Page 3 of Unveiled As The Italian's Bride
Antonio leant back in the chair, closed his eyes and smiled.
‘Agreed...’
Kate was not expecting Dante to return for at least another three days. He had gone to Venice to see his uncle and would then be flying to New York on business.
Could she manage?
It had been one of those polite questions not in search of an answer, because she was very much used to managing in his absence. Wasn’t she? She had smiled back with equal politeness and told him that of course she could manage.
She had now been working for him for over two years and she would have staked her life that she knew his eight-year-old daughter, Angelina, a darn sight better than he knew her himself because he was so seldom around.
He swept in when work allowed him and spent some quality time with his daughter—which usually took the form of collecting her from her prestigious day school in Milan and treating her to a mega-expensive meal out somewhere before depositing her back at home base, job done.
At least twice a month, he had a formal briefing with Kate for updates on Angelina’s schooling. Kate had no idea how he formatted the school holidays, when she was released from duties, free to do as she wished. But, from everything her little charge had told her, he just swapped one nanny for another—Kate, who was there for most of the year, and her replacement, for when she disappeared for the very generous holidays she’d been given as part of her package.
Angelina adored him. She clung to those little moments together and held them close like treasures. The year before, he had attended her nativity play and she had been unspeakably excited for him to be in the audience.
Yet, from Kate’s point of view, he was cold, distant and far too absent from his daughter’s life.
He was also way more good-looking than he had any right to be, and so eye-wateringly rich and crazily sophisticated that he always managed to make her feel self-conscious and deeply uncomfortable.
But every single criticism of the man was overshadowed by the handsome amount she was paid at the end of the month. Not only were the perks of the job staggering but there was no way she could ever have earned what she had over the past two years anywhere else in the world.
And she needed the money.
Still...
It was a little after eight in the evening. Kate was curled up on the sofa in the sitting area—just part of her suite of rooms in his vast mansion on the outskirts of Milan—and she wasn’t expecting him back. She picked up her mobile, stomach clenching as she heard his accented, deep drawl down the end of the line, politely asking her whether it was too late for him to have a word with her.
‘I—where?’ Kate was confused. ‘I thought you were—um—in New York...’
‘It’s unlikely I would be asking you to meet me if I were in New York. I’m in the kitchen. I’ve just arrived back in Milan.’
‘Right.’
‘I take it that Angelina is asleep? No, no need to answer that. I’ll find out how her day has been when I see you. Fifteen minutes? Will that work for you?’
‘Of course.’
No time to change. Her day uniform was always reasonably formal, not because there had ever been any restrictions on what she wore but because she felt it was appropriate. Right now, cold as it was with Milan fully in the grip of winter, her uniform comprised woollen skirts, tights and sensible jumpers.
She glanced down at the faded jeans and the old rugby shirt given to her by her father ages ago—although where on earth he could possibly have got it was a mystery—and hurriedly tidied her hair, pausing as she passed the ornate, full-length mirror by the door.
Twenty-four years old, five-seven, slight in build, straight, shoulder-length brown hair, regular features... She wondered if this was why he always made her feel so self-conscious. He was so ridiculously good-looking and next to him she always managed to end up feeling as exotic as a sparrow.
When she’d first come to work for him, the house had felt bewilderingly large. After two years, she was familiar with its layout, though all the marble, columns and swirling staircases that separated the various wings never failed to impress her.
She hurried down to the kitchen but, when she reached the door, she paused and took a few deep breaths.
She was composed as she pushed open the door and padded into the kitchen, hovering indecisively for a few seconds, waiting for him to look at her. He was staring out of the window at a bleak November night and, when he finally turned, his dark eyes were opaque, his expression unreadable.
Kate did her utmost to control the rush of heat that engulfed her. Every time she saw him, it was as though she was seeing him for the first time, captivated all over again by his swarthy beauty. He was well over six feet, his hair midnight-black and cropped short, his aristocratic features sharply, exquisitely perfect, his body lean and muscled.
‘I hope I didn’t interfere with your evening.’ Dante nodded to a bottle of red on the marble kitchen counter but his dark eyes didn’t stray from her face. ‘Join me in a drink?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘You can sit, Kate, and there’s no need to look quite so nervous. You’re not about to be reprimanded for something you may have forgotten you’ve done. How is Angelina? How were the tests she took two days ago?’
