‘You’re not going—’ she said quickly…far too quickly, she realised immediately, noting the spark of interest in his eyes. Her heart thundered as he shot her an amused, quizzical look. ‘Well, we haven’t discussed the contract yet,’ she said, attempting to make light of her eagerness for him to stay.
‘Emily,’ Miranda murmured weakly, ‘I really think I should…’
‘Of course,’ Emily said, welcoming the distraction as she looped an arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
‘Can I help?’ Alessandro offered.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Emily said, urging her sister forward.
‘Emily’s right, Signor Bussoni,’ Miranda murmured faintly. ‘I’ll feel better after a short rest. My sister has my full confidence. I am quite content for you to put your proposition to her.’
Alessandro answered with a brief dip of his head. ‘I feel equally confident that your sister will find my proposal irresistible, Miss Weston.’
‘I’m very grateful to you, Signor Bussoni,’ Miranda replied as she stood for a moment, framed by the door, her carefully made-up face illuminated by an oblique shaft of late-after-noon sunlight.
Beautiful, Alessandro thought dispassionately, and if you stripped away the paint and glitter almost a carbon copy of her sister. But there was no attraction there. None at all. Not for him, at least.
‘You will sort it out for me, won’t you, Emily?’ Miranda said anxiously as they left the room together.
‘When have I ever let you down?’ Emily teased gently as they started up the stairs.
‘Never,’ Miranda said softly, turning to give her sister a kiss.
Emily came back into the room to find Alessandro comfortably ensconced on the chintz-covered sofa, with her mother beside him chatting animatedly. But the moment she arrived his focus switched abruptly.
‘Do you handle all your sister’s business affairs?’
Emily prided herself on her ability to recognise exceptional adversaries on sight. And she was facing one right now, she warned herself. ‘Not all,’ she said carefully. She saw his eyes warm with amusement and knew he had her measure, too.
‘Just contracts?’ he pressed.
Emily’s heart gave a wild little flutter, like a bird trapped in an enclosed space.
‘We’re not here to talk about me, Signor Bussoni—’
‘Alessandro, please,’ he said, embellishing the instruction with a small shrug intended to disarm, Emily guessed, as she watched her mother’s eyes round in approval at what she clearly imagined was an enchanting display of Latin charm. But her mother had missed the shrewd calculation going on behind that stunning dark gold gaze, Emily thought, feeling her own body respond to the unmistakable masculine challenge.
‘I’m sure you’re very busy, Signor Bussoni,’ she said, struggling to sound matter-of-fact with a heart that insisted on performing cartwheels in her chest. ‘And it’s the contract for Miranda’s band you’ve come to discuss after all.’
‘Correct,’ he agreed.
His voice streamed over Emily’s senses like melted fudge. How could a voice affect you like that? she wondered. Surely the cosy little room with its neatly papered walls had never housed such a dangerous sound as Alessandro Bussoni’s deep, sexy drawl.
‘It seems you and I have rather a lot to discuss, Miss Weston,’ he said, reclaiming her attention. ‘Far more, I must confess, than I had at first envisaged. I’ll send my car for you at eight this evening.’
As he stood the room shrank around him.
‘But surely you will stay for tea, Signor Bussoni—?’
‘No—’ Emily almost shouted at her mother. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘But Signor Bussoni must have other appointments—’ was that a note of desperation creeping into her voice? She made a conscious effort to lower the pitch before adding, ‘It’s enough that he’s making time to discuss Miranda’s future tonight, Mother.’
He inclined his head to show his appreciation of her consideration.
‘Until this evening, Miss Weston.’
‘Signor Bussoni,’ Emily returned with matching formality.
‘Alessandro,’ he prompted softly.
Emily felt her gaze drawn to dark, knowing eyes that seemed to reach behind her own and uncover the very core of her being. She felt deliciously ravished by them and immediately on guard, all in one and the same confusing moment.
A thrill ran through her as he lifted her hand and raised it to his lips. The contact was brief, but it was enough for her logical brain to be set adrift and her veins to run with sweet sensation. Then her father returned from his telephone call and she was able to take refuge behind the bustle of departure, easing into the background as Alessandro strode back down the path to his car.
Was he psychic? Emily wondered, as the unmistakable figure emerged from the grand entrance and came down the hotel steps at the precise moment the limousine she was arriving in swept to a halt outside.
Nothing would have surprised her about Alessandro Bussoni, Emily realised as he beat both the doorman and the chauffeur he had sent to collect her to the car door. As it swung open her mouth dried, and her body felt as if it was contracting in on itself in a last-ditch attempt to conceal anything remotely capricious in her appearance, though she had taken the precaution of wearing an understated navy blue suit with a demure knee-length skirt.
‘Welcome, Miss Weston,’ he said, reaching into the limousine to help her out.
Or to stop her escaping? Emily thought in a moment of sheer panic when his fingers closed over her hand.
‘Please. Call me Emily,’ she managed pleasantly enough, while her thought processes stalled.
Precaution, my foot! She should have worn a full protective body suit…with ski gloves, she reasoned maniacally, as a flash of heat shot up her arm. What was she thinking? The first rule of business was to keep everything cordial but formal. And here she was, unbending already as if she was on a date! Gathering herself quickly, she removed her hand from his clasp at the first opportunity.
‘I must apologise for not coming to pick you up in person, Miss Weston,’ Alessandro said, standing back to allow her to precede him through the swing doors.
Emily made some small dismissive sound in reply, and was glad of the distraction provided by a doorman in a top hat who insisted on ushering her into the hotel. But she was so busy trying to keep a respectable distance from her host she almost missed his next statement.
‘I wanted to come myself, but there were some matters of State I was forced to attend to: matters that demanded my immediate attention—’
‘Matters of State?’ Emily repeated curiously. But it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when they were attracting so much interest.
When the first flashbulb flared she glanced round, imagining some celebrity was in view. But then she realised that the cameras were pointing their way, and a small posse of photographers seemed to be following them across the lobby.
She smiled uncertainly as she tried to keep up with Alessandro’s brisk strides. ‘It must be a quiet night for them,’ she suggested wryly.
‘What? Oh, the photographers,’ he said, seeming to notice their presence for the first time. ‘I’m sorry. You get so used to them you hardly know they’re around.’
Having seen a pack of photographers waiting around on the night of the charity event, snapping away at anything and everything, even the spectacularly ornate heels on one woman’s shoes,