The Italian's Christmas Proposition. Cathy Williams

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      Rosie watched with mounting dread as Matteo disposed of her sister with ruthless speed. He was the essence of charm, even though his hand on her waist carried the hint of a threat that sent shivers racing up and down her spine. She could hardly blame him. She listened in mutely as he smoothed over Candice’s doubts, laying it on thick until Candice was smiling and telling him how relieved she was that things were back on track, apologising for the fuss and then, somehow, laughingly blaming Rosie for having given her the wrong impression.

      Rosie couldn’t believe the way events had transpired. Who knew that her five-foot-ten, ice-queen sister could let rip with such uncharacteristic drama? Candice was the one who flinched if someone raised their voice slightly too loudly in a restaurant. She moaned about people shouting into their mobile phones in public! She’d once told Emily off, when they had just been kids, for laughing too much.

      Candice out of the way, Matteo dropped his hand, stood back and surveyed the blonde coldly.

      ‘So,’ he said flatly, ‘Let’s find somewhere nice and cosy and private and have a little chat, shall we?’

      Rosie quailed. The man was sexy, dangerous…and from the expression on his face in the presence of his quarry.

      ‘I’m really sorry, I—I know how this must look…’ she stammered, only dimly aware that he was leading her out of the crowded foyer. She found she couldn’t quite meet those wintry eyes.

      ‘Do you, now?’ Matteo purred.

      Where was he taking her? She cast a desperate backward glance behind her, back down to the marbled foyer with the tall Christmas tree. The low buzz of curious voices that had greeted the little scene earlier had died down but there would still be curious eyes looking to see whether it might kick off again.

      ‘Where are we going?’

      ‘Somewhere private,’ Matteo murmured, voice as smooth as silk and as razor-sharp as a knife, ‘Where we can have our cosy little chat.’

      ‘I’ve already apologised…’ Her legs, however, were obeying his command. She stood up and began walking alongside him, hyper-aware of his presence. There was a leashed power to the guy that made her quiver with a combination of apprehension, downright fear and a weird sort of breathless excitement that stemmed from a place she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

      He wasn’t saying a word and seemed unaware of the cluster of well-heeled people around him that parted to allow him passage as if in the presence of royalty.

      It was extraordinary.

      She had no idea where they were going but eventually they reached a door which he slid open, standing back to allow her to brush past him.

      She’d never been into this particular inner sanctum, even though she had been coming to this very resort with her parents for as long as she could remember, before they’d bought their own chalet just a bit further up the slopes.

      It was a large, square room, richly panelled, with a gleaming wooden floor that was largely covered by an expanse of expensive, silk Persian rug. A cluster of deep, comfortable sofas was positioned here and there and a long bar extended along the back of one panelled wall. Rosie assumed this was the chill-out area for the senior management who ran the resort, somewhere where they could relax and unwind, away from the clamour of what might be going on outside.

      She stared around her and, when she settled her eyes back on Matteo, it was to find that he had made himself at home and poured a whisky for himself. Needless to say, there was no offer of any form of refreshment for her.

      ‘Okay,’ Rosie began. ‘I know what you’re going to say and I’m sorry.’

      ‘First, you have no idea what I’m going to say, and secondly, if you’re sorry now, then you’re going to be a whole lot sorrier when I’m through with you and your accomplice.’

      ‘Accomplice?’ She gazed at him, bewildered, and then wished she hadn’t because he seemed to have the most peculiar effect on her. He made her feel as though the room was beginning to spin and if she didn’t sit down fast she would topple to the ground in an undignified heap.

      ‘The blonde with a voice that could shatter glass. Sit.’

      A voice that could shatter glass? That was a first when it came to a description of her sister. Of either of her sisters, for that matter. Both were tall, sophisticated and impossibly beautiful in an ice-queen kind of way. Whereas she was… Rosie: short, way too plump because of the siren call of chocolate and all things sweet, with shoulder-length blonde hair that refused to be tamed, breasts far too abundant to be fashionable…

      She recalled the heat of his hand so close to her breast and shivered.

      Conscious of each and every one of those downsides, and aware of those cool, cool eyes on her, she haltingly headed for the closest chair and dropped into it, little knowing what was coming but all too ready to take the blame.

      ‘If that little scene was some half-baked attempt to screw money out of me then you messed with the wrong guy,’ he said flatly. He didn’t raise his voice or move a muscle but for all that the single sentence was imbued with threat and Rosie shivered and licked her lips.

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