The Italian's Pregnant Mistress(5)

'I believe she's only been contacted by Miss Thompson. Your fiancée rang  to tell me that you will be conducting the interview in her place but  she probably won't recognise you, Mr Falcone, as no doubt she's  expecting Miss Thompson. Will that be a problem? I could always get in  touch and-'

'No, no. No problem, Maisie. Just bring me in those reports on the Downy  deal and buzz me at four or I shall forget and be in the doghouse with  Georgina.'

Maisie, plump, fifty and the very soul of discretion, didn't so much as  crack a smile at that fleeting conspiratorial tone in his voice, but,  not for the first time, she wondered why he was marrying Georgina  Thompson, who might carry the advantages of her well-connected family,  but who lacked substance and who could be very cutting when her fiancé's  back was turned and his ears were elsewhere. Not for a million pounds  would she have shared those thoughts with anyone.

It was a little after four-thirty by the time Angelo negotiated his way  to the American burger restaurant in Covent Garden which housed a long  sports bar along one side.

It was, as he'd expected, packed. There weren't many nooks and crannies  in Central London that weren't bursting at the seams with tourists in  the middle of July and the heat seemed to have driven a fair few of them  into the bar for something cold to drink.

Initial impressions were already beginning to leave a sour taste in his  mouth. He hadn't wanted to concur with Georgina's prophecy that the  woman was a rank amateur, but meeting in a busy burger bar in one of the  most crowded parts of London to discuss what would be for her a very  important job fell only just short of sheer stupidity. He imagined what  Georgina's reaction would have been, had it been her standing in an  uncomfortable queue by the door. She would have spun round on her very  expensive heels and left without further ado.

If Ellie Millband's choice of venue was anything to go by then he was  pretty sure that she had written herself out of the job but, having  trekked across London to get to the place and with a bit of time to kill  before he returned to his apartment to get ready for his dinner  engagement later, he dutifully enquired of the small Australian girl  clasping an armful of menus whether she could point him in the direction  of a Ms Millband. He was startled to be told that she was downstairs in  the restaurant.

'I'll make my way down myself,' he said, glancing at his watch.

'She's at the table to the back.'
                       
       
           



       
Angelo nodded and headed towards the wooden stairs leading down,  thankfully leaving behind most of the shopped-out hordes. It was cooler  as he descended the stairs. It was also much emptier. In fact, so empty  that only a handful of tables were occupied and, since three of them  were filled with families, there left very little doubt as to whom he  was going to see.

Yes, she was sitting right at the back, focusing intently on a small  Filofax in front of her. Shoulder-length dark hair was tucked neatly  behind her ears. Perfect ears. And, even though she wasn't looking at  him, he would have known that face anywhere. He had seen it in his  dreams for longer than he cared to remember and the mental image, even  after three years, still had the capacity to fill him with burning rage.

Every muscle in his body kick-started into gear. He had to steady  himself on the banister. Somewhere in his head, he knew that he should  just turn around and go back the way he had come, then tell Georgina  that Ms Ellie Millband was no longer a candidate for the job. His  decision would have been final. He would not even have had to provide an  explanation.

Common sense lasted the length of time it took him to blink, then he was  walking towards her. In a moment she would look up and see him, see the  man she had rejected three years ago. Anticipation of her shock made  his pulses race with sadistic pleasure.

The wheel always turned full circle, didn't it? Not in a million years  had he ever expected to see the woman again, but that hadn't stopped him  from seeing her image in his head. He had striven to wipe her out and,  to all intents and purposes, he had succeeded. His life had returned to  its driving routine of work interrupted with the occasional fling until  the passage of time had dictated that he needed to marry, to settle down  and have the family he wanted. But her image had still persisted,  creeping out to disturb the ruthless onward march of his career, always  leaving behind the bitter taste of impotent fury.

He realised he was clenching his fists by the time he made it to the  table. And still she hadn't looked up. Nor did he say a word. He just  stood there until she was aware of a shadow looming over her. Only then  did Francesca slowly raise her eyes.

The welcoming smile she had prepared for her prospective client faded  into a strangled gasp. Nothing had prepared her for this. What was  Angelo Falcone doing here? Was he really here? Standing in front of her?  She blinked a few times, willing the image away, but he was still  there, bigger, leaner and a whole lot more forbidding than she  remembered.

'Surprised to see me, Francesca? Sorry, it's now Ellie Millband, I believe?'

'What are you doing here?' Francesca whispered, fascinated by the  familiarity of his face and terrified at the harshness stamped on it  that she had never seen all those years ago when she had been going out  with him.

'Interviewing you, in point of fact.' He nodded at a passing waitress to  come and take his order for a drink, then he sat down and gave her the  full benefit of one long, insolent, unapologetically cold stare.  'Although whom exactly am I interviewing?' he asked silkily. 'Since you  seem to have changed identities.' His initial shock at seeing her had  given way to ice-cold self-control.

Francesca's brain cranked into gear. 'I was expecting to see … '

'My fiancée.'

'Your fiancée.' In her head, he had remained a single man. Stupid,  considering the amount of women who would have swarmed around him,  hoping to net the biggest fish in the sea. She stared down at her  Filofax in confusion, then reluctantly looked at him. Her hands were  trembling and she clasped them tightly together on her lap, well out of  sight of his black, impenetrable stare. 'Congratulations,' she said  belatedly. 'I … that would be … to Georgi … '

'So who are you?' Angelo interrupted. 'Shall I call you by your new  name, or was your old one the fabrication? Tell me. I'm interested.' Her  hair was shorter but she looked even better for it and, even though the  clothes were different, a tailored suit as befitting someone being  interviewed for a big job, he could see that the body was still the  same. Still that superbly proportioned body that had once driven him  wild.

The memory of how she used to affect him didn't soften him. It was laced with too much bitterness.

'Francesca Hayley was the name I used when I modelled,' she said,  steadying herself by breathing in deeply. 'I no longer model. Look,  Angelo, I'm sorry to have wasted your time, and your fiancée's, but I  don't think there's any point in our having this conversation.' She half  rose, fumbling to reach for her handbag, which was on the floor by her  chair.                       
       
           



       

'Sit back down, Francesca.'

His voice was calm and modulated but imbued with threat. Francesca  hastily sat back down. I'm Ellie Millband, she wanted to tell him, Ellie  Millband, not Francesca Hayley, but the words wouldn't come out and,  anyway, he wasn't going to be prepared to let the past rest.

'We're old friends and ex-lovers … ' His smile sent a chill of fear racing  along her spine. 'Surely it would be fitting that we fill in the gaps  in our respective lives now that fate has brought us back together?'

'There's no point, Angelo.' She had to steel herself to look at him. She  recognised the lines of his face, the masculine beauty that she had  once found so compelling, but she still felt as though she was sitting  opposite a stranger and a stranger who could barely conceal his dislike.  'I came here to discuss, well, my ideas for a meal … for your wedding. I  didn't come here to discuss the past.'

'Which just goes to show that we should always be flexible, don't you  think?' His drink had arrived, something strong in a short, squat glass,  and he accepted it without taking his eyes off her face.

With a painful stab, she realised that he was enjoying himself, enjoying  this unexpected encounter. His life had moved on and he was more than  happy to watch her squirm in front of him. She really couldn't blame  him. If her legs would only start functioning properly she would have  denied him the satisfaction, but she had a sneaking suspicion that they  might just pack up from under her if she tried to stand up. The sensible  mineral water she had ordered twenty minutes before when she had  arrived, eager and early, now seemed ridiculously lacking in any ability  to fortify her.