Under the Italian's Command (4 page)

‘For instance?’ His gazed pierced her.

‘Budget?’ She held her ground even though Lorenzo was so tensely poised behind his desk he looked like a cougar about to pounce. ‘I must know the budget I’ll be working to…’ It was hard to block out images of chocolate fountains and multiple crates of champagne. Having perused the guest list, she knew a number of eminent QCs and judges from other chambers would be attending, and they’d expect the best. Her confidence was growing by the minute. Party planning wasn’t so bad. It was just a question of making lists and sourcing suppliers—

‘Budget?’ Lorenzo barked, cutting her off mid self-congratulation. ‘Slim, Ms Tate!’

Was that an instruction? She sucked in her stomach, just in case.

Lorenzo fixed her with a basilisk stare. ‘Bring every quotation to me. Don’t agree to anything without my direct permission. Do I make myself clear, Ms Tate?’ His voice had dropped to a penetrating whisper.

Crystal. She would use lawyer’s discretion, which meant that anything she could get away with, she would. Unfortunately she didn’t have such an immediate answer to the irresponsible
behaviour
of her body, which was responding frantically to the stern note in Lorenzo’s voice. She liked that. She liked it a lot. Probably because she could see all sorts of erotic possibilities in her mind’s eye. She gave a brisk nod to cover for her abstraction as her fantasies played out.

Lorenzo scribbled something on a pad, which he handed over to her. ‘Here’s your guideline spending limit…’

Taking the paper from him,
Carly
read it and tried not to gulp. Her scholarship was definitely teetering in the balance, not on a champagne fountain, as she had hoped, but on a beer mug and a plate of curling sandwiches. She could forget the graceful twelve-foot tree, tastefully decorated with
colour
-coordinated baubles and flashing lights—clear, of course, she knew that much. With the budget Lorenzo had just handed her she’d be lucky if she could afford a pot-plant and a torch.

‘If the task’s too much for you—’ he began wearily.

‘Not at all,’ she interrupted him.

‘Then, if you don’t mind…’ He stared pointedly at the pile of papers on his desk.

‘Of course,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ll start working on it right away.’

When the door had shut behind her he sat back. Would she crumble? He hoped not. Closing his eyes briefly, he thought he could detect the faint aroma of wildflowers in the air. Ms Tate was proving a lot harder to blank from his mind than he had anticipated. And his body would have some striking images to dip into as well if she didn’t find a suit jacket that fitted. The end result was he found it impossible to concentrate.

Springing up, he paced the room. So what if the task he had handed her was impossible? A working lawyer rarely encountered anything ordinary or expected in court. He wanted to see how she reacted, how she thought on her feet when she was up against a wall…

He had to shake his head to drive away that disturbing image before he could progress his thoughts. Her development as a lawyer was under his command. On paper she was the front runner for the scholarship, but was it enough? She was a hopeless public speaker, which put her future as an effective advocate in jeopardy. And maybe she did have the best possible paper qualifications, but was her memory suspect? Was it possible she had forgotten what was happening tonight? She certainly hadn’t mentioned it. Yet she faced a crucial test. Had it slipped her mind? And if it had, what could possibly have distracted her to that extent?

Lorenzo. Lorenzo. Lorenzo. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head? He seemed to have taken up permanent residence in there,
Carly
thought, raking her hair in frustration. And it was imperative she concentrate on the task at hand. Four days was hardly enough time to
organise
a cup of tea in this place, let alone a full-blown Christmas party!

Chewing the top of her pencil, she wracked her brain for that one brilliant idea that would astound everyone.

And failed.

The only clearly focused thought in her head was the knowledge that Lorenzo would never look at her in the way her body thought he should. Why would he, when he was older and worldly-wise, wildly successful and far better looking? Face it, he wouldn’t, and that was that.

Lorenzo rasped his beard with one firm thumb pad. He was still pondering
Carly’s
inexplicable lapse of memory. Tonight was the Grand Court, a legal ceremonial notorious as the killing ground of pupils. He would have thought she’d be prepared for it. The Grand Court was geared to weed out the weaker members of the bar before they had chance to gain a foothold in the profession. It went without saying that any pupil of his would succeed and pass the test with flying
colours
—and without any prompting from the sidelines. But on this occasion he wondered if there might be too large a gulf between his expectation and
Carly’s
performance. He refused to believe she could simply forget, just as he refused to give her an unfair advantage over the other pupils. He felt a little reassured when her determined face flashed into his mind. Of course she had everything in hand. If she hadn’t she’d be squashed like a bug.

Back in her cubby-hole
Carly
sat with her head in her hands. There wasn’t a chance she could
organise
the type of party Lorenzo was expecting on the measly budget he had allowed. Hard work wasn’t enough in this instance. She needed a miracle.

Her head bounced as her eyes fired with inspiration. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She didn’t have to compete with some glitz and glamour event. All she had to do was land on something bold and different, something novel and unexpected—

And hope she didn’t fall flat on her face.

SLURPING COFFEE without tasting it,
Carly
continued scribbling notes. The ideas were coming thick and fast now, and driving her hard towards party nirvana was the knowledge that she had less than a week to put everything in place…food, drink, music, decorations, dress—

Dress!

Pushing back from the desk, she yelped in alarm. How could she have forgotten tonight? How could she have forgotten a night as crucial to her career as the Grand Court?

Lorenzo. She blamed him entirely.

He had shot everything from her brain in less time than it took to…

Clear your mind,
Carly
.

Pressing her fingertips against her temples, she battled hard to erase images of her stern pupil master performing all sorts of pre-sentence examinations on her all too eager and totally irresponsible body.

And failed.

She was doing quite a lot of that recently.

But the Lorenzo effect was a concern for another day. The Grand Court was so important to her future she couldn’t believe it had slipped her mind. Nothing slipped her mind ever.

Before Lorenzo.

The Grand Court was a rite of passage for every pupil barrister, and as such should have taken precedence over everything. And she didn’t have a thing to wear. If there’d been room in her cramped cubby-hole she would have paced up and down. It was too dreadful to contemplate. All the senior lawyers, including Lorenzo, would be attending; there was no getting out of it. And she hadn’t given it a thought.

He’d known that and let her stew?

His sardonic face flashed into her mind. Of course he had.

So she would fight fire with fire. The Christmas party would just have to take a back seat until tomorrow. If she failed the Grand Court she wouldn’t make the Christmas party anyway,
Carly
thought, grimacing. Plus the golf and bridge clubs would be forced to fly their flags at half-mast, which was out of the question.

Settling back down, she tried to remain calm. The Grand Court was no picnic—unless you took into account the bread rolls flying your way if you messed up. The ceremony was held annually in the vaulted dining hall of one of the ancient Inns of Court. If you failed the test you were a laughing stock, and if you succeeded you could expect no praise. Following centuries of tradition the senior lawyers were expected to heckle the pupils as they stood to make their formal application to join the circuit. There were no rules, no quarter given, and only last year a judge’s daughter had been sick in her own handbag. She told herself to concentrate on the positives.

All one of them.

Her middle name was Viola, like Shakespeare’s heroine in Twelfth Night. The play had first been performed in 1602 in the very same hall where the Grand Court was held. What more
mojo
did she need? Everything would be fine.

Hopefully.

All she had to do was stand up and state her name, along with the date of her call, and the ancient Inn that had called her to the bar. After that, she just had to declare her wish to join the circus—

Circuit,
Carly
corrected herself grimly.

A slip like that could cost her
her
career. If she stumbled over the words, tradition demanded she start her little speech all over again, which was when the seniors’ fun began. It was their task to shout her down, drown her out, and ultimately destroy her.

Calm,
Carly
commanded herself a second time, sucking in a deep, steadying breath. Everything would go to plan, but she must leave no stone unturned, which brought her thoughts full circle to the question of her outfit for the occasion. Fortunately, she had a secret weapon…

Madeline Du Pre, the most senior pupil in chambers, was
Carly’s
elder by three years. Madeline was the
recognised
expert in fashion by virtue of a stint at a Swiss finishing school.
Rumour
had it that Madeline had been forced to repeat her first six months of training several times due to…Well, no one really knew, and Madeline wasn’t telling, but the pupil master in charge of broadening her experience, one Judge Roger Warrington, never visited Madeline’s office unaccompanied these days.

Madeline the
modiste
if not the modest,
Carly
thought as she rapped smartly on Madeline’s door.

Carly
didn’t have long to wait for Madeline’s verdict.

‘Black? Are you mad?’

‘Black’s safe,’
Carly
protested. ‘Legal-black is practically a definition,’ she pointed out. ‘In fact it should be a
colour
in the paint box. I can see it now—black, with a silvering of dust, and a touch of green mould…Don’t look at me like that, Madeline. You know as well as I do that wearing black will take you through anything.’

‘Except a wedding.’ Madeline sniffed. ‘For you…’ cocking her head to one side, she gave
Carly
a long, considering look ‘…it has to be orange.’

‘Orange?’
Carly’s
eyes widened as she pictured her flame-
coloured
hair framed in orange. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure…Orange will be perfect with your
colouring
.’

It was important to get this right, and Madeline’s scarlet talons were already drumming the desk.

‘If you really think so…’
Carly’s
voice trailed away as a horror snap in some down-market journal flew into her mind. There would be a banner heading with her looking fat, proclaiming, ORANGE JUISTICE!

But Madeline was already leading her by the arm towards the door…

‘Stop worrying. Orange is absolutely your
colour
,’ Madeline soothed. ‘You mustn’t even think of wearing black. You can only wear black when you’ve been accepted by the Grand Court. You’ll cause an uproar if you go against tradition,
Carly
. Now, fortunately I can help you out. There’s a fabulous second-hand designer clothes place, just about half a mile from here. I saw a dress in their window this morning that would be perfect for you. I even have their card…’

She handed it over and
Carly
read, ‘One Starry Night: Model gowns by Madame
Xandra
…Available to hire, or to buy…’

‘Thank you,’
Carly
said, frowning uncertainly.

It wasn’t that
Carly
was fat, Madame
Xandra
explained helpfully, it was just that ball gowns were meant to fit snugly.

Which was all right for Madame
Xandra
,
Carly
thought mutinously, since she was thread-thin. Viewing her red face in the mirror, she knew she couldn’t possibly hold her breath like this all evening, but on the other hand she couldn’t bear the humiliation of trying to squeeze her plumpness into any more undersized Barbie-frocks. ‘Yes, this one is absolutely perfect,’ she said in answer to Madame
Xandra’s
pained look.

The day could only get better,
Carly
told herself firmly, taking a final look at herself before setting out. Somehow she had managed to shoehorn her way into The Dress unaided, but she wasn’t keen on looking too closely at the bulges of flesh fighting with an abundance of closely draped tangerine satin. The only good thing about it was that the gown seemed to answer the ‘formal’ dress stipulation on the gilt-edged invitation.

Edgily humming a song, she attempted last-minute to twirl her abundant red hair into some sort of sensible and therefore noticeably more compact style. She tried telling herself that everything was going to be all right, but that didn’t work. How could it when she felt like a galleon under sail, roped, braced and mortally constricted? It was hardly the mood of choice for a night out in the spotlight!

Did the first person she had to see the moment she stepped down gingerly from the taxi have to be Lorenzo? And looking more like a film star than ever in his dark Alpaca coat, under which
Carly
knew he would be wearing a similarly impeccable tailored evening suit.

She stood for a moment to watch him greeting the other guests. He was so regal, and so confident of approval. And no wonder when he drew people to him like a magnet. Everyone wanted to bask in Lorenzo
Domenico’s
darkly glittering glamour, no doubt hoping some of it would rub off on them…

The white silk scarf around his neck fascinated her. It was lifting in the breeze—not flying off as it would have done had she been wearing it, causing all sorts of hullabaloo, nor landing in his face and sticking on his lips, just…lifting.

Carly
shut her mouth, conscious she was gawping. Her pupil master looked simply gorgeous with the wind ruffling his thick, dark hair. Where style was concerned Italians always got it right, she mused, unlike dumpy Englishwomen named
Carly
Tate, with her big feet and truly enormous breasts.

Lorenzo remained standing, a solitary figure, as the crowds peeled away. Staring up, he seemed transfixed by something. Following his gaze, she saw he was admiring the ancient buildings. She had forgotten how beautiful the Inns of Court were, but seeing them through Lorenzo’s eyes was like seeing them anew. They were such totems to power, and such incredible monuments to the men who had designed and built them. Verging on Gothic with a special serenity all their own, they were truly awe-inspiring…

Carly
shifted guiltily when, turning, Lorenzo noticed her. ‘
Carly
,’ he said, coming over. ‘You’re looking very—’ The all-too-familiar ironic expression was firmly in place.

‘
Colourful
?’ she supplied, wanting the painful moment over with. She hadn’t failed to notice as the crowds streamed past that everyone else was dressed in black, plus she was the only woman sporting a ball gown and showing her breasts. She had been set up, and it was too late to do anything about it. She just had to smile and get on with it.

‘Are you ready for your ordeal?’ Lorenzo murmured, trying very hard not to smile.

‘You mean it hasn’t started yet?’

Her dry comment unleashed something in him and he laughed. Unfortunately for her that sexy rumble had the same effect as a low-voltage charge to her most sensitive regions, which was the last thing required if she was to keep her wits about her tonight.

‘Shall we go inside?’ he suggested, offering his arm.

Lorenzo was offering to escort her inside? Did the most lusted-after, successful lawyer in London really want to be seen with a country bumpkin dressed in an orange meringue, or was Lorenzo merely using her as a foil to make himself look better?

He hardly needed to do that,
Carly
concluded.

‘Well?’ he pressed, a suspicious tug appearing at one corner of his mouth. ‘Are you coming inside?’