He had never expected it to last as long as it had. She knew that, even though he had never said as much to her. He was a high-profile money earner who moved in high-profile circles and, as such, his reputation had preceded him.
He had moved through women like a connoisseur sampling fine wines, but only a glass at a time. A heartbreaker, one of her catwalk companions had confided. Francesca couldn't imagine ever having her heart broken, but she had still shied away from him, and even when they had become an item it had never crossed her mind that over a year later they would still be seeing one another.
She coiled her hands around his neck and returned the kiss with equal tenderness.
'Have I told you how sexy you are?'
'A number of times,' she whispered, dropping her head back, knowing that he would be unable to resist her breasts pushing against him.
Angelo propelled her towards the small, heavy kitchen table which was covered in a cloth of vibrant, swirling patterns and she lay back on to it, smiling drowsily with the anticipation of pleasure. She wondered whether whoever had fashioned this table would now approve of the unconventional use to which it was being put.
When he leaned over her and began tracing the outline of her nipple with his tongue, she had to fight the urge to maintain her control. They had already made love twice since he had entered the apartment a few hours ago, but she still wanted him now as intensely as she had when he had walked through that door into her arms.
She wanted him to smother her breasts with his mouth, and he did. And she wanted him to find other parts of her to explore, and he did, and she squirmed with pleasure when he did that.
It was still amazing for her to think that no man had ever done that act of intimacy with her before him, that her body had been embalmed in ice until he had come along and set it ablaze.
When he finally thrust into her she was on the edge of climaxing and they both came with a shudder that seemed to last for ever.
He was perspiring as he helped her sit up, just as she was.
'Better than a sandwich?' he teased, sweeping her hair away from her face and clasping it behind her neck.
'Much, much better than any sandwich and especially mine.' It was a running joke between them that her culinary skills were hopeless. He frequently told her that she would have to start learning how to cook pasta and her reply was always that a restaurant would do it better so why bother to try?
One day, she would solemnly promise, she would become a cordon bleu cook and then he would never be able to joke about her cooking skills again.
'But you're still hungry … hmm?'
'Fancy making me a sandwich?' she asked.
'What do I get in return?'
'What would you like?'
You in New York with me. You everywhere with me.
'We have something to eat and then I shall bathe you … ' As in every other area of his life, when Angelo prepared something to eat he did it with style. The legacy of having an Italian father, he told her as he grated mozzarella cheese over the bread, added a touch of mustard and turned the grill on. An Italian father, an Irish mother and a childhood in downtown Chicago.
'I see the Italian,' Francesca mused, watching him as he strolled naked through the kitchen, utterly at home with his nudity. 'But where's the Irish?' He didn't often talk about his past, only dropping the odd snippet here and there, and she was hungry for more information.
'Would you have preferred me with red hair and freckles?' He handed her a plate and perched on the stool next to her.
'It might have been very fetching.' She looked at his raven-black hair, eyes almost as dark, and the harsh, angular features that spoke of his Italian ancestry. The treasured son. His parents had longed for a sprawling family and instead had had to suffice with just the one child. Now they were waiting for grandchildren. He had told her that ages ago, when she had asked him why he was still a bachelor. He was going to live it up, he had told her, and then settle down and, when he did, it would be for ever. He didn't believe in divorce.
'And would you have fallen for that very fetching look?' he asked softly, and Francesca hurriedly looked away.
Falling? No! They had never spoken about falling anywhere, had never once mentioned the word love.
'Red hair can be a bit tricky for a man to pull off,' she said, skirting around his question. 'You might have been bullied at school … ' A less likely scenario she would have been hard pressed to imagine.
'You think so?' Angelo shot her a devilishly amused look from under his lashes. 'Can you imagine me being bullied?'
'No,' she said honestly. 'You're too scary.'
'You find me scary?'
'I don't, but I can see why some people might.'
'Why is that?' He caught the tail-end of her sandwich and took a bite from it.
'Don't tell me you don't intimidate people sometimes, Angelo. When you're doing one of these great deals of yours? When you're out to win something and someone's standing in your way?'
'I prefer to call it persuasion with intent.' He grinned at her. Extraordinary to imagine the freedoms she took with him. She had trampled all over his boundaries from the very start and she still did it, and he didn't care. That was the extraordinary thing. He had become cavalier with his cherished privacy and he didn't mind.
He thought about later, lying in bed, telling her what he had to tell her, picturing her face.
'Is that right?' Francesca said dryly. 'And I call eating this very fattening bread and cheese flirting with a few calories. When I put on vast amounts of weight and can no longer do my job, I shall blame you.' She stood up and headed towards the bathroom, chatting to him as she walked, knowing that he would be grinning as he looked at her from behind, appreciating every line of her body, which he refused to accept was anything but perfect.
In her quiet moments, she often thought of the price she had paid for her so-called perfection. Small lies she had told, cowardly lies that told him things she knew he wanted to hear, little images built up of her over time that bore no resemblance to the unsavoury truth. How had all those little lies become an avalanche? Francesca tried never to think about it. The temporary nature of their relationship made it easy.
'You'll have to give it up one day,' he said suddenly.
'Where did that come from?' Francesca turned to him, leaning lightly against the bathroom door, and raised her eyebrows in a question.
'A model's life is a short one by its very nature,' Angelo pointed out, pausing as he brushed past her to plant a quick kiss on her parted mouth. 'You know what they say about beauty. Here today, gone tomorrow.'
'You do know how to make a girl feel old.'
'And what will you do then?' He sat on the edge of the big free-standing bath with its clawed feet and switched on the taps, testing the water with his hands until the temperature was just right, before tipping in a liberal amount of bath foam.
The smile faded from her lips. For the first time since she had met him, he seemed different today. His mood was odd, swinging from teasing to gravity in the space of seconds, and it was disconcerting. Was she supposed to answer his question seriously? Or was she misreading him? Maybe he was tired. Exhaustion could do weird things and, face it, he had been on several long-haul flights over the past few weeks, barely leaving himself sufficient time to draw breath in between.
'Oh, I don't know,' she answered lightly, ignoring the shift in atmosphere. 'Maybe I'll start a new line of Francesca Hayley cosmetics. Isn't that what all ex-models do? Or I could go into acting … '
'Acting? I would never allow it.'
'I didn't realise that you would have a say.' She folded her arms and looked at him steadily, sure now that something was going on but uncertain as to what it could be.
'You're my woman. Of course I would have a say.'
'Whoa! All that arrogance! Your Italian ancestry is showing again.'
'You love it. Admit it.'
Love. There it went again. Francesca stepped into the bathroom and pretended to concentrate on the water, bending over to swirl her hand through it. 'Anyway, it's a crazy thought,' she said. 'I would never go into acting. I can't think of anything worse. All that falseness.' She shuddered and then it struck her that she was the last person who had any right to look down on people who spent their lives pretending. 'Tell me what you're working on in New York,' she said, changing the subject. 'Still that deal to buy property in Greenwich Village?'
'Wrapped that one up. I'm working on a joint venture with people in New York and London.' He switched off the taps and seemed to be lost in thought as he stared down at the water.
'Top secret deal?' Francesca teased, stepping into the bath and lying back with her eyes closed. 'Honestly, Angelo, I've told you before, only undercover secret agents have a right to be secretive about what they do.'