Under the Italian's Command Read Online Free PDF Page B

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