Chapter 1
Chapter One
W ILLOW TYPED THE CODE into the panel just as soon as it beeped through to her phone, and the thick, glass doors swung inwards, allowing her entry to the polished marble foyer, with its treble height ceilings and imposingly modernistic décor. Splashes of black were accented with gold and silver, the lights were metallic, there were floor to ceiling mirrors in every direction—mirrors which she assiduously avoided so much as glancing at because she knew how she must look. Despite the high fees she could command, she doubted anyone would be interested in hiring her as a high-end stylist right now.
It was bad enough that her heel had snapped off as she was crossing the street.
But in pausing to ascertain the damage, a cab had run afoul of a rain-filled pot-hole, and Willow had borne the brunt of the literal splash back, with her pale trench coat now covered in a dark brown splatter.
On top of that, it had begun to rain as she left the restaurant she’d lunched at, and perennially unprepared for England’s changeable weather—despite having lived here each and every one of her twenty five years—she hadn’t brought an umbrella with her.
And wild horses would not have convinced her to go back and ask her stepmother for one.
Not after their lunch time conversation—which had bordered on confrontational.
Seeing Francesco’s building, as she’d pressed a fork into her cheesecake and happened to glance out of the window (with a growing sense of despair) had been like a bolt of lightning, a strike from the sky of inspiration. A way out of the predicament her stepmother was wedging her into. So long as Francesco agreed, of course.
She ignored the less-than-approving glance an elegant woman cast in Willow’s direction as she made her way to the bank of lifts.
When the doors opened, she stepped inside and glanced around for buttons, before realizing she didn’t know Francesco’s floor. Besides which, there were no buttons.
She looked helplessly at her phone again, only to see another text:
This code works in the lift, too.
She typed the numbers in again and the lift immediately began to whoosh upwards. And up. And up. And up.
Of course, he was right at the top of this enormous building.
The doors pinged open and she stepped directly out into the foyer of Francesco’s penthouse apartment.
The décor from downstairs was echoed here, with the same overly masculine colour scheme, very modern and…impersonal. She frowned a little, then grimaced because a mirror had caught her unawares and she’d seen herself before she could look away.
From childhood, Willow had been raised to understand that outward appearances were incredibly important. Her stepmother had been almost alarmingly strict when it came to how Willow behaved, dressed, and styled her hair. Shoes were never to be scuffed, nails had to be neat and polished at all times, pantyhose were worn on even the hottest of days, clothes were never allowed to show lint or pilling, makeup was to be flawless and always worn, even when just at home, for one never knew who might stop by.
These lessons had been hammered into Willow with as much regularity and severity as possible, so the sight of herself in such disarray caused a plummeting sense of failure to drop through her.
“Willow.” Francesco strode around the corner, a man she’d known for so long he somehow instantly managed to calm her fluttering nerves. His eyes roamed her trench coat before returning to her face, and heat flushed her cheeks, sending those same nerves into overdrive unexpectedly. What must he think of her, arriving in this state?
“My shoe broke,” she said, pointing down at the offensive item. “And I got splashed.”
He nodded slowly, coming towards her. He was wearing dark trousers and a white business shirt, tucked in but with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the top button undone, so she couldn’t help but notice the tanned expanse of his throat, the slight hint of hair at the base of it.
“Well, if you’re wanting to borrow shoes or a coat from me, I think you’ll find we wear different sizes.”
She laughed, despite the ball of tension that was clogging her belly.
“That’s not it,” she said, a little caught off guard when Francesco closed the distance between them, put his hands under her elbows and drew her to him, placing a kiss on her cheeks.
But of course, that was a normal greeting. She was just too flustered.
“Hello,” he said, slightly teasing, one side of his lips lifting into a half-smile. It was so quintessentially Francesco. Such easy charm, easy confidence, easy good looks. The man had been born, Willow had long ago decided, with far too much of everything. He was smart, funny, and sexier than any man had a right to be—a fact he was clearly very well aware of, given that he seemed to operate a revolving door of very temporary girlfriends.
Which was something she could definitely use to her advantage, this weekend.
“Hi,” she said, taking a deep breath and trying to calm her nerves.
“Come in,” he offered, moving a hand to the small of her back and guiding her forwards.
“I love what you’ve done to the place,” she quipped, eyeing the apartment he’d moved into about six months earlier—an apartment she’d never been to before. “There’s so much of ‘you’ here.”
He slid her a sideways glance. “You don’t like it?”
She rolled her eyes. “I mean, it’s stunning, obviously. It’s just a little…impersonal.”
He looked around, as if hearing that for the first time. “Is it?”
“It’s incredible,” she insisted. “But can you actually just kick back and relax in this space?” she gestured to the living room, with its large, beige suede sofas and fur throws, the coffee table with its glass top, the lamps that were more art installation than function.
“I manage.”
“Okay,” she said, with a small lift of her shoulders. “Good. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” She fidgeted her hands in front of her for about two seconds—precisely the amount of time it took to channel her stepmother’s voice, scolding her for betraying nervousness. She pushed her hands down, flat by her sides.
“You look like you could use a drink,” Francesco observed, despite her efforts to exude calm non-concern.
“A drink would be great,” she muttered.
He nodded once, moving deeper into the living room, to a large shelf filled with alcohol and glasses, removing several at a time.
“What size shoe do you wear?”
She furrowed her brow. “A seven. Why?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Erica?”
Who was Erica? She had the sense that her plan might be falling apart.
“I need a pair of ladies’ shoes. Size seven. Style?” he turned to regard Willow, his dark brown eyes tracing the line of her body towards her feet, one higher than the other, courtesy of the inequity in their construction. She kicked both off and crouched down to place them neatly against the wall. “Brown heels. And a coat—size eight? Ten?”
She opened her mouth to say that it didn’t matter, but he had made the executive decision she was an eight, communicating that, and then promptly disconnected the call.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she said, shrugging out of her coat now, looking around, because she’d be damned if she was going to put the splattered thing anywhere in this stunning, art-work of a penthouse.
He strode across the room, two glasses in hand. When she took hers, he immediately relieved her of the coat and to her chagrin, threw it casually across the sofa.
“See? I can be very relaxed.”
She laughed then, and something loosened in her gut, the horrible ball of nervousness seemed to ease a little.
“Oh, yes. I can tell.”
His smile was slow to spread, and much like everything else in the apartment, a total work of art.
She stared up at him, a bemused look on her face, as she tried to imagine what it must have been like to go through life with all of the gifts Francesco had simply inherited.
“I need your help,” she said, biting into her lower lip.
Something tightened around the corners of his eyes. “Beyond with your shoes and coat?”
“Well, yeah. My shoes and coat aren’t why I came to you,” she reiterated.
“What’s going on?” He gestured to the seats, but she stayed standing.
“It’s my father’s birthday this weekend,” she said. “His sixtieth.”
Francesco nodded, slowly, patiently. “Yes, I got the invite. I was planning to swing by, at some point, if possible.”
Because he was a family friend. Because he went way back with them. She swallowed past a sudden knot of doubt. Was she really going to ask him to do this?
“I just had lunch with my stepmother,” she added, taking a sip of her drink, so missing the way sympathy briefly softened Francesco’s expression. Willow had played her cards very close to her chest over the years. If the requirement of looking perfect all the time was important, so too was the expectation that she would always behave perfectly—that included not criticizing one’s family. Personal matters were exactly that—personal. Nonetheless, if she’d seen the way Francesco’s features had shifted, she might have realized that he understood far more than she’d intended him to.
“How is Meredith?” he asked, voice conveying nothing other than relaxed inquiry.
“Oh, you know. The same as always.” Willow forced a bright smile. “She’s very excited about the upcoming weekend. They’ve been preparing the house and gardens for months.”
“They’re hosting the party, si ?”
“Well, by hosting, they’re having it where they live. The actual work will be done by an army of staff—from the party planners down to chefs, waiters, valets. You name it, they’ve got it.”
He nodded, encouraging her to continue, or perhaps conveying that he didn’t understand what was going on.
She sighed, sipping her drink once more, trying again.
“I’ve done something kind of stupid,” she said, not able to meet his gaze now.
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
She glanced up at his face, but wished she hadn’t, because he was standing so close and looking at her with such kindness in his features, that it was impossible not to feel like she’d thrown a spear into both of their lives—rather than just hers.
“My stepmother made it very clear that she expects me to have a date for the weekend.”
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Why?”
“Well, I guess me being unmarried, and still working, at my age, is not at all what they had in mind for me.”
Francesco’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline. “I’m sorry, what?”
She took a sip of her drink then placed the glass on the nearby tabletop, walking on bare feet towards the windows that framed an exquisite view of the expansive Hyde Park.
“That’s always been their plan for me,” she said and then, because this was Francesco, and she trusted him, she heard herself opening up properly, regardless of her stepmother’s preference that their private life remain completely unspoken of. “Meredith made it very clear to me that my continued failure to marry someone suitable is a source of great pain to my father. And for his sixtieth, she wants him to be able to enjoy himself—which apparently can’t happen if I come and commit the awful sin of not bringing some Earl or Duke or whatever.”
Francesco made a gruff laughing sound, but she whirled around.
“It’s not funny.”
He lifted his hands in silent apology.
“The thing is, I have been seeing someone,” she admitted, her heart twisting a little as she thought of Tom.
Francesco’s eyes scanned her face. “Great. So, then you don’t have a problem; you have a date.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. We—aren’t technically together right now, anyway. But even if we were, he’s not…what they would consider suitable. I think Meredith would have kittens if I brought Tom home.”
Francesco closed the distance between them, studying Willow with obvious confusion. “You do realise you’re a twenty five year old woman?”
She tilted her chin defiantly. “Come on, Francesco. You of all people know what overbearing families are like,” she pointed out. While the Santoros might not have been cut from the same cloth as her parents, they still had high expectations for their children and nephews.
“You do not have to fall in with their expectations each and every time, Willow. Sometimes, you can say ‘no’.”
She made a sound of impatience. “No, I can’t. And the thing is, my stepmother bloody lined up a date for me, for the weekend, and I really, really don’t want to spend the whole time being thrown together with whichever guy she thinks is an advantageous match for me.” Willow pulled a face. “Seriously, Francesco, this isn’t funny.”
“Well, what if you start to like whichever guy she’s got in mind for you?”
“I like Tom,” she said.
“But you’re not with Tom.”
“That’s a whole other story,” she said, closing her eyes on a wave of frustration. “I hope that…I hope we’re going to work things out. And in the meantime, I have this problem.”
“Because you don’t want to be set up with a stranger.”
“Or anyone,” she agreed. “So…I might have told a tiny white lie. About you and me. To my stepmother.”
Francesco kept his eyes on her as he sipped his drink. “You might have, or you did?”
She bit into her lip. “I did, if you want to be all technical about it.”
He made a gruff, half-laughing sound.
“Okay. What’s the lie?”
“I told her that we’re dating.”
Francesco’s laugh morphed into something else. “Are you kidding me?”
She felt the blood drain from her face.
“I know,” she said, shaking her head.
“Willow, tell me you’re kidding?”
“I know, I know. I just…it slipped out. I mean, she was badgering me, and making me feel like there must be something fundamentally wrong with me, that I’m still ‘sitting on the shelf’ at the grand old age of twenty five, and I happened to look out of the window and see this building, and think of you…and how you once said that if I ever needed anything, I should ask…”
“That was years ago,” he said, shaking his head.
“But you said it. You promised.”
His eyes narrow. “That, Willow, is a low blow.”
“Doesn’t that show you how desperate I am?”
He made a grunting noise.
“It’s just one weekend,” she said. “After that, I’ll tell them we broke up. No one who knows you, and your dating record, will be remotely surprised that we don’t make it as a couple.”
“I think there’s an insult to me in there somewhere.”
“It’s not meant to be an insult,” she promised. “It’s just a statement of fact. You’ve had a lot of girlfriends, and that’s totally fine, obviously.”
“Thank you very much for your approval,” he said, the words a little taut.
“I’m not doing this right,” she groaned. “I’m asking you for a favour, I shouldn’t be insulting you. It’s just…I’m desperate. When I told Meredith we were involved, she looked so glad, so proud, as if I’d just cured cancer or something,” she said with a disparaging shake of her head. “Nothing I ever do—have ever done—has ever made her look at me like that before.”
Francesco’s face was impossible to read, and she was glad. She didn’t want to see sympathy or judgement there. She just had to get this out.
“So…I need you to come with me, this weekend.” She relented quickly, at the tightening of his lips, the fear that he would just dismiss her request outright. “Even just for one of the dinners. It doesn’t have to be the whole time. Just something , to get them off my back about dating someone else. I need space and time to sort things out with Tom, and that I can’t do with them breathing down my neck about getting married to Lord Dumpety Doo or whoever.”
“I hear Lord Dumpety Doo is actually taken,” Francesco drawled.
“I’m serious,” Willow said, though she laughed a little, even as tears sprung to her eyes. “I need your help, Francesco…”