Christine Bell - A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

Paolo’s hand swam into her line of vision, two slender flutes of the vintage Dom Perignon she’d recommended to the Duncans suspended between his lean, elegant fingers. “Another masterful performance, Charlotte. I suggest we celebrate with a glass of our host’s very excellent champagne.”

“You listened in again?” Her stomach heaved unpleasantly.

“Certainly,” he said, with a marked lack of remorse. “John Weatherby isn’t the kind of man who’s squeamish about how he goes about getting his own way. I wasn’t about to leave you to face him without proper backup if you needed it.”

“I’m sure you meant well, but I already feel a big enough fool. I really don’t appreciate having everyone else believing it, too.”

“I’m not ‘everyone else,’” he said, tipping the rim of his glass lightly against hers. “And just for the record, you are no fool.”

She grimaced. “No, I’m a black widow spider.”

Just as he had in Barbados, he examined her at leisure, from the ankle-length black silk sheath John Weatherby had dismissed so callously to the upswept coil of her dark hair. “Spider, Charlotte?” he murmured, looping a finger beneath the small diamond pendant nesting just above her breasts. “I see only a woman whose natural beauty is enhanced by the classic simplicity of her gown.”

At his touch, a tiny current of pleasure chased down her cleavage. Suddenly parched, she took a sip from the glass of champagne. “Thank you. I needed this.”

“Because this last performance cost you so dearly?”

“Not at all. That was no ‘performance’ you witnessed, at least not on my part. I meant every word I said. If I seem upset, it’s merely because I’m embarrassed at how easily I was duped.”

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” he declared. “That’s Weatherby’s department. He’s a felon, guilty of arson and fraud, to say the least, and never mind his lesser crimes. So enjoy your champagne, Charlotte, stop looking so woebegone, and tell me what it’ll take to make you feel better.”

“Showing him who’s really emerged the winner in this fiasco!” she told him grimly.

Something of her humiliation melted as Paolo bathed her once again in his dazzling smile. “Consider it done, cara. I already have it choreographed down to the last detail.” 

Oh, Charlotte was tempted to go along with him! But although Paolo’s sympathy was soothing, she barely knew him and if she hadn’t yet learned her lesson about throwing in her lot with a stranger, she deserved all the grief she’d undoubtedly reap.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Angelli,” she said, retreating to the far side of the nearest wrought-iron table, “but you’ve done enough. I really can’t allow you to become further involved in a mess entirely of my own making.”

“I’m already involved, Charlotte,” he said, that rich Demerara-sugar voice sliding over her name and turning into something at once sultry and exotic. Reaching across the table, he laced his fingers through hers. “You’re a woman of courage under fire, but that’s no reason to turn down my help.”

It took considerable strength to withstand his coaxing words, never mind the gentle steel of his hold. But she wasn’t about to leap blindly from one bad situation to another. “Not until you tell me what you have in mind.”

“Nothing disastrous. We’re simply going to rejoin the party.”

She breathed a sigh, part relief and, if she were honest, part regret. Despite her common sense warning her to proceed carefully, the more daring voice in her heart urged her to toss caution to the breeze. Paolo Angelli had intrigued her from the first. Now that the opportunity had presented itself, she wanted to get to know him better and there was no use denying it. “Is that all?”

“Not quite,” he said. “I came here alone, as did you, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, things have changed. Now we’re a couple.”

“The woman hired to put together the Duncans’ elaborate coming-out party for their daughter being seen on the arm of one of their guests? Good heavens, Mr. Angelli, do you have any idea of the ripples that’s going to create?”

“I’m not a snob, Charlotte, and neither are you, so let’s not get carried away with that kind of nonsense. We’re a man and a woman powerfully attracted to one another, whether or not you’re ready to admit it. It’s as simple—or as complicated—as that. But I’m not a bully, so the choice is yours. You can put a brave face on things and go back inside to exercise a little vengeance by showing Weatherby he’s not the only one to have moved on, or you can remain out here. Either way, I’m staying with you.”

“Why?” Truly baffled, she stared at him. He was unquestionably wealthy because she knew from what she’d seen in Barbados that he belonged to that select segment of society that she’d only glimpsed from the sidelines. If he wasn’t already spoken for, there must be at least a dozen women inside the clubhouse who’d be only too willing to rectify the matter; women who’d grown up in his kind of world, not hers.

“Because I prefer your company to anyone else’s here. Because I long ago grew tired of the sort of silly, superficial women strutting around in that room there.” He stepped around the table and drew her close enough that she could smell the distant echo of his cologne and feel the heat of his body drifting out to entrap her. “Because I want to be seen with you.”

How confident he was; how disturbingly attractive! Under different circumstances…oh, what was she thinking! “Mr. An—”

“Paolo,” He stroked her wrist, and then the palm of her hand in slow, tantalizing circles. “This is the 21st century, and Jane Austen’s been dead a very long time. Couples today don’t stand on foolish ceremony. They make their desires plainly known.”

Well, he certainly did! If reducing her to melting acquiescence with his touch was his intention, he succeeded in a disgracefully short time. Her breathing raced as fast as her galloping pulse. As for ‘caution,’ it might just as well have been a foreign word past her understanding!

“Come with me, Charlotte,” he cajoled. “Make this a memorable evening in more ways than one and teach that miserable wretch the lesson he deserves.”

“Yes,” she said, not because she cared one iota about John Weatherby, but because she couldn’t say no to Paolo Angelli.

He squeezed her hand, tipped her face up to his, and kissed her full on the mouth. Not aggressively. Not with arrogant intimacy, as if, because he’d come to her rescue, he had the right to take liberties. His lips were cool and dry, their touch firm but brief. Still the effect sent a delicious shock of electricity shooting through her blood.

“Just a little rehearsal before we go on stage,” he said, lifting his head and smiling down at her.

“Um…” she mumbled, pressing her lips together to hold on to the taste of him. There’d been stars in the sky all evening long. When had they fallen down to blind her with their brilliance and addle her brain? When had she lost the power to articulate clearly and sanely?

He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and caught her fingers in his. “My feelings, exactly, cara,” he said, leading her toward the balcony doors. “Some emotions defy the words and speak directly to the heart.” 

Now that the live music had started, the party had really come to life, making it possible for Charlotte and Paolo to slip into the crowd unnoticed. Without asking, he drew her into his arms and onto the dance floor.

“The Duncans might not like this,” she muttered, glancing around nervously. “I’m here to work, after all.”

“They will like,” he assured her, “not only because Gerald Duncan is anxious to enlist my support in his latest venture and will do nothing to displease me, but because you’ve exceeded all their expectations and made this the perfect evening for their daughter.”

Sensing she wasn’t entirely convinced, he again tipped up her chin. “Listen to me, cara. I’m no Weatherby. I don’t lie in order to win a woman’s heart.”

She heard candor and integrity in his voice. It gave her the courage to ask, “Is that what you’re trying to do, Paolo? Win my heart?”

His hand slipped to the small of her back and urged her closer. “Most certainly.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to give it quite yet.”

“I’m a patient man, Charlotte, and prepared to spend however long it takes to persuade you that my intentions are honorable.”

“How can you be so sure, when we’ve only just met?”

“We met months ago and the spark ignited left a lasting impression.” His voice dropped a captivating half octave. “That moment of recognition did not die, cara. It rekindled itself tonight.”

“Still,” she said, struggling to step warily through the minefield of his persuasion, “we’re starting out afresh now.”

He shrugged. “Of course. How else does a great romance start, but at the beginning?”

She sighed. “You make it all sound so reasonable, I half believe you. If it weren’t for the way John—”

Unmindful of the fact that they were surrounded by others, he silenced her with another kiss, this one so darkly intoxicating that she quivered. “Hush,” he said against her lips. “I’m nothing like him. Do you really think that, having let you slip through my fingers six months ago, I’m about to risk my carefully engineered second chance by telling you lies now?”

“Engineered?” Unnerved, she stared at him. “Are you saying you knew I’d be here and arranged this meeting? Is that what you meant when you said you had everything choreographed down to the last detail?”

He shrugged again, a continental lifting of one broad shoulder she wished she didn’t find so attractive. “Not exactly, but word travels quickly in my circle of acquaintances. I knew weeks ago that Gerald intended to hire you to organize this party, that my name would be on the guest list, and that the man who’d monopolized your time in Barbados had moved on to greener fields.”

“Pastures,” she said distractedly. “It’s ‘moved on to greener pastures.’”

“Such a strange tongue, this English. I must teach you Italian, the true language of love.”

“Now just hold your horses, Paolo—!”

He interrupted with a laugh she could only compare to the slow trickle of warm molasses running from a hot spoon. “As I said, a strange language. But if horses are what it will take to win you, I’ll give you horses.”

Clinging rather desperately to her dwindling sense of survival, she protested. “Stop talking like that! You could be married with eight children, for all I know. And I could have a husband—”

“But you don’t,” he said calmly. “You wouldn’t be here in my arms and allowing me to kiss you if you had. And anyone here can vouch that I have neither a wife nor children. However, if you prefer to hear it from my parents and sisters—”

“I don’t know even your parents and sisters!”

“You will, cara. Very soon. I shall take you to our family villa overlooking the Adriatic Sea to meet them.”

“I don’t think so! In your own way, you’re just as devious as John, pretending we met here by accident when, in fact, you’ve been stalking me from a distance for months.”

“Keeping track, perhaps, but never stalking.”

“Call it what you like, it adds up to the same thing.”

“It was necessary for both our sakes,” he said reasonably. “You needed time to establish yourself as an independent entrepreneur, and I needed assurance that you’d recovered from your brief infatuation with Weatherby before I declared myself.”

“You’re very sure you’ll have things your way, aren’t you, Paolo Angelli? What are you going to do if I don’t fall in with your plans—throw me over your shoulder and carry me off to your cave?”

“I’m no Neanderthal, Charlotte. If I’ve presumed too much, I apologize and will, of course, withdraw from the picture.”

He paused, giving her time to consider before she framed a reply. The music slowed to a stop. Couples started drifting back to their tables. Finally she and Paolo were the only two left on the dance floor and still she hadn’t answered. She stared at the front of his dress shirt and tried to be sensible. To behave like a mature, intelligent woman.

“Well, Charlotte? Have I misread the signs? Shall I thank you for the dance, escort you off the floor, and disappear from your life for good?”