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that he had somehow failed his sister—even though logic told him otherwise. ‘So, what do we do?’

      Troy placed the tips of his fingers together in an almost prayerlike gesture of careful thought. ‘We run a spoiler. We take attention away from Elisabetta by giving them a bigger story.’

      Raffaele gave a sceptical laugh. ‘And how do you propose doing that?’

      Troy leaned forward. ‘Elisabetta is newsworthy because, yes, she’s young, and beautiful, very rich and occasionally flawed—but ultimately she’s famous for being your sister.’

      ‘I think that you overestimate my interest value,’ demurred Raffaele—because he had sought no publicity for himself.

      Troy gave a short laugh. ‘It’s true that in terms of your power and your money everything that can possibly have been written on the subject already has been. But don’t forget, Raffaele, that there is one area of a your life which has held a particular fascination for the press ever since you passed puberty.’

      Raffaele stared at him, his black eyes narrowing. ‘Be a little more specific, Troy,’ he instructed softly.

      ‘They’ve been trying to marry you off for years!’

      ‘So?’

      ‘So the only story which could draw interest away from Elisabetta would be if you finally did it.’

      ‘Did what, precisely?’

      ‘Got yourself a wife,’ said Troy, just as there was a rap on the door and it began to open. ‘Maybe it’s time you married, Raffaele!’

      Natasha entered the room just in time to hear Troy’s enthusiastic statement and, for a moment, she honestly thought that she might drop her tray. She felt the blood drain from her face and her knees grow weak and some terrible roaring sound deafened her ears—like the sound of an express train racing through her head.

      ‘Natasha?’ Raffaele was frowning at her. ‘Are you sick?’

      ‘I…’

      ‘Put the damned tray down,’ he instructed tersely, but he had risen from his chair and was taking it from her himself. He put it down on the desk and caught her by the arm. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’

      But with a few deep breaths Natasha had quickly recovered her equilibrium and she shook him off, telling herself that it was very important she didn’t make a fool of herself.

      Raffaele had been nothing but decent and fair to her over the years, and he had done more for Sam than could reasonably be expected of a boss. So she was not going to blow the whole thing by showing her distress at what was, after all, a long overdue piece of news. Or had she really expected a man like Raffaele to remain single for the rest of his life, just so that she could maintain her little fantasies about him?

      ‘You’re getting married?’ she exclaimed brightly, and then forced the next word out, even though it felt like a fishbone stuck in her throat. ‘Congratulations!’

      Raffaele was staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘So this is how gossip begins!’ he objected moodily. ‘Something half overheard and then, before you know it, you are dealing with “fact”—only, it isn’t fact at all. Just some crazy conjecture!’

      ‘You mean, you’re not getting married?’ questioned Natasha cautiously, unable to prevent the wild leap of her heart, and thankful that he wouldn’t be able to detect it.

      ‘Of course I’m not getting married!’ he retorted.

      ‘I’m trying to persuade him to get married,’ said Troy.

      ‘Oh.’ Natasha forced a smile as she looked at Troy, hating—just hating—Raffaele’s smart-aleck lawyer at that moment. She cleared her throat as she began to pour their coffee. ‘Isn’t marriage an honourable institution that isn’t supposed to be entered into lightly?’ she asked, as casually as if she was enquiring whether they wanted milk or sugar. ‘Who’s the lucky woman?’

      ‘I’m not talking about a real marriage,’ said Troy. ‘I’m talking about a pretend one.’

      ‘A pretend one?’ said Raffaele and Natasha at exactly the same moment, and Natasha began to fiddle around unnecessarily with the sugar bowl.

      Troy nodded. ‘You don’t have to actually go through with it—just make the gestures. You know—you buy a whopping engagement ring and then you pose with your fiancée for the papers and she gives them a few interviews telling them where the wedding will be, where she’s going to buy her dress. They love all that kind of stuff.’

      ‘You seem remarkably well informed on the subject,’ remarked Raffaele, with a sardonic elevation of his black brows.

      ‘I try,’ said Troy modestly.

      ‘And even if I were to entertain such a bizarre remedy, aren’t you forgetting one thing?’

      ‘Like what?’

      Raffaele’s black eyes were like hard, cold jet. ‘That there isn’t a candidate.’

      Did he hear Natasha’s pent-up sigh of relief? Was that why he turned his head and fixed her with an impenetrable stare. ‘Didn’t you say you had a cake to make?’

      Natasha blinked. Of all the times to prove that he had actually been listening to something she had to say he had to choose this one! ‘Er…yes.’

      ‘Well, then, run along, cara,’ he said softly.

      ‘Right.’ Reluctantly, Natasha headed for the door, while they just carried on with their conversation as if she was invisible. Which I might as well be, she thought furiously.

      ‘You just need someone who is prepared to go along with it,’ Troy was saying.

      ‘Like who? Oh, I can see your reasoning. It’s a good idea, Troy—but there’s just one problem, and it’s the nightmare scenario.’ Raffaele’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Most women I know would be only to happy to go through with it—the difficulty would be getting them off my back afterwards.’

      Troy laughed. ‘Which is why we choose someone who wouldn’t dare try to hang around.’

      ‘Again, I say—who?’

      Fascinating as she found the subject, Natasha knew that she really couldn’t justify hanging around any longer, and she was almost out of the door when her eagle eye spotted a rogue little yellow plastic brick lying underneath one of the two wing chairs by the bookcase.

      Now, how the hell had that gotten in here—especially when Sam wasn’t even supposed to go into Raffaele’s study? She was so fastidious about keeping all signs of young children carefully hidden away. Raffaele might be tolerant, and kinder to her son than his position warranted, but he certainly didn’t want to be tripping up over model soldiers every time he came home.

      She made a little exclamation of annoyance as she leaned over to retrieve the brick, and as the sound diverted his attention Raffaele found his eyes drawn to her bent figure.

      Nobody could accuse Natasha of vanity—indeed, the garments she wore for work wouldn’t have been out of place in a boot-camp and they’d never have been Raffaele’s choice for a woman—never in a million years. He’d often used to think that here was a woman who would never distract him as she went about her work.

      Maybe it was something to do with the fact that his nerves were on edge, or that it had been a long time since he’d had someone in his bed. Or maybe it was just something as simple as the fact that the moment had caught her with the material of her dress stretched tight across her derrière. Raffaele swallowed. And a very attractive derrière it was, too.

      He narrowed his eyes and became aware of Troy’s gaze following exactly the same path as his.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ said Troy softly. ‘Yes. That is perfect.’

      Why

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