Angelo nodded and headed towards the wooden stairs leading down, thankfully leaving behind most of the shopped-out hordes. It was cooler as he descended the stairs. It was also much emptier. In fact, so empty that only a handful of tables were occupied and, since three of them were filled with families, there left very little doubt as to whom he was going to see.

  Yes, she was sitting right at the back, focusing intently on a small Filofax in front of her. Shoulder-length dark hair was tucked neatly behind her ears. Perfect ears. And, even though she wasn’t looking at him, he would have known that face anywhere. He had seen it in his dreams for longer than he cared to remember and the mental image, even after three years, still had the capacity to fill him with burning rage.

  Every muscle in his body kick-started into gear. He had to steady himself on the banister. Somewhere in his head, he knew that he should just turn around and go back the way he had come, then tell Georgina that Ms Ellie Millband was no longer a candidate for the job. His decision would have been final. He would not even have had to provide an explanation.

  Common sense lasted the length of time it took him to blink, then he was walking towards her. In a moment she would look up and see him, see the man she had rejected three years ago. Anticipation of her shock made his pulses race with sadistic pleasure.

  The wheel always turned full circle, didn’t it? Not in a million years had he ever expected to see the woman again, but that hadn’t stopped him from seeing her image in his head. He had striven to wipe her out and, to all intents and purposes, he had succeeded. His life had returned to its driving routine of work interrupted with the occasional fling until the passage of time had dictated that he needed to marry, to settle down and have the family he wanted. But her image had still persisted, creeping out to disturb the ruthless onward march of his career, always leaving behind the bitter taste of impotent fury.

  He realised he was clenching his fists by the time he made it to the table. And still she hadn’t looked up. Nor did he say a word. He just stood there until she was aware of a shadow looming over her. Only then did Francesca slowly raise her eyes.

  The welcoming smile she had prepared for her prospective client faded into a strangled gasp. Nothing had prepared her for this. What was Angelo Falcone doing here? Was he really here? Standing in front of her? She blinked a few times, willing the image away, but he was still there, bigger, leaner and a whole lot more forbidding than she remembered.

  ‘Surprised to see me, Francesca? Sorry, it’s now Ellie Millband, I believe?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Francesca whispered, fascinated by the familiarity of his face and terrified at the harshness stamped on it that she had never seen all those years ago when she had been going out with him.

  ‘Interviewing you, in point of fact.’ He nodded at a passing waitress to come and take his order for a drink, then he sat down and gave her the full benefit of one long, insolent, unapologetically cold stare. ‘Although whom exactly am I interviewing?’ he asked silkily. ‘Since you seem to have changed identities.’ His initial shock at seeing her had given way to ice-cold self-control.

  Francesca’s brain cranked into gear. ‘I was expecting to see…’

  ‘My fiancée.’

  ‘Your fiancée.’ In her head, he had remained a single man. Stupid, considering the amount of women who would have swarmed around him, hoping to net the biggest fish in the sea. She stared down at her Filofax in confusion, then reluctantly looked at him. Her hands were trembling and she clasped them tightly together on her lap, well out of sight of his black, impenetrable stare. ‘Congratulations,’ she said belatedly. ‘I…that would be…to Georgi…’

  ‘So who are you?’ Angelo interrupted. ‘Shall I call you by your new name, or was your old one the fabrication? Tell me. I’m interested.’ Her hair was shorter but she looked even better for it and, even though the clothes were different, a tailored suit as befitting someone being interviewed for a big job, he could see that the body was still the same. Still that superbly proportioned body that had once driven him wild.

  The memory of how she used to affect him didn’t soften him. It was laced with too much bitterness.

  ‘Francesca Hayley was the name I used when I modelled,’ she said, steadying herself by breathing in deeply. ‘I no longer model. Look, Angelo, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, and your fiancée’s, but I don’t think there’s any point in our having this conversation.’ She half rose, fumbling to reach for her handbag, which was on the floor by her chair.

  ‘Sit back down, Francesca.’

  His voice was calm and modulated but imbued with threat. Francesca hastily sat back down. I’m Ellie Millband, she wanted to tell him, Ellie Millband, not Francesca Hayley, but the words wouldn’t come out and, anyway, he wasn’t going to be prepared to let the past rest.

  ‘We’re old friends and ex-lovers…’ His smile sent a chill of fear racing along her spine. ‘Surely it would be fitting that we fill in the gaps in our respective lives now that fate has brought us back together?’

  ‘There’s no point, Angelo.’ She had to steel herself to look at him. She recognised the lines of his face, the masculine beauty that she had once found so compelling, but she still felt as though she was sitting opposite a stranger and a stranger who could barely conceal his dislike. ‘I came here to discuss, well, my ideas for a meal…for your wedding. I didn’t come here to discuss the past.’

  ‘Which just goes to show that we should always be flexible, don’t you think?’ His drink h
ad arrived, something strong in a short, squat glass, and he accepted it without taking his eyes off her face.

  With a painful stab, she realised that he was enjoying himself, enjoying this unexpected encounter. His life had moved on and he was more than happy to watch her squirm in front of him. She really couldn’t blame him. If her legs would only start functioning properly she would have denied him the satisfaction, but she had a sneaking suspicion that they might just pack up from under her if she tried to stand up. The sensible mineral water she had ordered twenty minutes before when she had arrived, eager and early, now seemed ridiculously lacking in any ability to fortify her.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked tightly.

  ‘Tut, tut. Anyone would think from your tone of voice that you weren’t pleased to see me. Strange, considering you were the one who ended our relationship.’ The old, familiar rage formed a knot in his stomach. ‘Let me see. What do I want to know?’ He took a sip from his glass and stared at her over the rim, his sharp eyes taking in the jerkiness of her hand when she reached for the glass of water. Revenge was an unworthy emotion. He knew that, or at least the cool, logical, intelligent side of him knew it. Right now, though, he could taste the sweetness of it on his tongue and was inordinately pleased that he had not walked away when he had spotted her sitting at the back of the room.

  ‘I am surprised you gave up your very lucrative modelling career,’ he mused. ‘What went wrong? Europe too small to contain the both of us?’

  ‘It seemed a good time to come back to England.’ Francesca raised her chin stubbornly, refusing to let him push her into a corner. ‘I’d saved enough money to buy a small place of my own and I fancied a change of job.’ Their eyes tangled and she felt hot and faint and agonisingly aware of the powerful effect he still had on her. ‘It’s no bigger a life change than the one you’ve made,’ she continued. ‘You’ve moved to London and become engaged. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her and I don’t suppose I will now, but good luck for the future.’ Her mouth smiled politely but her eyes remained misty with a frantic desire to get away from his presence.

  ‘And you? Not involved with anyone?’

  Francesca thought of Jack, who would be wondering how the meeting was coming along, and her momentary hesitation answered his question. It was an answer he didn’t care for and Angelo felt base, primitive jealousy rip through him like a knife.

  ‘But of course, you would be,’ he said smoothly. ‘A beautiful woman like yourself.’

  ‘There’s no need to compliment me, Angelo,’ she said sharply. ‘You hate me. Which is why I can’t understand what we’re doing here, pretending to make small talk.’

  ‘Hate? There is no mileage in hate. It’s a counterproductive emotion.’ He realised that his glass was empty and resisted the temptation to order another drink. Apart from the stupidity of drinking at this early hour, there was also the small technicality of a certain high-level dinner engagement later that evening. Which he was in danger of reaching late if he didn’t make a move soon. He settled back into his chair and beckoned the waitress across. To hell with it. Another whisky and soda would be okay but he better make it a light one.

  ‘So indulge my curiosity and tell me about him. After all, you know all about my personal status.’

  ‘There’s no one.’ Poor Jack. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t like being labelled as no one, not least because she had known him since her early teens, but she didn’t want to start walking down the road of little lies. Although, did it matter any more? Once she left this place she would never see Angelo Falcone again. She certainly wouldn’t be getting the plum job for which she had come so prepared. The wad of recipes she had painstakingly selected to bring with her were still sitting in her capacious bag, making a mockery of her high hopes.

  ‘Ah, Francesca.’ He raised his glass to his mouth and sipped carefully. ‘You may have lied to me about your name—’

  ‘I didn’t lie to you! Millband is my mother’s name and Ellie was always my first name. I didn’t conjure the name Francesca Hayley out of thin air!’ One little truth.

  ‘But you’re lying now. Who is he? Do you think I care?’

  Of course he didn’t care! Nor did she. On that very last evening he had told her that they were ships that crossed in the night. Now they were ships sailing different oceans. They no longer had any impact on one another.

  ‘His name is Jack,’ she offered with a little shrug. ‘He works with me. We set up the catering business together, if you must know.’ She stared down into the unappealing glass of water and then reluctantly took a small sip. It had been cold forty minutes ago. Now it was metallic and tepid.

  ‘Jack. And how did you meet him? An ex-model also seeking to expand his horizons?’

  For the first time since she had sat down, Francesca smiled with genuine amusement. Jack might have once upon a time been the sought-after boy in town, in the way that bad boys often were to teenage girls, but an ex-model? She thought of his shaved head and the embarrassing tattoos on his back and grinned. She couldn’t help it. Then she laughed. That warm, rich, full-bodied laugh that was so infectious.

  ‘I think he would be insulted if you called him that! Well, that would be after I’d picked him up from the ground in shock at the description!’

  It was that laugh that did it. Took him back through the years, took him back to that place where he had been captive to her irreverent ebullience. She had certainly never tiptoed around him. More ran circles around him.

  ‘No ex-model?’ Angelo smiled at her with cold indifference. ‘What, then? A businessman? Someone in a two-piece suit and a bowler hat?’

  ‘Your Italian ancestry’s showing, Angelo. Men these days don’t wear bowler hats.’ And people shouldn’t find their past creeping up on them stealthily like a thief in the night. ‘I really think it’s time I left,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. This has been a shock…’

  ‘But what about your menus?’ Angelo asked. ‘I wouldn’t want you to return to your little house without at least giving you the benefit of telling me what you had in mind for my wedding banquet…’

  ‘Stop it!’ Two bright patches of colour had appeared on her cheeks. ‘I always knew you were hard nosed, Angelo. I never realised you were just downright cruel!’

  ‘Cruel? How am I being cruel? Explain to me. I meet you here after three years and am polite enough to ask you what you have been up to in that time. I offer to see your menus, which I assume you have brought with you. Hardly the definition of cruelty.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Time has a habit of dimming our memory of past acquaintances and their expectations.’

  There wasn’t a flicker of warmth on his face. He had found himself in her company before he had had time to retreat unnoticed and had managed to dredge up some semblance of politeness because the situation demanded it. A show of interest in her menu cards was just extending the politeness to embarrassing levels as far as she was concerned. The anger and dislike was there, she could feel it simmering behind the mask, but it was anger that had been roused by seeing her out of the blue. She doubted that he had given her much of a passing thought over the years or, if he had, only insofar as she had damaged his ego. Now, to him, she truly was an ex-acquaintance with whom he had shared a few months of his life, off and on.

  He was engaged to be married. He had found love and affection and was eagerly planning his wedding day. She took a deep breath and tried to control the emotions beating against their constraints.

  ‘You’re right.’ She ventured a smile which didn’t garner a response. ‘Okay. You can have a look at the menu I’ve prepared.’ She rummaged around in her bag, feeling his eyes on her, and extracted neatly collated, printed sheets of paper. A choice, she told him, focusing on the papers and not on his face. Several options for starters, main courses and of course there would be a selection of desserts. She had only a vague idea of numbers but a
ssumed that there would be roughly two hundred people from what his fiancée had communicated to her on her answer machine. Was she right in that assumption?

  It was bizarre, sitting here like this, pretending to talk about a job that would not materialise while her heart did crazy things inside her and her head reeled with a sickening slide show of images of the past. She must have stored up so much information and, like a computer, her mind was now downloading it all in every painful detail.

  What a joke to be sticking a phoney smile on her face and pretending that they were just two people having a normal conversation about a normal topic.

  ‘What is she like?’ It was spoken before she had time to think.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Angelo looked up at her politely.

  ‘I’m sorry. I meant…well, I’m glad you’ve found someone you love, someone to settle down with. I’m really happy for you, Angelo…’

  And she had found someone as well. Time had moved on. But he certainly wasn’t happy for her, nor was he in control of his response. He inclined his head curtly in acknowledgment of what she had said and then returned to the menus. She had never been able to cook when he had known her. An omelette had presented a challenge. Now the array of food she had listed was exquisite.

  ‘I wanted to do something that had a career in it but wasn’t office-based,’ she said, tuning in to his thought patterns. ‘Hence the catering.’ The fact that she had left school at sixteen without any qualifications to speak of had also dictated a life-plan that didn’t include a university degree. That, she kept to herself. ‘Once I had bought my house and was grounded, I found that I actually had to prepare meals for myself and I discovered that I enjoyed it. It seemed natural to take it one step further.’ And specialising in Italian food had seemed natural as well, all wrapped up as it had been in memories of him. It had been a wise choice, as it turned out, for more practical reasons, because not many caterers specialised and very few specialised in Italian cuisine. She had found a ready market among the many well-to-do Londoners who held dinner parties and office dos and either couldn’t be bothered or preferred to have someone else do the catering for them.