The Italian's Pregnant Mistress(14)

Angelo had gritted his teeth and sat through the tirade. He had felt  sorry for her, in a curiously detached way, but had been implacable in  his decision and he knew that his implacability had fuelled her anger,  as had his observation that she would find someone far more suitable as a  husband in time.

He had been relieved when she had finally stormed out of his apartment,  after informing him that she would be keeping the vastly expensive  diamond engagement ring and that he could cover the costs of every  single thing that could not be returned. It had seemed a very small  price to pay, in his opinion.

The only thing he had kept from her had been the reason why he had  decided not to go through with the marriage. That would have been  honesty stretched to the point of needless cruelty, so he had mentioned  nothing of his previous relationship with their caterer and had greeted  accusations of infidelity in complete silence.

'Do you mean,' Francesca was saying as she struggled to divest herself  of the idea that they were on a date and focus on the notion that he  might just want to prove to himself that she could cook, 'that you're  testing my skills? For the big day? Just in case I secretly use cook-in  sauces in my recipes? I don't, as it happens.'

'I'm glad to hear it. So you won't mind proving it to me. My car's just  there so we'll drive to the nearest supermarket. Where is it?'

'I usually get my fresh meat and fish directly from source,' Francesca  said with a touch of pride. 'And the meat is always organic.'

'Well, I think that just for tonight we will do away with the fish and  meat markets and just take what we can get at the supermarket counters. I  can take or leave the organic business.'

'That's not a very twenty-first century response,' Francesca said,  slipping into the passenger seat and watching her house disappear with a  certain amount of foreboding.

'Well, maybe I am not a very twenty-first century man.' He shifted down a  gear at the traffic lights and glanced sideways at her. She was making a  point of not looking at him but she would look at him eventually. There  was no rush. He felt the same warm satisfaction spread through him as  he had felt earlier on in the week, when he had made the decision to  break off his engagement and to do what his gut instincts had been  telling him he needed to do from the very first time he had set eyes on  her in that restaurant in Covent Garden. He was no twenty-first century  man.                       
       
           



       

Telling himself that he was civilised enough to restrict his responses  to a casual shrug over an unfortunate episode in his past had been a  vast misjudgement of his own character. His relationship with her had  never, for him, been casual enough to warrant such indifference.

Revenge was an ugly notion, and no, he was not out to get revenge. He  needed to remove her from his system and the only way he could achieve  that, he had realised in one of his brutally honest moments, would be to  have her once again. The fact that she was involved with someone else  was an irritating technicality. As far as he was concerned, she and Jack  were a ridiculous and improbable match and he would be doing her a  favour by divesting her of that particular relationship.

The thought that Jack might once have been a rival on the side would make it all the sweeter.

He would have her and then, when it suited him and suit him it would, he  would dismiss her but at least she would cease to haunt him. He would  not consider her feelings because, as she would be the first to agree,  surely, wasn't all fair in love and war?

The wheel, at last, would turn full circle and it would be a thoroughly  enjoyable process. Better still, he would be the one steering it.

'What sort of meal do you have in mind?' Francesca asked, breaking into  his pleasurable train of thought, and he shot her a brief glance.

'Something interesting involving fish and chicken,' he said. 'You're the expert. What would you advise?'

Francesca looked at him suspiciously. He seemed in remarkably high spirits considering she was the one in the passenger seat.

'I could do prawns in garlic for starters. It's pretty simple and quick  to do. And then, I suppose, chicken with green olives and we could have  that with fresh pasta. I do know how to make my own pasta but I won't  have the time to do that.'

Maybe another day, he was inclined to say.

'Do you limit yourself to Italian cooking in your catering?' he asked,  slowing down as they approached the supermarket on their left.

'Why are you being so nice to me, Angelo?'

'So suspicious, Francesca. I wouldn't want to rub you up the wrong way  and discover that the secret ingredient in my food was a touch of  arsenic, would I?'

Francesca felt her mouth twitch in amusement but there was no way that  she was going to indulge his sense of humour. She was suspicious and she  had every right to be in view of his attitude towards her since they  had met again. She had a sudden, vivid memory of the laughter they used  to share. His wit had always extended beyond amusing surface charm. He  could be funny enough to have her holding her sides. She shut the door  firmly on that memory.

'I'm fresh out of arsenic, as it happens, and I don't believe it's stocked in supermarkets.'

Angelo grinned and manoeuvred his car into one of the free parking  spaces. 'So I'm safe for now. Good. Life is … sweet at the moment. I  wouldn't-' he killed the engine and turned to her '-want to give it up  just yet.'

Francesca suddenly realised just how small the confines of his car were and she felt a lick of nervousness.

'You haven't answered my question. Why are you being so nice?'

'Let's just say … ' his black eyes locked on hers ' … that I have discovered  all sorts of challenges where there were none before. A very exciting  prospect to a jaded soul like mine.' He smiled slowly and Francesca,  suddenly drowning in nectar, opened her car door and shot out.

Challenges? What challenges? Something to do with work, she supposed. He  had once told her that the compulsion to work was driven not for love  of money, or status, or power, but for the excitement of closing a  difficult deal.

If not work, then maybe he was beginning to truly appreciate the  anticipation of his impending marriage and the challenges that would  inevitably offer.

It didn't matter. She didn't want to waste time unravelling his  enigmatic statement. What she wanted was to cook him his meal, prove  herself capable of the job they had given her and get him out of her  house.





CHAPTER FIVE




AS PLANS went it was fine but its execution got off to a grindingly slow  start. Francesca, having had the trolley manoeuvred out of her grasp,  was inclined to circumnavigate the Saturday evening crowds and do the  equivalent of a trolley dash. She very rarely browsed in supermarkets.  She came with a long list, usually shopped during antisocial hours and  always bought what had to be bought in record time.

Angelo, on the other hand, appeared to be in no rush. The first five  minutes found him thumbing through the CDs on sale just beyond the rows  of magazines by the huge opening doors.                       
       
           



       

He could feel her steaming behind him and let his fingers travel along  the rack of CDs, pulling out another one and reading the index of songs  at super slow speed.

'What,' he asked, turning to her, 'do you think of this one? I live over  here now, but regrettably I have not managed to get into the music.' He  handed her the CD and watched as she impatiently scanned it.

'Have you any intention of buying a CD?' Francesca asked. 'I thought we  came in here to buy food so that I could cook you a meal and prove that  I'm capable of meeting your standards.' She handed him back the CD and  folded her arms.

Dressed casually, she was even more of a knockout than in the neatly  tailored suits he had seen her in previously. Her jeans were faded to  the palest of blues and fitted her like a second skin, flaring slightly  at the bottom, revealing slender feet tucked into workmanlike sandals  that would have looked ungainly on any other woman. Models, even  ex-models, were built to be put into anything and still look good.  Francesca was no exception. Where she differed was that she carried just  sufficient weight to look feminine, even though her expression now was  anything but.

Undeterred, Angelo surveyed her blandly, although he could feel the  adrenaline pumping through him at the thought of his seduction and its  inevitable success. A part of him marvelled at the fact that less than a  week previously he had been engaged to be married to someone else. Of  course, he had always known that he had chosen Georgina because of her  credentials, had known that his fondness for her had never extended to  love, had willingly accepted that her own feelings for him had been  wrapped up in the tremendous ego boost of having landed someone as  eminently eligible as he was … but, amazingly, he had given her no more  than a passing thought since he had broken off their engagement.