The Italian's Inherited Mistress. LYNNE GRAHAM

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       CHAPTER THREE

      WHILE ISLA WAS keeping busy in the kitchen and setting a tray, Alissandru lay back bored in bed and wondered why Isla had yet to ask him what she had inherited from his brother. Was that a deliberate avoidance tactic calculated to impress him with her lack of avarice? But why would she want to impress him? After all, regardless of Alissandru’s feelings, she would receive that inheritance. Her attitude, however, was an anomaly and Alissandru didn’t like anomalies. He flatly refused to accept that Tania could have a sister who wasn’t greedy. His sister-in-law had craved money the way a dying man would crave water or air.

      And moving on from his inflexible conviction that Isla had to be a gold-digger like so many other women he had met, he thought about that kiss and wondered what insanity had possessed him. Tania’s sister, so inappropriate a choice. But she tasted like strawberries and cream, all the evocative flavours of a summer day and sunlight. Alissandru frowned darkly, forced to recognise afresh that his brain had yet to recover its normal function. That blow to the head had done more damage than he appreciated when his sharp-as-a-tack logic was failing to filter out such a fanciful comparison. Isla was curiously sexy and that was it, no need to be thinking about tastes and flavours, he told himself irritably.

      Stupendously sexy, he adjusted, the ready stirring at his groin provoking him to greater honesty. He didn’t understand why, he simply recognised that the minute she touched him, or indeed got anywhere near him, he reacted with an almost juvenile instant surge of excitement. A woman had never heated him up so fast or with such ease and it bothered him, because no way was he in the market for an affair with Tania’s sister.

      Isla brought in the tray, watching as Alissandru dragged himself up against the pillows to accept it. His bronzed skin gleamed in the firelight, accentuating a honed and very muscular physique straight out of a woman’s fantasy. Her face burned and she wondered if she should be searching for a pair of her uncle’s pyjamas to offer him. But wouldn’t that make her look like a prude? It was her bet that Alissandru routinely wore little in bed.