Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince

She looked away, knowing she would have to pull herself together if the evening was to fulfil its purpose as a business rather than a social occasion. ‘Matters of State?’ she repeated firmly, determined not to let him off the hook.

She was rewarded with a low, sexy laugh that revealed nothing except for the fact that she was fooling herself if she imagined that she would be able to overlook the power of his charm for one single moment.

At a small, private lift, tucked away out of sight from the main lobby, she watched as he keyed in a series of numbers. Heavy doors slid silently open and then sealed them inside a plush, mirrored interior. There was even a small upholstered seat in the corner should you require it, Emily noted with interest, and apart from the emergency intercom a telephone for those urgent calls between floors. The only users of this exclusive space would be pretty exclusive themselves, she deduced with a thoughtful stare at her companion.

‘You didn’t answer my question yet,’ she prompted.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a light supper to be delivered to us later.’

He might have said it pleasantly enough, but the effect was offset by a flinty stare that suggested that he alone would direct the course of their conversation.

Alessandro knew he was in for a rocky ride the moment he saw the defensive shields go up in Emily’s eyes. And no wonder she thought him harsh. He was struggling to reclaim control of a situation that was slipping away from him as fast and as comprehensively as sand through a sieve. Logically, all he had to do was bring her to the point where she would sign the contract drawn up by his lawyers, but she had turned everything on its head, this woman he felt such a crazy compulsion to woo.

‘Rather than go out to eat I thought it better that we devote ourselves entirely to the matter in hand,’ he said, hoping to placate her. The last thing he wanted was to explain what this was about in a lift!

‘You said something about matters of State earlier,’ Emily pressed doggedly, ‘and, if you remember, I asked—’

Words had always been the most effective weapon in her armoury, but where Alessandro Bussoni Ferara was concerned they seemed utterly ineffectual. Emily was starting to seethe with exasperation.

‘So, what’s this?’

In the split second between her lunge to grab his wrist and Alessandro’s reaction to it Emily knew she had made her biggest mistake. What on earth was she doing, assaulting a strange man in a lift, snatching hold of him, grabbing on tight to the gold signet ring on his little finger? And why was he allowing her to hang on to him, even though he was twice her size and could have moved away from her in an instant? Worse still, the flesh beneath her sensitive fingertips felt warm and smooth and supple—She blinked, and recovered herself fast, removing her hand self-consciously from his fist where it had somehow become entangled.

‘It’s my family crest,’ he volunteered evenly. ‘Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

No! Not nearly! ‘Your crest?’ she said curiously.

His whip-fast retaliation left Emily with no time to hide the cufflinks on her own white tailored shirtsleeves.

‘Shall we start with your explanation for these?’ he countered smoothly, bringing her wrist up.

The sheer power in his grip was impossible to resist. But Emily found she didn’t want to, and incredibly, was softening. ‘That’s my—’

‘Yes?’ he pressed remorselessly.

‘My cufflinks are engraved with the crest of my Inn of Court,’ she admitted, averting her face.

‘Ah,’ he murmured, as if pleased to hear his suspicions confirmed. ‘Barrister?’

Emily nodded tensely. ‘And you?’

Now it all made sense, Alessandro realised—the tasselled sack to hold her robes and wig, the pull-along airline case to transport her briefs, along with all the other papers she would have to carry around…the severe cut of the restrained outfit she wore to court beneath her gown hanging up in her dressing room at the hotel while she sang that night, the only nod to feminine sexuality displayed in the power heels of her plain black court shoes—

‘This is our floor,’ he said as the lift slowed.

Another evasion! Controlling herself with difficulty, Emily hunted for something…anything…to derail her mounting irritation—unfortunately, the first thing she hit upon was how well the light, floral perfume she had chosen to wear mingled with Alessandro’s much warmer scent of sandalwood and spice, and that didn’t help at all! As the lift doors opened she sprang to attention, noticing that he stood well back to let her pass. Now she registered disappointment. Disappointment that he didn’t yank her straight back inside the intimate lift space, close the doors and make it stop somewhere between floors…for a very long time indeed.

‘Emily? Did you hear me?’

Refocusing fast, she saw that he had already opened the arched mahogany double doors to his suite and was beckoning her inside.

‘I’m sorry—’

‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘would you care for a glass of champagne?’

‘Oh, no, thank you. Orange juice will be fine until we conclude our business.’

‘And then champagne?’

‘I didn’t say that, Signor Bussoni—’

‘Alessandro.’

‘Alessandro,’ Emily conceded. ‘And when our business is concluded I will be leaving.’

‘Whatever you like,’ he agreed evenly. ‘I’ve no wish to tangle with lawyers in my free time.’

The throwaway line ran a second bolt of disappointment through her. She would have to be under anaesthetic not to register the fact that Alessandro Bussoni was a hugely desirable male. It was time to tighten the bolts on her chastity belt, Emily told herself firmly, if she had a hope in hell of being ready for what promised to be a tough round of business negotiations.

And she would deal with the lazy appraisal he was giving her now how, exactly?

She only realised how tense she had become when Alessandro turned away to pour them both a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and each of her muscles unclenched in turn. Keep it cool, Emily warned herself silently. Cool and impersonal. It’s only business after all…

CHAPTER THREE

LEAVING her handbag on the pale, grey-veined surface of a marble-topped console table, Emily dragged in a deep, steadying breath as she took in her surroundings.

The hotel room was decorated in English country house style, but at its most extreme, its most sumptuous: a symphony of silks, cashmere, damask and print. And Alessandro’s accommodation wasn’t just larger than the usual suite, it was positively palatial. In fact, Emily guessed the whole of her parents’ house would fit comfortably into the elegant drawing room where they were now holding their conversation—a room that at a rough estimate she judged to be around forty feet in length.

‘Not very cosy, is it?’

His voice startled her, even though it was pitched at little more than a murmur.

‘Sorry?’ she said, turning around.

‘This room,’ Alessandro said, holding her gaze as he carried the juice over to her.

‘It’s very—’

‘Yes?’ he said, noticing how studiously she avoided touching his hand as he passed her the crystal glass.

‘Well…’ Emily chose her words carefully. She didn’t want to cause offence—maybe he loved this style. ‘It tries very hard—’

‘—to condense all the flavours of your country into a single room in order to impress the well-heeled tourist?’ he supplied, looking at her with amusement over the top of his glass.

‘Well, yes,’ Emily said, discovering that a smile had edged on to her own lips. ‘How did you guess? That’s my opinion exactly.’ Nerves were making her facial muscles capricious, unpredictable…and somehow she found herself smiling up at him again.

‘Let’s hold our meeting somewhere more…snug,’ Alessandro suggested. ‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ he said, shooting her a wolfish grin that failed entirely if it was meant to reassure her. Thrusting a thumb through the belt-loop of his black trousers, he slouched comfortably on one hip to put his glass down on the table. ‘My bedroom can hardly be described as snug—it’s almost as large as this room. Fortunately there are two bedrooms, and I’ve had the smaller of the two turned into an office for the duration of my stay.’

‘I see,’ Emily said, watching him extract some documents from the folder on the table and wondering why all she could register was how tanned, and very capable his hands were—

‘Daydreaming again, Emily?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘And I beg you to pay attention when I ask you if you would care to join me in my office—so that our meeting can begin.’

His tone was amused—tolerant. And her expression must have been blank and dreamy, Emily realised, hurriedly adopting an alert look.

‘Shall I lead the way?’

Retrieving her handbag, Emily hurried after him, but as he opened the door to the next room, and stopped beside it to let her pass, she juddered to a halt. The remaining space inside the doorframe was small…too small.

The difference in size between them seemed huge, suddenly, though it was his aura of confident masculinity that was his most alluring feature, Emily thought as she skirted past him. ‘Very impressive,’ she managed huskily, pretending interest in all the high-tech gizmos assembled for his use in the skilfully converted bedroom.

‘Why don’t you sit over there?’ he suggested, pointing towards a leather button-backed seat to one side of a huge mahogany desk.

Perching primly on the edge, Emily watched in fascination as Alessandro sat or rather sprawled on his own chair with all the innate elegance of a lean and hungry tiger.

‘Would you care to open the discussion?’ he invited.

Folding her hands neatly in her lap, Emily attempted to sweep her mind clear of anything but the facts. ‘Well, as you know, I’m here to secure the best possible deal for my sister’s band—’

‘For your sister, primarily?’

‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

‘Miranda needs the money a recording contract will bring her in order to buy a rather special violin and to complete her training, is that correct?’

‘That’s putting it rather crudely.’

‘How else would you put it, Emily? What I want to know is, what’s in it for me?’

‘Surely that was self-evident when you saw the band perform. They’re excellent—’

‘Without you?’ he cut in abruptly. ‘How do I know what they’ll be like? What if I said I’d sign the band if you remained as lead singer?’

‘I’m afraid my obligations at work would not permit—’

‘Ah, yes,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘I’ll come to that later. But for now let’s consider your proposal regarding the recording contract for your sister. How does she intend to fulfil both her commitment to the record company and to her tutor at the music conservatoire?’

‘I’m here to ensure that whatever contract she signs allows her to do both—for the first year at least.’

‘And then she will drop the band?’ Alessandro suggested shrewdly.

‘She will fulfil all her contractual obligations,’ Emily stated firmly. ‘I can assure you of that.’

‘As well as put in the necessary practice hours to become a top-class international soloist? Somehow I doubt it,’ he said, embroidering the comment with a slanting, sceptical look.

‘You clearly have no experience of what it’s like to strive to achieve something so far out of reach,’ Emily said, overruling her cautious professional persona in defence of her sister, ‘that most people would give up before they had even started.’

‘Perhaps you’re right—’

‘Many artistes are forced to take other jobs to pay their way through college,’ she continued passionately, barely registering Alessandro’s silent nod of agreement.

‘Not just musicians or artistes—’

But Emily was too far down the road either to notice his comment or to hold back. ‘You’re making assumptions that have no grounds in fact,’ she flung at him accusingly.

‘And you’re not even listening to me,’ Alessandro replied evenly, ‘so how do you know what I think?’

‘You’ve already decided she can’t handle both commitments,’ Emily said, realising she hadn’t felt this unsteady since delivering her first seminar as a rookie law student. ‘Right now, Miranda’s not feeling well. But as soon as she’s feeling better I know she’ll do everything she says she will.’

‘You say—’

‘Yes, I say,’ Emily said heatedly. ‘I know my sister better than you…better than anyone—’ She broke off, suddenly aware that all the professional expertise in the world was of no use to her while her emotions were engaged to this extent.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Alessandro agreed quietly, showing no sign of following her down the same turbulent path. ‘But why on earth choose a band as a way of making money? Why not find it some other way?’

Emily made an impatient gesture as she shook her head at him. ‘Because she’s a musician, Alessandro. That’s what she does.’

‘A cabaret singer?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

As he shrugged, Emily guessed every stereotypical piece of nonsense that had ever been conceived around nightclub singers was swirling through his brain.

‘Miranda makes an honest living,’ she said defensively. ‘Would you rather she gave it up…gave up all her ambitions…just to satisfy the prejudice of misguided individuals?’

Alessandro confined himself to a lengthy stare of good-humoured tolerance, and then held up his hands when a knock came at the door just as Emily was getting into her stride. ‘Excuse me, Emily. I won’t be a moment.’

As Alessandro left her Emily felt a warning prickle start behind her eyes. No one had ever made her lose her temper like this before…not once. She hadn’t ever come close. Plunging her hand into her handbag, she dug around for some tissues, then rammed them away out of sight again when he came back.

‘Come on, Emily,’ he said, staying by the door. ‘Supper’s arrived.’

‘I think I’d better go.’ She resorted to hiding her face in a hastily contrived search for the door keys in her handbag.

‘After supper,’ Alessandro insisted as he held out his hand to her.

Was she meant to take it? Emily wondered as she stared up at him in surprise.

‘Come,’ he repeated patiently.

It was tempting. Maybe supper would give her a chance to relax, regroup, gather what remained of her scattered wits. She was here for Miranda, wasn’t she? And the job she had come to do wasn’t nearly finished. Eating was harmless…civilised. Lots of deals were cut over power breakfasts and business lunches; she’d done it herself on numerous occasions.

Romantic suppers?

Muffling the tiny voice of reason in her head, Emily convinced herself that the meal was nothing more than a brief interlude, a welcome break that would give her the chance to get her professional head screwed on ready for the discussions to come. But when she walked back into the first room she saw that a great deal more than a light snack awaited her.

‘When you said supper, I imagined…’ Her voice tailed off as she surveyed the incredible feast that had been laid out for them along the whole length of a highly polished mahogany table.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Alessandro demanded, cruising along the table, grazing as he went. ‘I know I am.’

She tried not to notice the way he seemed to be making love with his mouth to a chocolate-tipped strawberry.

‘You can eat what you want when you want,’ he said, sucking off the last scrap of chocolate with relish. ‘And we can keep on talking while you do,’ he added, his curving half-smile reaching right through her armour-plated reserve to stroke each erotic zone in turn. ‘Would you like me to make a few suggestions?’

Withdrawing the plundered stalk from between his strong white teeth, he deposited it neatly on a side-plate.

Emily forced her mouth shut, but kept right on staring at him.

‘Food?’ Alessandro offered with an innocent shrug as he cocked his head to one side to look at her.

‘That’s fine, I can manage,’ Emily said, almost snatching one of the white porcelain plates from his hands.

‘Shrimp, signorina?’

‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’

The look he gave her sent a flame of awareness licking through every inch of her body.

‘Relax, Emily. I deliver what I promise—just a light snack, in this instance.’

‘I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you,’ Emily retorted, concentrating on making her selection from the platters of delicious-looking salads…a selection she was making with unaccustomed clumsiness, thanks to the route her thoughts were taking.

Was it her fault that those beautifully sculpted lips provided a rather different example of a tasty snack…or that stubble-darkened jaw? Not to mention the expanse of hard chest she supposed must reside beneath his superior-quality jacket and shirt—and, talking of superior quality, what about the muscle-banded stomach concealed beneath that slim black leather belt? Distractedly, she spilled half a bowl of coleslaw on top of the mountain of food she seemed to have absent-mindedly collected on her plate.

‘I don’t think the pudding will fit,’ Alessandro pointed out, removing a serving spoon holding a heaped portion of sherry trifle from her hand.

‘Of c-course not,’ Emily stammered, while the erotic mind games kept right on playing—ignoring her most strenuous efforts to put all thoughts of whipped cream and tanned torsos out of bounds.

When later she found herself drawn towards a tower of honey-coloured choux balls drizzled with chocolate, he asked, ‘Do you like chocolate, Emily?’

‘I love it. Why?’ she said suspiciously.

Alessandro shrugged as he piled some profiteroles onto a plate, adding some extra chocolate sauce and pouring cream for her. ‘We have a chocolate festival in Ferara every year; free chocolate is handed out all over the city. We even have a chocolate museum—you should make time to see it.’ As he handed her the plate his amused golden gaze scanned her face. ‘What do you say?’

‘Thank you.’ Was she accepting an invitation to consume a plate of delectable pudding, or something rather more?

‘Imagine this, Emily—a thousand kilos of delicious chocolate sculpted into a work of art before your very eyes; artists coming from all over Europe to compete for a prize for the best design—’

He turned to pour them both a steaming cup of strong dark coffee from an elegant silver pot.

‘Clean sheets are placed underneath each block so that the onlookers can help themselves to slivers as they watch—’ He stopped, and stared straight into her eyes, his expressive mouth tugging up in a grin. ‘Well?’

Emily’s pulse-rate doubled. ‘No cream, no sugar,’ she blurted, certain he intended to provoke her—a chocolate festival, for goodness’ sake!’

Murmuring her thanks as he pressed the coffee cup into her hand, she glanced up, only to encounter a dangerous gaze alive with laughter. She was right to be wary, she realised, looking away fast.

But thankfully this was his final sally, and he allowed her to finish her meal in peace. When they returned to his luxurious bedroom-turned-office, he kept the lights soothing and low as he slipped a CD into the music centre.

Emily smiled. Brahms, she realised, surprised he had remembered her mother mentioning Miranda’s competition piece.

He poured champagne and brought two crystal flutes across before settling himself down on the opposite sofa.

‘Better?’ he murmured, watching her drink. ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ he added, loosening a couple more buttons at the neck of his shirt.

‘Not at all,’ Emily said, forgetting her pledge to keep champagne celebrations until later as she watched him ease up from the chair to slip off a jacket lined with crimson silk. Freeing a pair of heavy gold cufflinks from his shirt, he dropped them onto the table and rolled up his sleeves to reveal powerful forearms shaded with dark hair. There couldn’t have been a more striking contrast to the type of pasty-faced executive she was accustomed to dealing with.

‘So, Emily,’ he challenged, eyes glinting as he caught her staring at him. ‘Do you still think I’m one of those misguided individuals you referred to?’

For his opinion of cabaret singers, yes; where everything else was concerned—

‘I take it from your expression that you do.’

His smile had vanished.

‘Let’s get one thing straight between us before we go any further. I don’t give a damn what people do, as long as they’re not hurting anyone else in the process. But I do care about motives—what makes people tick. What makes you tick, Emily?’

Racing to put her brain back in gear, the best she could manage was a few mangled sounds.

‘Barrister by day,’ he went on smoothly, ‘moonlighting as a cabaret singer by night. There’s no harm in that, if you can cope with the workload. And it’s even more to your credit that you were moonlighting to help your sister out of a fix. What is not to your credit, however, is the fact that you intended to deceive me. Why was that, Emily?’

‘I admit things got out of hand—’

The lame remark was rewarded by a cynical stare.

‘You really thought you could pull this off?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘What kind of a fool did you take me for?’

Emily’s face burned scarlet as she struggled with an apology. ‘I didn’t know you—I’m really sorry. I didn’t think—’

Alessandro held up his hands, silencing her. ‘As it happens, you’re not the only one who hasn’t been entirely straightforward.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Let’s consider this plan of yours first.’

‘My plan?’ It was clear he was on a mission to tease out her motives whilst taking care not to reveal any of his own, Emily realised.

‘Amongst your misconceptions is the notion that your sister’s crazy scheme is actually going to work.’

‘Will you help her or not?’

‘Without my co-operation your sister will never play the instrument she has set her heart upon.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emily said anxiously, finding it impossible to sit down a moment longer.

Stretching his arms out across the back of the sofa, Alessandro tipped his head to look at her. ‘Why don’t you sit down again, Emily?’ he suggested calmly. ‘You do want to help your sister, don’t you? You do want her to be able to play that violin she saw in the instrument maker’s shop near the castle in Heidelberg?’

Emily could feel the blood draining out of her face as she stared at him. ‘How do you know about that?’ she said in a whisper.

‘I make it my business to know everything relevant to a case before I enter into any negotiation,’ he said steadily. ‘I never leave anything to chance.’

Emily’s professional pride might have suffered a direct hit, but the only thing that mattered was Miranda’s future…But what was Alessandro Bussoni really after? Why had he gone to so much trouble? And how did he come to have such a hold over a German violin maker?

‘The violin in Heidelberg—’ she began, but her voice faltered as she remembered Miranda playing the beautiful old instrument. ‘What did you mean when you said that my sister might never get to play it?’

‘Without my co-operation,’ Alessandro reminded her, his expression masked in shade.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sit down again, Emily. Please.’

‘I think you owe me an explanation first.’

‘The particular instrument you refer to is a museum piece almost beyond price. It was being displayed by one of today’s most celebrated instrument makers—’

‘Was being displayed?’ Emily asked. ‘Why are you talking about it in the past tense?’

‘Because it’s no longer there,’ he said evenly.

‘You mean it’s gone back to the museum?’ Relief and regret merged in the question.

‘Not exactly.’

‘What, then?’ Her look demanded he answer her fully this time.

But Alessandro still said nothing, and just stared at some point over her left shoulder.