Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress. Кейт Хьюит
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Название: Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress
Автор: Кейт Хьюит
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
Серия: Mills & Boon Short Stories
isbn: 9781408981580
isbn:
Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed as she followed Leandro up the villa’s private lane. The palazzo was no more than a huge shadow in the darkness.
She shouldn’t be offended by Leandro’s words, Zoe told herself. She shouldn’t care what a man like him thought. She understood that going from place to place, job to job, made men think she was as loose as her lifestyle. And projecting a certain image—fun-loving, free—kept her safe. Protected her heart. She revelled in her reputation, in her freedom.
She could pick up or drop down at a moment, discarding homes and relationships with insouciant ease. That was who she was. That was who she had to be, to protect herself from getting hurt.
So why, for a moment, did she not like a man like Leandro assuming it?
A man like Leandro … What did that mean? She didn’t know him at all, Zoe realised. He was rich, he was well connected, he was a buttoned-up accountant. No, an actuary. Whatever that was. But beyond the basics she had no idea what kind of man he was.
‘The kind of man who thinks he knows all about a girl like me,’ she muttered, and Leandro, now at the front door, turned round.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No.’ Her voice came out in a petulant retort, but Leandro merely arched an eyebrow.
Zoe jabbed him in the chest with one forefinger; even with just the tip of her finger she could feel the hard definition of sculpted muscle underneath his shirt. ‘You don’t know me, signor. So don’t go telling me what kind of girl I am.’ She sounded ridiculous, Zoe realised distantly. She also realised her finger was still jabbed in his chest. And yet she didn’t move it. If she wasn’t so tired, if her brain didn’t feel so fuzzy and light and disconnected, she wouldn’t have mentioned anything. She certainly wouldn’t have touched him.
Instead, her brain registered in that same disconnected way that he’d wrapped his own hand—warm, strong, dry—around her finger and raised it to his lips. His eyes were dark, and Zoe detected a spark of anger in their depths. She wondered who he was angry with. Himself or her.
She watched, fascinated, as her finger barely brushed the softness of his parted mouth. His eyes darkened even more, to almost black, and his mouth thinned into a contemptuous, knowing smile as he dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.
‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything,’ Leandro replied curtly. ‘I don’t need to. You say it plainly enough.’
With that he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the house, and Zoe realised it was the third time that day he’d walked away and left her standing alone.
He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.
Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.
And she would have let him.
He could still feel the barest brush of her finger against his lips—what had he been thinking, teasing her like that? Teasing himself?
He certainly wasn’t going to act upon the latent desire that hummed inside him—between them. If he were a different man he might have. He might have said to hell with good intentions and higher principles, and taken what was so blatantly on offer. He’d enjoy it, for a time, and then he’d walk away—tabloids, colleagues, family be damned … All for the sake of desire.
But he wasn’t a different man.
He wasn’t his father, and he wouldn’t cheapen and enslave himself to desire. Not for a woman like Zoe Clark—a woman like all the others who took and took and didn’t care who she stepped on to get what she wanted.
Who she hurt.
It’s obviously made you rich.
His mouth thinned in distaste at the memory of her words. Another woman on the prowl. Well, she wouldn’t get anything from him. He wouldn’t give her the chance.
Stifling a curse, he pulled his papers towards him, one hand fumbling for the spectacles he’d discarded on his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, and with a grim, determined focus bent his head to his work.
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