Шантель Шоу – The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener (страница 1)
THE
Wife in the Shadows
Sara Craven
A Dangerous Infatuation
Chantelle Shaw
The Italian’s Blushing Gardener
Christina Hollis
Table of Contents
The Italian’s Blushing Gardener
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show
THE EAR-RINGS WERE the most exquisite she had ever seen.
Nestling in their bed of black velvet, the single diamond drops glowed with a fierce inner fire that made her wonder if her fingertips would burn as she touched them.
But, in fact, they were cold, she thought with a small ironic smile as she fastened them into her earlobes.
Cold as the rest of the jewellery she had been given over the last endless months.
Cold as the chill in the pit of her stomach when she envisaged the evening ahead of her. And its possible aftermath.
She took the pendant, which had been the previous gift, from its case, and handed it to Donata, her maid, to fasten round her throat.
Then she rose from her dressing table, walked to the full-length mirror on an adjacent wall, and stood, straight and silent, subjecting her reflection to a critical, almost clinical examination.
The prescribed outfit for the evening was black, a simple full-length column of silk jersey, long-sleeved, and gathered in soft folds under the bust, its deep neckline revealing the first swell of her breasts, as well as setting off the pendant.
The dress was not in a colour or a style she particularly cared for. It made her look older than her twenty three years, she thought objectively. Conveyed a sophistication she certainly did not possess. But, like so much else in life, it was not her choice.
And, anyway, she asked herself with irony, when had a puppet ever picked its own costume?
Her hair had been swept up into an artfully arranged topknot, with just a few careless strands allowed to brush her cheeks and the nape of her neck.
She had never really warmed to Donata—the girl was too closely involved in the hollow sham that was her life, and probably saw altogether too much, she thought bitterly—but she could not fault her talent for hairdressing. Or, it seemed, her discretion. Whatever she might think of her employer’s marriage, she appeared to keep it to herself.