The Sicilian's Bought Cinderella. Michelle Smart

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      She needed to make that very clear. Just because her body reacted so strongly to him did not mean she had any intention of allowing anything to happen between them. She would not be one of those over-caffeinated bobbing meerkats.

      Dante could curse himself. He hadn’t meant to make innuendoes but the opportunity had presented itself in irresistible fashion. ‘You are speaking of sex?’

      Her face now flamed so brightly it was quite possible it could explode.

      ‘You have nothing to fear. This arrangement is strictly business. The bride and groom both come from religious families and will put us in separate rooms for the sake of appearances.’

      After a terrible night when his brain had refused to shut down, even after he’d thrown the best part of a bottle of bourbon down his neck to assist it, he’d come to the conclusion that this deal had to be platonic. In any other circumstance he would go all-out to seduce Aislin but seduction would add too many complications. He needed to keep his head focused on salvaging the business deal, and that was before he added the small detail of Aislin being the sister of his father’s secret love-child.

      If he didn’t believe she was the perfect woman to make Riccardo D’Amore believe him to be a changed man he would have called the whole thing off. But she was perfect. Not only was she not of their world but she had a working brain in her beautiful head and a firm commitment to family Riccardo would adore.

      All Dante had to do was keep his hands off her, which he had a great feeling would be easier said than done.

      Promises made in the twilight hours were much harder to keep in daylight when her scent coiled around his senses. In the daylight, Aislin was more than beautiful, her beauty enhanced now her hair was dry and its vibrant colour there for him to glory in, a deep russet that reminded him of fallen autumn leaves. It made him think of a fox, which he thought an apt word to describe her. She’d stolen into his cottage like a fox. An exquisite fox.

      Today she’d dressed in black leggings, an oversized khaki jumper fraying on the left sleeve and scuffed black ankle boots. These were clothes designed for comfort, obviously old and worn, yet he found them as sexy as if she were wearing a tight cocktail dress with all her currently hidden cleavage on show.

      She rubbed her hands over her arms, inadvertently pushing against those same breasts he’d just been imagining. ‘As long as we’re clear on things being platonic then that’s grand.’

      ‘Is there anything else you want to bring up? Because we need to get going.’

      Those strange eyes were back on him again, penetrating like lasers. It was the strangest of feelings; unnerving yet weirdly erotic. ‘I want half the money now.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I need a guarantee. A form of surety. I don’t want to spend a weekend pretending to like you only to have you then refuse to hand the money over.’

      ‘You don’t like me?’

      ‘How do I know if I like you? I don’t know you, certainly not well enough to trust you.’

      Her lack of sycophancy was refreshing. She was direct, her mouth as unfiltered as her inherent sexiness. ‘Ten thousand.’

      ‘That’s peanuts.’

      ‘How much money do you have in your bank account?’

      ‘The dust of a bag of peanuts.’

      He bit back a laugh at her phrasing and spread his hands in a ‘there you are’ gesture.

      She fixed him with a stare that made him think she would make an excellent teacher. It was a look that would shut a classroom full of screaming kids up.

      He shook his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Va bene. I can be reasonable. Fifty thousand up front, in cash or transferred into a bank account of your choice, the remainder on Sunday evening. Deal?’

      Her exquisitely beautiful face took on the expression of someone sucking an extra-sour lemon. Then she jerked her head into a nod. ‘Yes. Deal.’

      He rubbed his hands together and got to his feet. ‘Eccellente. Let’s get going.’

      ‘Transfer the money and then we can go.’

      ‘You don’t want it in cash?’

      ‘I’d prefer it transferred.’

      He sighed and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. ‘Name of the account?’

      ‘Miss Orla O’Reilly.’

      He looked up briefly with a frown. ‘You don’t want it in your own account?’

      ‘The money’s not for me. It’s for our sister and nephew. Orla’s skint and the money you’re going to give her once you’ve had the DNA test could take weeks to come through.’

      ‘You’re not going to keep any of the million for yourself?’

      ‘I’ll get her to buy me a pizza from it.’

      Was she for real? ‘Are you looking for a sainthood?’

      She threw her schoolteacher stare at him again.

      He shrugged. If she wanted to let the entire million slip through her fingers, that was her loss. ‘The account details?’

      She recited them to him.

      He looked up from his phone again. ‘You know your sister’s bank details by heart?’

      ‘She was in a bad car accident three years ago that left her in a coma. I took care of all her finances and stuff while she was in hospital and recovering from her injuries.’

      ‘Is that why her son was born prematurely?’

      A dimness filtered over the grey eyes. She nodded.

      Why this information should make his finger hover over the sum he was about to transfer, he did not know. This time yesterday he hadn’t even known of Orla’s existence.

      Had his father known she’d been injured?

      Had his father known he had a grandchild?

      A fresh barb sliced through him at the reminder of the secrets and lies his father had kept from him for twenty-seven years.

      Dante stared at the beautiful redhead, knowing he had to keep his focus on the primary reason for keeping her in Sicily and paying her such a substantial amount of money. Aislin was the key to convincing Riccardo D’Amore that he was not the sum of his parents’ parts. Just because they shared a sister did not mean he could allow himself to be sidetracked. Orla’s accident was history...

      But the after-effects lived on in her son. His nephew.

      They were nothing to do with him, he told himself grimly. They were strangers to him and would remain that way. A shared bloodline did not make them family and, even if it did, Dante had had enough of family.

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