The Italian's Pregnant Mistress(2)By: Cathy Williams
Francesca felt the familiar flutter of disappointment, which she kept to herself.
‘What are your movements? Any chance that one of your shoots might coincide so you could be with me in the States?’ Did that have an air of pleading about it? He hoped not. Pleading was not his style. Nor, for that matter, was asking someone to accompany him on one of his business trips. Women had always been a background presence to his work life, but the thought of another week without her while he rushed all over the globe was not a thrilling prospect.
Francesca disentangled herself from him and switched on the kitchen light.
‘No chance,’ she said, with her back to him as she opened the fridge door and looked inside for something wholesome and quick. She had arrived at the apartment several hours before him and had had a chance to stock up on a bit of food. Still not looking at him, she now extracted some cheese and tomatoes.
‘Not that I wouldn’t love to, Angelo…’ She was staring into the bread bin, which was bulging with some delicious Italian bread.
‘Your work schedule is even more hectic than mine,’ he said, keeping his voice light. ‘I wish you would look at me when I’m talking to you.’
‘I can’t look at you and slice bread at the same time.’ She paused and turned to face him, though. ‘I really wish I could come with you, Angelo. I’d love to see New York with you, but you know you would be busy working anyway. We probably wouldn’t have much time together. And you’re right, my life is too hectic.’ She shrugged and smiled ruefully. ‘But then, I’m twenty-four. If I can’t cope with hectic now, when can I? Not to mention the small fact that I have to earn a living.’
‘Do you?’ He paused, letting the significance of his question fill the silent space between them. Then he strolled over to where she was busying herself with the bread and cheese and turned her round to face him. ‘You hardly lead a wildly extravagant lifestyle,’ he murmured, cupping her face with both his hands and bending down so that he could deliver one of his wickedly seductive kisses. When he finally drew back, that brief spurt of anger he had felt at her refusal to accompany him on his trip was replaced by the satisfaction of knowing that this woman was utterly his. He touched her and she melted, and that was something he found intensely pleasing.
‘I know you have your little apartment in Paris, but you rent that. So where does your vast fortune go?’
‘Vast fortune is a bit of an overstatement.’ The conversation was drifting into waters best left uncharted, and she eased herself out of his embrace. Tellingly, her body was still tingling in response to his kiss.
‘Is it? I thought models only got out of bed if they were guaranteed shockingly large amounts for the effort…’
She had a laugh that was infectious. It had been one of the first things Angelo had noticed about her. Standing in her little crowd of head turners, that rich, warm laughter had singled her out as the only one in touch with reality, with a sense of humour. And when she laughed she always tilted her head back slightly so that her long, straight dark hair rippled almost down to her waist. He caught her hair in his hands and curled his fingers through the silky mass.
‘Are you telling me that I’m wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’m telling you that you’re a dinosaur when it comes to snippets of information like that.’
‘I’m thirty-four. A sensitive age. A man could be offended by a description like that…’ He kissed the side of her neck, trailing his mouth along her shoulder blades while his free hand moved to caress one full breast.
Francesca could feel him hard against her and she moaned softly. When he lifted her fingers and began licking the taste of tomato and cheese from them, her moans became louder.
Not fair! How did he possess the ability to make her dissolve like this?
‘You taste good.’ He made appreciative noises that sent her senses reeling. ‘Course, I can think of other places that would taste good as well, apart from your fingers. My appetite at this moment extends beyond bread, cheese and tomato…’