Christmas Baby Bombshell

Chapter One

HER HEAD THUDDING with worry about the days ahead—even though Christmas was supposed to be a happy time—Flora was more preoccupied than usual as she pushed open the door.

She looked around, frantically trying to work out what was different, apart from the newly purchased strands of tinsel and the artificial tree she’d brought from the market because Julian had demanded it (although this year mistletoe had been banned in the workplace).

She gave a little nod. So far, so seasonal.

It was only as she ventured further into the cavernous interior of the huge room that she noticed what was missing.

Like, just about everything.

Gone were the silver-framed photos of the neglected wife of her boss, and the children he never really saw.

Gone was that expensive painting of London which had dominated the wall behind the desk and which she’d never really liked.

The heavy paperweight which had looked like an instrument of assassination had also disappeared and so too had the hat which had always hung—pristine and unworn—on the coat stand.

The place looked bare—almost as if it had been ransacked—and the untidy spill of expensive pens lying scattered over the floor only added to that impression, as if their owner had left in a hurry.

But before she’d even had a chance to bend and pick them up, Flora heard a sound behind her and turned around, her heart clenching beneath her thin blouse when she saw the man who was framed in the doorway.

Reality took another strange shift, because instead of the corpulent frame of her boss, before her stood a vision of…

Of what?

She blinked. She, who was normally so exacting, had found what she had never expected to find.

Perfection.

Six foot two and eyes of blue.

Flora’s throat grew dry and suddenly she was having difficulty swallowing because she’d never seen anyone like him.

The man’s physical beauty was so bright that you almost wanted to cram on a pair of sunglasses to protect your eyes from the incandescence he radiated.

But someone had once told her that you should never trust first impressions and Flora had believed them.

Because beneath his flawless exterior there was something which hinted at hidden depths and danger—and she was someone who ran a million miles from danger.

He reminded her of one of those prowling jaguars you sometimes saw on wildlife programmes—strong beasts which dominated their surroundings, no matter how hard they tried to blend into the background.

And this was not a man who blended.

The sophisticated cut of his suit did nothing to disguise the hard body beneath and his shadowed jaw was firm and uncompromising.

His skin gleamed like burnished gold—contrasting with coal-black hair and matching lashes, which framed eyes of the most incredible shade of blue.

Eyes like chips of aquamarine were studying her with a cool and not particularly friendly appraisal.

Flora gave a jolt as she found herself reacting to him on a weird and purely physical level. She could feel it prickling hotly over her skin, like the start of a fever. Pushing through her veins like honey. A tug of something sweet and warm and forbidden low in her belly.

Suddenly, she became painfully aware of the fact that her hair was unflatteringly damp from the shower and her cheeks were burning from the physical exertion of getting here.

She knew she was staring at him like an idiot and yet somehow she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away, even as she watched the sensual curve of his lips hardening into a cynical slash.

As if he were used to women finding him fascinating.

As if the predictability of such behaviour bored him.

‘Didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to stare?’ he taunted softly.

His mocking words punctured her unwanted fantasy and Flora was grateful to be able to focus on something other than the bizarre effect he was having on her.

Her mother had taught her plenty of things—just not the kinds of things that mothers were supposed to teach.

She’d known all about excitement and living on the edge.

And danger, of course. She had excelled at that.

She just hadn’t been very good at showing her daughters the most sensible way to navigate your way through life.

Everything Flora knew, she had learnt herself, the hard way—and the most important lesson of all was that actions had consequences.

So although instinct made her want to answer this distractingly gorgeous man with a flippant retort, experience made her bite it back.

Was that because there was something awfully imperious about his manner which was making her feel apprehensive, though she couldn’t work out why?

‘Why wouldn’t I stare?’ she questioned reasonably. ‘You scared me. Creeping up on me like that.’

‘Creeping?’ he echoed furiously. ‘You are inferring that I am some kind of stalker?’

‘Perhaps that was the wrong word,’ she amended quickly. ‘I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.’

‘But it is almost nine o’clock,’ he observed, glancing at the gold watch which gleamed beneath one pristine cuff, his richly accented voice sounding like iron shavings shot with silk. ‘What time does your boss usually start work?’

That would depend on what he’d been doing the night before, Flora thought, though she didn’t say so.

For someone who looked like a walking health hazard and never bothered to remove the golden wedding band which dug into his fleshy finger, Julian Wootton was surprisingly successful with the opposite sex—probably because he was prone to spending obscene amounts of money on them.

How many times had Flora been instructed to send flowers or air tickets as farewell gifts to his discarded lovers, or—if the woman was being particularly tricky and demanding he get a divorce—costly jewels?

She glanced down at the pens still strewn on the silk rug as the bizarreness of the situation began to reassert itself and when she looked up again she realised that the man’s cold gaze was still fixed on her.

And really, why was she letting some complete stranger come in here and start throwing his weight around?

‘Excuse me, but who are you?’ she said, knowing this was something she should have verified the moment he set foot in the office, rather than standing there drooling like a starving dog confronted by a juicy bone.

Clearing her throat, she attempted to inject her voice with authority, which she tempered with a polite smile.

‘This is the office of Julian Wootton, the CEO and he has no meetings in his diary for this morning. Unless he’s scheduled something and forgotten to tell me. ’

As she studied him questioningly, Vito felt another flicker of the irritation which had been hovering perilously close to the surface ever since his private jet had touched down, just as dawn had finished streaking the London sky.

His ego certainly didn’t need massaging and he wasn’t someone who ever sought recognition, though in his native Italy that had always been a big ask—given his high-profile and infuriating reputation as one of the country’s most eligible bachelors.

For this reason he usually embraced anonymity with enthusiasm, but…

He frowned.

Didn’t the fact that this woman didn’t know him reinforce how much he had taken his eye off the ball lately, and all the reasons why?

He felt the twist of pain and self-recrimination, followed inevitably by the tang of regret.

Always regret, he thought bitterly. As stubborn and unshiftable as the blame which accompanied it, whenever he thought about his brother.

Ruffled by this unwanted ambush of emotion, Vito sought to distract himself.

Should he play a little game with her? he wondered cruelly.

Pretend to be some hapless Italian who had wandered out of the elevator at the wrong floor and allow her to patronise him by speaking very slowly.

Or make her day by flirting a little? Judging by the way she’d been staring at him, it wouldn’t take very long to have her eating out of his hand.

But, even if this wasn’t business—and he never combined business with pleasure—she wasn’t the kind of woman he’d ever flirt with.

He took in her damp and slightly frizzy russet hair.

The rosy apples of her rounded cheeks. The cheap white blouse and utilitarian skirt which hinted at abundant curves beneath.

He gave a disbelieving little shake of his head.

‘My name is Vito Monticello,’ he said quietly and saw from the way her lips framed her sudden shock that now she knew exactly who he was.

‘Oh, my…’ The shock became a wobbly smile as she held back what was obviously an exclamation of horror. ‘You’re the boss?’

‘The owner,’ he corrected bluntly. ‘Of the company which employs you, Miss…?’

‘Greening,’ she answered, clearly very flustered now. ‘Flora Greening. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you, but I thought…’

‘What?’ he queried and when she shrugged her shoulders, repeated silkily. ‘What did you think, Miss Greening?’

‘That you’d be…’

He raised his eyebrows in mocking query.

‘Older,’ she admitted. ‘And I wasn’t…expecting you. I mean, there was no warning you were coming here.’

He gave a wolfish smile. ‘That’s because I didn’t give any.’

Her head was darting from side to side as if she were expecting her boss to suddenly leap out from behind a piece of furniture.

‘Where’s Julian?’ she asked.

‘I’ve fired him.’

Her expression grew even more mortified and all at once he forgot the frizzy hair and the flushed cheeks, the ugly skirt and cheap blouse.

Because her widened eyes were the most extraordinary colour, he realised, with a sudden unexpected punch to the heart.

They were green and shot with gold, like sunlight falling onto the first leaves of spring.