Chapter Three
SNARLED UP IN all the pre-Christmas traffic, Flora bristled with fury all the way home, not in the least bit soothed by the glass of chilled white wine which Amy placed in front of her, once she had removed her waterproofs. ‘How dare he speak to me like that?’ she raged. ‘It’s an insult!’
‘It’s not an insult,’ answered her sister patiently.
‘He’s only speaking the truth. He’s the boss and how you look will reflect on him.
You can scowl like mad but it won’t change anything, Flora.
That’s how these things work.’ Amy paused, before adding delicately.
‘And you know, your wardrobe really could do with an overhaul.’
There was a moment of silence before Flora asked the question which was hanging in the air like a cloud. ‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got?’
There was a long pause. ‘There’s nothing actually wrong with it.’ Amy appeared to be choosing her words carefully. ‘It’s just that you seem to have acquired this…look.’
‘What sort of look?’
Her sister shrugged. ‘Like you’re going out of your way not to appear attractive. Almost as if you’re ashamed of being a woman. You’ve done it for quite a while now and, yes, I know Liam hurt you, but that was ages ago.’
Flora bit back her defensive retort because deep down she knew Amy was right.
Liam had been a mistake. Nothing she’d ever worn, or done, or said had been good enough.
Deep down she’d known he was trying to control her but it had taken time before she’d had the courage to break away, because sometimes a relationship could feel like a refuge, even if deep down you knew it wasn’t.
After they’d split it had been easier to sublimate her femininity than risk putting herself through that kind of pain again, but sometimes you could decide on a course of action and it took on a rampant life of its own.
Maybe she had allowed her fear of getting hurt to turn her into someone who was becoming more and more of an outcast, who’d forgotten how to have any real fun.
‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully.
‘And it seems to have got even worse lately,’ Amy continued remorselessly.
‘Especially since Signor Moneybags descended on the London office. What must he think about the average Englishwoman’s sense of fashion?
He’s Italian for heaven’s sake! When was the last time you bought an overcoat which didn’t come from a charity shop? ’
‘I can’t afford it,’ said Flora stubbornly.
‘You’ve got to stop thinking that way,’ said Amy gent-ly.
‘I’m off your hands now, Flo. You’ve only got yourself to look after.
Don’t you realise that? You’re free. Which is why I’m donating my winter wardrobe to you.
And there’s no point in shaking your head like a heavy-metal guitarist. I’m going to Brisbane in the New Year where the temperature is currently riding high in the thirties—and warm dresses and knee-high boots are going to be completely redundant!
What’s more I’ve got a tartan miniskirt which will be perfect for the Scottish trip.
You’ve got a fabulous figure and you ought to show it off more often.
So no more arguments. You are taking the lot. ’
It had taken the rest of the glass of wine before Flora had reluctantly agreed. She had never known her little sister to be so bossy.
Only now, two days later, everybody in the departure lounge of the private airfield seemed to be staring at her.
Unless she was just imagining it.
No. That man who was helping himself to a croissant from the glistening heap on the fancy plate had definitely shot her a second glance.
And so had the businessman on the opposite side of the lounge, next to a futuristic sculpture of a plane, who was slanting her a smile.
Quickly, Flora pretended to study the blank screen of her cell phone as she waited for Vito to arrive, hating the fact that Amy’s cast-offs seemed to make her so conspicuous, even if it felt refreshingly good to wear them.
She had been pleasantly surprised at the image which had stared back at her from the mirror—because the tartan skirt was flattering and the soft scarlet sweater was like being coated in syrup.
Even the sparkly Christmas--tree earrings were a departure from her usual sober studs, but they caught the light as she moved and made a jingly little sound which made her want to start humming carols.
She closed her eyes. She had even allowed Amy to guide her to a hair salon on Ealing Broadway where they’d chopped several inches off her hair before covering it in some gunk, so that instead of her usual waist-length frizz she now had glossy waves which tumbled to just below her shoulders.
And straight after that her little sister had thrust a hastily wrapped present into her hands, telling her she’d planned to wait until Christmas to give it to her, but in the circumstances…
Some sixth sense had alerted Flora to the fact that this wasn’t the usual bath bomb, or scented candle, or signed copy of a book by her favourite author.
Her heart beating like a drum, she’d carefully opened it and there, cunningly hidden in the centre of a soft cashmere scarf, was a voucher from the capital’s most well-known lingerie shop.
‘You might as well redeem it before you go to Scotland,’ Amy had declared fiercely.
And Flora had done exactly that, because wasn’t the truth that she was a bit ashamed of her well-washed undies which had lost some of their elasticity?
The woman in the store had been brisk and efficient as she had handed various items to Flora, who was standing behind the curtain.
But when she tried on the filmy bras and marvelled at what they could do for her breasts, then slithered into high-cut briefs which had hugged her bottom, she was unprepared for her reaction.
Because all she could think about was Vito. Vito touching her, and kissing her. Heat had spiralled deep inside her, arrowing provocatively between her thighs as she imagined his golden-bronze fingers slowly peeling all the delicate garments from her body and…
‘Flora?’
Given the explicit nature of her thoughts, it came as a profound shock to hear her boss’s velvety voice filtering through the air and Flora’s eyelids shot open to find him standing in front of her, regarding her with a look of incredulity which he made no attempt to hide.
His disbelieving gaze slowly flickered from the faux-fur collar of Amy’s jaunty green coat, all the way down to the soft leather boots which ended just above the knee.
She saw his features tighten—his obvious astonishment replaced by a narrow-eyed look of something she didn’t recognise. Something which caused his blue eyes to grow dark and smoky and a muscle to begin an insistent beat at his temple.
As Flora stood up too quickly, the ringlety new waves bounced wildly around her shoulders and these too seemed momentarily to transfix him. But then he glared at her, which was somehow reassuring. It was certainly familiar.
‘Good morning, Vito,’ she said brightly.
‘Good morning.’ His nod was perfunctory as he gestured towards the door, and he gave a faint shudder when he noticed her Christmas earrings. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’ he growled. ‘The plane is ready.’
For once Flora found it hard not to let her irritation show.
No ‘sorry I’m late’, or any kind of explanation why she’d been sitting there for nearly an hour, kicking her heels.
And no grudging compliment after she’d completely upgraded her wardrobe following his brutal assessment.
Was there no pleasing the man? she wondered.
She followed him out onto the airfield where his sleek jet was waiting, wondering why he was an hour later than he’d said he would be, and why there were dark shadows underneath his eyes. He’d probably been with a woman. Up all night pleasuring someone and making her…making her…
Briefly Flora closed her eyes, willing the feelings to go away.
She had to stop thinking like this. Because what if he had spent the night with a woman?
Wouldn’t it be for the best if she knew for a fact he was involved with someone—so she could kick these useless yearnings into the long grass, where they belonged?
Hadn’t her inconvenient crush on the Italian billionaire been growing by the day, much to her disgust?
Didn’t matter how often she told herself he was arrogant and unknowable, it didn’t seem to change a thing.
And wasn’t the time to call a halt to it right now?
Obviously, she had never been on a private jet before and although the cream and gold plane was much smaller than she had imagined, it was undeniably sleek.
Sliding Amy’s coat from her shoulders, she waited until he had commandeered one of the squashy leather seats before positioning herself opposite him, a polished table between them.
For a moment their eyes met and it felt disturbingly claustrophobic to be sharing such a glamorous space with him. Aware of having to sit rather differently when you were wearing a tartan mini rather than a baggy skirt, Flora primly pressed her knees together.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ he demanded, turning his head to call for the stewardess, as if he’d rather look anywhere than at her.
‘Er, not yet.’
A gorgeous stewardess appeared, nodding her immaculate brunette head as Vito spoke to her in Italian, and minutes later they were being served a veritable feast of pastries, fruit and juice, along with coffee whose delicious smell Flora recognised instantly.
As the stewardess poured two cups of the steaming brew before retreating from the salon, Flora thought it felt exactly like being in a movie.
‘Help yourself,’ Vito suggested softly as she regarded the lavish offerings with hungry eyes.